tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57849943853485883312024-03-05T07:12:50.322-08:00FickleErinBrain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-86862025254564253972012-12-11T14:43:00.001-08:002012-12-11T14:47:00.847-08:00What does Christmas mean to me? Getting people the F'd up stuff they ask for...When I was 9, I tested my parents love for me.<br />
<br />
It was 1987, and the makers of the world-famous Teddy Ruxpin doll came up with a new creation: Julie. It was an interactive doll that would recognize your voice and respond to movement, light and temperature. <br />
<br />
From the moment I saw the first commercial, I <i>knew</i> I wanted one...and I would stop at <i>nothing</i> to make sure that doll was mine. <br />
<br />
<i>Why</i> I wanted a creepy interactive doll is unknown to me. It's not like I didn't have interactive friends. Maybe I wanted to practice my babysitting skills... or...maybe it was because I was the youngest and I wanted someone I could boss around for once....or maybe I secretly wanted to simultaneously annoy and scare the living daylights out of all the adults in my family...no one can say for sure. <br />
<br />
I was a kid on a mission. I saw three extra department store Santas that year just to be sure I could tell him about my creepy doll request...and of course, I made sure to tell my parents every morning and every night. <br />
<br />
Christmas finally rolled around, and my parents decided to have a little fun. They knew that I was no dummy. I cased the presents around the tree from the minute they arrived, handling each package clumsily, shaking it til the contents were broken, and even partially unwrapping boxes til I could see some sort of label. Knowing this, my parents addressed the box containing my doll to my grandpa. Then they watched me open every gift...none of which were the coveted Julie doll...and grinned like idiots as they asked me if I got everything I wanted. I lied and said yes.<br />
<br />
They let me sweat it out for a few more minutes...probably hoping I'd at least burst into tears for their amusement. Then they brought it out. They said I had one more present...and I knew it what I'd been waiting for. JULIE! <br />
<br />
I was so excited I almost peed my pants. I couldn't wait to have long conversations with my new interactive doll! The commercials promised that she would recognize my voice and sing songs to me and basically be the most amazing playmate I'd ever known. <br />
<br />
The reality of Julie was something much different. My whole family was pretty much terrified of her from the minute we took her out of the box...with good reason. <br />
<br />
This was a doll that talked without warning; a doll that sang eery children's music: a doll with moving eyes that looked <i>right through</i> you. If you covered those eyes, she would say, "It's getting dark in here!" and when you shook her, she giggled and told you to stop tickling her. <br />
<br />
I played with her <i>everyday</i>... for at least a week....then I tossed her into a giant heap of beheaded barbies, sat down and started my list of demands for the next major gift-giving holiday. <br />
<br />
I guess I owe my parents one. <br />
<br />
Maybe there is a creepy interactive nurse for seniors that I can invest in this holiday season...Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-17944301202823922472012-08-08T12:28:00.004-07:002012-08-08T12:30:26.982-07:00Siblings...can't live with them, can't be a hobo (when you're a kid).My siblings...they have enriched my life, they are my eternal mentors and friends, they <i>grew up</i> with me...aaaaaaand they also made my life a <i>living hell</i>.<br />
<br />
There are too many stories to list and I don't have a lot of time...also, I'm seriously distracted by the middle aged black dude sitting next to me at the public library singing about "motherfuckas" in a falsetto...so I'll be brief.<br />
<br />
The one story that does come to mind involves my dear old sister Kate...<br />
<br />
It involves one of my first "boyfriends" <i>(I use word "boyfriend" loosely...I was 13. Boyfriend basically meant we held hands occassionally, passed notes at school and talked on the phone excessively).</i><br />
<br />
We had been going "out" (i.e. "dating" within a school environment) for about a month, and things were going great. He was totally romantic. He wrote me notes with lots of "xoxo's" on them; he won me a deformed teddy bear at the school carnival and he even made me an awesome mix tape with tons of emotional songs on it like "RunAway Train" by Soul Asylum and "Love Hurts" by Tesla.<i> (I would listen to it every night...before my sister's hand-me-down boom box ate it.) </i><br />
<br />
We talked on the phone for 2 hours every night...<i>if</i> I was able to get to the phone before my sister...and even then, she'd do her best to get me off because she had <i>REAL</i> boyfriends to manage. <br />
<br />
It was a Thursday night, and we were discussing in detail the finer ascpects of Tom and Jerry and how the show had never been the same since they gave Jerry a bowtime and made him friendly. <i>(Serious stuff...)</i><br />
<br />
I was twirling the cord of my light blue phone around my toes as I listened to him talk about Butch the dog and the "crambone" song when I heard the knocking begin. <br />
<br />
Without opening the door, I <i>knew</i> it was her. <br />
<br />
"Be off in a minute!" I yelled, trying to mollify her. <br />
<br />
I heard the knob jiggle. <br />
<br />
Ha. I'd locked it...so much for her snatching the phone out of my hand and "accidentally" hanging it up like she'd done in the past. <br />
<br />
I continued talking ignoring the loud demands coming from the other side of the door. <br />
<br />
"ERIN! Get off the phone!!! You have already been on for an hour and a half and all your talking about is stupid tv!!!"<br />
<br />
I ignored her and hoped that my boyfriend hadn't heard.<br />
<br />
More knocking, more door knob jiggling, huffing, puffing, stomping...then... <i>silence.<br />
<br />
</i>I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, and thought to myself, "Good. She gave up."<br />
<br />
That's when I heard the unmistakeable click of someone picking up another extension in the house. <br />
<br />
Immediately, I tried to get rid of whoever it was. <br />
<br />
"I'm on the phone! HANG UP!!" <br />
<br />
<i>More silence.</i><br />
<br />
My boyfriend tried to reassure me that no one had, in fact, picked up the phone, but I knew better...<br />
<br />
<i>And that's when it happened.</i><br />
<br />
"Erin, Mom just wanted me to tell you to stop flushing your maxi pads down the toilet. No one can use the bathroom when you are done in there."<br />
<br />
<i>WHAT.</i><br />
<br />
I was horrified. Frozen. MAXI PADS?!?! IN FRONT OF A BOY?!? How <i>could</i> she?!<br />
<br />
I was gulping for air, not sure how I would recover from this disgrace. <br />
<br />
I couldn't find words so I just hung the phone up as fast as I could. <br />
<br />
<i>"Maybe he didn't even hear her...."</i> I tried to tell myself. <br />
<br />
I started pacing my room, simultaneously plotting her ultimate demise while trying to figure out how I could do some damage control...when the phone rang. <br />
<br />
Without thinking, I lunged for it. "Hello?"<br />
<br />
"It's me." I heard my boyfriend's voice say. <br />
<br />
"Oh! Hi!" I tried to sound casual. "Um...sorry. I <i>accidentally</i> hung up on you."<br />
<br />
"Oh, that's ok." he said. <br />
<br />
I breathed a sigh of relief. He <i>bought</i> it. He probably didn't even hear her!<br />
<br />
Yes, <i>yes</i>...that <i>must</i> be it. He didn't hear her. <br />
<br />
I instantly felt better. <br />
<br />
I sat up straighter, and was about to start talking about the mammy character on Tom and Jerry when he said, "So...why <i>do</i> you flush your pads down the toilet?"<br />
<br />Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-42422413880649361792012-08-07T15:34:00.001-07:002012-08-07T15:51:41.488-07:00Rage...ain't it amusing?!Growing up, my mom cooked almost ALL of our meals...partially because my dad worked A LOT, but mostly because whenever he decided to cook, he made an <i>unbelievable</i> mess. I'm not exaggerating. It was <i>brutal</i>. When my dad had finished making something as simple as a fried egg, it looked like 3 crazed toddlers had crumbled bits and pieces of meat on the counters and floors; cracked eggs while spinning around (ballerina style) and then spread a fine coating of flour over it all. <br />
<br />
Therefore, on the days my mom had to work and was unable to be our chef for the evening, she tried her best to encourage my dad to take us "out" to eat. Nine times out of ten, we visited the scariest clown on this planet...that's right...Ronald Fuckin' McDonald.<br />
<br />
If my dad was feeling energetic, he'd let us go inside this fine dining establishment and we would come close to breaking our necks on the rusty hamburglur playland as he read the newspaper; but most of the time, he was exhausted from work and just wanted to hurry home to watch Star Trek...so he would zip through the drive thru. <br />
<br />
On one particular evening, we didn't exactly <i>zip</i> through...it was more like waiting in traffic during rush hour...in downtown Chicago...when he President was in town. <br />
<br />
Star Trek started every night at 6:00, and this was way before the age of DVR. My father would rush home to watch an episode he had most likely seen at least 8 times before...and then he would try to engage anyone who would listen in a conversation about "the fascinating galaxy" (...a topic most kids are <i>super</i> enthused to talk about...)<br />
<br />
So the night of the slow line at McDonald's started like any other. My dad hurriedly asked us all what we wanted and put in our order. He then gunned it to slam on the brakes.<br />
<br />
As we waited in line, I watched my father get more and more agitated as he stared at the minutes creeping by on the digital clock in his old Chevette. <br />
<br />
Curse words were escaping his lips in increased succession as the line failed to move. Most likely, he was thinking about the famous opening line that he was worried about missing...because of course, everyone knows you can't watch a show about dorky grown men wearing unitards unless you hear an inspring explanation of WHY they like to wear these tight scuba suits and shoot guns that looked like super soakers at scary looking muppets.<br />
<br />
If you didn't notice...I fucking hated that show, but even I have to admit, that intro part is nice and dramatic...I still remember that whole schpeal.<br />
<br />
<i>Space...the FINAL frontier. These are the voyages of the Star Ship Enterprize...blah, blah, blah...to BOLDLY go where NO man has gone before.</i> <i>(Cue corny music...)<br />
<br />
</i>My dad is huffing and puffing all the way to the head of the line, and <i>finally </i>about 20 minutes later, we made it. It was 6:01 and my father had officially missed the beginning of his favorite show and he <i>was <b>PISSED</b></i>.<br />
<br />
As the little doors of the window jerked open, he wasted no time in letting his complaints be known.<br />
<br />
"I thought this was supposed to be <i>FAST</i> food!!"<br />
<br />
The teenager waiting to take our money looked so startled, I half expected him to drop the money my father was shoving into his hand. <br />
<br />
"Um? Sir? What? Um...the total is $16.79 please."<br />
<br />
My father shook his head, exasperated. <br />
<br />
"I gave you a 20 dollar bill!"<br />
<br />
The boy's face turned purple with embarassment as he looked down at the bill in his hand. <br />
<br />
"Oh...right. Um...ok. Hold on. Sorry."<br />
<br />
A few more minutes passed until we had our change and our food. The mini window had barely closed before my dad was flooring it out of that parking lot, almost running over a family of four on his way out. <br />
<br />
We pulled into our driveway, my dad threw the car in park and hustled into the house, dragging me behind him. <br />
<br />
I couldn't wait to tell my brother and sister what they'd missed. <br />
<br />
"Papa freaked out in the drive thru and yelled at the guy who gave us our food!!" I whispered excitedly. <br />
<br />
My brother looked unamused by this as he shoved fries into his mouth, but my sister froze and stared at me in horror. <br />
<br />
"No. No he didn't. How old was the guy who waited on you?? What did he look like?!"<br />
<br />
I did my best to render a police artist sketch for her which didn't seem to help much. <i>(I was 8. The drawing basically looked like a goat with a gorilla's body...)</i><br />
<br />
In between bites, my brother said, "Oh, stop worrying. I'm sure it was no one you <i>knew</i>. You don't know EVERYONE, Miss Popularity."<br />
<br />
Katie rolled her eyes and said, "Yes I do! Shut up!"<br />
<br />
It was then that I realized that my Chicken McNuggets were no where to be found. I tried not to panic (I know what you're thinking...<i>"panic"</i>?! That's a bit extreme, isn't it?! Not for <i>me</i>...Look. Back then, I had a list of about 10 foods I deemed suitable for eating, Chicken McNuggets being one of them...and I <i>knew</i> our house did NOT have any of the other items...I was hungry and I was irrational...now that I'm 34, I'm up to at least 15 items of food I will eat so I've totally improved.)<br />
<br />
Once I realized that..indeed, there was no food for me (to be said in the soup nazi's voice..."NO FOOD FOR YOU!", I did the best thing I knew how to do back then. I burst into tears and complained to the head honcho. <br />
<br />
"PA...PA!!!!!!!!! You didn't get me my chicken nuggets and now I just have to STARVE!" (Some may call this dramatic, but I like to say <i>"enthusiastic</i>"...)<br />
<br />
My dad looked up from his Big Mac, annoyed to tear himself away from Dr. Spock. <br />
<br />
"What? They're in the bag...aren't they?"<br />
<br />
"Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!" I wailed.<br />
<br />
At that very moment, a commercial for McDonald's ironically popped onto the tv. Ronald McDonald was tickling a small child as he addressed us, the viewers, saying, "Hi there! Do you wish there was place to get an inexpensive meal for your family? You're in luck. Come to your local McDonald's...it's a good time for the great taste of McDonald's."<br />
<br />
That was it. My dad was off the couch and in the kitchen, flipping through the phone book in a fit of rage. <br />
<br />
My sister was eyeing him suspiciously. "Papa? What are you looking for??"<br />
<br />
He didn't answer her. He just started jabbing at the keys of the phone hanging on the far wall of the kitchen. <br />
<br />
"Yeah. Hello?? Yeah, you can help me. I just went through your drive through, which by the way took FOREVER, and now I'm home, just trying to eat and relax and my youngest daughter is crying because you assholes didn't give us her food!!!"<br />
<br />
Now my sister looked like she was going to cry, too. <br />
<br />
"You baby! Why did you have to make such a big deal about it?! I <i>KNOW</i> people who work there!!!! Great. Great! ERIN!!! Why did you have to make such a big deal about it?! How am I supposed to go to school tomorrow?!"<br />
<br />
Now I felt guilty. <br />
<br />
"Maybe they won't know it was us..." I ventured.<br />
<br />
Just then, I noticed my dad's voice getting louder. <br />
<br />
<i>Uh oh.<br />
</i><br />
"YEAH! YEAH, you can have my name! It's BLAH!. Larry BLAH!!!!" (of course, "blah" is a substitute for our actual family name...) <br />
<br />
I looked at my sister again. "Ok, so they know our name now. Maybe it's not so bad..maybe..."<br />
<br />
My dad was on a roll now. He was still yelling into the phone when we heard the familiar Star Trek theme coming from the living room. <br />
<br />
Trying to be helpful, I pointed this out to him in an effort to get him off the phone. He must have heard it though because he was coming to the pinacle of his tirade. <br />
<br />
"I'M JUST TRYING TO FEED MY FAMILY!!!!!! YOU'RE GOD DAMN RIGHT YOU'RE GOING TO GIVE ME A CREDIT!" <i>slam</i><br />
<br />
That was that. My sister nearly died of shame the next day, and I'm pretty sure she spit in the Lipton Soup she made for me that night, but on the bright side, we bust a gut laughing about it when we recall that story nowadays. <br />
<br />
<i>Ah...rage...ain't it amusing???</i> (20+ years later...that is.)Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-66409454524070723772012-07-24T15:39:00.000-07:002012-07-24T15:39:58.971-07:00The Ghosts of Birthdays Past...Because today is my birthday, I couldn't help reminiscing about birthdays from the past...and one in particular came to mind...<br />
<br />
On my 10th birthday, my mom decided I was old enough to have a nice little chat about menstruation...I know what you're thinking...<<i>i<i>>What's that? What did you just say? Did you mean to say "the mall"?? <i>No...</i> Did you mean to say, "Magic"??<i> No...<br />
</i></i> "Muppets?!" Nope....<br />
</i><br />
You heard me right the first time. <br />
<br />
<i>MENSTRUATION.</i> <br />
<br />
For some reason, my mom decided there was no better time than right before junior high to scare the living day lights out of me.<br />
<br />
The day started out like any other 10 year old's birthday...I got up, smiled at myself in the mirror, checked to see if my boobs had gotten any bigger, brushed my hair 500 times and then went downstairs to eat Lipton Soup for breakfast. <br />
<br />
<i>TOTALLY</i> typical.<br />
<br />
It was at that time that my mom sat down across from me at the kitchen table with an ingratiating smile. I pretended not to notice her while I read my Babysitters Club book, occassionally stealing glances at her as I slurped my soup. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. <br />
<br />
"MOM! Why do you keep staring at me with that goofy smile stuck on your face?!"<br />
<br />
She got a little teary eyed as she said, "It's just that you are not my baby anymore...you are almost all grown up!! Before we know it, you'll be starting your period, you'll be off to college, married, and having your own babies." <i>(These apparently are the big milestones in a woman's life...)</i><br />
<br />
I had heard the word "period" before but I wasn't exactly sure why my mom was talking about it now. <i>(My teacher always said you had to put it at the end of sentences if it was a declarative, but if you were excited, you used an exclamation point. I prefered to be excited about everything I wrote, therefore, it was the only form of punctuation that existed in my world. I mean...in my world!!!)</i><br />
<br />
She must have sensed that I needed further explanation because she went on to say, "Pretty soon, you will menstruate every month. An egg will drop down from your uterus and one day, that is what will make it possible for you to have babies!" <br />
<br />
I stared at her, open mouthed. My spoon had only made it halfway to my mouth, and when I coughed and sputtered in surprise, soup splashed all over the table. <br />
<br />
My mom jumped up to get something to clean up the mess I had made. Casually, I asked, "What's a uterus?" <br />
<br />
She laughed and said, "That is where a baby grows inside of a woman! Of course, you won't be having a baby for a long time." I let out a big sigh of relief, not realizing I'd been holding my breath. <i>I mean, don't get my wrong...my Cabbage Patch doll was cool, but if there was a rockin game of Pong being played on the Atari, I flung that yarn-haired sack of stuffing under the nearest bed! This was NOT the time in my life when I wanted to be tied down with responsibility...</i><br />
<br />
I thought our discussion was over until my mom went on to say, "But that doesn't mean your body isn't getting ready...pretty soon, it will be making eggs."<br />
<br />
She looked like she was going to say something more, but the phone rang and our conversation ended there. <br />
<br />
I raced up to my bedroom and stared at my crotch in the mirror. "OH...MY...GOD..."<br />
<br />
I had never been so terrified in my life. What would the kids at school say when I started laying eggs??? ...And what was I going to do with all the eggs I would be making? Would someone give me a container to store them in like the eggs at the grocery store?! ...And...Oh GOD...what if...would we...be EATING them?! I pictured my brother demanding a 'dip in' egg and my mom commanding me to lay more.<br />
<br />
I was FULL of questions, but my mom had settled in for a nice long talk with my grandma, and there was no way she would be getting off for follow up questions any time soon. <br />
<br />
So I went to my sister. I knocked on her door, trying to make myself be heard over the blaring sound of Richard Marx. She cracked her door after 55 knocks and said, "Happy Birthday....what do you want?"<br />
<br />
I swallowed, and got myself ready. I could tell she did not have an abundance of patience at this time. "Katie, where do you put the eggs you lay each month?" <br />
<br />
I don't think she heard me because she immediately answered, "In the sink!" as she slammed the door in my face.<br />
<br />
I ran back downstairs to check out the sink. No eggs. <i>I wonder when she puts them in there? I'll have to keep my eye on her...</i><br />
<br />
I paced back and forth thinking about what I would say when i did finally lay an egg in someone else's presence. <i>"Oh, it's my time of the month...I'm a woman now so my utrass is just shooting out eggs like crazy." <br />
<br />
</i>I practiced witty comebacks if anyone teased me. <i>"What? You never saw an egg before? What planet have YOU been living on?!"</i><br />
<br />
I tried out different positions for optimal egg laying. <i>(Squatting seemed to be most appropriate...)<br />
<br />
</i>FINALLY...my mom hung up the phone...and I bum rushed her. "Mom! MOM! Listen. I need to talk to you about this egg situation..." I began.<br />
<br />
She looked at me, befuddled. "What?" <br />
<br />
I was getting aggrivated. I needed MORE information! I went on in a stressed out slur, "When I menslate, will I know that the egg is coming? Will I feel it beforehand or will it just pop out? ...and what if it breaks in my pants? Will the yolk stain? How big will my eggs get? Is it much bigger than the eggs we use to make cookies? It's not like that dinosaur egg we saw at the Field Museum...right?!"<br />
<br />
It took her several minutes before she understood what I was referring to....and when she had stoppped laughing hysterically, she explained that, <i>No...I would NOT be laying an egg like a chicken. I would just be bleeding for 5-7 days straight...which was much, much less traumatizing. <br />
<br />
</i>As an adult, I just have one question...<br />
<br />
How am I not living in a mental hospital right now?!?!Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-10920065112128478932012-07-18T19:28:00.004-07:002012-07-18T20:24:41.083-07:00Running, Booze and HobosMANY years ago, my friends Lulu and Sheila talked me into running a 10K, which for the layman means 6 miles of pure hell. I protested at first...claiming that I was not a runner and that I wouldn't be able to keep up, but they were <i>not</i> taking 'no' for an answer...and well, if I'm being honest, I have to admit...I'm easily persuaded by friends...and others. You know that saying, "If your friends were jumping off a bridge, would you jump, too!?" My answer is...It depends...on just how <i>badly</i> they really wanted me to join them...jumping is fun sometimes! <br />
<br />
So, anyway... I prepare for this race by doing my regular workout routine and I run a little bit, too. A week before the race, I'm up to about 3 miles without stopping...and I'm starting to feel a little nervous. How was I possibly going to run SIX miles?! <br />
<br />
I expressed my concern during lunch one day, "You guys won't leave me behind...right??" Sheila and Lulu both shake their heads with exuberance. "OF COURSE NOT!!!" I breathe a sigh of relief and relax somewhat. Lulu goes on to say, "This is going to be fun...Guess what?? I heard that everyone dresses in crazy costumes for this thing so I was thinking we could all get something together!" Sheila starts nodding, obviously excited. "Ooh! I just saw this BRIGHT pink t-shirt at Target that says in huge letters: 'RELAX! DON'T DO IT!!!' What if we all got those and wore them??" Lulu and I are liking the sounds of it, and I add, "Ooh! And how about skirts with knee socks!?!" More nodding. Then Lulu says, "And...how about if we all wear our hair in 2 ponytails with cowboy hats???" That was it...we had our <i>crazy</i> outfit for race day, and we were <i>psyched</i>.<br />
<br />
A week later, we all pile in the car and head up to the mountain town of Prescott for the big event. It's a Friday night and the race is on Saturday. We eat dinner, have a low key night and head to bed early. As we pull up to our hotel...well, actually it was a motel, we survey the scene. <br />
<br />
I look at the building warily and say, "Hmm...this place looks a <i>little </i>sketchy, Lu." She shrugs and says, "It was the only place with vacancy! I guess we waited too long to book a room. Oh well...I bet it's not as bad as it looks." We all nod, and head in. <i>It wasn't as bad as it looked...it was worse.</i> <br />
<br />
The lobby is minimally decorated and as we look around for the front desk so we can check in, we notice that the cashier is behind THICK bullet-proof glass next to a sign that says, "ABSOLUTELY <b>NO</b> PETS!!! NO DOGS! NO CATS! NO BIRDS! NO GUINEA PIGS! NO LIZARDS!!" <i>I was tempted to ask if I could have my pet monkey stay, but I refrained once I saw the unfriendly expression on the motel clerk's face.</i><br />
<br />
The next morning we wake up early. We all get dressed in our matching outfits and head to the starting line. As I'm stretching, I take stock of the crowd around us....and I notice that no one...i mean NO ONE has said "crazy" outfits on. It was standard running gear as far aa the eye could see, Sheila, always the optimist said, "Hey, on the bright side, we will probably make the paper!" (<i>She was right...we DID make the paper and the website...Lulu and Sheila are smiling like beauty queens and I look like a 300 pound heffer that just got poked with a hot iron...)</i><br />
<br />
So the race begins, and I'm feeling pretty good, and I think to myself, "Wow...this isn't so bad! I can run! I'm a runner!"....and then we turn a corner and the next 5 miles are up a STEEP hill. I feel myself hyperventilating as I'm desperately trying to keep up with my friends. <br />
<br />
After 10 minutes (ok, it was 30 seconds), I slow down to a walk, and grab them, signaling for them to remove their headphones. They look at me with befuddled expressions. "I <i>(gasp)</i> need <i>(cough)</i> to <i>(sigh)</i> walk <i>(huff)</i> for <i>(puff)</i> a <i>(wheeze)</i> minute." They look annoyed, but they agree. A minute passes. I've caught my breath, and Lulu says, "Ok, ready to run??" I nod, begrudgingly. <br />
<br />
We run for a few more minutes and I feel like I'm suffocating. I slow down again, and Sheila also slows down, tapping Lulu. At this point, I'm doubled over. I shake my head, and barely manage to get out, "You...guys...are...freaks. Just...go without me." They shrug and start to put their headphones back in. <br />
<br />
I'm incredulous. <br />
<br />
"YOU'RE LEAVING ME?!? I <i>KNEW</i> this would happen..." They laugh, and walk with me again...aaand this goes on for the rest of the race. I'm fairly certain we finished DEAD last, but I have to say..I was just thrilled that I FINISHED!<br />
<br />
So, we cross the finish line, and immediately head to the pub across the street to toast our victory. One toast turns into a few. <br />
<br />
We finally decide to tear ourselves away from the local watering holes so we can shower, get ready and head out to more bars for the night. As we are walking back to our motel, we see a homeless guy sleeping in the park, and I point him out. "Hey, look! A hobo! Reminds me of Chicago. Speaking of bums, how come no one ever says 'hobo' anymore??" Somehow, this discussion escalates into me wanting to become ONE with the hobo so I announce as I'm running toward him, "I will spoon you!!!" I cozy up behind him, resting on the soft, green grass, laughing hysterically... when suddenly, he wakes up...none too pleased to be canoodling with the likes of me. He sits up and starts flailing his arms as he yells, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?!" Instead of answering him, I scream and run away. <br />
<br />
This is what extreme exercise <i>does</i> to me. I run uphill for 6 miles, and suddenly I'm assaulting innocent homeless men... defenseless hobos just trying to take a nap...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Names have been changed.<br />
<br />
<i>Footnote: When I told my mom (who happens to have a touch of the OCD and is an extreme germ-a-phobe) about this incident, she reacted with complete and utter disgust. "ERIN ELIZABETH!!! You could have gotten fleas!!!" NOT you could have been knifed by a homeless dude's homemade shiv....FLEAS. I said, "Um...Mom, I don't think he had fleas." She wasn't convinced. "Yes, yes they do. Everyone knows that." I laughed. "PEOPLE have fleas?!? Since when??" She realized her mistake. "Well, body lice..." Leave it to my mom to use any situation possible to teach me the merits of good personal hygiene...</i>Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-25371314064727841712012-07-17T15:53:00.002-07:002012-07-17T18:22:33.772-07:00Have you ever wet the bed...and you weren't alone??There is a tradition at Purdue University called "Breakfast Club". All the bars open at 7 am on Saturdays during football season so everyone can get rip roaring drunk before heading to the stadium to cheer on their beloved Boilermakers...OR...if you were like us, you would drink all morning, pass out BEFORE you made it to the stadium and then stumble out of the bushes and head home. <br />
<br />
We were not your average day-time drinkers though...we didn't want to <i>just</i> do the status quo. We thought <i>bigger</i>, <b>brighter</b>, <b>DRUNKER</b>. We were overachievers in that way. Hell, if you're going to get up at 7 am on a Saturday to drink...why not take the edge off by drinking to the wee hours of Friday night, too??<br />
<br />
I lived with my best friend, Sarah, in a basement apartment (Laverne and Shirley style...seriously...our view was feet, bushes and bumpers). Lucky for us, we had many neighbors and friends who also shared our affinity for consuming mass amounts of booze....and somehow, our fanciful cellar home became the drunk tank for friends, acquintances and an occasional stranger or two. We never locked our door, and it wasn't uncommon to walk out of your bedroom in the morning to see 3 strange men canoodling on the couches and floor. I never batted an eye...until Sarah took it the next level.<br />
<br />
Apparently all available sleeping spots had been spoken for so Sarah suggested to our friend Mike that he go pass out next to me... in <i>my bed</i>. I wasn't there for this suggestion (obviously I was sawing logs in a room nearby), but according to witnesses, she said something like, "Oh just go crash next to Erin. She's been asleep for an hour already. She won't even know you're there."...and she was right. I didn't. <i>(Don't worry, this isn't the beginning of an after-school special-esque report of date rape...)</i><br />
<br />
I, being the most responsible train wreck of the group, always remembered to set my alarm for important events like class and scheduled all day drinking outings. It was 6 am and Tina Turner was asking what love had to do with it LOUDLY...I groaned, opening one eye and trying to remember what class I was late for. It was then that I realized I was <i>not</i> alone....mostly because my back was all wet. I assumed it was my boyfriend, and was shocked to see a boy that looked vaguely familiar drooling on my pillow. <i>What the...did I? Did we? </i><br />
<br />
I squinted, trying to get a better look at my sleeping companion, and I realized it was Mike. <br />
<br />
"MIKE!" <br />
<br />
He popped up looking startled. <br />
<br />
"What the fuck are you doing in here and why the <i>hell</i> are you so sweaty?!" Before he could answer, I jumped out of bed and yelled over my shoulder, "If you're coming with us to Breakfast Club, you better get up. I gotta shower. You sweat like a beast! Sick!" I pounded on Sarah's door, yelled at the sleeping people in the living room and headed to the bathroom. <br />
<br />
When I came out, almost everyone was ready...<br />
except for Mike. <br />
<br />
Dressing in bizarre costumes is part of the tradition of Breakfast Club. You can't just go in regular clothes...<br />
<br />
and thus was the dilema. <br />
<br />
I walked into Sarah's room, catching the tail-end of a heated debate. Sarah was shaking her head as she said, "Look, all I've got is this hot pink genie costume. Take it or leave it." <br />
<br />
Mike begrudgingly accepted the costume, asking if he could change in Sarah's room. A few minutes later, we were on our way. It was sunny and 70....a perfect day for drinking heavily. We only lived a few blocks from the bars so we made our way on foot. <br />
<br />
We had just ordered our first screwdriver when Sarah stopped mid-drink, staring at Mike's crotch. The genie costume was made of thin nylon and was basically see-through. "Hey! I have those boxers. Weird." Mike shrugged and tried to change the subject, but Sarah's wheels were turning. "They're pretty old...like from 8th grade. That's crazy that you have the same pair." Mike shrugged again and started talking about shots. "Wait...are those MY boxers??" <br />
<br />
Just then, Sarah was tackled by someone we knew that was hugging her like she HADN'T just seen her earlier that day at 3 am. For now, the subject was closed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Fast forward several hours</i>...I'm in the kitchen cooking us a healthy dinner of Ramen and nachos when I hear a blood-curdling scream. I run to Sarah's room...and there she is...her arm outstretched, high in the air, holding the evidence on the end of a pencil. "Look! <i>Just</i> LOOK!!! I <i>KNEW</i> those were my boxers..." <br />
<br />
There...dangling from the end of the pencil was a wet, crumpled up pair of men's underwear...more specifically...tightie whities. I leaned forward, taking a closer look. "What... the.. fuck <i>is</i> that?" Sarah held her hand over her nose and said, "What do you think?!" I scratched my head, befuddled. <br />
<br />
Then... I got a whiff. "JESUS! Those smell like an old folks home! Where did they come from?!" She gagged, shook her head, and whispered, "Under. my. bed. Those boxers Mike was wearing WERE mine!!!! These must be his!!! He peed on his and needed new ones!!!!" <br />
<br />
I was confused. "Wait...when did he pee?? Wait. No. Please tell me it isn't true." I made a mad dash for my bedroom. <br />
<br />
For the first time since that morning I took stock of the disaster that was my bedroom...and there, under the covers...was a GIANT, disgusting pee stain!!! <br />
<br />
More gagging...more yelling...basically, complete and utter bedlam ensued. Mike hadn't been sweaty...he'd been pissy....and I was too God DAMN drunk to notice. <br />
<br />
Just thinking about it makes me need a beverage or two right now...while I ponder how I shall repay my dear old friend. What's that they say about revenge being a dish...or in this case, a bodily function...best served cold?? (Like old, cold pee...)Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-58158040742352629902012-07-17T00:00:00.003-07:002012-07-17T00:43:47.070-07:00Exercise...blahExercise. Blah. That about sums it up for me. <br />
<br />
Growing up with no coordination, rhythm or hand-eye coordination <i>may</i> or may not be to blame for my lack of enthusiasm on the subject. (Let's just say anything involving movement then or now is a <i>wee</i> bit of a challenge.) <br />
<br />
Amazingly enough, as a child and in middle school, I was incredibly well rounded considering my lack of skill. Somehow, I managed to be on the basketball team, the softball team, the cheerleading squad, the dance team, <i>and</i> the tennis team...AND<b></b> I only got hit in the face <i>twice</i>. <i>(Disclaimer: all of the above NOT actual teams)</i> <br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking...WHAT ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL?? (You get that question a lot when you're in your 30s...)<br />
<br />
So, as I'm cruising through high school, checkin' out the scene, I decide that I am <i>pretty</i> badass. I see flyers posted, announcing tryouts, and I'm Marcia Brady-ing it. I'm snapping off tabs, taking notes, scribbling dates...you name it. I am ON it! <br />
<br />
Tryout number 1: Cheerleading...<br />
<br />
The flyer said that tryouts started at 3:30. I got there at 3:25....in jeans, a vest, and penny loafers. I sat biting my nails as I waited for the show to start (that's right..I said "show"...because that is what I thought was happening. I thought a demonstration or pep rally of some sort was about to occur. I didn't <i>know</i> people sat in a row and expected you to do stuff that they would then judge. <i>No</i> clue. (quick background: I went to a <i>small</i> religious school prior to high school) I had no knowledge of "tryouts"...I came from a place where EVERYONE made the team! I figured "tryouts" meant "try out" like "try this sport out and see if you <i>like</i> it." (and of course...I KNEW I liked it...<i>I'd been doing it for like the last 3 years...duh.</i>)<br />
<br />
This place was packed. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar face. I rushed over to her to say "hello", grateful to have someone to talk to (these were the stone ages people...no cell phones= no texting, no web surfing, no Facebook, no app shopping...just <i>p<i>aper</i><i></i></i>...that's it. Paper for <i>writing</i>. Paper in <i>books</i>. Paper <i>texts</i> (we called them "notes"), paper games of tabletop football (which I never played so I'm not sure why I'm mentioning it...). Paper, paper, paper!) <br />
Footnote: <i>actually, paragraph note</i>: All of the above sentences in parentheses should have been read in an uppity, judgmental, highly irritated British accent. Go back if you need to...I've got time. <br />
<br />
So anyway, I see this <i>girl</i> that I don't actually know, but I recognize her from some class we have in common (or she rode my bus...or she sat near me in the cafeteria...) and I run up to her, calling her by name. "Betsy! Hi! Hi Betsy!" <i>(this is the best I could come up with...)</i> Betsy starts digging in her bag, adjusting her laces, tightening her hair tie, fixing her mascara...doing anything she <i>can</i> to avoid eye contact with me. Hmmm. She quite obviously does not have as clear a remembrance of me as I her...but I'm persistent. She must not have heard me. I reach out and touch her to get her attention, and she looks up from folding her sleeves, stunned. "Hi?" She greets me with an embarrassed, rushed question, worried someone might notice us mingling...<i>right</i> before the show. I smile back at her, racking my brain for something relevant to say when she looks me up and down in full elevator style before saying, "Aren't you going to change? I mean...you can't try out like that." <br />
<br />
For the first time, I noticed her clothing. <br />
<br />
<i>Umbros...(I think they are soccer shorts...? They appear to be for working out...). T-shirt. Sneakers. Sweatbands...<i>sweatbands?!</i> Uh oh. <i>What</i> kind of a show <i>was</i> this?!</i><br />
<br />
I could feel myself starting to sweat. Ok I'm not gonna lie. I. WAS. FULL OUT. PANICKING! <br />
<br />
It was 3:28 and I had <i>NOTHING</i> to wear. Suddenly I noticed <i>EVERYONE </i>had Umbros on...and no one...I mean NO ONE had jeans and fucking penny loafers on. My elitist acquaintance saw her opportunity to be rid of me. "I mean...well, I guess you could just put your gym uniform on or whatever."<br />
<br />
I took her suggestion as an order and booked it to my gym locker. I changed as fast as I could and was horrified to discover that my favorite pair of Keds was NOT there. <i>Drats! Oh! I do remember now...I took them home to wash!</i> (Yes...this is true....and <i>yes</i>, these <i>are</i> the kind of thoughts that went through my head at age 14...it's almost like someone plucked me right out of that old timey tv show <i>Little House on the Prairie</i>...which coincidentally was on my parents "approved" list..)<br />
<br />
What could I do?! TIME...she was a-wastin! I pulled up my gym shorts, tucked in my gym shirt, caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, untucked my shirt and then put my penny loafers back on. I was a <i>stylish vixen</i>...<strike>a<strike></strike></strike> <b>sight</b> to behold...ready to KILL this "try" "out".<br />
<br />
I stepped back into the designated area, and heard my name being called out by an elfish girl with a clipboard. After the announcement was made that I would be next, I let out a loud "Whew!" A couple girls looked over at me so I waved. <br />
<br />
I was RELIEVED to have made it back in time! I watched the girl before me jump and flip and punch the air and yell...and I thought, "Hmm. I wonder if she <i>really</i> wants to try this out or not."<br />
<br />
The judges called me forward and I flashed them a blinging, reflective silver smile, grateful my lips didn't get stuck on my braces. <br />
<br />
As they looked me over, they were so impressed...they were <i>speechless</i>.<br />
<br />
An older lady with a blonde bob and a sour expression cleared her throat and said, "Toe touch?"<br />
<br />
I happily and proudly obliged, barely jumping off the ground and stretching my fingers <i>just</i> beyond my thighs before feeling my feet slide out from under me. <i>Damn penny loafers...so fucking slippery!</i> and then...<i>I'm not perfect, but I am <i>enthusiastic!</i><b></b></i> (I even cheered <i>myself</i> on in my head! I was <i>made</i> for this gig...)<br />
<br />
More throat clearing. (As an adult, I now realize they were most likely doing their best not to bust out in belly slapping guffaws, but back then, I said, 'Those three...they all must be smokers..<i>habitual</i> smokers...that stuff will k<i>ill</i> you, you know...'<br />
<br />
The person sitting in the middle was a girl in a sports bra and Umbros that didn't appear to be much older than me. She stared at me, starting with my head and working her way down to my penny loafered feet, then said, "School Fight Song."<br />
<br />
<i>School Fight Song?!? Who knew the words to that?!</i> <br />
<br />
I bowed my head, thinking frantically. I cleared my throat, stalling for time. Then I started clapping and side-stepping (Sweatin to the Oldies style): <br />
<br />
Munster Mustangs!<br />
We love you!<br />
You're a horse...and that's pretty cool! <br />
Munster Mustangs!<br />
We love you! <br />
You'll win of course, of course, of course!<br />
Munster MUSTANGS! <br />
WOO!<br />
<br />
<i>(Disclaimer: not the actual lyrics to said fight song.)</i><br />
<br />
It was the third lady's turn to tell me what to do. She looked like an older, tanner version of the middle girl...in the same outfit. "Can you do a back hand spring?" My face must have said it all because she hurriedly went on to say, "How about a flip? Any flips? How about a cartwheel, honey?" <br />
<br />
I couldn't do any of these. I thought about offering a somersault....<br />
<br />
Fast forward...make sure you are sitting down...because this...<i>THIS</i>...is will be a shock for you, I'm afraid...<br />
<br />
I didn't make the cheerleading squad that year.<br />
<br />
I know...I'm still confused and writing letters to the school board also.Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-28661364917419568172012-01-03T15:50:00.000-08:002012-07-17T00:02:56.624-07:00Who is he???My sister and I were talking today. <br />
<br />
We talk <span style="font-style:italic;">every</span>day...and... as usual, our conversation turned toward...well, discussing the sandman...I'm sure you can relate. <br />
<br />
(Whenever there is a lull in the conversation, that's what people talk about...the sandman...or Abraham Lincoln.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, my sister made the argument that The Sandman or "Mr. Sandman" is a nice guy who helps you sleep. <br />
<br />
Um...I don't mean to sound ignorant, but I want to know two things. WHY and HOW COME?? <br />
<br />
My best guess?<br />
<br />
He fills up all your pockets with <span style="font-style:italic;">as much</span> sand as he can, then throws you in the lake so you can "sleep with the fishes...see?" ...OR<br />
<br />
He buries you in the sand until your breathing slows down...waaaaay down.<br />
<br />
My sister insists that <span style="font-style:italic;">none</span> of these could <span style="font-style:italic;">possibly</span> be the reason because they all seem too scary...but when I looked it up on Wikipedia, my ideas are not even HALF as scary as the truth. <br />
<br />
Are you ready for this? <br />
<br />
According to the world wide web, "Mr. Sandman" is 'a mythical man who creeps into children's rooms at night, blowing sand into their eyes to help them sleep.'<br />
<br />
Um....WHAT?!? <br />
<br />
How did this <span style="font-style:italic;">ever</span> catch on as something you tell your kids to <span style="font-style:italic;">comfort</span> them???? <br />
<br />
It seems more like a threat, really. "You better get to sleep or I'm going to send the Sandman in there!" <br />
<br />
If I thought some weird little man was going to be skulking around in the shadows, just waiting to spit gritty shit into my eyes, I would have been fake sleeping INSTANTLY.<br />
<br />
I think this is why Metallica wrote that scary song about him....<br />
<br />
'Sleep with one eye open' indeed!Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-69699812880537895022011-10-30T11:32:00.000-07:002011-10-30T12:43:28.675-07:00Maybe old dogs can't learn new tricks, but apparently old cats can.Lucy has been an ideal pet for the last 12 years, but one thing that always bugged me about having a cat was the litter box.<br /><br />Having a box of pee and poop just sitting somewhere in the house was <span style="font-style:italic;">never</span> that awesome...so I came up with a brilliant solution: a doggie door to the garage! Instead of having that stinky, portable outhouse indoors, we could keep it outside! <br /><br />In a matter of days, my plan was being put into action. The little door within the bigger door had been installed. <br /><br />I showed Lucy and was met with a less than enthusiastic "meow?" <br /><br />It took 3 weeks, 5 boxes of fruit roll ups and countless accidents in what she had designated her new toilet: the guest room...but we did it. <br /><br />Lucy who was already 8 years old at that point, learned how to use a doggie door. <br /><br />I was thrilled. Everyone told me it couldn't be done, but I proved them wrong!!! <br /><br />There was just one small snafu: I forgot to put any time and energy into training my husband to close the garage door consistently...<br /><br />I wasn't worried about Lucy leaving...that was not an issue. Lucy is not motivated to venture out into the unknown. She got out once when she was a kitten and I think the memory of being stuck in the rain with fleas was enough to scare her straight. <br /><br />The thing we had to be worried about was the opposite. We had to be vigilant about the other animals in the neighborhood who <span style="font-style:italic;">were </span>motivated to do some exploring. <br /><br />The first time I realized that closing the garage door was important was on a lazy Sunday...<br /><br />Aaron and I were napping on the couches in the living room when I sat up straight. <br /><br />"What a weird dream. That baby wouldn't stop crying, and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from." I shook my head reaching for my bottle of water.<br /><br />I was just about to take a drink when I heard it again. It was the baby from my dream! I put down my water and stood up. The sound of the baby was getting louder. <br /><br />I walked into the kitchen and found the source of the crying. It was no baby. It was a large, fierce-looking black and orange cat. He was howling as he circled a cowering Lucy. <br /><br />"AARON!! HELP!" My husband jumped up, looking bewildered. "THERE'S A CAT IN THE KITCHEN!!!" <br /><br />"Lucy?" He asked. <br /><br />I shot him an exasperated look and said, "ANOTHER cat!!!" <br /><br />We used a two pronged approach. Aaron grabbed the feline intruder and I grabbed Lucy, checking for wounds. <br /><br />In a matter of minutes, the frenzied panic in the kitchen was over. <br /><br />"We <span style="font-style:italic;">have</span> to remember to close that garage door!" <br /><br />Aaron nodded. We didn't have another incident for at least two weeks...until Jonathan decided to stop by.<br /><br />It was a Saturday afternoon. I was in the living room doing paperwork and Aaron was outside pulling weeds. <br /><br />I looked up from the computer just in time to see Lucy sprinting down the hallway toward our bedroom which was weird because Lucy <span style="font-style:italic;">never </span>sprinted...anywhere. <br /><br />I got up and headed into the kitchen to investigate, and I found him. <br /><br />A small beagle was standing in the middle of the room. When I entered, he ran right over to me, trying to lick my face. <br /><br />"What the...?"<br /><br />I glimpsed the doggie door and noticed an inordinate amount of sunshine peeking through. <span style="font-style:italic;">Not again...</span><br /><br />Of course, we had left the garage door open again and another little guy had decided to pay us a visit. I checked his tag and saw that his name was Jonathan. <br /><br />I scratched his ear and said, "Well, hello, Mr. Jonathan." Under his name, was a phone number. I grabbed my cellphone and dialed. No answer. <br /><br />I waited until I heard the voicemail click on and left a message, letting the person know we had their dog. <br /><br />As I hung it up, I noticed that Jonathan was sniffing Lucy's food bowl. <span style="font-style:italic;">Could dogs have cat food? It must all be the same.</span> I poured some of Lucy's food into a bowl and offered it to Jonathan. <br /><br />He sniffed it and looked up at me. <br /><br />I guess not. <br /><br />Wanting to be a hospitable hostess, I opened my refrigerator, looking for something more appealing. <br /><br />My eyes landed on a leftover steak from a meal we'd had the week prior. I opened the tupperware container and sniffed. As I did so, Jonathan licked his lips. I guess he could smell it, too. <br /><br />"Is this more to your liking?" I cooed at him. He wagged his tail. I cut it up into bite sized pieces and set the bowl in front of him.<br /><br />He gratefully wolfed it down. <br /><br />I was sitting on the kitchen floor watching him eat when Aaron walked in, finished with his yardwork. "I'm starving. I think I'm going to make a quesadilla with that leftover steak."<br /><br />I looked up at him. "It's gone." Jonathan barked. <br /><br />Aaron did a double take. "Where did that dog come from?!" <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Someone</span> forgot to close the garage door again."<br /><br />Aaron looked sheepish. "Oops. Does he have tags?" <br /><br />I nodded and told him that I had already called and left a message.<br /><br />"You didn't give him that steak...did you?" <br /><br />"I..." The sound of my ringing cell phone cut me off. <br /><br />"Hello?"<br /><br />"Hi. You called about Jonathan?" <br /><br />"Oh, hi! Yes, I did. He came through our doggie door. We have him here at our house. He's fine. I'm sure you were worried." (actually he didn't sound worried at all...) <br /><br />"Thank you for taking him in. I'm not even sure how he got out."<br /><br />"It happens." I heard a sigh on the other end of the phone and waited for the man to tell me when he was coming to get his dog.<br /><br />"Do you think you could just keep him overnight?"<br /><br />I was stunned. "Um...no. Sorry. We have a cat, and well, we don't really have any food for him." (I didn't mention the steak.)<br /><br />The man sighed again. "Alright. It's just that I'm right in the middle of something...you know?" <br /><br />"MmmHmm." I waited. The man on the phone waited. After an uncomfortable silence, I asked, "So...do you want our address then?"<br /><br />He sighed again. "Yeah."<br /><br />I gave it to him, and he said he'd be at our house within the next few hours. <br /><br />As soon as I had ended the call, Aaron was all over me. "What did he say?" <br /><br />"He wanted us to watch him overnight!"<br /><br />"What?? Was he relieved that we had his dog?" I shrugged. "That's weird...you told him we couldn't keep him...right?" <br /><br />"Of course."<br /><br />"Ok. Now, back to this steak...what made you think it would be a good idea to give a strange dog some strange meat? What if he gets sick?"<br /><br />"Oh! Blah! He's fine." I crooned, scratching Jonathan under the chin. <br /><br />Aaron shook his head. <br /><br />We both looked up in surprise when the doorbell rang. <span style="font-style:italic;">That was fast. </span><br /><br />Aaron opened the door and immediately told Jonathan's owner that I had fed him steak. <span style="font-style:italic;">What a tattle tale! </span><br /><br />Luckily, Jonathan wasn't on any sort of special diet.<span style="font-style:italic;"> (Seriously...why does Aaron have to be such a boy scout!?)</span><br /><br />The man thanked us and that the was the last we saw of Jonathan. <br /><br />Since that time, we have moved to a new house...you may be happy to know that it is a house with a non-functional garage door opener. <br /><br />So...we can't park our cars in the shade, but on the bright side, we haven't had any more uninvited four-legged visitors either...and I'm proud to say that Lucy has not forgotten how to use the little door that leads to her toilet.Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-20583565689667557162011-10-29T10:45:00.000-07:002011-10-30T11:28:36.041-07:00Halloween is fun when you have kids or pets to dress up in embarrassing costumes...Halloween is a holiday built around candy and costumes...and for some...humiliation. <br /><br />My mother was <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> the crafty type when we were growing up....until a morning show called "Home" came out. <br /><br />My brother and sister were lucky enough to have outgrown trick or treating by the time she viewed the "make your own costume" special...but alas, I had not.<br /><br />Every year, we had a choice for Halloween. We could be a witch, a clown or a tiger. Those are the 3 costumes we had at the Orth household....it was boring. It was predictable. It was comfortable....but of course, being the true original that I am, I had to balk at the idea of wearing my sister's hand-me-downs. <br /><br />It's true what they say. Be careful what you wish for...<br /><br />It was 1987....a simpler time, a simpler life. There was no "Political Correctness" or "Children's rights"...people were inappropriate all the time, and no one ever batted an eyelash. <br /><br />I was 9 years old, wanting a new, original Halloween costume, and luckily (or unluckily), my mom had an ingenious idea-r. <br /><br />I remember sitting in the passenger seat of my mom's Chrysler, listening to her excitedly talk up the costume idea she had for me. <br /><br />"...I saw it on that new show I like...you know the one...Home, I think it's called? Anyway, they dressed this kid up in an outfit, using only things they had around their<span style="font-style:italic;"> home</span>...get it?? Because the show is <span style="font-style:italic;">called</span> Home?? Isn't that clever??" <br /><br />My mom was so excited, I thought she might eat her own tongue in the process of jabbering about this new costume. <br /><br />When I was able to get a word in, I asked the most important question about a detail she failed to mention. "Well, what is it? What am I going as?" <br /><br />She paused to build the anticipation and then said dramatically, "A <span style="font-style:italic;">hobo<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span>." <br /><br />I stared at her. <span style="font-style:italic;">This </span>is what she had been so excited for?? Tommy Gillihan dressed like a bum every year!<br /><br />I felt duped. This was nothing new. <br /><br />BUT...being the awesome daughter I was back then, I didn't want to hurt her feelings so I plastered on a fake smile and said, "Sounds good, Ma." <br /><br />She could sense my lack of enthusiasm. <br /><br />She tapped my leg and whispered, "I haven't told you the best part yet."<br /><br />I raised my eyebrows. "What?" I was expecting her to tell me I got to have a cool accessory like a live dog wearing a bandana or a life-like shank.<br /><br />"You get to have stubble!" <br /><br />At age 9, I had no idea what "stubble" was...so again, I just stared at her. I was wondering if "stubble" was another word for "shank". <span style="font-style:italic;">(Why I knew what a shank was at 9 is a whole other story...)<br /></span><br />The enthusiasm with which my mom relayed this last bit was contagious. <br /><br />I was finally getting excited. <span style="font-style:italic;">I get to have stubble!</span> Now THAT is something Tommy Gillihan did NOT have....and also, considering it was Halloween morning, I didn't have that many options...<br /><br />We got home and my mom and I scavenged the house for "homeless looking clothing" (Like I said, PC is not something that even existed in the 80s...)<br /><br />An hour later, I had my getup on. I was wearing my brother's "garbage" jeans that had holes and grass stains in the knees, a tired looking flannel shirt that my dad had put in the Goodwill bag that was so big on me we had to roll the sleeves up 5 times and a stocking hat (it was the midwest...Halloween was usually so cold that I had to cover my costume with a hat and a coat anyway...but this year, my costume was so versatile that I could wear my jacket <span style="font-style:italic;">underneath</span>.)<br /><br />I stood in the kitchen waiting for my mother to reveal how we were actually going to get this elusive stubble on my face. <br /><br />She smiled broadly as she took out the syrup and some coffee grounds. <br /><br />As a kid with some major sensory issues (<span style="font-style:italic;">I ate only Lipton soup for breakfast and lunch for 3 years for Christ's sake!)</span>, I couldn't believe my eyes. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Surely she was not thinking of putting that shit on my face</span>...I took a deep breath and waited for her to make a snack out of these ingredients while she got the real stubble out. <br /><br />No such luck. <br /><br />I watched in horror as she squeezed the syrup onto one plate and spread coffee grounds on another. <br /><br />When she felt everything was ready, she turned to me. "Ok, now all we have to do is roll your face in this syrup and then roll your face in the coffee grounds...and...wah-lah! Stubble!"<br /><br />I was reluctant. I was grossed out. I was<span style="font-style:italic;"> pissed</span>. <br /><br />Just then, my dad walked up behind us. "Aren't you going to get your costume on? Trick or treating starts in 8 minutes. If you want to fill up your candy bag, we're going to have to get a move on." (My dad was a bigger sugar hound than we were...he loved Halloween because it meant an unlimited supply of candy for 2 days...or less.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Shit.</span><br /><br />I had no choice. I plunged my chin into the syrup, grimacing at the sticky feeling. <br /><br />My dad watched with a confused look on his face. "What the hell are you doing? Get that shit off your face and get your costume on!" (Again, it was the 80s...my dad freely cussed whenever he felt like it...except when he was singing hymns at church...)<br /><br />"Larry!" My mom scolded. "This IS her costume. She's a hobo and we are making her a beard!" <br /><br />My dad shook his head and said, "You're going to keep that shit on your face all night, kid?" <br /><br />I shrugged. I was merely a pawn...a frankenstein of my mother's making. <br /><br />I tried not to drip syrup on my shirt as my mom helped me mash my face into a pile of coffee grounds. <br /><br />When she had finished, she took a step back to admire her handiwork...and burst into a fit of giggles so intense she had to lock her knees together and squat down to prevent an accident. <br /><br />I opened my mouth to protest and tasted the bitterness of the coffee grounds. <br /><br />"It's itchy!" I complained. "...and you're laughing! This doesn't look like crubble!" <br /><br />Now both of my parents were laughing. <br /><br />"It's STubble...not crubble...and of course it does. I'm only laughing because I'm not used to seeing you that way. Now go on. It's already quarter after. You're going to miss out on the big bar house." <br /><br />That was enough to get me moving. There was one house in our neighborhood that was known for handing out REGULAR sized candy bars...not the fun size...REGULAR SIZE...but they only did it until they ran out and then they would turn their lights out. <br /><br />Yep, this reminder snapped me back to reality. I grabbed my pillowcase and whistled for my dad to follow me. We had candy to get! There was no time to waste...itchy misery or no itchy misery. <br /><br />That Halloween was rough. All night my dad would slap my hand away if I looked like I might scratch my face so I had to learn how to be a facial contortionist. I wiggled and frowned and grimaced and puckered, trying to figure out a way to get the itching to stop....but nothing worked. <br /><br />I'm not sure how I did it, but I made it.<br /><br />I made it the whole 4 hours without itching that damn thing off my face...all for a good cause...kid crack...CANDY. <br /><br />Too bad the next day, half my booty was gone. <br /><br />I was the only one who was still young enough to go door to door, but I wasn't the only one with a sweet tooth. <br /><br />I thought that I had found the perfect hiding spot for all of that sugary goodness (the back of my closet...let's face it, I was no mastermind)...but my brother and sister were wise to me and had eaten more than half my stash before I caught them. <br /><br />If only I had the guts to give those two "stubble" while they were sleeping. <br /><br />I guess there's still time....what's that old saying? Revenge is a dish best served cold? <br /><br />Those two hooligans better sleep with one eye open the next time I visit the midwest...<br /><br />Actually, on second thought, I should give stubble to the instigator of this torture costume. <br /><br />All I have to do is wait for her to take an Ambien. She'll never know what hit her. Hell, have you ever listened to the warnings for that drug?? <br /><br />(said in a soothing voice in hyperspeed: <span style="font-style:italic;">Sleep walking, talking and/or driving with memory loss for the event is not uncommon when taking Ambien...</span>)<br /><br />Yes, the more I think about it, the more I like this idea. <br /><br />Watch out, Lynn. <br /><br />Sleep stubble with memory loss for the event is coming your way this holiday season!Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-25839726040338457952011-10-13T08:31:00.000-07:002011-10-13T12:27:54.893-07:00Did you have the big box of crayons when you were a kid?I've really been slacking on the upkeep of this blog lately....and today is no different. Well, actually, that's not true. It IS different because I am creating a new post....but I have to admit, I'm merely recycling an old blog I wrote back when blogs were made out of paper and were called 'columns'. <br /><br />I originally wrote this column in March 1998. I was a sophomore at Purdue University and I had a gig writing for the school newspaper. <br /><br />I wrote a weekly column, but this one was a last minute gem. It was a result of equal parts procrastination, panic and utter desperation. I was the editor of the opinions page, and if a writer didn't turn in his work, I had to fill the hole. Without much further ado, here is what filled that hole... <br /><br />Original Title: <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Crayons color Orth's Memories</span><br /><br /><em>(Disclaimer: Information provided in this essay may or may not be exaggerated for entertainment purposes only.)</em><br /><br />Do you stay in the lines? <br /><br />Last week, a close friend of ours celebrated its 40 birthday. <br /><br />First announced on the "Captain Kangaroo" show in 1958, the 64-crayon Crayola box with the built-in sharpener continues to be an icon in the elementary art community....and for those no longer of age to be considered part of this younger society, it is something that still frames many childhood memories. <br /><br />Some may look back at the big daddy of crayon boxes with nostalgia and others may not feel so warm and fuzzy about it. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Picture it. Indiana. 1984....</span><br /><br />In what seemed to be an idyllic first grade classroom, there was a darker subtext which was mostly ignored by adults that witnessed it. It was an unspoken hierarchy governing each and every student...the Crayon System.<br /><br />That's right. As young as six years old, children are able to spot designer brands and more impressive belongings...even in what seem to be the most inconsequential accessories....crayons.<br /><br />The Crayon System was a good, old fashioned social schema based on material posessions alone. <br /><br />It was quite simple really. <br /><br />Those with the 64-crayon box were <span style="font-style:italic;">the elite.</span> <br /><br />Those without it were shunned from elementary school society. <br /><br />No matter how much I begged, my mother just would <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> break down and buy me that beautiful box with its many, many colors and exotic sharpener built in. <br /><br />In her mind, she was being economical and rational. She thought, why does any child need <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span> many colors!? ...And a sharpener? Puh shaw! Just rub your crayon back and forth at a 30 degree angle to the paper until a point emerges or a hand cramp forces you to take a break...it's character building!"<br /><br />My mother had no way of knowing that the extra crayons in that big box not only represented a better color selection....they represented a better way of <em>life</em>. <br /><br />FORTY more crayons could open a lot of doors for a first grader like me...<br /><br />I remember pulling out my tiny box of crayons on the first day. My eyes darted around the room as I took stock of what the others kids had. <br /><br />The 64 kids would hoard their exotic array of colors while us peasants tried to make the best of our paltry selection. As we were trying to decide whether to use orange or yellow for Barbie's face, they would relish in the authenticity of their flesh tone colors....but the inequality did not end with the peach color alone. <span style="font-style:italic;">Oh no, there were others. </span> <br /><br />They had <em>all</em> the good colors that didn't even <span style="font-style:italic;">exist</span> in the 24-box world...colors like <span style="font-style:italic;">burnt sienna</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">carnation pink</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">cornflower </span>and <span style="font-style:italic;">magenta</span>. They did not just have "red", they had <em>brick</em> red and <em>violet</em> red and <em>original</em> red. At Christmas time, they had <span style="font-style:italic;">gold</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">silver</span>...the presents they drew under their "forest green" pine trees looked tantalizingly real...and <em>fancy</em>. <br /><br />How I longed to create such colorful images!<br /><br />On most days, I was content to make up for my lack of choices in innovative ways. If I needed grey to color an elephant the appropriate color, I learned to use black with gentle pressure...giving the illusion of grey. When I wanted to make a tree seem more lifelike, I blended shades to represent the cornucopia of color on a fall day. <br /><br />Most of the 64 kids admired my ingenuity and gave up trying to make me jealous but every group has that <em>one </em>jerkface that finds a <em>new</em> way to show off. <br /><br />Bobby Smardle was my arch nemesis. He not only had the 64 box. He had <em>multiple</em> 64 boxes at his disposal for when his favorite colors got too run down for his liking. He was the kid who had everything. <br /><br />If we were talking about Alexander Graham Bell, he'd have to raise his hand to point out that his house had TEN phones and he would be sure everyone knew that he even had one of his very own <em>in his bedroom</em>. <br /><br />When we read "James and the Giant Peach", he had to tell everyone about the peach tree his grandma had in <em>her</em> yard. <br /><br />He even claimed to have a drinking fountain in his own house one time! (...but I'm pretty sure he lying about that one.) <br /><br />This kid had an annoying anecdote for pretty much<em> every </em>topic our teacher introduced.<br /> <br />Ok, I know this sounds cruel, but <span style="font-style:italic;">sometimes</span>, on days when Bobby Smardle was feeling particularly mean, he would run down his crayons ON PURPOSE<span style="font-style:italic;"> just</span> so he could sharpen them <span style="font-style:italic;">right</span> in front of us! He didn't stop there, either. He would often rally the other 64 kids to do the same, turning into a mass sharpening us 24 box kids had to suffer through. <em>(I know what you're thinking...and I agree. They were mean little fuckers..)</em><br /><br />Oh, we would try to shake it off, pretending not to notice; pretending not to care when our pencil sharpeners got clogged with crayon wax...but <span style="font-style:italic;">inside?</span> DEEP down? We <span style="font-style:italic;">HURT.</span><br /><br />A lot of kids cracked under the pressure. They would lose it and try to steal a wayward crayon when one of the 64 box kids weren't looking. <br /><br />Others tried to sneak a sharpening in here and there. <br /><br />It affected me, too. I became a crayon hoarder. <br /><br />Because I had such a limited supply, I tended to be somewhat overprotective of my crayons. <br /><br />Every crayon had its own special place in the box. In order to borrow a crayon from me, people had to first prove that they were worthy. It was of the utmost importance to weed out the irresponsible crayon borrowers...those who ate them; those who broke them; and those who tore the beloved Crayola wrapper off. (In case you are not aware: Once the wrapper was gone, the crayons were <span style="font-style:italic;">essentially</span> garbage.<br /><br />Crayon memories...there is a neverending supply of them in this rambling old mind of mine, but I've got to stop at some point. <br /><br />Yes, the crayon hierarchy was, indeed, an influential piece of my history pie...but I'm proud to say I overcame this early experience of segregation and discrimination. <br /><br />I may not have had the most colorful pictures to hang on the wall back then, but I certainly have a wealth of shades in my memories. <br /><br />Maybe that's why my mother chose <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> to get me so many colors. <br /><br />Perhaps, she knew that the colors I had inside of me could outshine anything that Crayola could think up...yes, now that I see it in print, that must be the reason...<br /><br />Not that any of this matters anymore. I'm an adult now. Crayons are crayons! I'm <em>over</em> it. <br /><br />Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of crayon sharpening to do before lunch.Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-1404813304191137222011-08-20T12:06:00.000-07:002011-08-20T13:42:14.108-07:00Debbie Downers in your Life...I love the Saturday Night Live character "Debbie Downer".
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<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">If you are not familiar with the character, here is a quick tidbit from Wikipedia for you: Debbie Downer is a name of a fictional Saturday Night Live character which debuted in 2004, and who was portrayed by Rachel Dratch. The character's name is a slang phrase which refers to someone who frequently adds bad news and negative feelings to a gathering, thus bringing down the mood of everyone around them. Dratch's character would usually appear at social gatherings and interrupt the conversation to voice negative opinions and pronouncements. She was especially concerned about the rate of Feline AIDS, a subject that she would bring up on more than one occasion.</span>
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<br />I am fortunate enough to have a limited amount of Debbie Downers in my life, but every once in a while, an <span style="font-style:italic;">ANONYMOUS</span> stranger likes to make sure they shit on my rainbow.
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<br />I don't mind it though...I've got a rainbow clean up crew that's <span style="font-style:italic;">always</span> itchin' for overtime.
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<br />The fact that there can be so many different reactions to and interpretations of the same topic is <span style="font-style:italic;">fascinating</span>.
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<br />It makes me wonder what it would be like to see the glass half empty, so to speak. I picture it being <span style="font-style:italic;">exhausting</span>....and stressful. You're always eyeballing this imaginary glass, thinking to yourself, "DEAR GOD. WHEN, oh when...<span style="font-weight:bold;">WHEN</span> will the liquid run out?!?!" (said in a dramatic 40s style overdramatization...imagine a black and white version of me biting my balled fist)
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<br />Me? I much prefer the illusion of fullness. "Relax ya'll. There's plenty of wetness left in that there glass...we don't need to fret, child, there's bunches of refreshment for all." and "Chill, bitch! We gots the sauce..a plenty! Shiiiit." (To be said in a friendly, Julia Roberts style southern drawl and Gangsta' Easy E style, respectively)
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<br />It's like when you're sharing a pizza with someone, and you can tell as they eye the pizza, then your plate, then the pizza again, that they're doing pizza math in their head. They are mentally sweating as they calculate the number of people in the room vs. the number of pieces left. That's when I like to immediately say, "I'm full" whether I am or not...just to give the other person<span style="font-style:italic;"> a break</span>. Here's a few minutes of stress-free eating, buddy. Enjoy it. <span style="font-style:italic;">I guess it's just my magnanimous nature.</span>
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<br />Recently, I had an encounter with a Debbie Downer Stranger...or maybe it wasn't a stranger...at all. (to be read in a Keith Morrison ala Dateline voice) <span style="font-style:italic;">Cue taboo voodoo idol music from the Hawaii episode of the Brady Bunch...</span>
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<br />Yesterday, a reader of my blog who would only identify himself or herself or shimself as ANONYMOUS pointed out my lack of mores and sensitivity in regard to our impressionable youth and the turbulent state of our economy.
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<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(ANONYMOUS commented on a blog I wrote last week called "Flash Mob Mentality". The blog is still there in its original distasteful format and the comment is right below it...in case you need to catch yourself up.)</span>
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<br />I couldn't argue with this mysterious stranger. He or she or Shuh-he is absolutely right.
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<br />What a selfish viewpoint I have. If I were Catholic, I'd be doing 5o Hail Marys to make up for my harsh depiction of such obviously disturbed children. In fact, I'm booking a flight to the city of brotherly love <span style="font-style:italic;">right</span> now. I'm going to get to the bottom of this. I need to personally help those kids that are only eleven-teen (which is most likely 5th or 6th grade). Maybe I could pretend to be Jonathan Smith from Highway to Heaven and show up at their doorstep! All I have to do is rent the spare room that is next door to them. Then I will casually become a part of their life so that I can help them through this difficult time, but first, I've got to make amends for what I've done!
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<br />Ok...for my first act of contrition, I immediately tried to regurgitate any residual Starbucks setting up camp in my stomach, but alas, it was too late.
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<br />Maybe I should go buy <span style="font-style:italic;">just </span>one more drink...only I won't drink it. I'll give it to one of the homeless dudes I see standing by the freeway, waiting for spare change. Maybe it will give him the jolt he needs to start kickin ass in his life. <span style="font-style:italic;">Yeah..</span>.I could change someone's <span style="font-style:italic;">whole</span> life! You've<span style="font-style:italic;"> inspired</span> me, ANONYMOUS.
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<br />From this point on, I'm only buying Starbucks for the needy... I <span style="font-style:italic;">might</span> steal two to three sips per drink, but only when I'm thirsty or fully hydrated.
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<br />I'm also making big, BIG changes to my shopping routine. How could I possibly set foot in Nordstroms again, when I know that there are people suffering?
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<br />This <span style="font-style:italic;">DEFINITELY<span style="font-weight:bold;"></span></span> has inspired me.
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<br />ANONYMOUS is right...I'm turning over a new leaf. Big changes...they are a brewin'.
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<br />This is going to be a whole new life for me!
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<br />Fuck capitalism!
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<br />I'm going to sell all my worldly possessions.
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<br />I'm going to sell my house...no, no...I'm going to set up a free shelter in my house...yeah, that's what I'll do.
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<br />Then I will go on a Starbucks run for the homeless guys getting back on their feet on my way to free any and all primates from captivity.
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<br />I will also provide the primates with beverages, but NOT Starbucks. I hear that their social conscience is <span style="font-style:italic;">way</span> too developed to indulge in such frivolousness.
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<br />Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-85739399854449391472011-08-19T08:18:00.000-07:002011-08-19T08:56:15.843-07:00Farts are funny...I've met quite a few people lately who fart freely. They will let it rip whenever they feel like it, no matter where they are or who they are with.
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<br />I'm not hatin' on people who like to cut the cheese every once in a while. It can be a good ice breaker. It brings people together. It's humor everyone can appreciate...no matter their age, sex, race...it's a universal gag. That being said, I should probably say that I, myself, am not a free farter...and I am ok with that. I don't even let one go in front of Aaron, and we've been together for over eight years.
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<br />I've had friends and family members who like to let a peep out here and there, and of course, kids are always tearing it up, but professional gas is something I've not experienced very often. (When I say "professional gas", I don't mean pro as in 'experts on flatulence'....I mean gas in a business-related setting).
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<br />Ironically, Aaron and I both had therapy sessions yesterday with two<span style="font-style:italic;"> different</span> families that were free farters.
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<br />Aaron was seeing a kid for the first time, and right when he got there, he thought he heard some audible gas, but he shook his head, thinking, "No, that can't be it." He pretended that he hadn't heard it and kept working.
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<br />Then, about half an hour later, he saw out of the corner of his eye, the dad lift his leg<span style="font-style:italic;"> ever</span> so slightly.
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<br />There was<span style="font-style:italic;"> no </span>denying it that time.
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<br />What he heard rumble out of that man was unquestionably... a fart.
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<br />Not sure how to react, he ignored it again.
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<br />I must have looked unimpressed because Aaron quickly went on to say, "It was LOUD!" Then he imitated the sound by putting both hands over his mouth while blowing out. I burst into a fit of giggles. Aaron said, "Don't get me wrong, I LOVE farts. They're fun! I fart all the time! ...BUT not in front of strangers!!"
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<br />This was almost too much to take. I ran to the bathroom, and Aaron followed me. "Where are you going?!" I was already shutting the door in his face. "I HAVE TO PEEEEEEEE!!!!!! I'm laughing so hard...I'm afraid some is going to eek out!"
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<br />When I caught my breath, I said, "You know, this is so weird because I had an adult farter today, too! I have to admit, though, it kind of made me mad, not glad."
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<br />It was Aaron's turn to chuckle. In a rush of air, I went on, defending myself. "Well, they didn't have any air conditioning!" Now I was laughing, too. "The heat intensified the smell! It was just festering in there, Double! It smelled so bad, and I was so hot! I almost couldn't take it."
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<br />Hearing it aloud just made the situation all the more ridiculous...I doubled over, snorting and hiccuping.
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<br />We laughed so hard for so long, my cheeks and stomach are sore today.
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<br />The moral of the story?
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<br />Try not to worry about things that irritate you...because one day (...or even the same day) it may provide you and your loved ones with hours of entertainment. Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-56306356123142766102011-08-18T07:31:00.000-07:002011-08-18T07:56:26.700-07:00Sometimes I can move things with me mind...I got up early today to hit the gym, and I as I was pulling out of my driveway, I realized that I had forgotten my phone. So I turned off the car and ran back in to get it. When I started my car again, the air conditioning was <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> blowing.
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<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">NO!!!!</span>
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<br />I felt a panic slowly rising up in me.
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<br />(You may think I'm being overly dramatic, but this is Phoenix and it's August....you do the mental math)
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<br />It was only 5:30 and it was already hot...<span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> hot.
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<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I drive around for work...I can't show up to people's houses a hot, sweaty mess! What am I going to do?!</span>
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<br />As I was reviewing my options and pleading with Loretta (my old and *knock on wood* reliable Jeep Grand Cherokee) to be agreeable, I saw the light ahead turn yellow. At almost the same instant, I noticed a police car coming to a stop at the intersection adjacent to the stoplight. I slammed on my brakes. I heard all of the toys in the back crash as the car lurched forward. I glanced over at the cop. He was engrossed with his cell phone and hadn't even noticed me.
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<br />I let out a big sigh. I hadn't realized that I'd been holding my breath. I could feel sweat trickling down the side of my neck. I stared at the vents in front of me, willing them to work. I turned the A/C off, then on again. Nothing. <span style="font-style:italic;">Shit.</span>
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<br />Just then, out of nowhere, the air conditioning started blowing out <span style="font-style:italic;">cold</span> air full force.
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<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">HOORAY!!!!! </span>
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<br />Maybe I'm like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter!
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<br />After all, I <span style="font-style:italic;">was</span> willing it to work with me mind...
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<br />(for some reason, I'm making this statement in my head like an old west miner...two teeth, bandana around the neck, scraggly beard, old cowboy hat, whistling s sounds and pitch breaks often when talking...hence the use of "me" instead of "my"...I use me mind! Seeeeee????)
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<br />I'm just hoping I won't have to use my powers again today...
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<br />Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-42908242884760219662011-08-17T17:41:00.000-07:002011-08-17T19:18:15.940-07:00My gum stuck to my lips today...
<br />Have you ever had a day that you thought couldn't get much worse... but then it does?
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<br />Today, I popped a piece of gum into my mouth before I headed into a speech therapy session with an active little 20 month old boy. (Chewing gum is something I am addicted to...I like to have fresh breath at all times and mints are too much of a hassle. If I could brush my teeth every hour, I would...but clients <em>might</em> think it's weird if at the end of each session, I said, "Do you mind if I use your sink to brush my teeth before I go??")
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<br />My little friend really gave me a run for my money today. We jumped and climbed and ran and crashed and threw balls and kicked balls and squished balls! We were <em>busy</em>...so busy that I forgot to consistently chew my gum. Because of that and maybe partially because it had been in the oven on wheels that is my car for several days, that little nugget of gum was a nugget no more. Somehow, my gum had started to dissolve, and as it did, it worked its way out of my mouth and onto my lips. At almost the same instant I became aware of this situation, the timer was going off and it was time to clean up.
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<br />I sat facing an audience of family members who had been observing our session. Grandma had questions and so did Dad. It was then I realized that my lips were <em>COMPLETELY</em> <em><strong>COATED</strong></em> in sticky dissolved gum goo! <em>Shit.</em> I tried not to panic as I nonchallantly worked the residue off my top lip with my teeth. I wondered if it was noticeable. I took a sip from my water bottle. I was hoping the water would help, but no luck. I went back to my method of alternating discrete licks with fervent biting. I was desperate to get this shit off my mouth without anyone noticing.
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<br />It was useless. Getting this sticky goo off my face was going to take a good firm rubbing with some sort of napkin or cloth, preferably in front of a mirror. I didn't have any choice. I'd have to hope that the damage was subtle, and that I could answer their questions quickly without sparking more discussion. A little voice inside me said, "Maybe they haven't noticed it!"
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<br />I considered this. <em>Yes.</em> I decided, <em>Yes</em>...it <em>was</em> possible I was the only one who knew! The more I thought about it, the more i convinced myself. <em>All I have to do is just pretend nothing is there. I can do this. I'll just talk around it until I can get the hell out of here! </em>
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<br />I took another sip of water and felt my top lip get stuck in a curled back position.
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<br /><em>Fuck. This can NOT be pretty.</em>
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<br />My lips made a loud smacking sound as the gum intermittently forced me to pry open my mouth with so much force that my jaw would lock in an open position for a few seconds. I barreled on, and I had one joyful moment when I thought I had made it. I had done the impossible.
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<br /><em>No one noticed!</em>
<br />
<br />I was pretty pleased with myself until I saw Grandpa point to his own mouth with a perplexed look on his face as he whispered something to his wife.
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<br /><em>Fuck. They totally saw it. </em>
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<br />I cleared my throat. It was time to address the elephant in the room. "You probably noticed that I have this gum stuck to my lips." They looked at their hands. They looked at each other. They looked anywhere but at my face."Somehow when I was running around, my gum...it just dissolved....and well, now, as you can see, it's just stuck on my face." Everyone looked uncomfortable. With a note of pity in her voice my little friend's mom said, "Do you want a wipey?"
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<br />I accepted it gratefully and rubbed the shit out of my face as I walked to my car. I started the engine so the air conditioning would begin to blow and then immediately flipped down the visor so I could see myself in the mirror.
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<br /><em>What. the. fuck.</em>
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<br />I stared incredulously at my reflection. The dissolved gum particles still stuck to my face were <em>neon</em> green.
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<br /><strong><em>NEON!!!!</em></strong>
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<br />I broke into a big belly laugh as I pulled away. I flipped through mental photographs of myself running around the living room with a bucket on my head saying things like "Woohoo!" and "Yippee!". <em>How long were my lips covered in that shit before I noticed???</em> I shook my head. I do not even want to <em>think</em> about the conversation that happened after I left that house.
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<br />I craned my neck to check traffic in both directions. <em>I am never going to be able to make a left turn here</em>, I thought. After a few minutes, I saw my chance and I stepped on the accelerator getting to the other side of the street seconds before a shiny red minivan zoomed by. In the process, some of the things in my car shifted...including the tall travel cup that had the remains of my morning coffee in it. I watched the cup helplessly as if it were happening in slow motion. It toppled and dumped into the driver's seat. I tried to avoid the light tan liguid, scooting quickly to the edge, but it was too late. I felt a warm sensation as the coffee spill spread out under me. In a matter of minutes, it had been soaked up by the butt of my light blue scrub pants. <em>Awesome.</em>
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<br />The rest of my day was more of the same. The GPS sent me in circles; a kid decided to sit on me with a leaky, poopy diaper (that was <em>fun</em>...), I burned my finger on the hot, silver keys at the self serve pump and I spilled gas on my foot.
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<br />Blah, blah, blah. Ok, I'm done complaining...<em>for now</em>.
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<br />Tomorrow is a new day. Today was too ridiculous <em>not</em> to laugh at. (Actually, on second thought, it <em>might</em> be the wine that is making it so funny...<em>Yes,</em> yes, now that I am reflecting, I don't remember feeling all that giggly when I was walking around in the hot heat with poopy, coffee pants...yeah, that <em>definitely</em> was not funny one bit...)
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<br />P.S. My lips are STILL sticky!!!!
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<br />Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-3081500293363921342011-08-13T12:25:00.000-07:002011-08-13T13:15:48.808-07:00Flash Mob MentalityI just heard a disturbing little nugget on the news...the once joyous and entertaining "flash mobs" have garnered a new purpose.
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<br />No longer are groups of nerds organizing outings to surprise and delight unsuspecting onlookers with renditions of Michael Jackson's Thriller dance. These nerds have now joined forces for a new purpose...a more <span style="font-style:italic;">sinister</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">evil</span> purpose, I'm afraid.
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<br />The general idea is the same...arrange a place to meet, get a large group together and move into action, in sync, at an agreed upon time. There is just one <span style="font-style:italic;">small</span> difference....when you are done, the crowd doesn't give you a hand...usually because their hands have been broken...and/or tied behind their backs. These flash mobs are like swarms of killer bees....rising up and attacking unsuspecting men, woman and babies out for their afternoon stroll.
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<br />Apparently, there has been an outbreak of "violent" YOUTH flash mobs in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, and other ironic locales across the country. One reporter said, "Teenagers as young as eleven years old <span style="font-style:italic;">(apparently the word "teen" has been added to eleven...it's not "eleven" anymore...it's "eleven-teen"</span>) are joining the stealthy cover of flash mobs..."
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<br />I am still trying to wrap my head around all this. I'm picturing myself in this kind of scenario: <span style="font-style:italic;">I'm in downtown Chicago with a Starbucks in one hand, a Nordstrom's bag in the other; chatting away to my sister as we walk down Michigan Avenue...when all of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash mob forming. I exchange an excited look with my sister, and she takes out a bag of Garret's popcorn which we immediately start munching on as we settle in for the show...then....WHAP! "This isn't that kind of flash mob, bitch! This is a BASH mob!" I look up in confusion as an angry looking 5th grader in bad jeans and a Lord of the Rings t-shirt whips me with an old computer mouse....</span>
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<br />This is the world we are living in, people. A new <span style="font-style:italic;">Planet of the Apes</span> movie was released to theaters last weekend. I haven't seen it yet, but something tells me the idea of apes becoming more intelligent than humans <span style="font-style:italic;">may</span> not be that out of the question...
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<br />Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-64531849548547708642011-08-10T18:55:00.000-07:002011-08-10T20:15:42.940-07:00My eyes are my major malfunction...I went to the eye doctor on Monday, and I'm sorry to report that my eyesight has <em>not</em> improved since my last visit. In fact, it has gotten a little worse. As I sat in the waiting room, I saw a little girl with her mother also waiting, and it made me remember <em>the sighted years...</em>
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<br />When I was 5, my mom took me to our local optometrist to have my vision checked. After all, my dad was legally blind in three states and my siblings, ages 8 and 11, were already sporting spectacles on a full time basis. I can still remember the smell of disinfectant and listerine in the doctor's office, and the rows and rows of glasses. I sat next to my mother, waiting for the receptionist to call my name. When it was my turn, I patted my mom on the shoulder and said, "I've got this, Mom." (I was a tough kid. In my mind, I wasn't a baby anymore. <em>I was in kindergarten.</em>)
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<br />I followed the tall, thin woman back through a winding hallway until we got to a room with a masssive chair in the middle of it and a giant picture of an eyeball hanging on the wall across from that. I gulped. <em>Maybe I'd been too hasty when I had decided to leave Mom back in the waiting room...</em>
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<br />"And who have we here?" I turned around and came face to face with Dr. Gailmark. I introduced myself and he showed me where to sit (I was secretly thrilled that I got to sit in the gigantic spaceship chair I mentioned earlier).
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<br />I was eager to get started. I could not WAIT to get glasses. (I was already picturing myself taking them off during circle time and casually wiping them clean with my shirt before I replaced them on my face. I was thinking of getting purple, but I remember thinking that I might have to settle for pink because I had taken a quick peek at the selection and I hadn't <em>seen</em> any purple glasses...)
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<br />"Ok, can you tell me what you see up on the wall there, sweatheart?" I craned my neck, pretending like I was really trying to see the pictures and the letters. "Hmm." I squinted my eyes (I had seen my brother do this when he tried to watch the tv without his glasses). "Nope. Not a thing."
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<br />Ten minutes later, the eye doctor walked out to give my mother the news. "Well, based on the results, Erin needs glasses." (I <em>immediately</em> starting looking more diligently for those purple frames.) My mother sighed. The doctor wasn't finished. "But...I have a hunch that she may have been faking it." My mother raised her eyebrows. "If these results were accurate, I'd expect her to be having much more trouble." He lowered his voice. "She um...couldn't 'see' the big E on the eye chart." They both started laughing. "We can give her a fake pair of glasses if you'd like." My mom regarded him like he had just told her that she could set money on fire if the house got too cold.
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<br />Needless to say, I didn't get my purple glasses that day....but two years later, all of my wildest dreams came true. I guess whoever said, "Be careful what you wish for" ended up blind like me...
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<br />My vision gets a little blurrier each year...and each year, when I go in for my checkup, I keep expecting the eye doctor to look at me and say, "Well, Erin, I'm afraid your contact and glasses days are behind you, but I can give you this handy, dandy white cane here..."
<br />Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-67570747355954719242011-06-19T14:28:00.000-07:002011-06-19T14:40:41.692-07:00Repeat Nobodies...part 2I blogged about RNB's a few months back...most notably mentioning Red Cooler Guy (who we just recently ran into at a local pub after not seeing him for a few years!). He walked past us, and I leaned over to my husband, excitedly whispering that I couldn't be sure (because he didn't have his cooler with him) but that I was <span style="font-style:italic;">fairly</span> certain I had just experienced a Red Cooler Guy sighting. Of course, Aaron couldn't resist the temptation to confirm...and yes, indeed, it<span style="font-style:italic;"> was</span> Jeff...aka 'Red Cooler Guy'. We called him over, and he eventually recognized us after a few minutes of awkward reminders. Aaron fills him in on my blog....even saying, "People all over the world have read about your cooler!!" Red Cooler Guy couldn't help himself. He was impressed...until he realized I was referring to him as "a nobody". He stood by our table and read the blog I had written about him aloud on his I-Phone while I shredded my napkin in my lap. After he had finished, I smiled at him sheepishly, and offered him a chair at our table, but surprisingly, he declined.<br /><br />Well, we have a new RNB in our life. His name is Skinny Old Man. He is down by the lake that is about a block from our house, fishing under the same tree, rain or shine...110 degrees or not...EVERYDAY. He is <span style="font-style:italic;">dedicated</span> to suburban lake fishing. Lately, I have been thinking about taking up fishing...just so I can mess with skinny old man. I want to plant myself in his spot...and see what happens. <br /><br />This is one of the ways I entertain myself...what do other people do when they're bored??Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-62209787774838238482011-03-09T17:25:00.001-08:002011-03-09T17:27:47.921-08:00I'll be backIf you like to read my blog, bear with me. The last few days have been HEC-TIC!!!! :) I'm busier than a one-armed makeup artist at a wedding!Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-63234211988358478102011-03-06T19:33:00.000-08:002011-03-06T19:45:52.551-08:00I'm running away...The wedding stress that I swore would <em>never</em> touch me has now enveloped me in its dark smokey cloud of due dates, demands for money, and drama. <br /><br /><strong>What's a girl to do?!</strong><br /><br />It's taken me 32 years to realize...I HAVE NO COPING MECHANISMS!!!!<br /><br />I usually eat my feelings when I'm stressed but that is NOT an option for me right now. I'm actually surprised...no <em>shocked</em> that I have had as much will power as I've had. (Visions of back cleavage pouring out of the back of my dress are scary enough for me to wave off temptations...)<br /><br />The day after the wedding, I think I'm going to have my favorite childhood treat: My own invention: The most delicious sandwich EVER...I call it the <em>Wonderita</em>...it's 2 pieces of Wonder white bread with a generous amount of smashed doritos in between...I know what you're thinking...<em>mmmmm</em>....and you are right. It. is. to. DIE. for!!<br /><br />After that...it will be on to NUTTY BARS! Then, I will wash all that down with a <em>big</em> fountain pop. <br /><br />Is that a white trash dream or what??? White bread, doritos, nutty bars and pop...Just call me Erin Dirt.Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-5380632730216869152011-03-05T18:55:00.000-08:002011-03-06T01:26:10.508-08:00Does Karaoke Exist in the Absence of Alcohol?If I drink enough Bud Light, I think people actually <em>want</em> to hear me shout Bon Jovi lyrics obnoxiously into a microphone.<br /><br /><em>Ooh-ah; ooh-ah; ooh ah; ooh-ah...Tommy used to work on the dock, the union's been on strike. He's down on his luck...it's tough, oh so tough</em>...EVERYONE!<em> Ooooh! Living on a Prayer!</em> <br /><br />Tonight will NOT be one of those nights...I have agreed to be the designated driver which means I'm probably not going to be the designated train wreck like usual...<br /><br />Who knows? Maybe I'll do the ultimate and sing one of my favorite tunes <em>sans</em> alcohol. I do it everyday at work...but that's only in front of one kid and one adult usually. (It IS a sacrifice on my part...BUT I do it for the kids.)<br /><br />So I guess this is a fake blog because it's really just an extra long status update, but it counts...right?!?! <br /><br />What is this....EIGHTEEN in a row!?!?! That is longer than I've committed to MOST things, my friends.Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-14425701929463442862011-03-04T11:59:00.000-08:002011-03-04T16:46:05.188-08:00My cat is a beach ball with paws.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4Wi5sMTiFmu-qFDLFwwjsnM8vfHY96275MXajqmGVFzpqjiAosiB0wbRcVW2Vet8d0vrrBmKWlBgPPowSVunRWQGr8ToOkUKDVumRr9AHwmxY135O02BQkeXJQqV5noBKjQRo8X8cZxJ/s1600/3.3.11+282.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio4Wi5sMTiFmu-qFDLFwwjsnM8vfHY96275MXajqmGVFzpqjiAosiB0wbRcVW2Vet8d0vrrBmKWlBgPPowSVunRWQGr8ToOkUKDVumRr9AHwmxY135O02BQkeXJQqV5noBKjQRo8X8cZxJ/s320/3.3.11+282.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580390705501214386" /></a><br />"Your cat is <em>obese</em>." The veterinarian had animal print glasses on the tip of her nose and a look of disapproval in her eyes. Aaron looked like he was about to say something, and I was relieved because I <em>certainly</em> didn't know how to explain Lucy's extra poundage.<br /><br /><em>(...well, I guess the fruit roll ups, cheese poofs and whip cream didn't help matters, but I really didn't feel like telling this lady the reason my roly poly cat was so chunky was because I'd been loading her up with high fructose corn syrup...she was already openly judging me and she didn't even know how bad I really was yet, and well, I was kind of hoping we wouldn't have to go down that road so...)</em><br /><br />"Do you see how small her head is?" We stared at Lucy's melon and she stared back. After a minute, she meowed. I think she was saying, <em>"So I need to lose a few pounds! Who doesn't!?"</em> <br /><br />Now the vet was grabbing Lucy's haunches. "Have you noticed how big she is back here?" I heard Aaron mumble, "How could you miss it?!" The vet didn't hear him and continued, "It's not very proportionate to her small cranium... now is it??" <br /><br />I looked from Lucy's head down to her tail with exaggerated neck and head movements (I wanted the doc to know I was taking this seriously...).<br /><br />"Ah...I see what you mean." I nodded my head and cupped my chin. "I guess I just thought she was 'pear shaped'...you know...bad genes??" The last of this came out as a squeak. <br /><br />"When I took her in the back room, we wiped down her backside with a warm wet rag and that seemed to take care of the situation back there." The vet lowered her voice as she said this. I looked around and it was still just the three of us.<br /><br />Aaron was picking wayward cat hairs off his jacket as he said, "Yeah, we were wondering about that. Is there anything we can do? She seems to get a lot of stuff stuck back there if you know what I mean..."<br /><br />"You can take a warm washcloth and just wipe her down back there. That should do the trick. She's such a sweet girl. When we were cleaning her hiney, she was just licking away at her little paws, trying to do her part." She patted Lucy. "A lot of the bigger girls will try to groom where they can when we clean them up."<br /><br />Aaron was mulling over what the vet had just shared about Lucy's hygiene. "You mean to tell me we gotta wipe her butt for her because she's too FAT to reach it herself??"<br /><br />"Yep." The vet acted like everyone followed their pets around, waiting for them to defecate so they could wipe them. I was considering the logistics of this new responsibility myself. What kind of washcloth were we going to use?? How would we get it clean? Would we use a brand-new one each time? How often would we need to do it? I had MILLIONS of questions, but I felt like it made me seem uncaring to balk at the idea of cleaning up my <em>own</em> cat's back door. <br /><br />"There's something else I wanted to ask you about." The vet was looking from me to Aaron. I leaned in, hoping she wasn't going to ask me what kind of treats we gave Lucy (Aaron would rat me out for sure!). "There are two scars on her back. What are they from?" Aaron looked uneasy as he shifted his weight from foot to foot and scratched Lucy under the chin. <br /><em><br />Shit.</em> I was hoping this wouldn't come up. The vet at the emergency animal hospital had made me feel like a criminal when we had taken Lucy in a couple of months prior. <br /><br />"Oh...those. Well, I...er, what happened was..." Aaron saw me floundering and stepped in.<br /><br />"She cut Lucy on accident. She was trying to give her a haircut and didn't realize part of her skin was mixed in with all the hair. We had to take her to the ER. She needed 8 staples!" <br /><br />I interupted him, exclaiming, "I didn't know! Her hair was so long, and I couldn't get her into the groomer and I was working a lot of hours and it's been so hot and I didn't even know I was hurting her! Honest! She PURRED through the entire thing!!! What kind of animals purrs while you chop up her back?! I felt <em>terrible</em>...I <em>still</em> do! Lesson learned! No at-home haircuts for cats!" I was talking a mile a minute and I had started <em>sweating</em>. <br /><br />The vet sighed. I was starting to feel a little nervous. How had I become a dead-beat pet owner?! When did this happen?? <br /><br />She was treating me the way I'd seen burned-out teachers treat clueless parents in meetings about their failing kid that was bringing firecrackers and nunchucks to school. I could tell she was very close to her breaking point, and I started to wonder if there was an animal cps. <br /><br />"Look, I'm going to say this nicely." She paused and took a long, slow drink from her "Dogs are wooftastic!" mug. I swallowed, on the edge of tears. <em>This was not me! I didn't have my pets taken away! I was responsible! </em> "You might want to buy a book and learn a little about your cat. Cats purr when they are happy, but they also purr in times of distress as a means to calm themselves down."<br /><br />"Oh." I said this with a rising and falling intonation to indicate to the doctor that I had received her message. I wanted her to know that I was having an 'a-ha" moment. <br /><br />She didn't seem to notice as she scribbled something in Lucy's chart before shutting it abrubtly and hugging to her chest.<br /><br />"Rhonda has some diet cat food for you in the reception area. Please make sure she has 8 small meals a day and try to get her to be more active." Immediately, I thought, <em>Who the hell is going to feed Lucy all these times per day?? How do other people do it? Are they stay-at-home cat people?? That can't be!</em><br /><br />As if reading my mind, the vet said, "You can get an automatic feeder. It will dispense just a small amount of food every few hours. We're going to give you some low-carb food. She'll be on a kitty version of the Atkins diet." <br /><br /><em>Ok, I thought, but how am I supposed to get her to move?</em> It wasn't like I hadn't tried. I had! I got her a harness and made an attempt to take her on walks, but she just rolled over on her back trying to attack the leash. Even when I'd tugged, assuming she'd pop up like my childhood dog would, she didn't. I dragged her for a few feet before I gave up. <br /><br />Other people <em>must</em> have the same difficulties, I thought. After all, she <em>had</em> told us about the automatic feeder. Maybe she knew how to make Lucy get fit. I cleared my throat and said, "Do you have any suggestions on how we can get her to move more? I tried to take her on a walk, but she wasn't being very agreeable."<br /><br />The vet looked at me for a full minute which I'm sure, probably seems like a short amount of time to you, but when someone is staring you down, it feels like <em>forever</em>! She sounded aggrevated as she shook her head saying, "Cats don't go on walks. Dogs do. You can try dangling yarn or feathers. You can get a laser pointer. Go to pet smart. Take a look around." <br /><br />I nodded, feeling like an idiot. <br /><br />We picked up our little sausage and headed to the check out area. She nuzzled into my armpit, hiding her beetlejuice head. (If Lucy can't see you, she assumes you can't see her either...)<br /><br />We paid the bill and headed home with our fatty patty pet. <br /><br />For the record, we bought not one, not two, but <em>all</em> of the toys the vet had mentioned. We were hopeful when Lucy seemed excited to explore her new exercise equipment. She worked on eating each item for a full three minutes until she discovered they weren't <em>actually</em> food. Then she went and took a nap for the rest of the afternoon...<br /><br />...and I got busy eating the rest of the cheesy poofs and fruit rollups that were left in the house to get rid of the anxiety I was having about facing our vet at the next appointment (Lucy and I are <em>both</em> emotional eaters). <br /><br />I'm not sure how we're going to get Lucy to do some cardio. I wish there was a Biggest Loser Fat Camp for cats...Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-13255835341222105232011-03-03T19:29:00.000-08:002011-03-03T20:44:10.703-08:00Helping people that don't actually want your help...<em>Scent of a Woman</em> is one of my favorite movies. I find a way to quote it or reference it <em>at least</em> once a quarter. Sometimes it's appropriate, most times it's not.<br /><br />If you haven't seen this movie yet, you're crazy! I will try to catch you up to speed as quickly as I can: it's about a disgruntled blind man and a younger guy who can see. <br /><br />In one scene, Al Pacino, the blind man, is in a taxi with Chris O'Donnell, the younger guy who can see. When they get out of the cab, Chris O'Donnell grabs Al Pacino's arm at the elbow, and the following conversation goes down: <br /><em><br />A.P.: Are you blind?<br />C.O.: Wh-wh-what?<br />A.P.: I SAID...ARE YOU BLIND?!?<br />C.O.: No...<br />A.P.: Then why do you keep grabbing my Goddamn arm?! (pause) <strong>I</strong> TAKE <em><em>YOUR</em></em> ARM!!!!<br />C.O.: Oh...sorry.<br />A.P.: You don't know any better...you've been watching MTV all your life...</em><br /><br />This scene is amusing because Al Pacino's character, Frank, is just SO blunt, but at the same time, <em>concise</em> and witty. I also enjoy the look on Chris O'Donnell's face when his offer to help is declined. It is one of pure<em> shock</em>, disbelief....like he can't comprehend <em>why</em> this handicapped person would refuse his help and would even go as far as to <em>yell</em> at him.<br /><br />It makes me wonder if there are a lot of people out there like Frank in <em>Scent of a Woman</em>....people with disabilities (or without) who are tired of ignorant people around them grabbing their "goddamn arm"??? <br /><em><br />I would venture to say that there are quite a few...</em><br /><br />Although I have always had the best intentions, I have mistakenly "helped" people in ways that really was <em>no</em> help at all...like the time in college when I ran up to help a woman who had slipped on the ice about 10 feet in front of me. It was the middle of Januray in Indiana and the sidewalk was slippery and uneven due to snow melting, then re-freezing into ice. I was trying my best to be careful as I hussled over to save the day, but when I finally made it to her, I too lost my balance...instead of helping her up, I <em>landed</em> on her. (I'm just glad she wasn't able to reach her mase before I was able to explain that I wasn't <em>actually</em> attacking her.)<br /><br />There are just too many examples to list! <br /><br /><em>Offering to push the cart at the grocery store, only to hit the heels of the person I'm shopping with; volunteering to carry items into my friend's new home and breaking or chipping half of them; making dinner...and messing up the recipe with resulting food poisoning for all.</em> <br /><br />Yes, the list is long and shameful, but what's an accident-prone good samaritan to do?! <br /><br />The best idea I could come up with was to get into a helping profession that didn't require a whole lot of gross motor coordination....and yet, somehow, I <em>still</em> manage to wreak havoc. <br /><br />One such incident involved "saving" an eight year old from a life with no friends. I'm just hoping that the assistance I provided doesn't permanently give her an unflattering nickname <em>on top</em> of having no friends. <br /><br />The girl that was lucky enough to have me helping her was upset because she didn't have anyone to sit with at lunch. My heart broke for her. I racked my brain for a solution and it seemed easy to me. <br /><br /><em>"Hey! I know some really nice girls that would love to sit with you at lunch!"</em><br /><br />This was how my elaborate plan began. Somehow, it evolved into <em>me</em> joining these third grade students for lunch in the cafeteria at a school where I worked (<em>this</em> was my <em>genius</em> plan to help her make friends....SMOOTH). <br /><br />I had arranged a friend-blind-date with some other third graders I knew. I followed Lucky into the line for food. As I stood there, towering over my fellow patrons, I got several wary, confused stares from the other kids in line. A little boy with tangled-looking hair and a smudge of dirt on his face asked me, "Are you somebody's mom?"<br /><br />I watched Lucky get her food on a small styrafoam tray and directed her to a table where I could see the other kids I knew. <br /><br />"Hi girls! Mind if we sit here?" The girls on the other side of the table stared at me and Lucky, but said nothing. I took their silence as consent and motioned for Lucky to grab a seat next to me as I tried to squeeze myself into the small seating area designed for much smaller bodies than mine...bodies with much <em>shorter</em> legs. <br /><br />As I lifted my knee to clear the bench, it caught the bottom of Lucky's tray, sending it flying into the air. I watched it in horror, unable to stop what was happening. Lucky looked up just in time to get hit in the face with the raining mac 'n' cheese and peas the school cafeteria considered a healthy lunch....<br /><br />So...again I say, what's a good samaritan to do if she is hopelessly clumsy??? Maybe I should only try to be of assistance to those that are at remote locations from now on...Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-60050060735904948902011-03-02T15:35:00.001-08:002011-03-02T17:38:59.741-08:00Mini Blog...sounds like a European car with small tiresToday has been pretty busy, and it isn't showing any signs of letting up. Therefore, my blog will be very brief today. I know what you're thinking...why bother blogging at all? (By the way, 'why bother blogging' is fun to say outloud...try it)<br /><br />Why bother blogging you say. Well, I guess it is for selfish reasons...mostly because I don't want to break my streak. They say it takes 14 days to form a new habit. Today is Day 15 of my blogging and I'm ready to slack. Where are the habit helpers in MY brain? Maybe they need more time with an activity to get <em>that</em> attached. (I've tried to form OTHER new habits besides writing everyday including running daily or even just exercising in general on a daily basis. To the casual onlooker, it would appear this one has taken effect, but you would be fooled! The exercise I do daily is no habit! It is an <em>obligation</em>, a committment to fit into the most expensive dress I have <em>ever</em> worn and/or probably ever <em>will</em> wear.<br /><br />So that's it for today. Sorry to disappoint...(I feel like I'm talking to myself...kind of like when I was a kid and I used to tell my diary that I would "write again soon"...<em>Who</em> did I think I was talking to? Did I think there was some troll living in the binding of the book dying to read about my latest dilema which usually involved things like: 'Recess: What's a kid to do? <em>The Merits of playing Four Square vs. Socializing w/older, cooler kids' or 'How can I convince Mom to put less jelly on my PB&J's???'</em>)<br /><br />Signing off for now. Over and out. 10-4 little buddy...or was it <em>big</em> buddy? What is that <em>from</em> anyway?! Is it something only me and my siblings would say, but now that I'm old, I think it's actually from a legitimate source like some movie or tv show??Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5784994385348588331.post-15663775901266435342011-03-01T17:52:00.000-08:002011-03-01T23:43:59.333-08:00Don't underestimate kids with crayons...and an extensive knowledge of dirty words."Just call me Leo, alright?!" <br /><br />I knew who was in my office before I even turned around. It was my favorite decidedly disgruntled kindergartener. His name was Kevin Williamson and even though he looked like an average five year old, inside, he was really an 80 year old man that was <em>royally</em> pissed off...but, somehow, he passed for a little kid day in and day out. <br /><br />One of his favorite things to do was to "officially" change his name. He'd announce to his classmates and teachers that he would like to be called "Troy" or "Bob" and it would take a few weeks, but eventually everyone would switch over to the new name. Ar first adults balked at the idea of calling a child by an incorrect name, but after a while his persistance paid off. No one even bothered to argue with him anymore. When people would <em>try </em>to call him Kevin, he would ignore them or belittle them as if <em>they</em> were the ones that were mistaken, <em>not</em> him.<br /><br />One day when Kevin was in my room, it was <em>pretty</em> hectic. The room was comparable in size to a one-seater bathroom at a Circle K and there were six five year old boys squeezed around a narrow table that was a little bigger than an ironing board. <br /><br />The session was a whirlwind. After everyone was gone, I gathered their papers and as I picked up the last one, I noticed that there were black crayon marks on what had once been a clean table. I angled my head until I was able to read what it said. <br /><br />The first thing I saw was: <strong><em>LEO</em></strong> Then, underneath it in smaller letters was: <strong> <em>FUK</em> </strong> <br /> <br /> <em><strong>SHIT<br /><br /> BICH<br /><br /> BALLS</em></strong> <br /> <br />A small chuckle escaped me, and I realized I wasn't even <em>mad</em>. I was impressed! You had to hand it to the kid, he didn't just <em>dabble</em> in graffiti, he was a <em>PRO</em>. From what I could tell, he had written down <em>every </em>curse word he <em>knew</em>...and he did it while sitting less than two feet away from a teacher?!<br /><br />Now THAT took some <em>balls</em>. (No wonder he wrote that word last...it was true. He DID have balls...)<br /><br />The best part was when I called him back in to ask him about it, he didn't even look concerned that he was getting in trouble. He just looked incredibly annoyed that I had interupted his recess. (I almost felt like <em>I</em> should be apologizing to <em>him</em> for pulling him away from the meeting he'd been having with what appeared to be a small group of protege`s from the first grade).<br /><br />"Kevin..." He threw a hand up and in an exasperated tone said, "It's LEO."<br /><br />"Right. See that's the thing, <em>LEO</em>." I emphasized the last word pointedly. "I need you to come to my office with me. There's something I'm a little confused about, and I thought you might be able to provide me with some answers."<br /><br />He shrugged and followed me back. When we were both standing in front of the defaced table, I pointed down at the words between us. <em>(Leo, fuck, shit, bitch, balls)</em> He, too, directed his attention to the scribbled profanity. <br /><br /><em>Neither</em> of us spoke. I was waiting for him to break down; admit guilt. I had, after all, caught him <em>red</em>-handed. Several minutes ticked by and <em>still</em> we stood, silently studying Kevin's handiwork. I was sticking to my original plan: I would play dumb and wait until he confessed. I felt it meant more if the kid was able to recognize his <em>own</em> wrongdoings rather than have me point it out to him <em>(I was watching a lot of Dr. Phil at the time</em>).<br /><br />"Leo, do you see this table?"<br /><br />He nodded. <br /><br />"I have to tell you...I'm pretty upset."<br /><br />He looked at me for a moment, then back down at the table. <em>He was getting close. I almost had him. </em> <em>What a life lesson this one would be!</em><br /><br />I decided to give him <em>one </em>more nudge. "I just <em>don't</em> understand this." I gestured toward the words. "Can you help me?" <br /><br />Kevin sighed and looked up at the ceiling as he raked his fingers through his hair. <br /><br />He didn't seem very happy. <br /><br />I figured he was feeling stressed because he <em>knew</em> it was <em>OVER</em>. The jig was UP. He probably figured he was in for it now. I almost felt a little sorry for him. I took in his wrinkled forehead and wringing hands. <em>Aw...poor guy. He must be anxious about possibly losing privleges or candy and prizes. </em> <br /><br />I horribly misjudged him.<br /><br />When he finally opened his mouth, he used the same tone my mother had reserved for the moments she could not <em>bear</em> to be pestered any longer, like when she'd been trying to finish dinner or organize bills. <br /><br />"Miss Orth." He paused, pushing the palms of his hands down on either side of the evidence as if he were a district attorney making his opening remarks to a grand jury. <br /><br />I sat quietly, anticipating my apology. I was planning to make him clean the table himself, but first he'd have to tell his teacher why he was going to be in my office when...<br /><br />"Look, I was in the middle of something out there." Kevin throws his right arm in the direction of the playground. "I can explain what these words mean, but it will have to be later. I'm just <em>too</em> busy right now..."Brain Bubbleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02104454344320640990noreply@blogger.com0