Boring Quest for Veggies

Every time I'm away from Colorado, I go through culture shock of one sort or another. Other places don't have lovely paths to walk on, people will drink ucky beers, and you can look through an entire menu without finding a vegetarian-friendly meal. I thought about this during today's breakfast at a greasy-spoon. I tend to have vegetarian leanings and after days of constant meat, I wanted a little change. (And yes, Constant Meat would be a good band name.)

I was so bold as to walk to the local greasy-spoon and waded through pages of meaty breakfast offerings. I ordered something like the "Meaty-Meat-Meat Omlet with a side of Meat or Meat" and had them hold the meat. I received a slightly raised eyebrow in return.

I was thinking about how Boulder has multiple vegetarian-only restuarants. And how popular it is to have non-fatal food allergies in Boulder. And how bringing food to parties is a great big drama. And how I once (while a more anal veggie) went to a meaty wedding and only ate carrots and cake.

Again, I've either had not enough or far too much coffee today to be interesting. This, like all neon pink fashions, shall pass.

Moral of today's story: seriously, two lattes really should be enough.

An Erinku:
classic rock
saggy plant
shop-a second
Reno home.

It Could Be Worse

While I am fond of many things, I most enjoy it when people say things they didn't think through. A while ago, a circle of us were complaining about various things like having to work, like having a broken-car, like coming up with money for a plane ticket home, when my roomate-at-the-time said, "Oh, I know! You know what really sucks? All my parent's houses are on the beach."

During the silence that followed while we were wrapping our brains around this complaint, she continued, "Well, you know it DOES suck. Becuase sometimes instead of Hawaii or California, I really want to go skiing in the mountains. Or maybe I want to go to a beach that's not always the same temperature." And that pretty much killed that conversation.

I think about things like and am very pleased when such phrases come my way. Another favorite is the girl who, during a discussion of poverty, said, "Oh, I know ALL about poverty. My maid told me about it." Fantastic!

Alas, I've been feeling ucky today and presents have sapped the last of my creativity. But I suppose it could be worse. I mean, it would totally suck to have only have houses on the beach. Because...you might...get tired of sand and warmth? Hmm.

**And, in an odd moment of directly addressing the audience, I've finished my "Monotone Christmas" album. It's monontous and if you have a hole in your life where a monotone song or two should be, let me know...I've got lots of copies. Ad over.**

Moral of today's (a.k.a. random fact): as bad as I hurt today from working out, tomorrow will be worse and way whinier.

An Erinku:
socks
promising to glow
fade quickly
into dark

Unfortunate Acquaintance

Each morning as I stumble though my routine, I'm also going as fast as I can to get to the bus on time. Every morning, I'm running late. And every single day I pass the same guy on the street as he walks in the other direction.

One day, one of us said "Hi." We're now at the point where he says something clever about the weather every day. Actually, he usually says something painfully cliche about the weather like, "Cold enough for you?" And since I'm completely stupid in the mornings, I say "Haha! Hi!" It makes me feel dirty. Especially since I had to take off my iPod to be polite. There's no way he is as cool as what I was listening to.

And so, every day I play with the idea of running either much earlier or much later so that I miss the awkward walk-by. And every day, I manage to squeak out the door at the last minute and see him a block away from home. Such is the danger of the suburb. I use short sentences when I'm tired.

An Erinku:
pile of music
so tall
so much practicing
undone

Homeward Bound

In my little suburb, there is a program named "Call & Ride." It helps fill in gaps in the local bus service. They pick you up in their little van and take you somewhere local...like your home or to the bus station. While I rarely use it, it's very nice in theory and is absolutely the most inefficient program in the western hemisphere.

Today, since I had no need to get home in a reasonable amount of time and since it's always an adventure, I rode the Call & Ride van home. If I walk home from the bus station, it takes about 25 minutes. If I wait at the station, I can transfer to a bus and be home in 15 minutes. So. After sitting in the van for 20 minutes, we finally left the station.

One of the amazing illogical things the van does is it drops people off in the order they got on, not by location. So. You ride from one end of the suburb to the other and back to the other side again. We passed the Hobbit Hole three times before I could exit. We also passed the bus station four times and went to the exact same apartment complex twice. I got home an hour later. It hurts my brain every time I use the Call & Ride van and there are people who use it every day who I assume are completely insane.

The best part of tonight's ride was the lady who got on just before I did. She started off cranky because the driver didn't want to let us on. (He pointed out it was cold outside and when he opened the doors, it made the van cold. She pointed out it was cold outside and she'd like to ride the damn van.) She was the one who asked 15 minutes into our wait, "Are you planning on going any time soon?"

I think it was her first time on because she asked him to turn down the music (the drivers always blast easy-listening as they struggle to hear your dirctions on how to get home). And as we passed and re-passed various familiar landmarks her head-shaking-in-disbelief became bigger and bigger. When her turn came up, she kept yelling over some maudlin version of "O Holy Night" that "REALLY, JUST LET ME OUT HERE. PLEASE. I CAN WALK. STOP. HERE WILL BE FINE!" Sadly, the driver didn't hear her and she was dropped off in a seething mass at her front door. Times like these are my secret love.

An Erinku:
the crinkling
of cat food bag
of ripping
of spilling...dammit!

Uber Clumsy

I sometimes believe strongly in reincarnation. Today was one of those days. I thought about it briefly after I fell in my car. My thought process went something like, "Did I just fall in my car? Isn't that impossible? I obviously am new to the whole having limbs thing. I must be a reincarnated slug, amoeba, or seal."

If I had been asked yesterday if it was possible to fall in a car, I would have said no. Today, I am a wiser person. It is possible and I managed to end up with feet flailing in the air and much upper body stuck under the driver's seat. There wasn't even a good reason for falling, I was just reaching for my music stand across the car.

Of course, since I am the same person who cut my finger on a maxi pad, I really need to not be surprised when I damage myself in seemingly impossible ways. I just need to work more on delivery. As I was telling the whole "falling in the car" story to Chris, I was standing in the kitchen and managed--without moving my feet at all--to stumble on nothing and almost tip over. I'm totally new to feet.

An Erinku:
screaming pink
sock
rumpled on
floor

Stage Fright

It started off innocently, I was going to be a jaguar in the school play. I practiced my roar, I practiced jumping out at people, and I got laryngitis two days before the show. With stage lights blaring, my acting debut had me jumping out from behind construction-paper trees and squeakily roaring. It was supposed to be scary, but the audience laughed.

A few years later, stage lights blaring, I misspelled "dormancy." It turns out that it's a variation on dormant. It turns out, it only has one "o."

Many years later in grad school with stage lights blaring, I read a poem about the power of croissants to stop rampaging chipmunks. At the end, one person in the audience laughed. It was my roommate. It really was a funny poem.

And so, I find playing cello to be better. It's something to hide behind. I've not fared well on my own.

An Erinku:
kitties don't
respect
wrapped
presents

Heat Makes Me Stupid

I'm absolutely convinced my day job is setting out to reduce employee costs. While all companies do this, my day job has stepped up a level by having the heaters keep the temperature at roughly 95 degress all day. I suspect that as people wilt, melt, and generally go away, the University can hope everyone will use up their sick/vacation time and then!! People will not get paid when they go home hot! (Lately I'm very much a fan of misplaced exclaimation points. And periods.)

My wee office has a wee window, which I open all the way as soon as I arrive. By the end of the day of having freezing air combating the radiator, it's a balmy 80 degrees in my office.

Anyway, the absolute worst part of this is that the bathrooms are warm like sauna (big like bear). And while I seriously wouldn't mind a cold toilet seat by then, the heat just makes the bathrooms smell more...bathroomy. It's gross. So now I pee like a race horse (very fast as opposed to just on my way somewhere) and hold my breath. And I worry this is all part of the plan. By holding my breath, I could become dizzy, knock myself out, use up my sick/vacation days and then!!

Moral of today's story: hot bathrooms are a boring topic. Again, my moral is more of a fact.

An Erinku:
sock,
one missing
the other
under bed

Services For Hire

I was thinking this morning about "Adopt-A-Mom." In college I had one. She worked for the school and would often have a few students come over for real food, a chance to pet her dogs and cats, and just be in a real house for a while with her and her family. It was a nice change from being in a dorm every day. Several of my friends had other Adopt-A-Mom types, too. This made me wonder if everyone has that experience in college.

It makes a certain amount of sense. You have students who are 600 miles or so away from home (me), who grew up with pets and real food and family members (again me), who are then living in a closet-shaped dorm room (me) with a stranger and are subsisting on bagels, lattes, and spaghetti (me). It doesn't take much to impress a young college student like that. Mashed potatoes will certainly do it.

Anyway, it was a lovely thing and I visited her often thoughout college. When I left, she had taken several new freshmen under her wing, so I assume the cycle is still going, though her own daughters are probably in college by now. Thank you, Mary!

An Erinku:
crumb trail
from scone
to coffee pot
to tummy

Lap Kitties and License Plates

Now that's getting cooler in the Hobbit Hole, Dylan has decided that he is, in fact, a lap kitty. This makes for an interesting time because I have a cello player's lap which is not conductive for lap kitties. So he continues to jump up, purr to pretend everything is all right, then get fed up, jump down and bite at my feet. We've been going through this all day. It's really a boring story and I'm getting little bite marks on my socks.

While driving into Boulder this morning, I realized I'm highly disturbed by personalized license plates. I was following something like "IAM23" and I figured out that it's mostly disturbing because the messages are never clever. Then something like "BUFFFAN90" drove by. That might be interesting at first glance, thinking that someone is fond of nudity, but alas. The Buffaloes are a football team. Not a clever license plate even if BuffFan 1-89 was already taken.

It's a problem in multiple states and I have no solution for this. Perhaps something honest like "$$WASTER" or "NTCR8TVE" would be nice. Maybe there are good personalized plates out there and I've just not seen them yet. I'll keep hoping.

Moral of today's story: string cheese really is squished together mozzerella. Really.

An Erinku:
you circle
parking lot
you won't get
a better spot.

Relief

I've finally taken to walking for my lunch break at the University. I'm a creature of habit and once things get changed around, it takes a while for any patterns I like to emerge. While walking today through heavily-housed neighborhoods (I miss my old path), I started to realize with horror that I hadn't laughed at someone for days. I routinely laugh with people and with people laughing at themselves, but to laugh at someone representing the whole of humanity is something that needs done almost daily.

I was especially worried because I know that humanity hasn't had an epiphany over the last week. Nor has it reached enlightenment. Humanity, collectively, is still as odd as ever and when days go by without my pointing and laughing at someone, it means I'm not paying attention. And that's upsetting.

I started walking faster, hoping for some sign of collective stupidity to make me feel better. And then, a motorcycle appeared. One of those very loud ones that try to impress you by bursting your earlobes. Or eardrums. Anyway, pearched atop was a heavily-leathered young man (it was very cold in Colorado today). And he was very slowly moving forward because his hands were occupied. One hand was plugging his ear against the noise of his bike and the other hand was holding...a cell phone.

Over the motorcycle's noise, his conversation went like this: WHAT?? WAIT, WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU. NO, WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHAT?? TALK LOUDER. WHAT??

With my faith in humanity completely restored, my walk returned to its normal pace and I enjoyed the beauty of the suburban landscape.

An Erinku:
free bus pass
lingering
too long on
desk

Fear of Contagion

Like a contagious plague, pregnancy is spreading through several circles of my friends. This is similar to the plague of engagements that spread a few years ago. It's creepy. There is talk of belly bands and loose shirts. There are stories of ucky diapers and the general displaying of boobs in action. It's creepy. I was thinking about this today as I was hanging out with various friends in various states of infection. I didn't share any glasses with them, washed my hands frequently, and made sure not to touch my hands to my face.

I really have nothing more to say about it. It's creepy.

What else is creepy is alarms. I thought about this today, too. Car alarms, burgler alarms, alarm clocks, smoke alarms, and onward. We are indeed constantly alerted to many different things. I visited a house once upon a time in a gated community (speaking of creepy). The people had multiple burgler alarms and car alarms. I remember thinking, "Seriously? Like a burgler is going to navigate through this hellish display of human conformity of a housing development and seek out your Toyota and flat screen t.v. to steal? Seriously?" It was a community surrounded by a huge fence for god's sake. I think people would notice a t.v. sailing over the fence and the video cameras would catch a suspicious driver leaving in your car. Of all the things to be afraid of, I pick catching pregnancy way over getting robbed in a gated community.

Moral of today's story: you don't have to like pink milk. I do. It's strawberry-flavored goodness on a cold, dark autumn evening.

An Erinku:
squirrel, you
dart, stop, scamper
on the road
just move already.

It's Heavy!

After visiting the local watering hole for my regular Thursday night socializing, I started ranting about the dumbest thing in the world: names. More specifically, I know someone we'll call Bob, who met and married another person named Bob. They had sex at some point, had a child and named it...Bob. This is by far the stupidest thing I can fathom. It's awful from all perspectives! There are thousands of names you can call someone (some of those are even real names) and to...

Gah, the stupidity of it weighs me down.

An Erinku:
sneezing
powerful
equalizer of
non-silence

Pink Milk and Politics

Tonight I'm drinking pink milk. It's a holdover from childhood when I wasn't very impressed with chocolate milk (or any type of chocolate, really). I still love pink milk with an absurd passion. It got me through my junior year in college--though milk was scarce at times because my roommate was/is terribly fond of dairy.

While drinking pink milk, I was thinking that I'm glad the election is over. I've got a wide variety of folks I hang out with and having them bickering politics over their beers sucks. This sort of beer-fueled debating would be obsolete if everyone just drank pink milk and became Independants.

After years of bouncing politically (great band name) from third-party to third-party, I finally became an Independant. I'm always amused by the assumptions made about third-party people. Really, if Libertarians are just like Republicans and the Green Party folk are really Democrats, don't you think they would, I don't know, register as those main parties? I've been Libertarian and in the Green Party and never felt moved to join in a big party. And I firmly believe that Independent means you need to do your research. It doesn't mean I'm undecided. Too bad the phonebots these past few weeks didn't agree. Assumptions. Hmm.

As I've had to sit through a great many rants these past few weeks, I'm thinking an evening home (after multiple rehearsals) with my pink milk is enough social contribution from me. Chris pointed out that I continuously get into situations where I'm the "shunned outsider" (another great band name). Being an independent is just another step on that road. I suppose drinking pink milk could be, too. Now where's that accordian...

An Erinku:
frozen
toe-tips
radiate cold
through sock

Waiting for my cookie pick-me-up

Today at work, I dressed as "The Princess the Papparazzi Forgot." Almost all of my workplace took today off. Apparently Halloween is a University holiday for many. And so. I only had to explain the costume once...to someone who wasn't meaning to listen to me. They just liked my tiara. What they didn't know is that my tiara comes out several times each year (like on my birthday). Which means that I, again, didn't really dress up for a costume event.

And now small people dressed in various attire are stampeding the Hobbit Hole because we're giving out Snickers (I only buy candy that expresses contempt). I've had a boring day. My apathy has carried over to my dinner (two cookies and toast...not the healthiest of dinners the last two days) and into my party preparations for this evening. I'm hoping the cookie sugar-rush hits soon.

This evening's Halloween party is a musical one hosted by a pianist and I'm to bring my cello with. I have no idea if my cello should be dressed up or not. Maybe I'll put a sock on top in a jaunty fashion and call it good. Man, I'm boring today.

An Erinku:
little juice
little cheese
bowl of rice
fridge inventory

Lazy Saturday

As I've got a boring Saturday morning (with cartoons on in the background), I filled out a little question sheet.

1) Can you cook? Yes, three things only: cookies, breakfasts, and the occasional dinner item.

2) What was your dream growing up? To be a librarian.

3) What talent do you wish you had? Cutting in a straight line.

4)Favorite vegetable? Potatoes. Then tomatoes, broccoli, and if I'm really in the mood: brussel sprouts. Yum.

5)What was the last book you read? Through a Glass Darkly. Very long and kinda boring.

6)What zodiac sign are you? Aries

7)Any Tattoos and/or Piercings? No tatoos yet. Piercings, yes: ears, nose, belly button.

8)Worst Habit? not scheduling free time then getting overly pissy that I always have things to do.

9)What is your favorite sport? To watch: lacrosse. Men hitting each other with sticks while dressed up like Spongebob Squarepants. What's not to like?
To play: skeeball. I suck at it but I'm a determined player who is willing to practice.

10)Negative or Optimistic attitude? Optimistic unless I'm cranky.

11)What would you do if you were stuck in an elevator ? As long as it's not plummeting downward, probably hang out until rescued.

12)Do you have any pets? Dylan the cat and two fish: Fuck-em and Bubbles.

13)What if I showed up at your house unexpectedly? I'd give you the two-second tour (I still live in a garage) and pull out the air mattress (garages don't have multiple bedrooms).

14)Do you think clowns are cute or scary? Hmm. I never really thought about clowns before. They're like juniper bushes: they show up in your yard sometimes, some people really hate them, and they smell like gin.

15)If you could change one thing about how you look, what would it be? My manly shoulders. I look like a football player.

16)Bottle or Draft? Draft.

17)If you won £10,000 pounds today, what would you do with it? I'm bad at converting money. I think that's like $20,000 in U.S. dollars. I'd pay off student loans and go on a trip somewhere. Like Iceland.

18)What's your favorite place to hang at? I prefer to hang out. At the Mountain Sun brewery in Boulder.

19)Do you believe in ghosts? I believe that the residue of those you love stick around as long as you need them. Which is ghost-like I suppose.

20)Favorite thing to do in your spare time? practice cello, hike, write, and nap.

21)Do you swear a lot? Fuck, yeah!

22)Biggest pet peeve? Stupidity.

23)In one word, how would you describe yourself? Judgemental. It's not always a bad thing.

24)Do you believe/appreciate romance? Sure.

25)If you could spend 12 hours with me and ask/do anything you like, what would it be? Tour your favorite places. It's always enlightening to see the favorite places of other people. It's also enlightening to see where they grew up, too. It's a great big "Ah Ha, I understand!" moment.

26)Do you believe in God? I'm agnostic. I'm not afraid of saying "I don't know." Turns out I could be considered agnostic in many areas of life. Especially when strangers ask me for directions.

27)Will you repost this? The cartoon in the background just preached the moral "Don't break promises." In the spirit of Saturday morning cartoon ethics, I refuse to promise that I'll post this and make you do something you may not like to do. I need coffee because I'm getting too abstract.

An Erinku:
water glass
slightly damp
balanced carefully
near edge

Watch My Language

I look like a tea-drinking, good-girl, librarian. I know this. But the truth is, I'm none of these things. I've even spent a good many years doing many bad things to off-set this unfortunate aura. I thought of this today as I bounced off the corner of my work desk. I think I said, "Oh, jeez." Which, for me, is the weakest curse word I can come up with.

As I am nowhere near G-rated in my language, this got me to thinking about self-censorship. I had a teacher in high school who was notorious for swearing in class (think hell and damn, not the big boys). One day, some mild-mannered person did something and said "Oh, Dang!" The teacher stopped class and said, "if you feel like saying DAMN, and are thinking DAMN but say dang, it really doesn't matter what word you use to replace it. You're still swearing."

I wasn't really thinking "Oh, jeez" when I whacked the desk. I was actually thinking, "fucking hell, not again!" However. My day job is a professional-type place where saying "Ohmygod" causes people to flinch (and I enjoy it enough that I watch expectantly every time the word comes out), and bad words, like shit, are whispered while hoping other people don't hear or aren't offended. This is my first job like this. I'm used to the profanity flying through the air like so many spaghetti monsters.

I find I'm terribly democratic in my language. All words are equal in my sight and have the exact same chance of being used throughout my day. Even words I can't pronounce. I almost got in a fight once in class because there was a word I wouldn't use (which still makes me blush a little, it refers to a body part that is not the elbow) and someone called me out on it. Seriously called me out, like going to punch me because I wouldn't use it. I finally spit it out, blushing a brilliant shade of neon and ended the fight. The teacher was amused. Going to grad school for writing and language will lead to these sorts of things sometimes.

And while words have power, I would rather harness them for evil (and making people flinch) instead of being terrified by using the word that exactly expresses how I feel: hungry.

An Erinku:
frosty
early morning
car windows
broken scraper

Mandatory Fun

Yesterday, I dressed mildly like a samurai. This was unintentional at first. As I had a day full of social events (several parties, a brunch, etc.), I decided that I could work the samurai look all day. For the second party I went to yesterday early afternoon, which was mandatory (which begs the question, how fun can a mandatory party be?), I accented the samurai look as much as I could.

These same hosts at a previous mandatory party commented on the previous outfit I wore, "Well, that's an interesting choice." Upon which, I instantly looked down to make sure I didn't have a boob or two showing or that my name tag hadn't fallen off. However, my various bits and parts were covered and labeled. As I'm the most modest prude north of the south pole, my bits and parts were, in fact, quite decently covered by my pretty, flowy tan dress. While I still can't figure out their comment from that day, my goal has now been focused to making these mandatory hosts comment on my fashion at every single mandatory opportunity. Hence, working the samurai look.

I have been saddened for a day now that I have no fake swords in my possession. It would have topped off my outfit and I could have totally passed every bit off as a Halloween costume (as opposed to real clothes that live in my closet). In spite of my lack of samurai sword, I did manage to get a "Hmmm" from the mandatory hosts and a few looks from party-goers. To the people I liked at the party, I explained that I was going to a costume party after this mandatory party (true) and that they shouldn't worry about me routinely dressing oddly (false).

I was disappointed by the "Hmm" and the hosts' exchanged looks. Perhaps they didn't have a large enough audience for their clever, snide comments. Or perhaps I've started a trend of dressing as a samurai on a lovely fall day and I'll see them next donning magic pants and fitted tops. Who knows?

At the costume party, instead of a sword, I brought what I thought was a yard stick. It was only two feet long.

An Erinku:
o shoulder
you move
a little bit
fabulous!

Smuggery

I've recently been around some serious musicians and I've noticed two things:
1. They don't smile. Ever.
2. If they play cello, they will drill a hole in the floor instead of using an end-pin anchor.

I've steered away from using my cello as a drill because people generally don't like little holes in the floor/stage. I feel as if I missed some great movement in the cello world which shuns anyone who doesn't destroy property to play music.
As for number one, I start to wonder how serious a musician I can be because I smile when people applaud for me. The most recent example was someone who, at best, smirked at the applause. It really more like disdain for the audience.

I know that my applause slowed down significantly when I saw his/her face. However, it did make me very happy that s/he sounded like a moron when s/he spoke. There were a lot of very short words interspersed with many ands, ums, and ahs. Perhaps playing well was the only place s/he could feel superior because public speaking will never be his/her strong point. Everyone has a flaw and mine is writing with smugness.

Moral of today's story: Since you asked me for a favor, please don't nag repeatedly to see if I've done it. I have and you're cut off.

An Erinku:
blanket
covering chair
harder than
expected

From the Diary of the Onion Lady

Real adventures from another point of view.
"Dear Diary,
Still smell like rancid, fried onions. Still practicing not washing my feet. Hooray, I can't smell myself, right? Today after stinking up Denver (or so I'm told), I decided to ride the express bus home.

I wanted to sit in the back because there's usually more room on the back bench, and yes, only four people were on it! Hooray, right? There was a cranky-looking girl in the middle with longish red hair and she could scoot over by the guy with the laptop. She seemed hesitant to share the bench and once the bus started, my boobs aiming right for her head convinced her to scoot it, right?

Love the express bus because you ride for like 20 miles without a stop. So cranky girl was smooshed up against laptop guy. She was covering her nose by pretending to rest her face on her fist, but I could tell. Onions and stinky feet, right Diary? But then she started rocking a bit from side to side, like she didn't want to be by laptop guy but I wasn't a better alternative. Get this, Diary, it turns out laptop guy was watching PORN on the bus!! Ha, ha cranky girl, right?!

I would occasionally adjust myself and wiggle around and send up a cloud of stink just for fun. Cranky girl closed her eyes and turned up her iPod REALLY LOUD. It sounded like modest mouse or something. She kept making noises like she wanted to say something, but then would clear her throat. I've never seen anyone dart up the bus aisle once the stop came. She tripped over three people, right?

Man, Diary, what a day! I think I'll have some more onion rings for dinner, right?"

An Erinku:
gasping
fresh air
loud music
LOVE the bus

Recycling Odds

Today, while being a good hippie girl and recycling, I lost in an encounter with a small pole/stick/metallic thing sticking out of the ground. Said object was maybe a foot tall and serves absolutely no purpose other than bashing into people's shins when they try to recycle. I made a spectactular stumble, my eyes watered, I bled for a long while, and after hours of keeping ice on it, it still hurts like hell.

I think that sort of negative enforcement can explain why the University doesn't recycle as much as it should. My favorite example was someone explaining how they like to reuse folders as a way of helping the environment, all while throwing the paper contents of the folders into the garbage can. Paper recycles. And foot tall metallic sticks serve no purpose.

Moral of today's story: this will be funny when the swelling goes down.

An Erinku (in gimpiness):
like rice grains, spilled
like free doughnuts, eaten
like found pen, lost
easily distracted

I AM...

Today, while walking across the University campus, I was thinking about how I'm clumsy. I then started noticing that someone had written "I AM..." across the brick path. Again and again all the way to my work. There is no deep, metaphoric reason I noticed. My first thought, keeping in line with my original thinking train, was "I AM CLUMSY." Then, I started filling in the blanks (or elipses to be specific) with other nouns and verbs. I'm a big fan of Mad Libs.

Some of the nouns and verbs were funny and since I routinely make myself laugh, I laughed...while walking alone down the sidewalk. I routinely have sidewalks to myself as people don't want to walk near the girl laughing aloud at nothing. Sadly, as I've had a whole day since this morning, the nouns and verbs wouldn't be funny out of context. They aren't funny now. What is funny is this morning I toasted an english muffin in a desparate attempt at breakfast. As my peanut butter was moldy (ucky), I tried to eat said english muffin plain. Plain english muffins are disgusting and I'm up way too late.

Moral of today's story: The smallest amount of change you can receive that uses all the common coins is $0.41. I miss having the cents symbol on my keyboard.

An Erinku:
the word for the
warm feeling from sitting in
someone else's
vacated seat

So There!

While New York may pride itself on doing everything better, it's not quite true. Most things are done better (love that public transportation is $2.00; Denver's at $4.00 and will be raising it again), but in two very important places, New York is lacking:

1. Coffee Shops; they don't exist in New York. You may run into one every 75 blocks or so, but the caramel lattes are seriously sad. I don't count Starbucks...though they do happen every 15 or so blocks. Which brings up the question, what exactly does power New Yorkers and that brings up number

2. New Yorkers are whimps. Yes, they have crime and yes, Central Park at night is reputed to be scary ("because the park is a forest and forests are scary at night"), but you get a wee little bit of misty rain and out come the umbrellas and galoshes.

I didn't even know galoshes existed any more, but there is a whole booming galosh business. While I did only live in Portland for a year or so, there I picked up on the unspoken super-soggy universal rule that only whimps use umbrellas. The only exception is when it's literally pouring buckets and even then, the annoyingness of dealing with an umbrella vs. getting a little wet is still a debate.

One day was spent wandering the misty, slightly damp streets looking for coffee. The whole time other people were smacking their umbrellas into each other, signs, buildings, cabs, sidewalks, and just about everything. It was wierd. Overall, though, New York does just about everything else better. It's unfortunate, really, because I can only be smug about coffee and rain: the two things the west coast does best.

An Erinku:
orange kitty
napping on
green suitcase
holding it at home

Cleaning Frenzy

When I go away for vacation, I have a majorly intensive cleaning session beforehand. This is especially dramatic if I'll be away for more than a week (as I will be this time around) because I'll get rid of food in the fridge...then notice that the little vegetable drawers need cleaning...and then the other shelves...etc. I will often come back to a spotless apartment with absolutely nothing to eat.

Vacation time is a very good time to be my neighbor. Tonight Joe stopped by to get final instructions on how to feed the spoiled Dylan, and tonight Joe left with a plate full of sushi. While I'm absolutely convinced I could live on sushi, I can only eat so much and since Chris makes some mean-good sushi, I get it fairly often. I still have half a block of cheese in my fridge. I should have given that to Joe, too. Sushi and cheese. Hmm.

Moral of today's story: this morning is occurred to me that it's completely awesome to live in a society where we need directions on our shampoo bottles.

An Erinku:
little, green planner
I lost it again
my empty nights
recorded there

Meep Meep!

I do agree it sucks that the local classical radio station changed numbers. I, too, can't get it in the Hobbit Hole any more because it's on something like 42.1 or some ridiculously low number. But. What does suck worse is that I now wake up to vocal jazz. And that seriously sucks.

What's extra bizarre is that I don't know what station it is. At night it seems to play a lot of other types of music. It's only between 6:30-7:15 a.m. every weekday that they play vocal jazz. And that only thing that sucks more than waking up to vocal jazz, is not waking up while it's playing. I'm worried about subliminal doo-bops. That was the case this morning. I've been extra perky today and now I'm feeling suspicious.

Moral of today's story: (brilliant last line!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9dZ2843W64
An Erinku:
sunset
starting
dinner
cooking

Lessons Learned

In the past two weeks, I realized just how crazy busy a school can be before classes start. I've worked many days in a row and have talked to all manner of strangers repeatedly. I slept very little and experienced, for the very first time, a neck cramp from stress. As today was much easier than it has been in a while, I wrote an email that turned into a mini-blog-like event. And as today was much easier than it has been in a while, I'm too lazy to be doubly creative in one day.

My email:
"Well hi there, Scooby!
That time works for me, BUT! I have a rehearsal in Denver beginning at 2:00 p.m. That means I'd need to leave Boulder at 12:45 so I could pick up my stuff and drive all the way out to the rehearsal and be on time. Would an abbreviated brunch work for you?

AW MAN, my Tootise Pop is grape flavor. BLech. I thought I grabbed some fun flavor and now I'm stuck with a grape tootsie pop. What a way to end the week. I'm not fond of grape-flavored products...except actual grapes. And wine. But not raisins. Hmm. I got it yesterday and didn't look til today, so I'm guessing no one will have any to trade. Let this be a lesson to you to ALWAYS LOOK AT YOUR TOOTSIE POP FLAVOR. I'll try and learn that lesson, too.

I think I'll try it because I was terribly excited about getting a tootsie pop. Mmmbleehhh, fake grape flavor. Now I'll have a purple tongue and teeth, too. That's never out of style. I guess it's not so bad. I was hoping for cherry, so I don't understand why exactly I reached for a blue wrapped pop. Let this be a lesson to you: CHERRY TOOTSIE POPS ARE NOT WRAPPED IN PURPLY-BLUE WRAPPERS.

I feel I've strayed off topic. Something about breakfast food and hot cocoa and a cartoon owl asking how many licks I'll take to get the center of my tootsie-filled life. Since I usually just rest them on my tongue and will randomly rotate said pop, I think it's about three.

OW, I have just suffered a tootsie-pop-related tongue injury. I think the random pop rotation will need to be rethought. It's wierd when the tootsie flavor starts to mingle in with the grape. I don't bite the candy itself until the end, but I do seem to gnaw on the stick throughout. I think this is the first time I've written a play-by-play tootsie pop devouring.

SUCCESS, I just bit through! Oh, I missed half, but the other half is very chewy. Munch, munch, munch. Someone just wandered into my office. I told her I was saddened by my ability to choose flavors. She agreed that grape wasn't her favorite, either. She thought they tasted like cough syrup and she apologized for interrupting my lollipop break. I like the idea of taking a lollipop break. It's a like a little kid version of a cigarette break. And now my break is done.

This is what happens when I have a real lunch for lunch and write to you at the end of a LONG work week. I just told my fellow hall-mates about the candy being given out at the front desk. One of my co-workers purposefully chose grape (!!) Right, have I ever mentioned that I think ADD is an STD? And on that note, I'm going to deal with the several emails that arrived while I was chronicalling my break. OK Bye!!"

An Erinku:
lamp
green for day
then
yellow for night

Technological Advances in Underwear

Today, I was on a mission to buy a slip. Slips are fabulous little scraps of material that keep your shocking undies from glowing through your clothes. These things did exist about 12 years ago. At that point, I was working as a fashion gal at the local K-Mart and we sold them.

I searched for many whiles today and, while unable to find a slip, I did find many things that promised to smoothe my ass, trim my thighs, uplift my ass, smoosh my tummy, and onward. I even found an "invisible bra" which was, at that time, visible on the hanger. I assumed it either: 1. had a smart microchip homing device that would have it quickly return to the factory, and when you couldn't find it, you'd console yourself with the fact that it was invisible and what else did you expect? or 2. turn invisible once it reached body temperature.

Invisible bras aside, this has been a sad step back in underwear technology. I just wanted a slip. It could be they've fallen out of fashion in the last dozen years. It could be they didn't sell well; after all, I only need one every decade or so. And while I sit here and ponder this sad state of affairs, I remember that once again I left my beer in the freezer. Argh!!

An Erinku:
in cooler weather
in morning
grumpy
like bear.

Gracefulness

There is a crosswalk at the University with the warning, "Cars do not stop for pedestrians." As I've almost been smacked by drivers there a few times, I suspect it's not an ironic sign. As I was carefully crossing yesterday, I noticed that there are signs facing the drivers. I slowed down, looked at the back of the sign, and wondered if perhaps it said something like "Don't bother stopping for pedestrians; they've been warned." I then walked into a garbage can.

My one grandma would always over-compensate when driving if she was looking off to one side. It was always kind of fun to get her to look "over there, hey, look grandma!" because we'd start to swerve towards the lawn on the other side of the street. Apparently this condition is genetic.

After successfully navigating around the large, bright-red garbage can, I noticed there were students around who were watching my tango attempt. They may have been laughing, but as I wear my little iPod to avoid knowing such things for certain, they might not have been laughing specifically at the girl who walked in a semi-straight line at the garbage can.

To cap it off, I started doing a crossword on the bus home. I suck amazingly at these things and, perhaps to save my ego, I can read (not answer, just read) three clues before falling into a deep sleep. I woke up with a face-plant to the seat in front of me. There were other riders around who were, perhaps, laughing at me. Again, my little iPod helped convince me that just about anything else would be funnier than a fully sleeping person launching themselves at the cushioned back of another seat when the bus comes to an abrupt halt. I've become much more confident since I got my iPod.

Moral of today's story: Fraggle Rock is as cool as I remember.

An Erinku:
pink today
though girly,
not
heavy metal.

It's Blue With a Black Case and Yellow Note!

The Democratic National Convention has come to town. There's festive bunting on the tracks where my light rail used to run last week. There's all manner of t-shirt hawkers outside my new, temporary bus stop and on every bit of open inch on the way to the other light rail. There are many flocks of cops standing about.

Yet none of this helps the fact that I left my cell phone on the light rail on Monday. I've been pretty pissed at myself and at the world at large. For I am a bit anal about such things and there is a yellow note TAPED TO MY CELL PHONE that says "If lost, please call Erin at..." I am smart enough not to have put my cell phone number at the end of that sentence. Yet, no one calls.

In addition to the fun of hissing at people trying to hand me flyers (for and against the various things going on in Denver), I notice that many people together always smell like poo. I don't know why this is, but it's a fact. I suspect there is a certain number of people you need to collect together in one place for the poo factor to kick in. I'm thinking it's maybe about 217 people. Roughly.

All I know is that Denver smells like poo and in spite of all the flocks of cops around, my little cell phone is all alone in the world, riding the rails if you will. How in the hell am I going to tell time now?

An Erinku:
red leaf
ah, so soon
gold leaf
too

Thunderstorm

There is a thunderstorm right now. While I was talking away to Chris about things that are scary, it occurred to me that I mildly worry about peeing during a thunderstorm. This completely stems from the idea that you shouldn't shower/bath during a thunderstorm since water can conduct lightning pretty well. I took it to the next step by realizing that when you pee, there is a little stream attaching you to the puddle of water in the toilet. If lightning were to stike at that instant, it would totally suck.

This is a very mild, back of the mind, worry. I wasn't even aware of it until today. Chris very helpfully pointed out that salty water is more conductive of electricity than non-salty water. And as the thunderstorm approaches, I need to turn off the computer since I once lost one to lightning blowing it out.

An Erinku:
blue chair
portable
more than
it should.

Alone in a Pub

I was thinking today, while alone at the local pub waiting for folks to join me (which they never did), about looks. I spent the first many years of my life thinking I was a) short and b) ugly. As I'm not a leggy, tan, voluptuous blond, both "a" and "b" became my norm. Then I got to college and thought that "Wow, Catholics are short!" which, over time, turned into "Wow, a lot of girls are short!" and is now, "Wow, everyone is short!" I also have got to a point where I don't snort derisively when someone claims I look pretty. Though I do still snort in surprise.

Lately, my hair has been a topic. It's odd getting compliments on how long it is, because it's purely a testament to how lazy I am. I don't have to do anything to make it grow. And as my hair has broken multiple elastic bands and brush bristles this week while still being annoyingly in my face, I'm thinking it's time to chop it off.

These are the things I think of by myself in a pub. Also, I was thinking that I see the world through an 80's filter. As in, when I see grown-ups and teenagers riding tiny little bikes, I don't think "Wow, cool." I automatically think "Wow, they stole some little kid's bike. What a jerk." And I still think kick scooters are super dorky; I don't care what the 90's (nineties) and 00's (naughties) thought. Yeah, me and my 80's filter are rocking out today.

Moral of today's story: Locks of Love needs a minimum of 10 inches of hair to donate. I'm at nine and a half. Hmm.

An Erinku:
candle
crispy around
edges
"Warning: flammable!"

Fashion Sense

Yeah, I'm lazy. This is me while camping:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3J_9dyLi2Y

An Erinku:
fresh
feathered mouse
from the depths
of hiddendom

Things That Aren't

As I was prancing around and warning Chris not to drink that orange juice (it's way old), I was talking aloud like I do. Mostly what I was saying had to do with juice he was going to put in a drink for me. My exact hollering was, "Don't you use that on me! Don't you dare use that on me!" which, to the untrained ear, might sound way more exciting than an orange juice debate. Once the new juice was made, the decision was about the other half of the drink: did I want to go spicy or ganster? Confused, I said, "Spankster." This is a good name for a drink. It does not exist.

Another thing that does not exist is a fabulous bra line that I just invented today. It's called "Ü ber Bü b" (the spacing is odd because it's slightly foreign). It's pronounced Oober Boob, but since it's German, it's exotic. The slogan is "Ü ber Bü b, you know you need one."

Hmm. Spanksters aren't very good, but as I'm drinking the James Bond Spankster (stuff poured but not stirred together), I could be wrong.

An Erinku:
cow slippers
concern the
cat
greatly

More of a Musing

During my second week at the University, I sat in a meeting where super-higher-ups talked about how they routinely searched on-line for the University's name, read the blogs that came up and got cranky at those who wrote anything bad (employees included). And so, I've only referred to my new job as the University. Because if you search for College/University near Denver, many will come up and while I'm amazingly hyperactive at times, I do only work at one.

Magically, I've only had a good time there. Though I did see some guy peeing on a truck...but that does seem to be a big city thing. And while taking classes in half a wee cottage at Naropa was good in many ways, it is nice to have a campus bigger than a driveway. Now if only they served better hot beverages than Naropa, but that does seem to be a Colorado problem.

As I was walking the wee brick-paved path near some brick buildings, I remember why I do so love going to school. And I do so love that I'll be able to take classes after I've worked for a while. Today's story is boring and I find it strangely comforting that despite my upper-ups searches, my little story will not be on their radars.

Moral: I have received a large christmas stocking. It's full. It's August.

An Erinku:
to ignore
my planner
suddenly
free evenings

Cathartic Letter of a Cranky Erin

Dear so-and-so,
It recently came to my attention that I'm still pretty pissed about what you did back in June. And though I've said "yes, it IS because of that" you seem surprised. I'm still boycotting your parties, your events, your meeting times and I disregard your emails and ignore your phone calls. Having you keep saying how much you like me really doesn't make it better. I hope you are enjoying what you took and know that every time you ask for help with it, I respect you less and less. In the end, everyone gets what they really want. Hopefully, this will fill the space where I used to be. When a dream becomes a burden, it's time to drop that rock. When a friend becomes conniving, it's time for the shun. After two months of being upset, with no apology or even awareness that I'm serious, I have better things to do than you. -a justifiably pissy Erin

An Erinku:
blue berry
sweet and plump
tasty breakfast
snack

Friday Mornings

From yesterday:
This morning, Colorado smelled like vaguely salty mold. This morning, Colorado smelled like Oregon. I was thinking this as I made my way to the bus station. I'd had a pleasant morning, only tripping on Dylan twice, only spilling a bit of coffee grounds, and leaving roughly on time. All thoughts of salty mold were banished as I was instantly accosted by two campaigners at the bus station. My "NO" hand popped up to make some space for me and I mentally noted the politician's name because I was going to…complain to the bus station people!

My entire ride to the University was filled with mental rehearsals of how I'd present this. For me, it doesn't matter which party (if any) people belong to. It does matter if I'm quickly surrounded by wildly talking strangers thrusting things at me at 6:54-in-the-damn-morning. I wonder what this politician's stance on speed is, as his campaigners seemed pretty hopped up on something.

Still thinking about this while on the light rail, an ass suddenly appeared in front of my face. Some lady, being led ass-first, was aiming for the seat next to me that I'd absent-mindedly set my little plant on. Ass Lady was going to squish my plant! I scooped it up barely in time, managing to miss her cheeks, and completely lost my thought process about politicians. As she was iPodding-it, she said nothing. I then started noticing how everyone on the train was backing ass-first past other passengers to get a seat. I know we sit ass-first, but I'm talking about standing in an aisle and leading with the butt past strangers. It's weird.

I started wondering what that said about people in Denver and wondering if it said anything about Americans. It's as if our collective ass is bravely heading out into the world, seeking out soft and squishy landing places. It could also say something about who wins in an election with a constituency of ass-leaders. This, luckily, returned me to previous thoughts of politicians harassing me while I stood in line for a bus. As I left the train, I glared at Ass Lady for almost squishing my plant and, as she was still wearing headphones, I mouthed nonsense words at her in an annoyed manner.

An Erinku:
shards of
toilet paper
litter of a
kitty

I can wear big-kid pants, too.

As I get older, there are things I know I shouldn't do but still do anyway. I jumped on the bed yesterday. It was very fun, but as I live in a Hobbit Hole, I had to jump in a tilted fashion so as not to bash my head on the ceiling.

Today's example involved putting a beer in the freezer. I suspect there are faster ways of cooling a beer but this one works well, as long as I remember to pull it out. After a few hours (spent watching a thunderstorm, talking to the cat, and cleaning up while Chris is out of town), I had an epiphany and yelled "OH SHIT!!" Luckily, my neighbors seem to have adjusted to the fact that the Hobbit Hole is routinely boisterously profane.

I have a mostly solid beer now with a tiny liquid center. It could be a good marketing gimick. Except for the part where you get just a wee little bit of beer. It's very cold and it kinda sucks. Maybe I'll tempt fate and shower during a thunderstorm next.

An Erinku:
whack
shin on chair
gasping/swearing
pain

Coffee and Art

Today, I bought a portable french press mug. You put coffee grounds, sugar, milk-like substance and hot water in, push the little plunger and: fresh coffee! The level of my excitement is unbecomingly high because I've been suffering the fate of terrible morning coffee for the past while. Granted, I'm not the one making it, but drinking bad coffee does not a grinning Erin make. It's even worse than Naropa chai, and that's saying something.

I've already been to an art museum today and very much enjoyed the Impressionist exhibit (though I've seen some of those paintings at another exhibit in Portland so long ago). I lusted strongly after a book called "30,000 Years of Art" that I think is pretty close to 30,000 pages long and full of art. I've also seen a snippet of my favorite cartoon, had my favorite iced latte, and woke up on my own without Dylan landing on my head or hollering for breakfast. So far it's been a good day, though I am sucking at Wii Bomberman. I probably need to get my act together and start working on projects.

An Erinku:
dolma
quickly eaten
longly
put together

Misconceptions

I will often notice when people have a skewed perception of me. Sometimes, they are convinced my name is Anne. Sometimes they are absolutely sure of my taste in movies. Sometimes they think I like tea. I am none of these things (I don't even know my own taste in movies). But I really don't care enough to set people straight because they are usually just acquaintences and it ultimately doesn't matter.

Tonight, someone was absolutely convinced that I am a religious type. This usually catches my attention in a more cranky way. Due to my various back-story life things, I had to decide at very young age my stance on religion. In my opinion, no one should have to decide before eight where they stand. This is a whole different rant of mine because I was not given that luxury. Anyway, I knew my stance before I had the name for it. And, no, agnostics are not atheists and are not devil worshippers, no matter what I heard in elementary, junior and high schools. Again, a whole different rant.

I do tend to get overly pissy about this. Though, since I don't talk about it much, it may not be obvious to the casual observer. I'm on my own little adventure and other people are on theirs. Anyway, this person was assuming things and it skewed the whole conversation and evening. As she is on her little adventure, I didn't know how to correct her without drama. And so she continued. And now I rant. And I still don't like tea.

Moral of today's story: when in doubt, whine or meow REALLY LOUD!!

An Erinku:
broken
glasses
splinters
in history

Saturday and Sunday

Erin's Adventure Club (sole permanent member: me) had an outing on Saturday after a tiresome morning routine. The Adventue involved Turkish Coffee (yum), smoking mango tobacco through a hookah (yum, again), Belgium beer (yum) and some french fries (yum). It was a very multi-cultural afternoon.

It's nice being the only permanent member of a club. I can hold meetings as I whim and I can cancel if I want to sleep in. There are satellite members that will join in on the random Adventure. They've been clamoring for shirts and, I think, hard hats were requested. Next week will likely be Water World, which is not only a terrible movie starring Kevin Costner (who, due to a long story, is one of my nemeses) but is also a kick-ass water park. Again, I'll have a tiresome morning routine to get through but lounging about in an inner-tube afterwards will be just squeaky.

On a completly unrelated tangent, I played a concert yesterday with several other cellists. Afterwards, some dad-type came up and said "Wow, you girls sure are pretty!" ...Because the only reason I play cello is so I can look nice on stage. I twirled away abruptly and let someone nicer than me talk to the stalker.

It's odd because this is the second group of all-female cellists I've played with and we get complimented not on our playing, but on our looks. This shit is precisely why I dressed in saggy baggy clothes while growing up, and through college, and up until about two months ago. I don't know if it's sexism (perhaps) or just the thought of ladies holding up an instrument with their thighs, but I'm not listening any more. It's like complimenting a construction worker on the nice doorknob instead of the whole building in the background. At least THIS guy didn't say our names sounded like Call Girl names. Fabulous!

An Erinku:
ant
leading ant
and ant:
Dylan's food

Miss Interpretation

There is a guy that I know and I would swear he is gay. Completely, utterly, no doubt in my mind. Then someone mentioned he was married. To a lady. I was completely astounded.

Now I'm feeling a little unsure; a little insecure. In addition to thousands of cues I've misinterpretted, he only hangs out with guys. Then there's his attitudes and beliefs, his style, his habits, his favorite drinks and the fact he loves and attends all Pride events in a three-state radius; he is so wrecking my expectations! Mostly, it's because he sends me emails written in Arial font. I'm a font snob and perhaps I read too much into it. Hmm.

Chris countered with the idea that perhaps this guy is bi. Or somewhere else along the sexual spectrum. Now I don't trust my impressions; I wonder how many other friends I've mis-interpreted? In the end, it doesn't matter. I just really, really hate being wrong.

I've repeatedly said I prefer to think of people like mushrooms: adventuring/reproducing by spores alone. In fact, I like to say that none of my friends have sex. I'm not wierd about this, really. People don't like to think of their parents as having sex (ew!)...I just extend this same process to all my friends. Congratulations, you are a mushroom! Though it's equally ucky to think that I've walked though a spore trail during a windy afternoon.

Moral of today's story: I can't believe someone in the choir stole my stapler. Who steals a stapler?

An Erinku:
spiral vase
empty,
clean
who's is it?

Fun in the Kitchen

It's hot. It's so hot. And so I make cookies. My mom talks about a cooking show called "the Galloping Gourmet" during which, in the old days, the t.v. chef would say things like, "A little wine for the chicken *splash, splash* and a little wine for me." By the end of each episode, he was good and sloshed and cooking. I've never seen the show, but I will quote such things while cooking, even if I have no wine in the house. I've caught things on fire pretty often, unintentionally, so it's good to have an excuse...any excuse.

At my new jobby-job we've been having Friday afternoon snackies, which is similar to my old jobby-job where we had Friday morning breakfast. I like the idea of sharing/free food on Fridays. I'm making cookies and it's hot and it's making me stupid. Dylan is being cranky for kitty because it's hot and he's furry. It's still hot and it's almost 11:00 at night. Where was global warming when I was freezing my ass off in January?? Urg, I'm cranky and I smell the burning of a cookie.

An Erinku:
evil pleasure
seeing an ex
is more stupid
than I thought.

Damaged Goods-A Healthy Rant

Today, I realized that I am damaged goods. It started off with a phone line and emails being re-directed to me. Then checking some mail. Then people wandering in to see me with questions I couldn't answer. I was on the verge of a Grade-A freak-out, completely out of proportion with my situation. I figured out that four years of working with no guidance and fourteen+ bosses for a chaotic choir has finally taken it's toll on me (especially considering that I quit a month go and am somehow still expected to be working there). Like spring-wound toy that is turned too far, that's me. I'm into the half-promising metaphors today.

In general, I've allowed myself to be taken advantage of. It's pretty obvious that I overly love my little planner and that I don't have much in it beyond a month away. So if someone were more organized than me in a long-term way, they can book me up without my realizing it for a while.

For instance, in group Q. I recently agreed to play as one of many in a tiny holiday show, which I've done for a few years now. Fine. Then the date was shuffled around. I changed my schedule. Then the rehearsal dates. Fine. Then more rehearsals were added. Fine. Then the times were changed, more players added, and even more rehearsals added in December (a busy musical month in general). And now I'm receiving commands about how I can't go away for Thanksgiving because it's two weeks before the show. Not two days, not a week, but two weeks. I'm revoking my ability to play because I'm tired of playing for others when I have a backlog of things I WANT TO DO.

I also dislike how Q. will corner me in front of a large group of fellow performers and ask in a-way-not-to-be-denied about adding extra rehearsals, like on Friday night? Or how about tomorrow and Thursday, then Friday? It's been like this for a few years now and I'm tired of it. No, I'm not available early Wednesday evening and again on Friday and just once more on Sunday because the other people didn't practice. I did and it's not my problem.

I like the idea that when I quit something (say a choir job or Q.'s group) it should stay quit. Sadly, such things are like zombies in my life and I'm getting resentful. Perhaps I'll get cranky enough that my plexiglass layer of politeness will dissolve and it will be just like I mean it when I say "I Quit!"

An Erinku (in crankiness):
open bag
cheesey-poofs
glaring at the clock
time for rehearsal

Wanderings and Ramblings

I am continuously updating my little list of life goals. I've done many of them, but I've yet to make someone spit orange juice through their nose while reading/listening to something I've written/said. I've seen water. I've seen milk. I've even seen margarita, but I've not seen orange juice. It's a humble goal and one I'd like to achieve in the next while.

Tonight, I played pool badly, got my ass beat hardcore at air hockey twice, and saw my friend get to level 12 on the arcade game Galaga. Next week, we are supposed to meet for bottomless wine at a local Boulder bar (very dangerous). I even told the story where I hissed at a grocery store employee for suggesting I go to the self-checkout lane (I hate those so much, words can't express). The highlight tonight was watching some loudly drunk chick-stranger ask other strangers "What the fuck are you doing?" repeatedly. I expected a fight, but people seemed willing to talk with her. It's amazing the answers you get when you ask an honest question.

An Erinku:
fingernail polish
on knee
salvaging (I hope)
another pair

A Girl Walks Into A Bar...

Today I was supposed to meet some friends in a bar. I walked in and, being the first there, confidently told the waiter, "There'll be six or seven of us and we'll sit right here." With this type of opening, you already know the ending. Looks of annoyance from other parties wanting my table that slowly turn into looks of pity as the girl is still alone after an hour. It was embarrassing enough that I gulped my beer and gave up. I've gone out by myself before (pretty routinely) but I will always sit at a proportionately correct table, not at a table for seven.

I think I must have gotten the wrong day down for this bar-meet. Either that, or seven separate people thought it'd be funny to stand me up. I slunk home, worried that everyone who saw me, pitied me. I'll find this funny tomorrow.

An Erinku:
goo-stained
scissors
like cutting through
taffy, daily.

By the way...

Oh, yeah, I saw another peeing weenie today at the University. That's FOUR in ten days. Perhaps the universe is amused that I changed jobs so quickly. Perhaps gravity is increasing and some people can't wait to get to a bathroom. Perhaps coincidences are too overrated.

Another Erinku (as I'm leaving):
empty glass
of orange juice
past
sweet, sweet memory

Beep, Beep!

I've always known that rush hour brings out very basal human qualities. Mostly selfishness. I see people holding up four lanes of traffic by running a red light because they didn't want to wait for the next cycle. I see people flinging fingers about. Today alone, I got honked at by TWO separate cars for putting my car in reverse. Not reversing, hauling ass out of the parking spot and narrowly missing an on-coming car. Just for putting the gear in reverse. I hadn't even moved yet and there was pre-emptive beeping.

As I can be cranky while driving, I deliberately make sure to do good deeds during rush hour. I'll let a long-suffering car turn in front of me (maybe two) since there is never a break in the traffic. I'll give ample room to motorcyclists, bicyclists and the often-stupid pedestrian (I walk a lot, so I can say this). I'll even let a bus in front of me, though it is painful to stop at every block. There is no point to this story; I was just cranky I got beeped at twice for trying to leave my parking spot.

Moral of today's story: there is a sport, called SlamBall, that is basketball with trampolines, with fights like hockey, and padding like lacrosse. I'm content.

An Erinku:
O Raspberry
infused gin (with o.j.)
you should taste
better than you do

Fun & Games

Dylan has two new kitty games that he adores. I'm assuming both have exclamation points on the end, because he is very excited to play them when he can.

The first is called "Dive!" He starts on the headboard of the bed and looks at which human is sleeping on their back. He gauges the distance, wiggles his bottom, dives, and lands with all four kitty feet prettily placed on someone's stomach. He then sticks his face in yours and meows "Good morning! Wasn't that fun?" (a rough translation). As he only plays this when I'm asleep, I don't like this game. He's surprising dense for his size and then you factor in momentum and whatnot and I worry about internal organ bruising.

His second new game is called "Climb!!" I hate this game very much. As I live in a wee garage (called the Hobbit Hole), there is a hanging tapestry to define the "bedroom" from the first room you enter. The tapestry is held up with a multitude of little push-pins and Dylan has taken to climbing the tapestry. Again he is surprising dense for his size and push-pins weren't designed to hold up the weight of a mountaineering kitty. With this game I wake up to push-pins raining down on my sleeping form. I will also wake up to a kitty slipping down and landing on my head, or a kitty bringing down books, piles of mail, a pen cup as he falls/descends from his lofty heights.

With these two games, I've lately been sleeping much more lightly than usual. There is something unrestful about the idea of a push-pin falling into your eye right before a kitty hurls himself at either your head or stomach.

An Erinku:
cup I cracked
when washing
I'm sorry
good-bye

Boring on a Saturday

There comes a time in every girl's life where she is:
1) boring on a Saturday.
2) surrounded by peeing weenies for the third time in a week (sigh).
3) trying to break in new shoes slowly.
4) out of ice cream sandwiches.

Unfortunately, these four things have converged on me in the last day. I'm mostly sad about the ice cream, especially as I've apparently built up a tolerance to public peeing this past week.

Trying not to be boring, I recorded cello for the heavy metal band this morning and got to wear my new nose ring. As it's big and metallic, my nose ring is the most heavy metal thing about me...something about the universe being an ironic place. The songs are going to be posted this evening on their Myspace page: www.myspace.com/witherwithoutmus Whatever sounds like a real cello is me. Whatever sounds like a synthesizer cello is not me: it's a synthesizer (I'll be recording on those soon). What sounds like a synthesizer violin is also not me. Also not me are: drums, singing, guitar, piano, etc. I am boring myself and need to go on a walk.

An Erinku (of the haiku variety, except wrong):
doing laundry
though not my turn
sneaky, dryer buzzer
gives me away

Downside of Pasta

I am of no use in an emergency. Once upon a time, I stood in shock and horror as my friend had seizures on a sidewalk. She came to with a nurse (I think) and some holy man speaking in tongues (or something) standing over her. I was still a few steps ahead, with my mouth open, and not knowing what just happened. Her only reproach was a bit of a sore head and mildly wishing I had caught her before she whacked her head on the sidewalk.

When people fall, I first think "AMATEUR" (as I'm a pro) and then I'm completely helpless if they actually hurt themselves. The lady who fell and broke her ankle took it far better than I did. I needed a co-worker to say, "Hey Erin, that phone right there? Maybe you can use it to call 911. Now might be good!" I think I just need to process such things before I can act. Or perhaps an overly sarcastic co-worker.

Much like a job interview, I do try to warn friends of my fault (my one and only fault) so that if we are, say, in the direct line of an out-of-control submarine cruising down the street, I'm just going to stare. And maybe forget to close my mouth. And perhaps idly wonder, "Now, what in the hell?" On Sunday, Kristen explained to me that "deer in the headlights" is not just a clever phrase. I always figured deer were dumb; it turns out they just suck in emergencies.

Moral of today's story: eating ravioli disjoints my thinking process.

An Erinku:
life jackets
sexy orange
better than
water wings.

My Wednesday Morning

Today, I had the worst possible morning available on the planet. I woke up at my usual far-too-early-to-be-up time and did my usual routine. It was when I started wrestling with nylons that things went down a dark, dreary path. As I'm clumsy at the best of times, putting nylons on has never been a fun adventure for me. Today, I managed to poke my finger right through the knee without even trying.

Muttering under my breath about sucky morning routines, I managed to get another pair on without incident. I stood up and stepped right in a magically apprearing accidental bit of kitty poo. I proceded to utter maledictions at a louder volume. Limping about so as not to spread poo through the house, I cleaned up the mess and put on nylons number 3. I didn't poke a hole in them and I dodged around Dylan, glaring at him and muttering. Dylan, sensing that my discontent would lead to no kitty treat, starting dashing around the garage at super-sonic speed.

At this point, I realized Chris had turned the clock backwards while I was in the shower. The maledictions reached a crescendo as I now was late and couldn't drink coffee. Dylan decided to swipe at my nylons as he darted past. Getting even louder in my discontent, Chris mumbled from under a blanket pile that Dylan and I were being pretty loud this morning. I sweetly mentioned that the feeling of moist poo through nylons isn't how I meant to start my day.

Dylan again swiped at nylons number 3 as he zoomed past. I threatened him with the oft-repeated "I'm taking you back to the orphange!" as I thumped out the door. I barely managed to catch my bus (running in an awkward fashion as my subconscious checked for poo piles) and bleated contentedly at the local coffee shop in Denver. Mornings like this deserve a bit of beer for dinner.

An Erinku:
yellow notepad
dropping pages
desk littered with
choir to-dos.

Under Attack

I'm not a big fan of conspiracies. I really think that other people, species, and government agencies have better things to do with their time. Though, having government employees working on conspiracies instead of, say, driver's licenses would explain the massive lines I have to wait in sometimes.

So I go through life assuming such conspiracies don't exist. Until...I see my second peeing weenie in one week. In three days, even. This one was mildly sheltered in one direction behind a public phone, in the middle of the outdoor bus station. The guy looked like a normal person, not drunk, pretty clean, wearing shorts on a hot day, weenie sticking out watering a cement wall, blond, t-shirt, etc.

There is also the theory that everything happens for a reason. Whenever I say that, it's sarcastic. The entire cosmos was set in motion for the sole purpose of irony. I don't know what I should be "learning" from various strange peeing weenies, but I will honestly lie and say I've learned it. Though perhaps these things happen in sets of three and I will have to wait until Friday to figure out the lesson. Gah!

An Erinku:
pillowcase, blue
folded,
not ironed.
I am not my grandma.

Camping Trip

I've been camping for the past four days or so as a way to decompress before starting my new job. I hiked, I sunburned, I was held captive in my tent by hail. I read, I wrote, I saw a peeing weeny, and I stopped and stared at the peeing weeny.

I seriously thought it was raining again this morning, but no. Some guy decided the tree BY MY TENT was a fabulous place to water. Considering he (and the other 4,000 hikers that day-trip up there) was getting ready to start a multi-mile hike up a mountain, I thought it was pretty damn lazy of him not to cross the street and use the bathroom...which is on the way to fucking trailhead. Instead, I heard the dulcent tones of liquid falling, climbed out of my tent (as it was sunny), saw a peeing weeny, and horrifiedly dashed back in my tent. Commando whistled as he walked away.

I like to think that, as a woman of drinking age, I do have many weeny options available to me. Say I want to see a strange-to-me peeing weeny, I could ask around amongst friends and neighbors, I could just hang around the Hill in Boulder when the students are drunk, I could even go into a bar, walk up to some guy and say in a sultry voice, "You know what is sexy? A man peeing. Wanna show me?" None of these are as shocking as waking to random pee. All I can say is that it's good I had a few days of decompression before this happened. You think I'm mean to little old ladies in bars? Wait 'til you see me rub a hiker's nose down in his own urine.

An Erinku:
planner
lost?
argh!!!
argh!!!

Questions

At my day job (two days left and counting) we will sometimes play this game called "Would You Rather?" It starts off innocently enough, "Would you rather shake hands with someone who has just peed all over their hands (keeping in mind that urine is sterile) or with someone who just washed their hands in our sink (keeping in mind our water supply is the nasty lake across the road that adjoins the garbage dump)?" It usually continues on until it ends with everyone making gaggy faces and running away from the question.

This game is fun and is slowly spreading to the rest of my non-work life. It's really distubing to find out what people will or will not do given a particular choice. I am currently disappointed in myself because, given the choice, I chose shit-beer over opening a bottle of wine. This is because I plan to be camping after my last hurrah at the day job (two days left and counting) and I want to drink wine while camping, not shit-beer. Delayed gratification and what-not.

Now I sit and ponder what I would rather do with the rest of my evening...imagined-ping-pong or singing a Bee Gee song, complete with falsetto.

Moral of today's story: I'm out of bread. I'm out of eggs. I need to get groceries or a hen that cooks.

An Erinku:
Algernon (mouse)
you run, dammit!
Algernon (panther)
look in charge

Sleep-Free Dreams

This morning, I bored myself awake. I dreamt all night long that I had been in a reality t.v. show, but I couldn't remember which one. In real life, I woke up a few times, said "I've never been on a reality t.v. show," went back to sleep, and proceeded to continue wondering which show I'd been on. This is not the first time I've bored myself awake. It's especially sad as I rarely remember my dreams. If they are all like this, it's no wonder I'm overly fond of coffee.

Moral of today's story: meeping back at kitties makes them cranky.

An Erinku:
O
PBR
Why in my house?
Why?

Olfactory

Hippie houses all smell the same. There is the smell of incense over the smell of pot over the smell of dog. It's a comforting smell. There's also lots of carpets, the couch is pretty scruffy (so it's o.k. to sit how you'd like) and there's always lots of munchy food. Having looked, dressed and acted like a hippie for years, I've been to a slew of hippie houses and know my way around the random assortment of mis-matched furniture.

So it was that I was very saddened to recently visit a stinky hippie house to visit a friend of a friend. There was a smell of tepid garlic hummus over the smell of unwashed hippie feet over the smell of rancid sauerkraut. It was bad enough that I hurridly made some lame excuse about hating to mouth-breathe in public, drove away quickly, with my car windows down, and made gaggy faces all the way home.

That house probably had the "hippie toilet" sign in the bathroom, too. That little sign that says "If it's yellow, let it mellow; if it's brown, flush it down." I hate that sign.

Moral of today's story: I can't play fetch if you won't bring me your feathered mouse.

An Erinku:
phone books
in pile
slanting away
from wall

This took less than 27 minutes to write

I'm easily disturbed by things. Like the fact that a guy in the neighborhood was digging a hole in his front yard in the dark. He was momentarily illuminated by my headlights and continued to dig industriously as I drove by.

I am disturbed by the fact that humanity, collectively, has a very small bladder. This is proven any time you have an event that is longer than 27 minutes.

I am disturbed by people who want me to wear bright red lipstick. My coloring is not fake: I'm a pale red-head-esque type who sometimes can't pull off make-up and/or red.

I'm disturbed by the fact I suck at dressing in the dark. I practice this constantly and still manage to not get it right. I completely misunderstood my attire today as a consequence of dark dressing.

But nothing is more disturbing that writing a check for $1 to eat a cookie at a string quartet concert. I need more quarters in my life.

An Erinku (in passing):
buzzer sounds
plate is set
I WANT
DINNER!

Changing

Yesterday, while changing from bar-b-que clothes to concert dress in the car, I realized that I probably re-attire in the car far more often than the average person. With the exception of other musicians, theatre folk (who like to get naked everywhere, anytime), and high fashion people who have to change in between red carpet shots. I do it so often, I even have a whole changing routine that is completely G-Rated.

It's times like this when I start thinking of how my choice of occupations oddly impacts my daily life. There are probably people in the world who've never stood on a stage. Who've never had to think about car trunk size when offered a ride somewhere. Who don't lug around a book bag full of concert attire. Who don't know the fine balance needed to carry sheet music, cello, and music stand at the same time while walking in heels down a dirt road. Who've never worried about getting dust on their concert dress from walking down a dirt road. Who've never even walked down a dirt road. At least the port-o-potties were nice.

An Erinku:
song
so stuck
in my head
what, what?

Spring Cleaning

Yesterday, I quit my day job. I'll be starting a new job at the University in two short weeks (hooray!). That brings my total drinks from the "Job-Loss/Job-Gain Tankard" to THREE in the last ten days. I went for four years without drinking from said Tankard and I must say, I've missed it.

In a very short amount of time, I'll go from working 60ish hours each week down to a modest 37.5 hours. I'll be working like a normal person. And if I have been a force to be reckoned with these past four years, I'm going to be uber-scary in the near future. I enjoy very much the word uber and plan to use it frequently in my upcoming uber free time. I just hope it means what I think it means. I'm uber, thanks for asking.

I'm drinking a second-class type of coffee drink this morning and it's making me uber sad. I really wanted just a shot of espresso, but was talked into drip coffee. Now that Chris has wandered off, I'm going to shoot espresso.

Moral of today's story: the Job-Loss/Job-Gain Tankard is large. It's used rarely. It's colorful ugly.

An Erinku:
forgotten
feathered mouse
nestled in
blanket folds

Slow Moving

Today on my drive to the day job, it took me several miles before I realized I was following an upholstery truck. This is normal for me in the morning. I've had days where it took me a few hours to realize I forgot to comb my hair after showering, so a few miles is pretty average.

What finally caught my attention wasn't that fact that I was going slow following an upholstery truck. It wasn't the garish yellow font on the side and back end of the truck. It wasn't the fact that there was cardboard taped where the back window should be. It was the fact that they had an emergency 24-hour phone number to call. My first thought of today was "Well, who has an upholstery emergency and what exactly is an upholstery emergency? What fabriced surface can't wait until 9-5 on a weekday?"

Once I got to work, I made a pot of coffee for myself (since everyone else is taking a break from caffeine) and slowly pondered the ramifications of upholstery emergencies. Can one use this as an excuse to stay home from work? What if a neighbor dog peed on your carpet in the wee-wee hours (ha!) before a big party, is this the type of emergency they have in mind? Or if a mountain lion broke in and decided to sharpen his claws on your couch?

As I drank more coffee and the day progressed, I realized that I have no idea what constitutes an upholstery emergency. I realized that this is right up there with valet parking at the mall (huh?). These are things that don't make sense to me no matter how much coffee/pondering I do. I do know that dinner is ready and that "Kids in the Hall" is ready to watch.

An Erinku:
that
burned smell
dinner
at last

Head-Bobbing

There is nothing worse than being embarrassed about the music blasting from your car. Tonight, while driving home with the windows down, I hurriedly switched over to a station playing Nirvana before I reached the stoplight. Sometimes I really have heavy metal playing, sometimes classic rock. It's always the classical music I'm self-conscious about.

It's especially odd considering that a full-on symphony is about ten times louder than any given rock band. You've got timpani, trombones, basses and tubas and about 100 other people making loud noise vs. your regular guitar, bass and drum-based band. Yet there is something not quite hip with playing a symphony full-blast as you drive next to someone listening to hip-hop. I work on caring less what other people think; I'm not very far in the process.

Moral of today's story: even when pouty, cats shouldn't sit on a mixing board.

An Erinku!
empty cardboard box
source
of presents
of surprise

Hashbrowns As Crime

When I become a nocturnal creature, besides the fact I never have to worry about sunburns, I start to think about how there is a lot of time-ism. It's a form of -ism that is not acknowledged by current laws or most lifestyles. For instance, if I were to start hammering at 12:30 a.m., people would get uber-pissed and call the cops. However, it's just fine if someone wants to hammer at 8:00 a.m. though it wakes me up.

Or, say, I'm driving home from my local IHOP at 3:30 this morning and a cop pulls us over after following us for a while. The excuse for pulling over always varies (had your brights on, turned into the wrong traffic lane, didn't come to a complete stop two miles ago before the light turned green), is always fake, and is a form of discrimination for anyone who is up late at night.

People don't get pulled over for these things at 3:30 in the afternoon. I suppose they are looking for drunk drivers, but as people get drunk at all times of day, to make me a suspect just because I really wanted hashbrowns at 3:00 in the morning is just a waste of time. It would be one thing if I was drunk and driving down the sidewalk, but I'm just a hashbrown type of girl and sometimes need potatoes fast.

There is also the time-ism that people eat breakfast from 5:00-10:00ish, lunch from 11:00-2:00ish and dinner from 4:00-7:00ish. Not true! It's sad if you have an unmet pancake need at 8:00 p.m. and try to find them out in the world. I'm sure I have many more examples, but it's 7:00 now and I need lunch.

Moral of today's story: pop-up dinosaur books are cool.

An Erinku:
red
plastic glass
plastic
not glass

A Pointless Exercise in Writing

I have heard the arguments, read the articles, and still remain unconvinced that "Night Owls" are a product of having electricity. The argument is that everyone would be morning people, except that having lights on later makes some people get on a later schedule.

I do know that I instantly revert to my late night habits every single weekend, every holiday, every vacation, and every other whatnot. I go through the workweek in a fake, early morning phase. What I do believe, passionately, is that chipper morning people are annoying and should be slapped in their perky little faces unless I've had my coffee.

In fact, I think it's pretty safe to outlaw all verbal interactions until about 11:00 a.m. or so. I lived with a girl for a semester who sang an "I'm awake" song every day at 6:30 in the morning. I would make outraged groaning noises that she would sing over. Squeaky was a great friend, just a very opposite roommate. That's the last time I lived with a morning person. Dylan wants to play fetch, he's bored with my story (he's a morning kitty).

Moral of today's story: Dylan only sleeps on blankets that accentuate his orange fur.

An Erinku:
green,
feathered mouse
I didn't mean
to be Dylan-centric

Girl in the City

As I seem to routinely live long-term in small towns, I have a way of making wrong turns. Mostly when walking in big towns. In the past year alone, I've ending up walking in the bad part of town in a few cities in the U.S. as well as abroad. Athens was pretty scary. As are Portland, Seattle, Denver and others. I always get out fine, but it can get pretty hairy there for a while.

Today, in Denver, I got the brilliant idea to walk (by day) to the studio/bar for tonight's party. I had a few hours to kill and wanted to know where I'd be going to meet everyone. I was humbly starting my walk on 14th Street and said bar was on 26th Street. 7,241 steps later (just around 3 1/2 miles), I was back where I started, dehydrated, freaked out and completely glad I didn't attempt that at night.

My coping strategy for scary neighborhoods is eyes down, ears closed and I'm nothing if not stubborn. I ignored several overly-agressive "HEY!" calls, one "HOLA!" call, people glaring at me as I walked by (I had hoped I was imagining it, but nope), people passed out on sidewalks, and plenty of sketchy-looking groups that fled every time a cop cruised by.

After much determination, I came to the place where 2625 should be. I found an abandoned 2513 right next to a broken-down 2537. Having been a pizza driver girl, I know that odd numbers stay on the same side of the street and even numbers stay on their own side. There was no 2625. I found a lot of buildings with bars on the windows, graffiti on everything, and a lot of shattered glass. This, of course, went well with my casual business clothes I wore to the all-day conference. Fabulous!

I turned around sharply and hauled ass back downtown (roughly, 14th-19th streets). I got terribly excited as I got close to 22nd because I saw a lady walking a stroller. On 20th I breathed a sigh as I couldn't see safety bars on windows and a guy in suit walked by. I marched right on down to the bus station, came home and freaked out quietly on my own. I will be driving to the studio tonight (once I get good directions). I will not get out and walk like some small town girl. I won't conserve gas by bussing it. And I will not pass out on a sidewalk.

An Erinku:
scary
plastic people
populate
desk

Tough Decisions

"Just how much will you need to drink in order to sing karaoke?"

I stared at the full pitcher of beer while "Ice, Ice, Baby" was sung in the background.

An Erinku:
bleeding
paper cut
on
invisible paper
7:39 PM

I Am That Girl

The other day, Chris brought to my attention that I've been super cranky for a while now. I usually do a stress rebound during the summer months and gear up for another fall. This summer hasn't been rebounding well.

In fact, before the cranky intervention, we were at a concert at a cigar bar. A cigar bar implies that there will be smoke. As I sat during intermission in a cigary-smelling comfy chair (yum) a cranky pants lady came over and lectured us like children about how the whole place was smelling like smoke. No one was smoking; it was a residual effect from, oh, being in a cigar bar.

When the show started back up, I came out of the lounge room and sat at the bar. The cranky lady kept glaring at me. I, being generally an amazingly whimpy person during confrontations, boldly glared right back at her. For a long time. Without blinking and having a slight frown. She eventually left. Did I mention she was probably around 70?

An intervention was due. I realized that Job 2 hasn't been pleasant for a good while now and that the constant state of crisis has taken a toll. I am no longer the passingly cranky girl who inwardly seethes when having to deal with obnoxious people. I'm the perma-cranky girl who stares down old ladies in the bar. Fabulous...just what I wated to be. After the intervention, I wrote a resignation letter for Job 2. Today, I mailed it. Wuf, what a week.

An Erinku:
bamboo
(not palm)
tan
(not blue)

Mini Rant: Answering Machines

In a world where you can text message your tablemate in a bar, I feel oddly pissy when people don't have answering machines. I am on the phone a good deal of the day for the day job and it's very mysterious when I call someone back and the phone just rings. And rings. And rings. And rings. Until I get tired of it and hang up.

As of 2008, answering machines have been around at least a good 20 years. I understand not getting voice mail (I've had many, many voice mails from my grandma saying "Erin, if you're there, pick up!!" no matter how often I explain how voice mail works). I understand not having a DVD player, a cell phone, a laptop, even a computer, but for dog's sakes get a damn answering machine and join the 1900's!

Moral of today's story: windshield wipers never work when they should.

An Erinku:
orange
the color
the fruit
color as food

Specifics

In grad school, I learned that the more specific you can be about things, the funnier it is. For instance, when Nine Inch Nail's "Closer" comes on the radio, I like to insert very specific animals into the chorus. Prairie Dog is pretty funny. As is Blowfish. As is Emu.

I was thinking about this on my drive home (...you like a HUMMINGBIRD!) as the song came on (...you like an ANTELOPE!). I got to thinking about the many neurotic traits, bad habits and wierd thought processes I have luckily inherited. I hope to get over them and maybe someday come up my own, completely unique neurotic traits (...you like an AARDVARK!).

I do have many odd habits that will probably stick around. Like driving barefoot. Like always stopping at roadside lemonade stands and paying $1.00 for crappy lemonade. (...you like a KILLER WHALE!) Like letting cars in front of me in a traffic jam. Like hating to pick up the mail, folding cold clothes and eating apple pie. Blech. (...you like a PENQUIN!) Like singing wrong words in songs.

All I know is that I'm very good at mishearing what people say. I just heard Chris ask "Fish fillets for dinner? Piranha?"

To which I, confusedly, replied, "Well, they eat people, so that would make me, vicariously, a....um, that word where you eat your own kind?"

Chris says "A Christian?" (mishearing me)

At the same time I say "A Zombie?"

To which we both stare at each other wondering how a dinner question so quickly turned into the Christian Zombie conversation. Turns out, he was offering me fish and a beer. Not even close to a Christian Zombie (which would be a great alcohol drink name). Turns out the word I was trying to remember was "cannibal" not "zombie." (...you like a MAMMOTH!)

An Erinku:
clang
clang
clang
went the beer bottle

Etymology is Worthy

I read. I read a LOT. I read things before I even realize I'm reading things. This is precisely why I really hate the whole trend of having words on people's butts. I'm already onto the right cheek before I've even realized I'm reading someone's butt. It's rude, really, to draw my eye from cheek to cheek unknowingly. And the words are never that interesting. I've seen "juicy" "sexy" and "Oklahoma." The last one was by far the most disturbing. Is Oklahoma really provocative enough to be an ass word?

If words are going to be flaunted on a bum, it'd be nice if the words were more interesting, like "Quagmire" "Etymology" or "Perverted." All of these words would make the reader stop and think for a minute. Especially the perverted ones. I ranted about this out loud to Kristen today as "Illinois" walked by.

And now, after hours chatting with Kristen under a umbrella, I'm worried my shoulders are a bit pinkish. This was the same situation a month or so ago that led to my sadly sunburned nose. It really is too bad I hang out with interesting people. Perhaps if I visited with boring people, I'd never get sun burned. I'd also never have a good time, though. Hmm.

Moral of today's story: I should decide when words are butt-worthy.

An Erinku:
too lazy
to change
calender
May to June

Mortification

In the past two weeks, I've had multiple fashion interventions. This weekend alone has contained several. I am to a point of amazement that anyone, ever, has consented to be seen in public with me. I am now in posession of one super sexy black dress (!!), various pants that actually fit, and some tight shirts that show off my exercise efforts from the past while. It has been completely mortifying.

Through it all, I have insisting on wearing my Birkenstocks. And adding little hippie touches to these outfits when I don't get caught. And running away from the totally hip salespeople offering help. Hmm. Vacations.

An Erinku:
dodging shoe
questions
sandals
as peace

No Wait...

I'm waiting for Chris to get home, to head to the airport to wait for a plane. I suspect people spend 1/3 of their lives waiting. If you add the 1/3 of your life you spend sleeping, that leaves just a little time left over to work, play, party and suntan.

I started a journal entry a few weeks ago called "An Entry of a Wait." It was the breakdown of an hour while I waited for the concert hall to be unlocked where I (and others) were performing there one afternoon. I was the first person to show up. At a mere 15 minutes before the concert started, the doors were unlocked and another musician showed up. We were a group of 60 musicians or so and many, many audience members arrived before the performers did. It was embarrassing. I got there an hour before the doors opened and wrote about things that happened in that awesome parking lot while I paced.

And now a mere 30 minutes before I need to check in at the airport (keeping in mind that the drive there takes 45 minutes), I'm going to try calling Chris again. I am anal about getting places on time, because I've missed flights before. Nothing like a vacation to create the need for a vacation.

Moral of today's story: tornadoes are scary. They come to Colorado sometimes and take out small towns. They tear up my friends' yards. Tornadoes are scary.

An Erinku:
sunlight
overly yellow
swirly clouds
in the north