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Saturday, February 6, 2010
22 hours of labor
I woke up at three o’clock this morning with the strangest sensation. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I was left wondering…does the body remember as much as the mind? Because while I was rolling over, trying to find a more comfortable position, it occurred to me that at that exact moment twenty years, ago I went into labor.
It was February 5, 1990 in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and there was a snowstorm raging outside. I was lying in my bed, on top of the covers, with the windows open—curtains blowing madly in the wind—and a small drift of snow was building on the sill. At three am I still hadn’t fallen asleep. Despite the snowflakes falling around me, I was hot. Pregnant women have messed up internal temperature regulators, and mine was on full blast. I continued to search for a more comfortable position but with a midsection that extended at least two feet in every direction, I wasn’t having much luck. My then husband was burrowed down under several layers of blankets and a down parka trying to stay warm. He had given up trying to negotiate for closed windows and heat weeks prior. You don’t argue with a hormonally challenged woman in her final days of pregnancy.
My due date had passed three days earlier, and I was beyond ready to have my baby. My bag was packed, an entire box of popsicles was at the ready in the freezer, and the names were finally picked out. And I had insomnia.
And there was a blizzard in my bedroom.
Flash forward to twenty years later, and my water breaking is just barely a memory. I do remember the harrowing two mile drive to the hospital in the near whiteout. But I’m not sure if it was the weather or my ex-husband's bad driving that was the scariest. I don’t remember checking in at the desk, but I do remember everything about the birthing room, including the wallpaper, the beeping monitors and what was showing on the TV. I know David Bowie was on Joan Rivers that day, because when I told my ex-husband that a contraction was coming he informed me that he was busy watching said program, and could I manage my contractions on my own for a while.
Important qualities to have in a Lamaze coach:
1. Coach should attend all Lamaze classes and remain awake all the way through class.
2. Coach should not treat contractions as first down and ten to go during the final quarter of a closely played championship game. (absolutely no shouting “push harder…you’re not trying!”)
3. Coach should not complain about how much sleep they are missing and how uncomfortable the hospital recliner in the birthing room is.
4. Coach should not remind you of how long it has been since you were able to shave your legs or comment on how swollen certain body parts have become.
5. Coach should not disappear for long periods of time and reappear with crumbs on their shirt and breath that smells of fried foods.
Thank god for my mother! I can’t recommend highly enough having a mother who is trained in obstetrics. Lucky for me, my mother was a head nurse in the same hospital. When your mother is head nurse, they can’t throw her out! She actually paid attention in Lamaze classes, and she wasn’t grossed out when I needed help in the bathroom.
After several failed epidurals, one smashed IV, puking on the anesthesiologist, the father of my child being kicked out of the delivery room by my mother, and generally being naked in a room full of strangers, (although after twenty two hours in labor, I would have flashed the janitor if it would have moved things along faster) I made it through labor relatively unscathed. I finally had a baby boy!
My ex husband took one look at his son’s impressive little package and exclaimed, “That’s my boy!” To which my mother quickly burst his bubble by telling him it was just swelling from the hormones.
As I watched the clock inch towards midnight, and my son’s birthday was just minutes away, I looked back at the crazy day I brought him into the world and smiled. I would do it all over again to be lucky enough to get a baby half as wonderful as my grown up boy has become.
Just maybe not today!
Until the next time…I’ll be keeping my legs crossed!
Erica
It was February 5, 1990 in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and there was a snowstorm raging outside. I was lying in my bed, on top of the covers, with the windows open—curtains blowing madly in the wind—and a small drift of snow was building on the sill. At three am I still hadn’t fallen asleep. Despite the snowflakes falling around me, I was hot. Pregnant women have messed up internal temperature regulators, and mine was on full blast. I continued to search for a more comfortable position but with a midsection that extended at least two feet in every direction, I wasn’t having much luck. My then husband was burrowed down under several layers of blankets and a down parka trying to stay warm. He had given up trying to negotiate for closed windows and heat weeks prior. You don’t argue with a hormonally challenged woman in her final days of pregnancy.
My due date had passed three days earlier, and I was beyond ready to have my baby. My bag was packed, an entire box of popsicles was at the ready in the freezer, and the names were finally picked out. And I had insomnia.
And there was a blizzard in my bedroom.
Flash forward to twenty years later, and my water breaking is just barely a memory. I do remember the harrowing two mile drive to the hospital in the near whiteout. But I’m not sure if it was the weather or my ex-husband's bad driving that was the scariest. I don’t remember checking in at the desk, but I do remember everything about the birthing room, including the wallpaper, the beeping monitors and what was showing on the TV. I know David Bowie was on Joan Rivers that day, because when I told my ex-husband that a contraction was coming he informed me that he was busy watching said program, and could I manage my contractions on my own for a while.
Important qualities to have in a Lamaze coach:
1. Coach should attend all Lamaze classes and remain awake all the way through class.
2. Coach should not treat contractions as first down and ten to go during the final quarter of a closely played championship game. (absolutely no shouting “push harder…you’re not trying!”)
3. Coach should not complain about how much sleep they are missing and how uncomfortable the hospital recliner in the birthing room is.
4. Coach should not remind you of how long it has been since you were able to shave your legs or comment on how swollen certain body parts have become.
5. Coach should not disappear for long periods of time and reappear with crumbs on their shirt and breath that smells of fried foods.
Thank god for my mother! I can’t recommend highly enough having a mother who is trained in obstetrics. Lucky for me, my mother was a head nurse in the same hospital. When your mother is head nurse, they can’t throw her out! She actually paid attention in Lamaze classes, and she wasn’t grossed out when I needed help in the bathroom.
After several failed epidurals, one smashed IV, puking on the anesthesiologist, the father of my child being kicked out of the delivery room by my mother, and generally being naked in a room full of strangers, (although after twenty two hours in labor, I would have flashed the janitor if it would have moved things along faster) I made it through labor relatively unscathed. I finally had a baby boy!
My ex husband took one look at his son’s impressive little package and exclaimed, “That’s my boy!” To which my mother quickly burst his bubble by telling him it was just swelling from the hormones.
As I watched the clock inch towards midnight, and my son’s birthday was just minutes away, I looked back at the crazy day I brought him into the world and smiled. I would do it all over again to be lucky enough to get a baby half as wonderful as my grown up boy has become.
Just maybe not today!
Until the next time…I’ll be keeping my legs crossed!
Erica
Friday, February 5, 2010
my name means WHAT?
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” William Shakespeare
I think Shakespeare missed the target with that line. Names ARE important. A rose by another name might smell the same, but it wouldn’t be a rose anymore, would it? No, it would be a daisy, or a petunia, or a gardenia….or it might just be a fart! And, who wants to get a bouquet of farts on Valentine ’s Day? Some of us might end up getting little more than that anyway, but it wouldn’t exactly be on our wish lists, now would it? Seriously...a name can define who you are! It says a lot about you. It could even steer your path in life! How many lawyers do you know named Taffy? Right…zero! There are just certain names that go with certain positions. I doubt we’ll be hearing stories about President Billy Bob anytime soon. A person’s name should be able to carry them from infancy to old age with a seamless transition. Some names just don’t do that. Baby Mildred isn’t going to be the center of the sandbox social club with a name like that! And there are a lot of Brittany’s out there who made cute little girls, but how well will that name carry them into old age? Someday, someone will be referring to that formerly cute baby as Grandma Brittany! When I was pregnant with my children, I spent every day of each nine months, laboring (no pun intended) over what name I would bestow upon my unborn child. I tried to imagine every stage of their lives with that name, every possible nickname that could be created from their proper given names, and how the name would roll off the tongue when combined with the middle and last name. And one can’t forget about the initials! I had to be sure their initials didn’t accidentally spell out something horrible, like ASS (which wasn’t likely as their last name started with an L). But you just can’t be too careful. My father’s initials are PU. Sometimes people just don’t think about the consequences of their choices! As for my name, my father picked it out. As the story goes, he met a girl named Erica while he was stationed in Germany back before he met my mother. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the whole story. How my mother let that one slide I’ll never know. Despite its origins, I had issues with my name from the beginning. It was unusual back then. When I was little, no one had heard of my name, so no one knew how to pronounce it. I had teachers that called me Ureka…Ursula…Ahreeka. My grandmother decided to just call me Rikki, which was fine and dandy except that it was a boy’s name. I asked my mother once why they called me Rikki, and she told me it was because they thought I was a boy at first. To a six year old that seems like an actual possibility! And it suddenly made perfect sense why I had a toy tractor. As I got older, I began to grow into my name. Not right away mind you. I had a very awkward start. I was 17 before I could actually fit into the sexy category that the name demanded. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having a sexy name, and the minute I broke free of my mother’s fashion chains, I was able to live up to those expectations. I learned how to suppress the crazy hot pink sweater inside of me and channel the outward power of the name. I have run across a few Erica’s in the course of my life, but never in my immediate circle. so, I have always felt unique. I was always one of a kind. So I was excited when I saw the newest trend on Facebook. It was the chain letter du jour. A cut and paste status experiment, if you will. The instructions were to go to Urbandictionary.com and do a search on your first name and take the first definition and make that your status. I was up for that challenge. I had a distinctive name. I had looked it up before. It means Eternal ruler in its Norse origins. It was a powerful name. And I had seen the other definitions on the statuses of my friends and family. Julie was fair-haired and loved by all, Louise was popular, and June was hot like a summer day. I would be something wonderful too. How could I not be? I was an “Erica”. And “Erica” means something grand. So I opened a new browser window with an air of vanity…ready to show them all. I typed in my name and hit enter with a jolt of sudden pride. And then I just sat there…dumbfounded for a minute or two. I couldn’t post this on my Facebook status! First of all, who would believe me? Who would believe I had actually discovered this without any interference on my part? After all…they all know me too well. And I couldn’t have aspired to have a definition as unique as this. It was priceless. It summed up in one short line what I would have taken several paragraphs to convey. “Erica: the term used for the exact moment a penis enters the vagina.”
Until next time…just call me Alice!
I think Shakespeare missed the target with that line. Names ARE important. A rose by another name might smell the same, but it wouldn’t be a rose anymore, would it? No, it would be a daisy, or a petunia, or a gardenia….or it might just be a fart! And, who wants to get a bouquet of farts on Valentine ’s Day? Some of us might end up getting little more than that anyway, but it wouldn’t exactly be on our wish lists, now would it? Seriously...a name can define who you are! It says a lot about you. It could even steer your path in life! How many lawyers do you know named Taffy? Right…zero! There are just certain names that go with certain positions. I doubt we’ll be hearing stories about President Billy Bob anytime soon. A person’s name should be able to carry them from infancy to old age with a seamless transition. Some names just don’t do that. Baby Mildred isn’t going to be the center of the sandbox social club with a name like that! And there are a lot of Brittany’s out there who made cute little girls, but how well will that name carry them into old age? Someday, someone will be referring to that formerly cute baby as Grandma Brittany! When I was pregnant with my children, I spent every day of each nine months, laboring (no pun intended) over what name I would bestow upon my unborn child. I tried to imagine every stage of their lives with that name, every possible nickname that could be created from their proper given names, and how the name would roll off the tongue when combined with the middle and last name. And one can’t forget about the initials! I had to be sure their initials didn’t accidentally spell out something horrible, like ASS (which wasn’t likely as their last name started with an L). But you just can’t be too careful. My father’s initials are PU. Sometimes people just don’t think about the consequences of their choices! As for my name, my father picked it out. As the story goes, he met a girl named Erica while he was stationed in Germany back before he met my mother. I’m pretty sure I didn’t get the whole story. How my mother let that one slide I’ll never know. Despite its origins, I had issues with my name from the beginning. It was unusual back then. When I was little, no one had heard of my name, so no one knew how to pronounce it. I had teachers that called me Ureka…Ursula…Ahreeka. My grandmother decided to just call me Rikki, which was fine and dandy except that it was a boy’s name. I asked my mother once why they called me Rikki, and she told me it was because they thought I was a boy at first. To a six year old that seems like an actual possibility! And it suddenly made perfect sense why I had a toy tractor. As I got older, I began to grow into my name. Not right away mind you. I had a very awkward start. I was 17 before I could actually fit into the sexy category that the name demanded. There’s a certain pressure that comes with having a sexy name, and the minute I broke free of my mother’s fashion chains, I was able to live up to those expectations. I learned how to suppress the crazy hot pink sweater inside of me and channel the outward power of the name. I have run across a few Erica’s in the course of my life, but never in my immediate circle. so, I have always felt unique. I was always one of a kind. So I was excited when I saw the newest trend on Facebook. It was the chain letter du jour. A cut and paste status experiment, if you will. The instructions were to go to Urbandictionary.com and do a search on your first name and take the first definition and make that your status. I was up for that challenge. I had a distinctive name. I had looked it up before. It means Eternal ruler in its Norse origins. It was a powerful name. And I had seen the other definitions on the statuses of my friends and family. Julie was fair-haired and loved by all, Louise was popular, and June was hot like a summer day. I would be something wonderful too. How could I not be? I was an “Erica”. And “Erica” means something grand. So I opened a new browser window with an air of vanity…ready to show them all. I typed in my name and hit enter with a jolt of sudden pride. And then I just sat there…dumbfounded for a minute or two. I couldn’t post this on my Facebook status! First of all, who would believe me? Who would believe I had actually discovered this without any interference on my part? After all…they all know me too well. And I couldn’t have aspired to have a definition as unique as this. It was priceless. It summed up in one short line what I would have taken several paragraphs to convey. “Erica: the term used for the exact moment a penis enters the vagina.”
Until next time…just call me Alice!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
the crazy sweater experiment
I got a pretty good night’s sleep last night so I woke up almost cheerfully. I say almost because I still growled my way through my morning rituals the same as every other day, I just wasn’t yawning quite as much. The plain and simple fact is that I am not a morning person. No amount of sleep, or sunshine, or Cap’n Crunch is going to change that fact. It was a Wednesday, and because I’m usually off on Wednesdays, (unless I’m off on Saturday, which I was this week) I typically spend the day doing my laundry for the week. So when I do have to work on a Wednesday, it’s always a challenge to find something to wear. This is not to say that I don’t have a lot of clothes. I do. But it’s just over a month since Christmas, so I’m still wearing my “post holiday” pants. I have several pair, but they are all varying shades of black. So what goes with black? More black. Or white. Or cream. You get the picture. But, it was Wednesday, and I don’t know why, but I wasn’t in the usual, “woe is me, I have to go to work” mood. I was feeling bold, and confident, and…dangerously defiant.
Cue the crazy sweater.
Perhaps I should start with the back story. I know you love back story! I have a client who owns a clothing consignment shop in town. It’s a very upscale place catering to women with discriminating tastes. Like me. So I was in her shop a few weeks ago doing a client visit and I ran across this outrageous sweater. Well, I thought it was pretty outrageous. It defies explanation, but I’ll give it a shot. It is a long black button down sweater with hot pink ribbon running through the length of it, silver beaded bows, black satin and lace trim, and thick hot pink fur around the cuffs, the collar, and the bottom. I tried it on and immediately thought of Lady Gaga, Studio 54, Donna Summer, and a platinum blonde wig. So of course, I had to buy it! I took it home with the express intent to wear it long enough for my husband to demand that I immediately take it off and never put it on again, and then I would hang it back up and tuck it into the closet until next Halloween. I can’t help it; I like to stir the pot sometimes. But as crazy as I may occasionally be, I had no intention of ever wearing this ridiculous sweater for any reason other than “dress up”.
Fast forward to Wednesday…today. As I was digging around in my closet for something to wear that met with my PMS charged mood, I ran across the consignment store sweater. And because I’d gotten a good night’s sleep, and maybe because I was tired of wearing the usual drab business attire, and maybe even because I wanted to stir the pot just a little, I took it off the hanger.
I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. I wore my black “post holiday” pants, a fitted black knit shirt, black shoes, and the hot pink and black sweater. There is something about hot pink fur that just changes a woman, and I felt supercharged. I ran out of the bathroom grabbing my purse and my phone and my keys because, as usual, I was running late. I didn’t pause as I passed my husband, so I can only imagine the double take he did when he saw me wearing the crazy sweater. “You’re funny.” He said. “But aren’t you going to be late? You’d better hang that ridiculous thing back up and get out of here.” I just smiled. It was going to be a good day. “Nope. I’m wearing this to work.” I shot back. “You’re kidding, right?” He said with marked skepticism. “Nope! I’m suffering for my art!” I said with a wider smile. “This is going to make for great blogging!” And I was off.
I managed to get to work relatively on time. I was the second person through the door. The first person didn’t even mention my sweater. I chalked that up to him being a guy. He probably didn’t even notice what I was wearing. I ran to my office to log in so I could run back to the lobby for everyone else to arrive. As the others filed in one by one, I did get a reaction, but it wasn’t the one I had expected. The joke was on me! I was suddenly getting rave reviews on my sweater. Not, “great joke”, not “you crack me up!” No, it was more along the lines of, “I LOVE your sweater! Where did you get it? You look so girlie! You never wear pink, it’s your color!” My sweater was a hit, but for all the wrong reasons! I even had a few requests to borrow it. I had no idea I was so fashion forward! I did get a few tips on what I should pair it with next time…short skirt, hot pink tights and silver boots, was my favorite suggestion. Not that I own any of those things…yet. It’s a good thing my husband doesn’t actually READ my blog, now isn’t it?
All day long my sweater was given lovely little compliments. Even the men seemed to like it. Was it possible that it was just SO ugly that it came back around to cute? I’ve seen puppies like that…so ugly they are cute. But a sweater? It could happen! Somewhere in the middle of the day, my manager approached me out of the blue and stood back to get a long look at me, twisting her lips to the side and furrowing her brows as if deep in thought. “I’m not sure what I think about your outfit today.” She said after a minute. Finally! Finally someone with the reaction I expected when I put the sweater on this morning! “You look somewhat like the madam in a fancy brothel.” How she knew what a madam in a brothel looked like was beyond me, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask! I just nodded and walked away. That’s one thing I love about my job. I can wear crazy sweaters as long as I’m not wearing open toe shoes with it. The other things I love are the fact that I get paid to go there every day. I work less than two miles from home so I don’t have to drive in traffic. I get to eat restaurant food for lunch every day, because it’s only half a mile to the food and its two miles to home. And I have a really big window in my office so I can still see the sunshine all day long.
It was a long day at work, but somehow my crazy, ridiculous sweater made it so much more fun than I expected. I decided that no matter what I wear on the outside, on the inside I am that crazy hot pink fur trimmed sweater, and there is no reason why I can’t let that side of me see the light of day every now and then. As I strolled into the house at five oh one, and threw my purse and my keys on the table, my son walked past me and stopped just long enough to ask, “What the hell is with that hideous sweater you’re wearing?” “My blog.” I answered and he nodded as if that explained everything. After all…what’s could be more important than suffering for art?
Until next time…I’ll be searching for a platinum wig!
Erica
Cue the crazy sweater.
Perhaps I should start with the back story. I know you love back story! I have a client who owns a clothing consignment shop in town. It’s a very upscale place catering to women with discriminating tastes. Like me. So I was in her shop a few weeks ago doing a client visit and I ran across this outrageous sweater. Well, I thought it was pretty outrageous. It defies explanation, but I’ll give it a shot. It is a long black button down sweater with hot pink ribbon running through the length of it, silver beaded bows, black satin and lace trim, and thick hot pink fur around the cuffs, the collar, and the bottom. I tried it on and immediately thought of Lady Gaga, Studio 54, Donna Summer, and a platinum blonde wig. So of course, I had to buy it! I took it home with the express intent to wear it long enough for my husband to demand that I immediately take it off and never put it on again, and then I would hang it back up and tuck it into the closet until next Halloween. I can’t help it; I like to stir the pot sometimes. But as crazy as I may occasionally be, I had no intention of ever wearing this ridiculous sweater for any reason other than “dress up”.
Fast forward to Wednesday…today. As I was digging around in my closet for something to wear that met with my PMS charged mood, I ran across the consignment store sweater. And because I’d gotten a good night’s sleep, and maybe because I was tired of wearing the usual drab business attire, and maybe even because I wanted to stir the pot just a little, I took it off the hanger.
I stood in front of the mirror and looked myself over. I wore my black “post holiday” pants, a fitted black knit shirt, black shoes, and the hot pink and black sweater. There is something about hot pink fur that just changes a woman, and I felt supercharged. I ran out of the bathroom grabbing my purse and my phone and my keys because, as usual, I was running late. I didn’t pause as I passed my husband, so I can only imagine the double take he did when he saw me wearing the crazy sweater. “You’re funny.” He said. “But aren’t you going to be late? You’d better hang that ridiculous thing back up and get out of here.” I just smiled. It was going to be a good day. “Nope. I’m wearing this to work.” I shot back. “You’re kidding, right?” He said with marked skepticism. “Nope! I’m suffering for my art!” I said with a wider smile. “This is going to make for great blogging!” And I was off.
I managed to get to work relatively on time. I was the second person through the door. The first person didn’t even mention my sweater. I chalked that up to him being a guy. He probably didn’t even notice what I was wearing. I ran to my office to log in so I could run back to the lobby for everyone else to arrive. As the others filed in one by one, I did get a reaction, but it wasn’t the one I had expected. The joke was on me! I was suddenly getting rave reviews on my sweater. Not, “great joke”, not “you crack me up!” No, it was more along the lines of, “I LOVE your sweater! Where did you get it? You look so girlie! You never wear pink, it’s your color!” My sweater was a hit, but for all the wrong reasons! I even had a few requests to borrow it. I had no idea I was so fashion forward! I did get a few tips on what I should pair it with next time…short skirt, hot pink tights and silver boots, was my favorite suggestion. Not that I own any of those things…yet. It’s a good thing my husband doesn’t actually READ my blog, now isn’t it?
All day long my sweater was given lovely little compliments. Even the men seemed to like it. Was it possible that it was just SO ugly that it came back around to cute? I’ve seen puppies like that…so ugly they are cute. But a sweater? It could happen! Somewhere in the middle of the day, my manager approached me out of the blue and stood back to get a long look at me, twisting her lips to the side and furrowing her brows as if deep in thought. “I’m not sure what I think about your outfit today.” She said after a minute. Finally! Finally someone with the reaction I expected when I put the sweater on this morning! “You look somewhat like the madam in a fancy brothel.” How she knew what a madam in a brothel looked like was beyond me, and I certainly wasn’t going to ask! I just nodded and walked away. That’s one thing I love about my job. I can wear crazy sweaters as long as I’m not wearing open toe shoes with it. The other things I love are the fact that I get paid to go there every day. I work less than two miles from home so I don’t have to drive in traffic. I get to eat restaurant food for lunch every day, because it’s only half a mile to the food and its two miles to home. And I have a really big window in my office so I can still see the sunshine all day long.
It was a long day at work, but somehow my crazy, ridiculous sweater made it so much more fun than I expected. I decided that no matter what I wear on the outside, on the inside I am that crazy hot pink fur trimmed sweater, and there is no reason why I can’t let that side of me see the light of day every now and then. As I strolled into the house at five oh one, and threw my purse and my keys on the table, my son walked past me and stopped just long enough to ask, “What the hell is with that hideous sweater you’re wearing?” “My blog.” I answered and he nodded as if that explained everything. After all…what’s could be more important than suffering for art?
Until next time…I’ll be searching for a platinum wig!
Erica
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
six more weeks of whining
I got up this morning the way I do every morning...grudgingly. I stumbled out of bed, staggered sleepily to the shower, and completed my morning rituals quietly, and without interruption. It was a dreary morning. Light rain dripped down from a gray blanket of clouds. The sun had already come up, but it was nowhere to be seen. Despite the dismal gloomy sky, I took for granted that sunrise had come at the same time it did most every morning, I was rarely awake to see it. To me this was just another Tuesday in a long week of work. I was completely unaware that it was also Groundhog’s Day. I hadn’t saved that day on my Blackberry, and if it isn’t on my Blackberry…well, it must not be that important. When I finally realized what day it was—several hours later—I actually felt a little bad that I missed it, the whole extravaganza that surrounds the yearly appearance of the groundhog. And not just for the sake of the groundhog, but for sentimental reasons. Twenty years ago, this was the day my son was due to be born. (Thankfully, he was four days late because I can’t imagine what would have happened if HE had seen his shadow coming out…I don’t think I could have survived six more weeks of pregnancy!) Then I started thinking about the groundhog again. Do we really care that much whether or not the groundhog sees his shadow? Does it still have the same relevance in our lives that it used to have? Maybe. But I would hazard a guess that the only relevance is psychological. Then again, I might take the whole ordeal more seriously if the news media didn’t trudge out to the animal’s den before the sun had even fully crested the horizon, lights and cameras in hand, to drag the poor thing out of its bed kicking and screaming. Even Paris Hilton gets more respect! So I tried to think of myself like the groundhog. I imagined myself back in bed still asleep, as I usually am at quarter to seven in the morning, sweet dreams swirling around in my brain. Thirty or so minutes to go before the first wave of alarm clocks would go off and the only sound was the soft buzz of geriatric dogs snoring. Blissfully unaware…like our friend the groundhog. What would I do if someone came crashing into my bedroom so early, TV cameras at the ready? Provided they could plot a course through the dangerous territory known as my bedroom, a space riddled with doggy beds, loose blankets and half a dozen tennis balls, not to mention all three dogs and one ninja cat! (I have all too often gone down in that obstacle course myself.) Still, the press is skilled at navigating treacherous terrain on a daily basis, so I will assume they survived the journey to find me, face buried in my pillow, sound asleep…and wham! Suddenly, I’m up! Eyes wild…teeth bared…hair all in a tangle. I think I might just curse them all to six more weeks of winter! And why wouldn’t I? Surely they deserve at least that! But because I’m so over winter, and ready to usher spring back in, I think I’d just doom them to six more weeks of whining instead. That might just be the PMS talking. I have been sadly afflicted these past few days. I don’t even know if groundhogs get PMS, but it would explain things a little bit better to know they did. What other excuse is there for cursing someone to six whole weeks of winter just for seeing one’s shadow? PMS does that to people. It’s a vicious cycle. Everyone dreads those terrifying days during each month when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are behaving like a raging bitch on a stick, and you just don’t give a damn. Relationships have been all but ruined because of PMS. People have been maimed and may have even died! It’s a serious matter that deserves serious attention! I think it’s about time we created some sort of early detection system to send out a warning when PMS is evident. Similar to the one in place for tornados. It would be beneficial, especially for men. Like a public service announcement. “The emergency broadcast system’s PMS detection center has identified three women in your vicinity who are experiencing severe symptoms of PMS. This is not a test. You may want to take cover in a basement or other shelter surrounded by multiple sports channels and beer until the storm blows over.” I’d be all for that. In fact, it might work in our favor. There is nothing that will clear a room faster than the three words, “I have PMS.” It’s almost like an exclusive club. And women who spend a lot of time together end up suffering around the same time every month. Misery loves company…and shopping…because PMS is almost completely alleviated by shopping, bitching and chocolate, and not necessarily in that order. So drop off your credit card on the way to your man shelter. Happy Hour anyone?
Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol…
Erica
Until the next time…I’ll be taking Midol…
Erica
the penis factor
I'm feeling the effects of PMS this evening, and therefore felt it would be fitting to give you another peek at my work in progress, "the penis factor". If you like it, there will be more to come. Enjoy!
Ok, I admit it. It’s true. I had issues with men. But, it really wasn’t my fault. It was what I had learned my whole life that had brought me to the place I was in. That blurry little place where the line between man and dog isn’t completely defined. When did I first get the feeling that man was a creature with major design flaws, structural inadequacies that threatened the entire human existence? I guess it all started on the night of my birth. December 31, 1965.
While my mother was laboring to bring me into this world, my father was off somewhere, toasting the New Year, and his new tax write off. I don’t remember much of this, as I was very young at the time. But nevertheless, I’ve heard the tale countless times from my mother, who even then swore up and down that all men were bastards. In fact, for years, my sister and I believed that "bastard" was a term of endearment. After all, that’s what she called him.
“You old bastard.”
She always said it with a smile, so surely it must mean something kind, and sweet, and full of love and respect. A belief we held on to until the horrible night my poor sister said, “goodnight you old bastard,” when Dad tucked her in to bed. But, was my dear father delighted to hear those endearing little words uttered from his sweet innocent little girl? Afraid not! That was the first time I realized that bastard was not a term to be revered. No, it was her way of saying that men were the root of all evil. Bastards who would use and then discard you. (But not a second before trampling mercilessly all over your poor pitiful heart.) It was several years before she spelled it out quite so plainly, but that’s what she meant just the same.
This was a lesson hard learned. My first memory of an encounter with a member of the opposite sex not related to me occurred back in Kindergarten. He was the class clown...and he had a major crush on me. He stopped at nothing to show his affection, including eating the dead flies on the classroom windowsill. Hardly the way to attract women, of course, and despite his countless attempts to woo me, no amount of candy bars or crayon scrawled love notes could ever dispel the fly eating imagery, soI never gave him more than a second glance. Although, I will say, I still remember him to this day, so he must have made some sort of impression, not the one he was working toward, I’m sure. But it was an impression nonetheless.
In second grade I met the boy who would be my first real boyfriend. Which to an eight year old consists of holding hands and making goo goo eyes at one another. (No kissing or sex of any kind). He was the dreamiest eight year old at Breesport Elementary School, and all the girls adored him. He was a hero to all the boys, in no small part due to his unique talent for flipping his eyelids inside out, (an image that grosses me out to this day.)
I, on the other hand, was a tall, gangly creature with an absolute lack of coordination (not much has changed there), long straight Marcia Brady hair, except mine was mouse brown, not blonde, and for a lack of a better expression, eyebrows that made me look like the mutated offspring of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street. Yes, I was a sight to behold, and yet this scruffy around the edges cutie liked me. He called me his Cherokee princess, and although I can’t begin to imagine the comparison as my skin was the color of mayonnaise and my eyes the color of fresh cucumbers, I was delighted by the attention he gave me. Not to mention the sweet gifts he bestowed upon me, small toys pulled from the bottom of Cracker Jack or cereal boxes. I tried desperately to hide any trace of evidence from my parents and sisters for fear of embarrassment. This unfortunately did not deter my evil sisters from mercilessly taunting me when they suspected the existence of this mystery man.
I, in turn, folded under the pressure and vowed to give up dating forever. This vow/curse was one that I struggled for many years to break without much luck.
Instead, I turned my attention toward a new man. It didn’t matter that he was a fictional character, or that he was older than my father. I was in love. Oh, this was much more than my earlier crushes on Donny Osmond or Speed Racer. No, this was true love. There was something about the way Starsky wore his brown leather jacket, and his bright blue sneakers and cruised the mean streets fighting crime with his partner Hutch in his bright red Gran Turino with the white swoosh down the side. I carried his picture, a clipping from the TV guide, in my little plastic daisy wallet and showed it to all my friends, informing them that this was my new boyfriend. They of course believed me, because nine year olds are basically stupid creatures. At least we were back then, back in the days before the Internet.
Starsky was merely the first in a long line of pretend boyfriends that included both Hardy Boys and, I’m embarrassed to say, Leif Garrett. They filled the void left by the lack of a real boyfriend.
Junior High was a blur. I learned how to swear, and it wasn’t long before “fuck” and “shit” became as much a part of my daily vocabulary as “please” and “thank you”. I don’t know what the fascination with cuss words was exactly, but my little group of friends and I couldn’t get enough of them. They were like food for our pitiful little souls, a miserably failed attempt to be one of the “cool” kids at school.
My friends were all social outcasts like myself, and included “braces girl”, “big nose girl”, “probably gay but still not admitting it boy”, and me “the stork”.
For a teenage boy to be described as tall and lanky is perfectly acceptable, but for a teenage girl it is certain death, social death that is. And I was the walking dead.
Why is it that “boobs” are such a big thing in junior high? (No pun intended.) If you have them, you’re made fun of and called names, and if you don’t have them…you’re made fun of and called names. All things considered, I would have rather had them, which of course I did not.
“Carpenter’s dream…flat as a board.” That was me, coupled with straggly hair, chapped lips, pale skin, and legs that went all the way up to my flat ass. And not as much as a swell in the bust area. I’m forced to rely on memory for much of this, as I have personally burned every photograph taken of me during his pathetic phase of my life.
At thirteen years old, I had yet to master the art of style. And my mother, with her checked pants paired with large print blouses, was little help. I can’t think of anything worse than having a fashion outcast shop for your clothes. It was years before I realized that you could actually buy pants that reached the tops of your shoes. Mine always seemed to hover just above my ankles as if preparing for an oncoming flood. My bargain shirts always looked like they housed deflated balloons, with extra air pockets trapped in the ill fitted bras my mother bought. I have often wondered where she was able to find such a wide assortment of embarrassing underwear, and why no one else seemed to own a stitch of it.
My hair was a constant mess no matter how many trips to the beauty shop I took. When my hair was long, I looked like a hippie with a hygiene problem, and when it was short, the layers clung to my face in a static cling nightmare. No matter how great the cut, I couldn’t make it look right. But, hair and clothes weren’t my only problems. The only make-up I had was my mother’s leftovers or rejects, the sorts of things no one should be wearing in the first place, so I stuck with the basics, bare skin and Chap Stick.
My little band of outcasts were famously close until the day, “he” blew into town on the tail of a storm. His name was Mark and he was tall with sexy brown eyes and fashionably disheveled dark hair. He wore a white tee shirt under a red flannel button down and perfectly worn Levis with construction boots. He was the poor girl’s Keanu Reeves, back before anyone knew who Keanu Reeves was. I wasn’t the only one with a crush on the new kid. But I was the only one to get his phone number. It was fun while it lasted, but it was my first real lesson in heart break.
I recovered from my teenage years fairly unscathed. I grew into my body, and somewhere along the way my hair decided to behave in a respectable fashion. But somehow, while I was learning to properly tweeze my eyebrows, and apply makeup, I missed the lesson on how to date successfully. I’ve done quite a bit of research on the subject, and I was amazed to discover that I wasn’t the only one having these problems with men. I started to think that maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the guys. Maybe it was what I have since labeled as the “penis factor”. And maybe my mother was right all along.
Or maybe not...right Mike? Love you honey!
Until the next time...I'll be writing...
Erica
Ok, I admit it. It’s true. I had issues with men. But, it really wasn’t my fault. It was what I had learned my whole life that had brought me to the place I was in. That blurry little place where the line between man and dog isn’t completely defined. When did I first get the feeling that man was a creature with major design flaws, structural inadequacies that threatened the entire human existence? I guess it all started on the night of my birth. December 31, 1965.
While my mother was laboring to bring me into this world, my father was off somewhere, toasting the New Year, and his new tax write off. I don’t remember much of this, as I was very young at the time. But nevertheless, I’ve heard the tale countless times from my mother, who even then swore up and down that all men were bastards. In fact, for years, my sister and I believed that "bastard" was a term of endearment. After all, that’s what she called him.
“You old bastard.”
She always said it with a smile, so surely it must mean something kind, and sweet, and full of love and respect. A belief we held on to until the horrible night my poor sister said, “goodnight you old bastard,” when Dad tucked her in to bed. But, was my dear father delighted to hear those endearing little words uttered from his sweet innocent little girl? Afraid not! That was the first time I realized that bastard was not a term to be revered. No, it was her way of saying that men were the root of all evil. Bastards who would use and then discard you. (But not a second before trampling mercilessly all over your poor pitiful heart.) It was several years before she spelled it out quite so plainly, but that’s what she meant just the same.
This was a lesson hard learned. My first memory of an encounter with a member of the opposite sex not related to me occurred back in Kindergarten. He was the class clown...and he had a major crush on me. He stopped at nothing to show his affection, including eating the dead flies on the classroom windowsill. Hardly the way to attract women, of course, and despite his countless attempts to woo me, no amount of candy bars or crayon scrawled love notes could ever dispel the fly eating imagery, soI never gave him more than a second glance. Although, I will say, I still remember him to this day, so he must have made some sort of impression, not the one he was working toward, I’m sure. But it was an impression nonetheless.
In second grade I met the boy who would be my first real boyfriend. Which to an eight year old consists of holding hands and making goo goo eyes at one another. (No kissing or sex of any kind). He was the dreamiest eight year old at Breesport Elementary School, and all the girls adored him. He was a hero to all the boys, in no small part due to his unique talent for flipping his eyelids inside out, (an image that grosses me out to this day.)
I, on the other hand, was a tall, gangly creature with an absolute lack of coordination (not much has changed there), long straight Marcia Brady hair, except mine was mouse brown, not blonde, and for a lack of a better expression, eyebrows that made me look like the mutated offspring of Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street. Yes, I was a sight to behold, and yet this scruffy around the edges cutie liked me. He called me his Cherokee princess, and although I can’t begin to imagine the comparison as my skin was the color of mayonnaise and my eyes the color of fresh cucumbers, I was delighted by the attention he gave me. Not to mention the sweet gifts he bestowed upon me, small toys pulled from the bottom of Cracker Jack or cereal boxes. I tried desperately to hide any trace of evidence from my parents and sisters for fear of embarrassment. This unfortunately did not deter my evil sisters from mercilessly taunting me when they suspected the existence of this mystery man.
I, in turn, folded under the pressure and vowed to give up dating forever. This vow/curse was one that I struggled for many years to break without much luck.
Instead, I turned my attention toward a new man. It didn’t matter that he was a fictional character, or that he was older than my father. I was in love. Oh, this was much more than my earlier crushes on Donny Osmond or Speed Racer. No, this was true love. There was something about the way Starsky wore his brown leather jacket, and his bright blue sneakers and cruised the mean streets fighting crime with his partner Hutch in his bright red Gran Turino with the white swoosh down the side. I carried his picture, a clipping from the TV guide, in my little plastic daisy wallet and showed it to all my friends, informing them that this was my new boyfriend. They of course believed me, because nine year olds are basically stupid creatures. At least we were back then, back in the days before the Internet.
Starsky was merely the first in a long line of pretend boyfriends that included both Hardy Boys and, I’m embarrassed to say, Leif Garrett. They filled the void left by the lack of a real boyfriend.
Junior High was a blur. I learned how to swear, and it wasn’t long before “fuck” and “shit” became as much a part of my daily vocabulary as “please” and “thank you”. I don’t know what the fascination with cuss words was exactly, but my little group of friends and I couldn’t get enough of them. They were like food for our pitiful little souls, a miserably failed attempt to be one of the “cool” kids at school.
My friends were all social outcasts like myself, and included “braces girl”, “big nose girl”, “probably gay but still not admitting it boy”, and me “the stork”.
For a teenage boy to be described as tall and lanky is perfectly acceptable, but for a teenage girl it is certain death, social death that is. And I was the walking dead.
Why is it that “boobs” are such a big thing in junior high? (No pun intended.) If you have them, you’re made fun of and called names, and if you don’t have them…you’re made fun of and called names. All things considered, I would have rather had them, which of course I did not.
“Carpenter’s dream…flat as a board.” That was me, coupled with straggly hair, chapped lips, pale skin, and legs that went all the way up to my flat ass. And not as much as a swell in the bust area. I’m forced to rely on memory for much of this, as I have personally burned every photograph taken of me during his pathetic phase of my life.
At thirteen years old, I had yet to master the art of style. And my mother, with her checked pants paired with large print blouses, was little help. I can’t think of anything worse than having a fashion outcast shop for your clothes. It was years before I realized that you could actually buy pants that reached the tops of your shoes. Mine always seemed to hover just above my ankles as if preparing for an oncoming flood. My bargain shirts always looked like they housed deflated balloons, with extra air pockets trapped in the ill fitted bras my mother bought. I have often wondered where she was able to find such a wide assortment of embarrassing underwear, and why no one else seemed to own a stitch of it.
My hair was a constant mess no matter how many trips to the beauty shop I took. When my hair was long, I looked like a hippie with a hygiene problem, and when it was short, the layers clung to my face in a static cling nightmare. No matter how great the cut, I couldn’t make it look right. But, hair and clothes weren’t my only problems. The only make-up I had was my mother’s leftovers or rejects, the sorts of things no one should be wearing in the first place, so I stuck with the basics, bare skin and Chap Stick.
My little band of outcasts were famously close until the day, “he” blew into town on the tail of a storm. His name was Mark and he was tall with sexy brown eyes and fashionably disheveled dark hair. He wore a white tee shirt under a red flannel button down and perfectly worn Levis with construction boots. He was the poor girl’s Keanu Reeves, back before anyone knew who Keanu Reeves was. I wasn’t the only one with a crush on the new kid. But I was the only one to get his phone number. It was fun while it lasted, but it was my first real lesson in heart break.
I recovered from my teenage years fairly unscathed. I grew into my body, and somewhere along the way my hair decided to behave in a respectable fashion. But somehow, while I was learning to properly tweeze my eyebrows, and apply makeup, I missed the lesson on how to date successfully. I’ve done quite a bit of research on the subject, and I was amazed to discover that I wasn’t the only one having these problems with men. I started to think that maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe it was the guys. Maybe it was what I have since labeled as the “penis factor”. And maybe my mother was right all along.
Or maybe not...right Mike? Love you honey!
Until the next time...I'll be writing...
Erica
Sunday, January 31, 2010
random thoughts
Sunday began relatively disaster free. Stayed home all day! Cleaned the house…aka harvested enough cat hair to build enormous lifelike cat statue for the garden to scare deer and rabbits away. Also may have devised diabolical plan utilizing said cat hair. More on that later. Husband cleaned all ceiling fans and found more pieces of cat up there too. Almost wonder how so much of the cats end up in other places without affecting the overall size of the cats themselves. Complex math equations may be required to solve mystery. It’s too late at night for complex math, but in simple terms…if cat sheds enough to build entirely new cat but doesn’t change the size of the existing cat, where did the extra hair actually come from? See what I mean? Complex math! Had to empty the vacuum so many times I needed to change the garbage bag. Tugged on the cinch sac handles only to have them tear off in my hands. WTF? Not even cheap generic bags! If you can’t trust Hefty, who can you trust???
Geriatric dogs love new Sunbrella doggie beds. Cybil – the incontinent – is unsure if climbing completely onto her cushion is permitted, so she just leans against it until she is sure no one is looking. Then she climbs inch by inch until her entire body is stretch across the pillow. Lady – the oldest dog in the family – has doggy dementia, so she seems to think it’s the same old blanket she had before. She keeps trying to smooth out the button tufting with her paws. Lack of success has not deterred her from trying. Can dogs even have dementia? Is there any other explanation as to why she goes outside in the morning just like the other dogs, but then comes back in to poop on the tile in my bathroom? Obviously there are methods in place to prevent this, but every now and then she “sneaks” one in. I am always surprised to discover her “present” as I have yet to discover how something so old can be so stealthy. She’s on the top of my husband’s “countdown” list.
Interesting side note on the animals…because I give them all different voices and accents, they prefer that I use a different accent when speaking to them. I use a French accent. Now even the kids talk to the animals using a French accent. They don’t even know they’re doing it! I know, I’m sneaky!
Discovered that even inexpensive omelet pans can be used to cook eggs! $80 skillet barely a memory. Cheaper omelet pan worked splendidly! Husband made three egg omelets for breakfast! Didn’t have to send it back once! Didn’t even have to get dressed to have breakfast! It was a pajamas and fuzzy slipper day all day long! Husband made fancy fish tacos for dinner (tragically, cheese dip still off limits.) Impressive skills! Fish tacos were messy but delicious. Thinking about designing special chopsticks that more closely resemble the spork. Just FYI…popcorn is NOT something to eat with chopsticks. Although, it is possible, it isn’t recommended. Popcorn is meant to be eaten by the fistful. Briefly abandoned chopsticks diet to eat ice cream and popcorn for dinner. Minor guilt trip alleviated by feeling of gratification for having eaten all meals at home today using new pans purchased yesterday, and food found in cupboards and refrigerator. Tomorrow is a new day. Husband has late meeting. Might order pizza for dinner. Is it delivery or DiGiorno?
Minor catastrophe. The toilet in the power room will not flush. Upon further investigation it is discovered that flushing apparatus is made from cheap plastic and rusted metal. Anyone else see that coming? WTF? Designer of toilet flush apparatus DID know thin metal chain would be submerged in water, right? Now all flushing requires lifting of the heavy porcelain lid, reaching into tank, and tugging on submerged chain. This must not be allowed to go on! Have tried temporary repair using rubber bands and paper clips. Only time will tell. Luckily have 3 other bathrooms in the house. Unfortunately, powder room is closest to all family activity. Wondering if bags of excess cat hair could somehow be weaved into…nah that would never work!
Monday morning is looming ever closer in the horizon, creating the age old feeling of regret that I had Saturday off. If I had worked on Saturday, I would have Wednesday off. On the flip side of that, I really liked not working on Saturday. I just can’t decide which one is better. Luckily the decision is made for me. If left to my own devices, I would stay home every day and write all day long! Can you even imagine? Visit Mike at his website www.mdeanmusic.com for his thoughts on this weekend.
Until the next time…I’ll be taking notes!
Erica
Geriatric dogs love new Sunbrella doggie beds. Cybil – the incontinent – is unsure if climbing completely onto her cushion is permitted, so she just leans against it until she is sure no one is looking. Then she climbs inch by inch until her entire body is stretch across the pillow. Lady – the oldest dog in the family – has doggy dementia, so she seems to think it’s the same old blanket she had before. She keeps trying to smooth out the button tufting with her paws. Lack of success has not deterred her from trying. Can dogs even have dementia? Is there any other explanation as to why she goes outside in the morning just like the other dogs, but then comes back in to poop on the tile in my bathroom? Obviously there are methods in place to prevent this, but every now and then she “sneaks” one in. I am always surprised to discover her “present” as I have yet to discover how something so old can be so stealthy. She’s on the top of my husband’s “countdown” list.
Interesting side note on the animals…because I give them all different voices and accents, they prefer that I use a different accent when speaking to them. I use a French accent. Now even the kids talk to the animals using a French accent. They don’t even know they’re doing it! I know, I’m sneaky!
Discovered that even inexpensive omelet pans can be used to cook eggs! $80 skillet barely a memory. Cheaper omelet pan worked splendidly! Husband made three egg omelets for breakfast! Didn’t have to send it back once! Didn’t even have to get dressed to have breakfast! It was a pajamas and fuzzy slipper day all day long! Husband made fancy fish tacos for dinner (tragically, cheese dip still off limits.) Impressive skills! Fish tacos were messy but delicious. Thinking about designing special chopsticks that more closely resemble the spork. Just FYI…popcorn is NOT something to eat with chopsticks. Although, it is possible, it isn’t recommended. Popcorn is meant to be eaten by the fistful. Briefly abandoned chopsticks diet to eat ice cream and popcorn for dinner. Minor guilt trip alleviated by feeling of gratification for having eaten all meals at home today using new pans purchased yesterday, and food found in cupboards and refrigerator. Tomorrow is a new day. Husband has late meeting. Might order pizza for dinner. Is it delivery or DiGiorno?
Minor catastrophe. The toilet in the power room will not flush. Upon further investigation it is discovered that flushing apparatus is made from cheap plastic and rusted metal. Anyone else see that coming? WTF? Designer of toilet flush apparatus DID know thin metal chain would be submerged in water, right? Now all flushing requires lifting of the heavy porcelain lid, reaching into tank, and tugging on submerged chain. This must not be allowed to go on! Have tried temporary repair using rubber bands and paper clips. Only time will tell. Luckily have 3 other bathrooms in the house. Unfortunately, powder room is closest to all family activity. Wondering if bags of excess cat hair could somehow be weaved into…nah that would never work!
Monday morning is looming ever closer in the horizon, creating the age old feeling of regret that I had Saturday off. If I had worked on Saturday, I would have Wednesday off. On the flip side of that, I really liked not working on Saturday. I just can’t decide which one is better. Luckily the decision is made for me. If left to my own devices, I would stay home every day and write all day long! Can you even imagine? Visit Mike at his website www.mdeanmusic.com for his thoughts on this weekend.
Until the next time…I’ll be taking notes!
Erica
the infamous omelet pan
I woke up ridiculously early this morning—my one Saturday off this month—after staying up past midnight finishing my last post. I never should have had that last diet coke, or the two before that, because my bladder was screaming at me to get up, and finally I had no choice but to listen. I tried really hard not to wake up fully. I didn’t even open my eyes all the way; instead I barely squinted against the faint light as I tripped my way toward the bathroom. Why is it that the catastrophes do not take the same days off as I do? Perhaps catastrophe is too extreme. I do tend to exaggerate, but there is only one thing worse than stepping in a puddle of dog pee in the wee hours of the morning and that is stepping in a puddle of cold dog pee (reason number 22 why my husband is counting down the days until the gates of doggy heaven open up over my house.) My geriatric Labrador had apparently decided that this would be the perfect morning to wet the bed. Hers not mine. At least if it had been warm it would have felt nice on my frozen toes. But no…it was cold. Ice cold. So much for not waking up. I was wide awake now. And hungry again, despite the ordeal surrounding meal time the night before. But I knew we were at least prepared today. After dinner last night, Mike and I made a grocery run—weaning ourselves off the restaurant habit—so the cupboards were fully stocked! It took about thirty minutes of staring at my sleeping husband, whispering, “Are you awake?” before his eyes finally popped opened to look at me suspiciously.
See, this is why I love my husband—well one reason anyway—if I nag him long enough he will usually cook breakfast for me, or dinner, or whatever meal is up next, as long as it means I eat at home and not at a restaurant. It bothers him greatly that I have a fixation with eating out. I don’t really have a fixation, mind you. I just like keeping my culinary options open right up until that last moment. My options this morning were eggs or eggs, as it was impossible to eat cereal with chopsticks as I had previously predicted, and I wasn’t all that interested in pulling out the ingredients for pancakes or waffles. Omelets on the other hand are perfectly suited for chopsticks, and my husband makes a wonderful omelet. I wasn’t paying much attention to him clanking around in the kitchen, until he addressed me directly. “I can’t use this omelet pan anymore. The nonstick coating is completely worn off and it’s coming off in the food. We need a new omelet pan!”
“Absolutely!” I agreed. “We should go get one right now!” It was the perfect reason to shop, and I will grab on with both hands to any opportunity to drag my husband out to shop. His love of cooking and quality cookware was playing right into my hands. “We may as well get breakfast while we’re out!” I threw in as I jumped up to get my coat. I wasn’t going to give him time to think or object. An opportunity for me to eat breakfast in a restaurant will always trump eating at home! One day he will discover my evil plot and contrive a better plan to get me to embrace the home cooked meal, but for now…victory was mine!
Why is it that victory is always sweeter in theory? In practice going out to eat is far less exciting. We didn’t have to spend a lot of time finding a place to eat, but I would have gladly spent a little more if it meant I would have actually gotten to eat something. I ordered eggs. Ironic, I know…I could have had eggs at home, and they probably would have been edible. I managed to get in a few bites of toast and a several strips of bacon, but the eggs were so unappealing that I lost my appetite completely. For the record they took the whole thing off my bill, and I didn’t even have to argue about it. Not that I have ever been afraid of a good confrontation when the need arises. Luckily none was needed. Toast and bacon would have to hold me over until lunch (which was definitely going to be cooked at home as the desire for home cooking had been renewed!)
We had a full morning of shopping. The art of diversion is one I am very familiar with, so I made sure we took the long way through the aisles to the cookware section of the store. We found the omelet pan. And another large skillet that matched our existing cookware (a piece we didn’t already have) but not before we had collected a giant willow laundry basket for the master bathroom, and 2 large Sunbrella outdoor cushions that will make excellent doggy beds! They are water repellent and can even be hosed off to be cleaned! I thought it was a genius, and relatively inexpensive, solution to the peeing situation. The omelet pan on the other hand, was a little expensive. More on that later. First…lunch time. And as it turned out we were too far from home and very hungry, so we grabbed a little something while we were out. We were absolutely going to eat dinner at home, and were actively planning what we would make. Unfortunately, somewhere between shopping and lunch I discovered that my Blackberry was missing. This was a tragedy of epic proportions! I was unable to concentrate on anything until the phone was found. I actually have a GPS locator for my phone and those of both of my teenage girls, but as it turns out, you need to use the mobile app on your phone to do a location search and my husband’s Blackberry did not have this app! I spent the entire ride back to the house trying to find the app so I could locate my phone from his. When I finally located the phone it was still plugged into the charger at home. Woops…I never brought it with me.
So about that omelet pan...
I was the proud owner of an $80 omelet pan for all of three hours. Roll your tongue back up! I took it back. And not because I caught all kinds of shit from family members for spending that much on one 8 inch skillet (love ya Vik!) I was already planning on returning it…buyer’s remorse…but make no mistake, it was one damn nice pan! The All Clad professional chef omelet pan with multiple layers of stainless steel and a copper core bottom for optimum heat transference! $80 was the sale price! Everyone knows how hard it is to resist a good sale! But clearer heads prevailed after the Blackberry incident and we decided to return the expensive pan for something a little more realistic. By that time, all the running around had completely wiped me out and it was time for dinner. We were in the vicinity of the sushi bar I had lunch in the other day and I couldn’t resist taking my husband in...just to show him the menu, of course. But do you know hard it is to resist sushi once you’re in there? It is the best sushi bar in all of Kennesaw! Mike had the sashimi salad and I had the spicy tuna roll, and I figured what the hell…so I went ahead and shared a Japanese beaver roll with my husband. You know, just to say I did.
Until the next time…I will be eating at home!
Erica
See, this is why I love my husband—well one reason anyway—if I nag him long enough he will usually cook breakfast for me, or dinner, or whatever meal is up next, as long as it means I eat at home and not at a restaurant. It bothers him greatly that I have a fixation with eating out. I don’t really have a fixation, mind you. I just like keeping my culinary options open right up until that last moment. My options this morning were eggs or eggs, as it was impossible to eat cereal with chopsticks as I had previously predicted, and I wasn’t all that interested in pulling out the ingredients for pancakes or waffles. Omelets on the other hand are perfectly suited for chopsticks, and my husband makes a wonderful omelet. I wasn’t paying much attention to him clanking around in the kitchen, until he addressed me directly. “I can’t use this omelet pan anymore. The nonstick coating is completely worn off and it’s coming off in the food. We need a new omelet pan!”
“Absolutely!” I agreed. “We should go get one right now!” It was the perfect reason to shop, and I will grab on with both hands to any opportunity to drag my husband out to shop. His love of cooking and quality cookware was playing right into my hands. “We may as well get breakfast while we’re out!” I threw in as I jumped up to get my coat. I wasn’t going to give him time to think or object. An opportunity for me to eat breakfast in a restaurant will always trump eating at home! One day he will discover my evil plot and contrive a better plan to get me to embrace the home cooked meal, but for now…victory was mine!
Why is it that victory is always sweeter in theory? In practice going out to eat is far less exciting. We didn’t have to spend a lot of time finding a place to eat, but I would have gladly spent a little more if it meant I would have actually gotten to eat something. I ordered eggs. Ironic, I know…I could have had eggs at home, and they probably would have been edible. I managed to get in a few bites of toast and a several strips of bacon, but the eggs were so unappealing that I lost my appetite completely. For the record they took the whole thing off my bill, and I didn’t even have to argue about it. Not that I have ever been afraid of a good confrontation when the need arises. Luckily none was needed. Toast and bacon would have to hold me over until lunch (which was definitely going to be cooked at home as the desire for home cooking had been renewed!)
We had a full morning of shopping. The art of diversion is one I am very familiar with, so I made sure we took the long way through the aisles to the cookware section of the store. We found the omelet pan. And another large skillet that matched our existing cookware (a piece we didn’t already have) but not before we had collected a giant willow laundry basket for the master bathroom, and 2 large Sunbrella outdoor cushions that will make excellent doggy beds! They are water repellent and can even be hosed off to be cleaned! I thought it was a genius, and relatively inexpensive, solution to the peeing situation. The omelet pan on the other hand, was a little expensive. More on that later. First…lunch time. And as it turned out we were too far from home and very hungry, so we grabbed a little something while we were out. We were absolutely going to eat dinner at home, and were actively planning what we would make. Unfortunately, somewhere between shopping and lunch I discovered that my Blackberry was missing. This was a tragedy of epic proportions! I was unable to concentrate on anything until the phone was found. I actually have a GPS locator for my phone and those of both of my teenage girls, but as it turns out, you need to use the mobile app on your phone to do a location search and my husband’s Blackberry did not have this app! I spent the entire ride back to the house trying to find the app so I could locate my phone from his. When I finally located the phone it was still plugged into the charger at home. Woops…I never brought it with me.
So about that omelet pan...
I was the proud owner of an $80 omelet pan for all of three hours. Roll your tongue back up! I took it back. And not because I caught all kinds of shit from family members for spending that much on one 8 inch skillet (love ya Vik!) I was already planning on returning it…buyer’s remorse…but make no mistake, it was one damn nice pan! The All Clad professional chef omelet pan with multiple layers of stainless steel and a copper core bottom for optimum heat transference! $80 was the sale price! Everyone knows how hard it is to resist a good sale! But clearer heads prevailed after the Blackberry incident and we decided to return the expensive pan for something a little more realistic. By that time, all the running around had completely wiped me out and it was time for dinner. We were in the vicinity of the sushi bar I had lunch in the other day and I couldn’t resist taking my husband in...just to show him the menu, of course. But do you know hard it is to resist sushi once you’re in there? It is the best sushi bar in all of Kennesaw! Mike had the sashimi salad and I had the spicy tuna roll, and I figured what the hell…so I went ahead and shared a Japanese beaver roll with my husband. You know, just to say I did.
Until the next time…I will be eating at home!
Erica
Saturday, January 30, 2010
musical restaurants
So much for the idea of wings for dinner. Said the husband, “We already had wings this week.” Oh well…no big deal. I’m up for anything that doesn’t involve me cooking after a long day at work. So, off we go in quest of something “good” too eat.
Mike and I consider ourselves fairly good judges of fine dining. That is to say that we know when the food is pretty good, and we know when it’s crap. We live in Kennesaw Georgia. Not exactly your hot box of entertainment and culture, but it’s not that far from Atlanta, so certainly some culture must rub off. Right? We have a few really good restaurants, a handful of decent restaurants, and a whole lot of crap. We weren’t reaching for the stars this evening; we were just going for a mainstream solidly decent meal. Nothing fancy.
Ok, I’ve discovered there is a direct correlation between what I want for dinner…what I’m willing to eat…how hungry I am…and how long the line is. I’m sure I could break it down into a mathematical equation if I was so inclined, but I’m not.
What the hell? How many people actually live in Kennesaw Georgia? I’ve never looked it up, and honestly, again I don’t really care to do the math, but I’m fairly certain that the lion’s share of them were in line at the Longhorn Steakhouse. Like I said, I wasn’t looking for anything spectacular for dinner, just something tasty. Mike and I didn’t even get all the way into the front door before we turned right back around into the nasty weather and headed for the car. No problem, there are other places to eat, right? Wrong. The next place we went to was so packed we could see the line without even getting out of the car. The engine roars to life again and off we go. Suddenly I’m offering to eat at the one place we both agreed we would never, ever go to again. Did I mention NEVER? Ok, suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad place. And they NEVER have a line. Not ever. Because as an establishment that's main focus is to serve food, it makes a great bar. And we don’t drink…anymore (unless it’s girls night out and I’m not driving…or if I have really bad laryngitis and I have to sing…because a nice shot of Crown clears all that frog out of my throat.) But I wasn’t singing tonight, I was hungry, and suddenly the worst food I’d eaten in recent memory was sounding pretty damn tasty! But even the crappy place has no parking and a damn line!
So where the hell did all of these people come from? There aren’t any activities in Kennesaw that could send that many people scurrying out into the freezing rain to descend on every single eating establishment in a five mile radius of my house! It was like someone turned a giant spotlight on and a million roaches started rushing for the woodwork. Ok, maybe that was an unfair exaggeration. No one in Kennesaw could be compared to a cockroach. Right…we’ll save that for another post…or five. Tonight my focus is on food. It’s after eight and Mike is ready to settle for McDonald’s! I’m not willing to settle that easily. Certainly not for McDonald’s. Not when the kids aren’t even with us, and we can do so much better. We can even eat in a “quiet” restaurant without having to censor any teenagers. That is, we COULD eat in a nice quiet restaurant, if there was one without a thirty minute wait! What happened to cooking at home? What happened to dinner at five? What happened to staying in on a nasty night? Who the hell knows…I was breaking all of those rules myself, and my husband was beginning to grip the steering wheel a little too tightly for my comfort. It’s funny how you get to know a person’s breaking point. I had eaten almost an entire bag of menthol flavored Halls to chase off the hunger pangs, but Mike hadn’t eaten since lunch. As McDonald’s loomed closer in the distance, I started shouting out other options. Mexican! Food that is. We were even in the correct lane to take the sharp turn into the parking lot of our favorite Mexican restaurant. My mouth was starting to water at the thought of fish tacos. What I really wanted was cheese dip, but it’s extremely difficult to eat with a pair of chopsticks, so I was going to go for the fish tacos. As we rounded the front corner looking for an open parking space, I gazed into the plate glass window only to see a row of people seated in chairs along the front. It was another damn line! Sadly, McDonald’s was starting to seem inevitable, and seriously, I had that for lunch! Luckily, we had already passed McDonald’s and would need to do an illegal U turn to get back to it, so I had at least a quarter mile of road to come up with a better solution. I made a last ditch attempt to avoid a McNasty taste in my mouth when I caught a glimpse of Rosaria’s Pizzeria up ahead. I wasn’t in the mood for Italian…particularly not for pizza…but at this point, I was ready to settle for anything that wasn’t fast food. We screeched into the strip of shops and squealed tires to park in front of the tiny Italian restaurant. I could see empty tables from my seat and experienced a tiny flutter of elation. The mood was tense almost all the way through the meal. We barely spoke. Not because either of us was angry with the other, but rather because the stress of spending more than half an hour looking for a place to eat had gotten under our skins. It didn’t take me long to find the positive side of the entire predicament. First of all, spaghetti is remarkably easy to eat with chopsticks, and secondly, wherein yesterday nothing bad had happened to me that warranted writing about, I had unexpectedly been presented with a deliciously (pun intended) interesting predicament to write about. It’s hard not to laugh at the fact that in the time we spend driving around looking for a restaurant without a line, we could have been seated and eating our free bread at Longhorn, awaiting a meal that would have been twice as satisfying and half as stressful. But then again, what would I possibly post on my blog this evening? I had a nice steak dinner? Who wants to read about that boring crap?
Please visit my husband’s blog at http://mdeanmusic.blogspot.com/ to see if his version of tonight reads differently than mine. He is a man so it probably goes something like this… "my wife didn’t cook dinner so we had to go out. Couldn’t find a damn place to eat until she said, ‘hey, how about pizza.’ I didn’t care. I was just hungry. I would have eaten at damned McDonald’s if she hadn’t been so picky!” Then again, he might just write a song about it!
Until the next time…
Erica
Mike and I consider ourselves fairly good judges of fine dining. That is to say that we know when the food is pretty good, and we know when it’s crap. We live in Kennesaw Georgia. Not exactly your hot box of entertainment and culture, but it’s not that far from Atlanta, so certainly some culture must rub off. Right? We have a few really good restaurants, a handful of decent restaurants, and a whole lot of crap. We weren’t reaching for the stars this evening; we were just going for a mainstream solidly decent meal. Nothing fancy.
Ok, I’ve discovered there is a direct correlation between what I want for dinner…what I’m willing to eat…how hungry I am…and how long the line is. I’m sure I could break it down into a mathematical equation if I was so inclined, but I’m not.
What the hell? How many people actually live in Kennesaw Georgia? I’ve never looked it up, and honestly, again I don’t really care to do the math, but I’m fairly certain that the lion’s share of them were in line at the Longhorn Steakhouse. Like I said, I wasn’t looking for anything spectacular for dinner, just something tasty. Mike and I didn’t even get all the way into the front door before we turned right back around into the nasty weather and headed for the car. No problem, there are other places to eat, right? Wrong. The next place we went to was so packed we could see the line without even getting out of the car. The engine roars to life again and off we go. Suddenly I’m offering to eat at the one place we both agreed we would never, ever go to again. Did I mention NEVER? Ok, suddenly it didn’t seem like such a bad place. And they NEVER have a line. Not ever. Because as an establishment that's main focus is to serve food, it makes a great bar. And we don’t drink…anymore (unless it’s girls night out and I’m not driving…or if I have really bad laryngitis and I have to sing…because a nice shot of Crown clears all that frog out of my throat.) But I wasn’t singing tonight, I was hungry, and suddenly the worst food I’d eaten in recent memory was sounding pretty damn tasty! But even the crappy place has no parking and a damn line!
So where the hell did all of these people come from? There aren’t any activities in Kennesaw that could send that many people scurrying out into the freezing rain to descend on every single eating establishment in a five mile radius of my house! It was like someone turned a giant spotlight on and a million roaches started rushing for the woodwork. Ok, maybe that was an unfair exaggeration. No one in Kennesaw could be compared to a cockroach. Right…we’ll save that for another post…or five. Tonight my focus is on food. It’s after eight and Mike is ready to settle for McDonald’s! I’m not willing to settle that easily. Certainly not for McDonald’s. Not when the kids aren’t even with us, and we can do so much better. We can even eat in a “quiet” restaurant without having to censor any teenagers. That is, we COULD eat in a nice quiet restaurant, if there was one without a thirty minute wait! What happened to cooking at home? What happened to dinner at five? What happened to staying in on a nasty night? Who the hell knows…I was breaking all of those rules myself, and my husband was beginning to grip the steering wheel a little too tightly for my comfort. It’s funny how you get to know a person’s breaking point. I had eaten almost an entire bag of menthol flavored Halls to chase off the hunger pangs, but Mike hadn’t eaten since lunch. As McDonald’s loomed closer in the distance, I started shouting out other options. Mexican! Food that is. We were even in the correct lane to take the sharp turn into the parking lot of our favorite Mexican restaurant. My mouth was starting to water at the thought of fish tacos. What I really wanted was cheese dip, but it’s extremely difficult to eat with a pair of chopsticks, so I was going to go for the fish tacos. As we rounded the front corner looking for an open parking space, I gazed into the plate glass window only to see a row of people seated in chairs along the front. It was another damn line! Sadly, McDonald’s was starting to seem inevitable, and seriously, I had that for lunch! Luckily, we had already passed McDonald’s and would need to do an illegal U turn to get back to it, so I had at least a quarter mile of road to come up with a better solution. I made a last ditch attempt to avoid a McNasty taste in my mouth when I caught a glimpse of Rosaria’s Pizzeria up ahead. I wasn’t in the mood for Italian…particularly not for pizza…but at this point, I was ready to settle for anything that wasn’t fast food. We screeched into the strip of shops and squealed tires to park in front of the tiny Italian restaurant. I could see empty tables from my seat and experienced a tiny flutter of elation. The mood was tense almost all the way through the meal. We barely spoke. Not because either of us was angry with the other, but rather because the stress of spending more than half an hour looking for a place to eat had gotten under our skins. It didn’t take me long to find the positive side of the entire predicament. First of all, spaghetti is remarkably easy to eat with chopsticks, and secondly, wherein yesterday nothing bad had happened to me that warranted writing about, I had unexpectedly been presented with a deliciously (pun intended) interesting predicament to write about. It’s hard not to laugh at the fact that in the time we spend driving around looking for a restaurant without a line, we could have been seated and eating our free bread at Longhorn, awaiting a meal that would have been twice as satisfying and half as stressful. But then again, what would I possibly post on my blog this evening? I had a nice steak dinner? Who wants to read about that boring crap?
Please visit my husband’s blog at http://mdeanmusic.blogspot.com/ to see if his version of tonight reads differently than mine. He is a man so it probably goes something like this… "my wife didn’t cook dinner so we had to go out. Couldn’t find a damn place to eat until she said, ‘hey, how about pizza.’ I didn’t care. I was just hungry. I would have eaten at damned McDonald’s if she hadn’t been so picky!” Then again, he might just write a song about it!
Until the next time…
Erica
Friday, January 29, 2010
henry chow - ninja kitty
A good friend once told me that if I was ever going to get a boyfriend I should never talk about my pets. Ever. “Guys don’t want to hear about your pets.” She said. “In fact, NO one really wants to hear about your pets. It’s boring!” She concluded.. I disagreed. Strongly! My pets were pretty damn funny! They had unique personalities and fascinating adventures of their own. Surely someone would be interested in hearing about my furry little friends! Maybe not boys…but surely the other girls...right?
Fast forward a few decades, several boyfriends and two husbands later and this same friend now has a “dogbook” on Facebook and we spend most of our conversations talking about our pets. Funny! I knew I was right! Even if it took me more than half my life to prove it, I’m more than willing to gloat! Not much has changed in the decades since middle school and high school, other than fashion and my bra size. (And thank God on both accounts!) I still talk about my pets fairly frequently; only now, my friends are freely willing to share their own stories in exchange. Instead of pictures of children, my coworkers have pictures of their dogs on their desks and one of the women I work with has a wonderful plaque on her desk that reads, “Children are for people who can’t have dogs.” I absolutely LOVE that plaque. I do have children, and I love them dearly despite their quirks. I have shared countless amusing stories at their expense, but now that they are all of legal driving age, they tend to retaliate if I spill too much information. The animals are at my mercy, because other than peeing in my favorite shoes (which I keep behind closed closet doors) there isn’t much they can do to get back at me for telling their embarrassing stories. I have given them all unique “voices” and I, of course, narrate all internal monologues so those “voices” can be heard out loud. Yes, I am fully aware that this may be considered strange behavior, but then again, it’s funny, so that cancels out the weird factor as far as I’m concerned. If you can’t laugh at yourself…Etc..Etc…
So we got this new cat. He is a Himalayan, like Mr. Jinx in Meet the Parents. A very lovable kitty, really. He was a rescue cat just like every other animal that lives at my house. All three dogs and the other cat were rescues too. Sometimes it feels like I’m running a halfway house for wayward animals, but they’re sweet, and a few of them are getting close to their “expiration dates” if you know what I mean, so my husband just keeps a running tab on the calendar counting down to the day when we will be down at least one dog. It sounds mean, but it’s just reality. We all die eventually. My husband just hopes that day comes soon for a few of the old dogs. They eat and shit a whole lot! The back yard is like a mine field. One wrong step and pow! You may as well just toss those shoes in the trash. I have two Labradors, one chocolate and one vanilla…I mean yellow…and a pit bull mix. The cat is a Ragdoll that we have had since he was six weeks old, so he actually thinks he’s one of the dogs. He hangs out with the dogs, plays with the dogs, eats with the dogs and sleeps with the dogs. He may as well BE one of the dogs. His name is Bartholomew. Bart for short.
Bart used to think he ran the house. If he wanted to eat…He ate. If he wanted to drink…he drank. Even if that meant the dogs had to clear away from the bowl. Bart was an alpha. Maybe not THE alpha. The chocolate Lab, Cybil is the true Alpha in our house. But because she is the largest, and wisest, and therefore most confident animal, she doesn’t stir the pot. So Bart had the impression of being the alpha. It was a feeling he was most pleased with. As I said before, all of the animals have a “voice” and they all have different accents. His voice was that of a confident cat. A cool, dangerous, jungle cat…perched atop the highest piece of furniture in the land, staring down at his pack with pride. A rough and tumble tough guy on the outside. A soft marshmallow momma’s boy on the inside. With an English accent. Like Hugh Grant.
The new cat’s name is Henry and because, as a Himalayan he is a Siamese cat variety, we call him Henry Chow. It’s not very PC, I am well aware of this. I don’t know if the surname Chow is entirely appropriate for the area of Asia that this breed is supposedly from, but it works with Henry, so there you go. Henry is Asian, therefore he has an Asian accent. Like Mr. Miyagi, only scarier. Henry is not one of the dogs. He is well aware that he is a cat. Henry is also the only cat in our house that is not declawed. Henry has ninja weapons. And he knows how to use them!
I had no idea that fur ACTUALLY flies when two cats fight. I always thought that was just a figure of speech. Like shit hitting the fan. I don’t know of any real life instances of shit hitting a fan and flying about the room, but I have witnessed fur flying around in large tufted quantities on too many occasions. I could build an entire cat from the scraps I pick up after the brief exchanges between Bart and Henry Chow…Ninja Kitty.
Look for more fun later tonight! My husband is standing over me starving to death after a miserable long day at work and I’m guessing it’s a wing night! Please share my blog with your friends if you like what you’ve read and be sure to join so you can be a follower…in a non creepy sort of way! Thanks again for your support! Until the next time...
Erica
Fast forward a few decades, several boyfriends and two husbands later and this same friend now has a “dogbook” on Facebook and we spend most of our conversations talking about our pets. Funny! I knew I was right! Even if it took me more than half my life to prove it, I’m more than willing to gloat! Not much has changed in the decades since middle school and high school, other than fashion and my bra size. (And thank God on both accounts!) I still talk about my pets fairly frequently; only now, my friends are freely willing to share their own stories in exchange. Instead of pictures of children, my coworkers have pictures of their dogs on their desks and one of the women I work with has a wonderful plaque on her desk that reads, “Children are for people who can’t have dogs.” I absolutely LOVE that plaque. I do have children, and I love them dearly despite their quirks. I have shared countless amusing stories at their expense, but now that they are all of legal driving age, they tend to retaliate if I spill too much information. The animals are at my mercy, because other than peeing in my favorite shoes (which I keep behind closed closet doors) there isn’t much they can do to get back at me for telling their embarrassing stories. I have given them all unique “voices” and I, of course, narrate all internal monologues so those “voices” can be heard out loud. Yes, I am fully aware that this may be considered strange behavior, but then again, it’s funny, so that cancels out the weird factor as far as I’m concerned. If you can’t laugh at yourself…Etc..Etc…
So we got this new cat. He is a Himalayan, like Mr. Jinx in Meet the Parents. A very lovable kitty, really. He was a rescue cat just like every other animal that lives at my house. All three dogs and the other cat were rescues too. Sometimes it feels like I’m running a halfway house for wayward animals, but they’re sweet, and a few of them are getting close to their “expiration dates” if you know what I mean, so my husband just keeps a running tab on the calendar counting down to the day when we will be down at least one dog. It sounds mean, but it’s just reality. We all die eventually. My husband just hopes that day comes soon for a few of the old dogs. They eat and shit a whole lot! The back yard is like a mine field. One wrong step and pow! You may as well just toss those shoes in the trash. I have two Labradors, one chocolate and one vanilla…I mean yellow…and a pit bull mix. The cat is a Ragdoll that we have had since he was six weeks old, so he actually thinks he’s one of the dogs. He hangs out with the dogs, plays with the dogs, eats with the dogs and sleeps with the dogs. He may as well BE one of the dogs. His name is Bartholomew. Bart for short.
Bart used to think he ran the house. If he wanted to eat…He ate. If he wanted to drink…he drank. Even if that meant the dogs had to clear away from the bowl. Bart was an alpha. Maybe not THE alpha. The chocolate Lab, Cybil is the true Alpha in our house. But because she is the largest, and wisest, and therefore most confident animal, she doesn’t stir the pot. So Bart had the impression of being the alpha. It was a feeling he was most pleased with. As I said before, all of the animals have a “voice” and they all have different accents. His voice was that of a confident cat. A cool, dangerous, jungle cat…perched atop the highest piece of furniture in the land, staring down at his pack with pride. A rough and tumble tough guy on the outside. A soft marshmallow momma’s boy on the inside. With an English accent. Like Hugh Grant.
The new cat’s name is Henry and because, as a Himalayan he is a Siamese cat variety, we call him Henry Chow. It’s not very PC, I am well aware of this. I don’t know if the surname Chow is entirely appropriate for the area of Asia that this breed is supposedly from, but it works with Henry, so there you go. Henry is Asian, therefore he has an Asian accent. Like Mr. Miyagi, only scarier. Henry is not one of the dogs. He is well aware that he is a cat. Henry is also the only cat in our house that is not declawed. Henry has ninja weapons. And he knows how to use them!
I had no idea that fur ACTUALLY flies when two cats fight. I always thought that was just a figure of speech. Like shit hitting the fan. I don’t know of any real life instances of shit hitting a fan and flying about the room, but I have witnessed fur flying around in large tufted quantities on too many occasions. I could build an entire cat from the scraps I pick up after the brief exchanges between Bart and Henry Chow…Ninja Kitty.
Look for more fun later tonight! My husband is standing over me starving to death after a miserable long day at work and I’m guessing it’s a wing night! Please share my blog with your friends if you like what you’ve read and be sure to join so you can be a follower…in a non creepy sort of way! Thanks again for your support! Until the next time...
Erica
Thursday, January 28, 2010
the dancing bear
I wanted to give a great big thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed my last post, “the bikini wax disaster.” It is an excerpt from a work in progress called “the penis factor,” a humorous study on the differences between men and women. I will share more from that later. Right now I’m busy trying to come up with something new and fresh for today’s post. I admit that I feel some degree of pressure after the great response I got from everyone on the last one. Pressure to entertain my small but growing fan base (how exciting it is for me to call you that!) Pressure to be witty…original…relevant… I feel sort of like a kid in a school talent show—standing up on a stage under a bright spotlight—trying to come up with a spectacular act on a moment’s notice. You know kids, we never plan ahead. We just jump in with both feet and hope things work out for the best. So I do my little tap dance…hum a few bars of my favorite song (the one I actually know most of the words to)…blow a familiar tune on a plastic horn and…wait for it…the grand flourish…the big finish…TAH DAH…followed by the sound of crickets chirping in the audience. It’s like a bad nightmare! Then I remember that I can actually sing. I’m even pretty good at it. I could definitely hold my own on a stage! I do it frequently, in fact. But the stage I’m on now is not a karaoke stage. No, it’s the stage of public opinion. So here I am…the dancing bear…performing solely for your entertainment. I hope you are having as much fun as I am!
So, I was going to write about how I tripped over something today and narrowly missed causing some catastrophe at the bank, or at home, or somewhere in between. Unfortunately, nothing bad happened to me today. I was actually hoping for some mild disaster that would be funny to write about. It was like all those times when I drove my car to the service garage to investigate a strange pinging in the engine or an unusual grinding in the brakes only to discover that the sound had disappeared as soon as I arrived to have it diagnosed. I actually managed to make it through the day relatively unscathed. I should probably worry that I find that somewhat disappointing.
I did have a rather interesting moment at lunch while eating sushi with a friend. I don’t know of many situations where it would be even remotely appropriate for another woman to request a taste of your “beaver roll.” At least not in public. I mean...really! You just don't hear that every day. I certainly don't. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen "beaver" on the menu before. I have to ask myself if that was what they expected when they created the menu. As if, some Japanese sushi chef was sitting in the back room giggling because he got another customer to order the “beaver roll” just for that reason. I probably would have ordered it anyway. It was really good. My friend liked it too! In fact, I took some back to work just so I could ask my coworkers if anyone wanted some of my “beaver roll.” As if it isn’t funny enough just working in a bank. Right…Next time I’ll bring back the “in and out roll” with the “beaver roll,” so I can see who wants the “in and out” with my “beaver roll.” (Seriously! Where do they get these names?)
Still, it wasn’t all laughs during lunch. While I was eating my “beaver” and “in and out” rolls with the utensils/weapons of choice—chopsticks—I had an epiphany. It was right about the same time one of my “beaver rolls” took its third and final dive into the soy sauce and I had to consider it a total loss. Nothing is good once it’s soaked up too much soy sauce. I decided right then that if I was forced to eat every meal, every day, with chopsticks that I would likely starve to death. Still, I did manage to eat enough at lunch to stave off the basic hunger, so upon further reflection I decided that maybe starvation was a bit extreme. I would, however, certainly lose weight if forced to eat everything using nothing but chopsticks as a utensil. Just the sheer time and effort involved in getting the food from plate to mouth was a workout. I felt like I’d lost a pound just struggling through lunch. So I decided to give myself a challenge. Eat every meal, every day, for one week with nothing but chopsticks. And no cheating! Even finger food must be eaten with chopsticks. Who would like to join me in that challenge? The chopstick diet? I think cereal might be out. Pistachios too. Ice cream might prove to be a bit difficult. I might just allow soup if you drink it from a cup because then it’s really just a beverage. More on that diet later!
So my conclusion is that hanging out in a sushi bar is really an educational experience. So far I’ve discovered a new source of comedy, a new diet, and it even inspired me to invent something new! Nipple armor. Don’t laugh! This is a serious matter. That sushi bar was really cold, and even though I was wearing three layers of clothing—a bra…a cami…and a blouse—I was still wearing several layers too few. I’m fairly certain the sushi chef had no complaints. And by the way…the man had very nice teeth. He was smiling widely enough for me to see all of them. Still, I could only imagine how many culinary disasters may have been averted had he been paying more attention to the shrimp rolls instead of monitoring my headlights. I would have eaten lunch in my coat if I wasn’t looking for material for the dancing bear post.
As most lunches do, it ended too soon. I had to go back to the office and turn up the space heater to full blast in my office to keep my automatic headlights from turning on throughout the rest of the day. It was almost like a game. Not my favorite game, mind you…but I kept it up all day just the same. Then I headed home to play Farmville, Café World and Petville on Facebook before turning my attention to the blog. I know…I know…it’s an addiction. I’m seeking help! I think I may just wean myself off the addictive apps and post more than one entry to my blog each evening. Any thoughts on that?
Until next time…I’ll keep on dancing!
So, I was going to write about how I tripped over something today and narrowly missed causing some catastrophe at the bank, or at home, or somewhere in between. Unfortunately, nothing bad happened to me today. I was actually hoping for some mild disaster that would be funny to write about. It was like all those times when I drove my car to the service garage to investigate a strange pinging in the engine or an unusual grinding in the brakes only to discover that the sound had disappeared as soon as I arrived to have it diagnosed. I actually managed to make it through the day relatively unscathed. I should probably worry that I find that somewhat disappointing.
I did have a rather interesting moment at lunch while eating sushi with a friend. I don’t know of many situations where it would be even remotely appropriate for another woman to request a taste of your “beaver roll.” At least not in public. I mean...really! You just don't hear that every day. I certainly don't. Then again, I don't think I've ever seen "beaver" on the menu before. I have to ask myself if that was what they expected when they created the menu. As if, some Japanese sushi chef was sitting in the back room giggling because he got another customer to order the “beaver roll” just for that reason. I probably would have ordered it anyway. It was really good. My friend liked it too! In fact, I took some back to work just so I could ask my coworkers if anyone wanted some of my “beaver roll.” As if it isn’t funny enough just working in a bank. Right…Next time I’ll bring back the “in and out roll” with the “beaver roll,” so I can see who wants the “in and out” with my “beaver roll.” (Seriously! Where do they get these names?)
Still, it wasn’t all laughs during lunch. While I was eating my “beaver” and “in and out” rolls with the utensils/weapons of choice—chopsticks—I had an epiphany. It was right about the same time one of my “beaver rolls” took its third and final dive into the soy sauce and I had to consider it a total loss. Nothing is good once it’s soaked up too much soy sauce. I decided right then that if I was forced to eat every meal, every day, with chopsticks that I would likely starve to death. Still, I did manage to eat enough at lunch to stave off the basic hunger, so upon further reflection I decided that maybe starvation was a bit extreme. I would, however, certainly lose weight if forced to eat everything using nothing but chopsticks as a utensil. Just the sheer time and effort involved in getting the food from plate to mouth was a workout. I felt like I’d lost a pound just struggling through lunch. So I decided to give myself a challenge. Eat every meal, every day, for one week with nothing but chopsticks. And no cheating! Even finger food must be eaten with chopsticks. Who would like to join me in that challenge? The chopstick diet? I think cereal might be out. Pistachios too. Ice cream might prove to be a bit difficult. I might just allow soup if you drink it from a cup because then it’s really just a beverage. More on that diet later!
So my conclusion is that hanging out in a sushi bar is really an educational experience. So far I’ve discovered a new source of comedy, a new diet, and it even inspired me to invent something new! Nipple armor. Don’t laugh! This is a serious matter. That sushi bar was really cold, and even though I was wearing three layers of clothing—a bra…a cami…and a blouse—I was still wearing several layers too few. I’m fairly certain the sushi chef had no complaints. And by the way…the man had very nice teeth. He was smiling widely enough for me to see all of them. Still, I could only imagine how many culinary disasters may have been averted had he been paying more attention to the shrimp rolls instead of monitoring my headlights. I would have eaten lunch in my coat if I wasn’t looking for material for the dancing bear post.
As most lunches do, it ended too soon. I had to go back to the office and turn up the space heater to full blast in my office to keep my automatic headlights from turning on throughout the rest of the day. It was almost like a game. Not my favorite game, mind you…but I kept it up all day just the same. Then I headed home to play Farmville, Café World and Petville on Facebook before turning my attention to the blog. I know…I know…it’s an addiction. I’m seeking help! I think I may just wean myself off the addictive apps and post more than one entry to my blog each evening. Any thoughts on that?
Until next time…I’ll keep on dancing!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
the bikini wax disaster
“Wax on. Wax off. Yeah right!”
Mr. Miyagi was full of shit. The wax does NOT come right off…not even with a little elbow grease.
Anyone who knows me even a little would probably agree that “graceful” is one adjective that does not apply to me. My husband has repeatedly said that I am the most accident prone person he has ever known. I might tend to agree. Even the little tasks carry a risk of danger when it involves me. Even the simplest grooming tasks. Nothing life threatening…usually. Still, I think I’m the only person I’ve ever met who has ever stepped on a hot curling iron. It fit perfectly into the curl of my toes. It’s amazing how hot actually feels cold at first, until the brain registers what’s happening. And blistering burns are interesting to treat when they are on the soft fleshy underside of your toes. I don’t recommend it.
I wouldn’t say I was ever against the grooming rituals, per se. I willingly risk the inevitable catastrophe with a smile nearly every day. And there is nothing more dangerous than taking a razorblade into a wet shower.
I’ve been shaving my legs since Junior High, and despite the tediousness of the whole regimen, I imagine I’ll be doing it well into old age. But, shaving the bikini area has never been my favorite. First of all, it involves a fair degree of yoga-like positions to reach everywhere, and then, as I said, it’s fraught with peril. So sure, I had often considered the alternative methods of hair removal for this area of my body. All it took was one spur of the moment decision in the grocery store, and the rest as they say, is history.
It was a typical Saturday night at my house, back in the time that I refer to as “between husbands” and by that I mean I was left to my own devices. Bored out of my mind. The kids were in bed, and the house was quiet. I had showered and brushed my teeth, wrapped up in nothing but a towel, and on this particular fateful evening, I was readying myself for my very first bikini wax. In hindsight I realize where my tragic mistake occurred. I had never as much as waxed my car at that point in my life, let alone my bikini area. Yet, here I was, heating the thick, melted peanut buttery substance to a near boil in order to smear it over the tender skin of my groin area.
Hindsight is a valuable tool that would only be valuable if it was foresight, which it is not. And so, I smeared. In my own defense, I read the directions twice, and followed them to the letter. My skin was clean, and the hair in the area to be waxed was of the specified length. I applied the desired amount of wax to the area, letting it cool for the allotted amount of time. So far, so good. I just had to grip the edge of the wax and pull in a fast upward motion in the opposite direction of the hair growth. It was just like pulling off a Band-Aid. I could do that. No problem.
Big problem.
There was no handle to this wax. It was just a layer of sticky mud, hardened onto my body like superglue. Try as I may, I couldn’t find any spot that I could pry up to use as a starting point to begin the required “ripping out the hair” motion. That was what this all boiled down to, the ripping out of hair. Had I taken the time to think it through, that simple sentence would have stopped me cold and saved me from myself. Hindsight is always too late. So there I stood in my bathroom, completely naked, staring dumbly at my reflection in the mirror.
But, I went to college, I was a smart cookie, surely there was a simple solution for my dilemma. And then, I remembered seeing someone having their eyebrows waxed at a salon (I had never gotten mine waxed at this point) and the technician used a small linen cloth to tear the hair out with. That was it. I would have to use a cloth. So I began digging in drawers looking for anything that would work as a linen cloth wax handle. I ended up cutting a swatch from a spare bed sheet.
I pressed the credit card sized swatch of sheet against the hardened wax and tried to quickly pull as I was instructed, like pulling off a Band-Aid.
Well, the cloth pulled off easily, but not a single trace of wax was attached to it. I stared at my crotch in the mirror yet again and at the edge of despair, an idea came to me. The wax was cold and hard. I needed to add more so that the cloth would stick. It made perfect sense. Get the cloth to stick, fast upward pulling motion, like pulling off a Band-Aid, no more wax.
So, I dipped the spreader back into the sticky gunk and buttered the area like a piece of toast. My internal dialogue was something to the tune of, “press the little cloth to the wax, ok, so far so good. Let it cool for a second. Done. Now, pull in a fast upward motion against the hair growth, think Band-Aid, think Band-Aid.”
Think more hardened wax attached to my groin like plaster. Think panic.
I thought about calling the 800 number on the box but I decided that regardless of my predicament, that was too embarrassing. Instead, I started to pick at the wax like old finger nail polish, an equally futile practice that yields little if any real results.
I thought about running really hot water over my crotch to melt the wax, but the temperature required to melt the wax would have undoubtedly caused serious burns to an already tortured region, so I scratched that idea. Last resort? I pulled my Lady Gillette off the side of the tub and started shaving. Not an easy job, I promise you. The Lady Gillette razor was never meant to shave hardened wax off the skin, just hair. But, after thirty odd minutes, and six blade changes, the majority of the wax was gone. Unfortunately, a good amount of wax residue remained like the gummy leftovers from a sticker that had accidentally gone through the wash on an article of clothing, and for over a week, every time I bent over I stuck to myself. And I wasn’t the only thing sticking to me. The insides of my clothes left a nice little lint trail behind. The blue lint from the insides of my jeans was particularly colorful.
I can honestly say, and I mean this as a stern warning to anyone who has ever cruised the feminine hygiene aisle at the grocery store and contemplated buying a home waxing kit, the worst possible mistake a woman can make is to attempt her own bikini wax without previous experience. I only wish someone had warned me about what thereafter would forever be known as, “the bikini wax disaster.”
Until next time...
Erica
Mr. Miyagi was full of shit. The wax does NOT come right off…not even with a little elbow grease.
Anyone who knows me even a little would probably agree that “graceful” is one adjective that does not apply to me. My husband has repeatedly said that I am the most accident prone person he has ever known. I might tend to agree. Even the little tasks carry a risk of danger when it involves me. Even the simplest grooming tasks. Nothing life threatening…usually. Still, I think I’m the only person I’ve ever met who has ever stepped on a hot curling iron. It fit perfectly into the curl of my toes. It’s amazing how hot actually feels cold at first, until the brain registers what’s happening. And blistering burns are interesting to treat when they are on the soft fleshy underside of your toes. I don’t recommend it.
I wouldn’t say I was ever against the grooming rituals, per se. I willingly risk the inevitable catastrophe with a smile nearly every day. And there is nothing more dangerous than taking a razorblade into a wet shower.
I’ve been shaving my legs since Junior High, and despite the tediousness of the whole regimen, I imagine I’ll be doing it well into old age. But, shaving the bikini area has never been my favorite. First of all, it involves a fair degree of yoga-like positions to reach everywhere, and then, as I said, it’s fraught with peril. So sure, I had often considered the alternative methods of hair removal for this area of my body. All it took was one spur of the moment decision in the grocery store, and the rest as they say, is history.
It was a typical Saturday night at my house, back in the time that I refer to as “between husbands” and by that I mean I was left to my own devices. Bored out of my mind. The kids were in bed, and the house was quiet. I had showered and brushed my teeth, wrapped up in nothing but a towel, and on this particular fateful evening, I was readying myself for my very first bikini wax. In hindsight I realize where my tragic mistake occurred. I had never as much as waxed my car at that point in my life, let alone my bikini area. Yet, here I was, heating the thick, melted peanut buttery substance to a near boil in order to smear it over the tender skin of my groin area.
Hindsight is a valuable tool that would only be valuable if it was foresight, which it is not. And so, I smeared. In my own defense, I read the directions twice, and followed them to the letter. My skin was clean, and the hair in the area to be waxed was of the specified length. I applied the desired amount of wax to the area, letting it cool for the allotted amount of time. So far, so good. I just had to grip the edge of the wax and pull in a fast upward motion in the opposite direction of the hair growth. It was just like pulling off a Band-Aid. I could do that. No problem.
Big problem.
There was no handle to this wax. It was just a layer of sticky mud, hardened onto my body like superglue. Try as I may, I couldn’t find any spot that I could pry up to use as a starting point to begin the required “ripping out the hair” motion. That was what this all boiled down to, the ripping out of hair. Had I taken the time to think it through, that simple sentence would have stopped me cold and saved me from myself. Hindsight is always too late. So there I stood in my bathroom, completely naked, staring dumbly at my reflection in the mirror.
But, I went to college, I was a smart cookie, surely there was a simple solution for my dilemma. And then, I remembered seeing someone having their eyebrows waxed at a salon (I had never gotten mine waxed at this point) and the technician used a small linen cloth to tear the hair out with. That was it. I would have to use a cloth. So I began digging in drawers looking for anything that would work as a linen cloth wax handle. I ended up cutting a swatch from a spare bed sheet.
I pressed the credit card sized swatch of sheet against the hardened wax and tried to quickly pull as I was instructed, like pulling off a Band-Aid.
Well, the cloth pulled off easily, but not a single trace of wax was attached to it. I stared at my crotch in the mirror yet again and at the edge of despair, an idea came to me. The wax was cold and hard. I needed to add more so that the cloth would stick. It made perfect sense. Get the cloth to stick, fast upward pulling motion, like pulling off a Band-Aid, no more wax.
So, I dipped the spreader back into the sticky gunk and buttered the area like a piece of toast. My internal dialogue was something to the tune of, “press the little cloth to the wax, ok, so far so good. Let it cool for a second. Done. Now, pull in a fast upward motion against the hair growth, think Band-Aid, think Band-Aid.”
Think more hardened wax attached to my groin like plaster. Think panic.
I thought about calling the 800 number on the box but I decided that regardless of my predicament, that was too embarrassing. Instead, I started to pick at the wax like old finger nail polish, an equally futile practice that yields little if any real results.
I thought about running really hot water over my crotch to melt the wax, but the temperature required to melt the wax would have undoubtedly caused serious burns to an already tortured region, so I scratched that idea. Last resort? I pulled my Lady Gillette off the side of the tub and started shaving. Not an easy job, I promise you. The Lady Gillette razor was never meant to shave hardened wax off the skin, just hair. But, after thirty odd minutes, and six blade changes, the majority of the wax was gone. Unfortunately, a good amount of wax residue remained like the gummy leftovers from a sticker that had accidentally gone through the wash on an article of clothing, and for over a week, every time I bent over I stuck to myself. And I wasn’t the only thing sticking to me. The insides of my clothes left a nice little lint trail behind. The blue lint from the insides of my jeans was particularly colorful.
I can honestly say, and I mean this as a stern warning to anyone who has ever cruised the feminine hygiene aisle at the grocery store and contemplated buying a home waxing kit, the worst possible mistake a woman can make is to attempt her own bikini wax without previous experience. I only wish someone had warned me about what thereafter would forever be known as, “the bikini wax disaster.”
Until next time...
Erica
the virgin post
my first blog...
I have had many firsts in my years on this planet...my first tooth, my first cavity (I'm mentally preparing myself for my first crown) and now my first blog! I know you're probably wondering what other firsts I may have had, but I will save those for another time.
On to my blog...
My father told me once (a zillion years ago it seems) that writers write. Everyday. Even if only just a little. Well, I definitely consider myself a writer. I've finished more than one book (now I just need an agent to help me get published) but my day job lies in the bloody trenches of the banking industry. I may have exagerrated slightly, it's not really that bad, but I did get a wicked bad papercut today, and there may have been a few drops of blood spilled. I slipped off target a little...blog...I decided that if writers write and no one reads it, did it really happen? So I'm writing...and hopefully you're reading...and hopefully you'll like it enough to read it again...and again...and I'll keep coming back to write more. But for now? It's just this first post...
I have had many firsts in my years on this planet...my first tooth, my first cavity (I'm mentally preparing myself for my first crown) and now my first blog! I know you're probably wondering what other firsts I may have had, but I will save those for another time.
On to my blog...
My father told me once (a zillion years ago it seems) that writers write. Everyday. Even if only just a little. Well, I definitely consider myself a writer. I've finished more than one book (now I just need an agent to help me get published) but my day job lies in the bloody trenches of the banking industry. I may have exagerrated slightly, it's not really that bad, but I did get a wicked bad papercut today, and there may have been a few drops of blood spilled. I slipped off target a little...blog...I decided that if writers write and no one reads it, did it really happen? So I'm writing...and hopefully you're reading...and hopefully you'll like it enough to read it again...and again...and I'll keep coming back to write more. But for now? It's just this first post...
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