Inner Pain

As I was driving home from my last rehearsal today, it occurred to me that I talk to my car a LOT. This is the older car and it seems to have self-esteem issues. I praise it for starting. I give it a pat on the wheel when it shifts from reverse to forward without incident (which is pretty rare). I thank it when we finally get to the speed limit (mind you, not a sarcastic thanks).

Tonight, I was urging it to savor the gas. Sip at it. Make it really last. It hurts me inside that it costs about $50 to fill up the car. I instantly think of how long I had to work to pay for that tank of gas (surprisingly less than I thought, but still far more than I want).

While talking to the car, I used all manner of analogies. I said to savor that gas like I savor my favorite lattes: drink freely from the first half but sip at that second half as long as you can. Savor that gas like the first shower in the morning: take your time to warm up, but save LOTS for everyone and everything else that will follow. To savor the gas like I savored that gift bottle of tequilla: enjoy the first inch, have someone (oh, like a Mandel) drink the whole bottle and grudgingly enjoy the last inch while wondering aloud where the rest went.

That last example wasn't such a good analogy. I wonder if the word "anal" really is in the word analogy or if I'm misspelling again tonight. The world is full on wonder-ful things...

An Erinku:
bitter
like lemon
like lime
like Erin

Soggy Sundays At Home

There are many things that make me sad. Today, the washer didn't spin out all the water on a load of laundry. This makes me sad. I've spread the drippy mass on the back deck in the hopes the sun will dry them enough to put in the dryer.

It makes me sad that the number of hot dogs vs. hot dog buns sold in packages never match up. It makes me sad that there are no local coffee shops in this particular suburb. It makes me sad that I live in a suburb.

It makes me sad when Dylan repeatedly drops his toy mice in the toilet before bringing them to me so we can play. This is not only saddening, it is also gross. When I won't play with toilet mice, it makes Dylan sad. Some Sundays are sadness spirals.

An Erinku:
oh, for a baked
potato
odes, songs, plays
have been writ.

A Buddhist Cat

My cat Dylan (who, when bad, I call Dyldo), has been jumping on the fridge lately. This is mildly justified as his stash of fresh, green, feathered mice lives on top of the fridge (secretly or so I thought). As he jumps, he knocks magnetic poetry on the floor. I've been picking up the pieces and putting together Dylan's poem. He is obviously a Naropa Writing Program student who, after dying, has reincarnated as my new cat. Here is his poem (so far):

And
road
were time
eternity

And now for my try. An Erinku (similar to a haiku, except for various fundamental differences):

while singing
(for c.d.)
I should not
sing

Good Old Days

When I was little, I adored art class. The crayons, the construction paper, Elmer's glue and, oh yeah, the markers. Those markers. The ones that kill brain cells and highify you. It's especially potent when 30 little scribblers are drawing in a closed classroom. People say pot is the "gateway drug." Wrong. It turns out it's markers (or possibly ice cream). And that would make teachers either dealers or stoners. I prefer to think of my second grade teacher as a stoner.

I'm thinking somewhere along the line, a parent got upset over the glassy-eyed stare of their little artist (and possibly offended by the Pink Floyd-like artwork that was produced) and complained to someone, somewhere. Now, instead of markers and art class, people use ritalin and whatnot. Markers are more fun.

Moral of today's story: I'm not creative during April and early May (four concerts and eight rehearsals to go in the next nine days).

An Erinku:
marker of
goodness
away
gone away

Will She? Won't She?

Why, yes, I believe I will! I just got done recording cello for a little movie! My back is sore (3 1/2 hours on a little seat) and my lips are parched. I've learned from various recording sessions that when I drink, my fingers get drunk. It's not pretty, nor tasty to the ears.

Pony (Chris) played too. He's now helping with the mix-down and as I needed a break, I played the "I'm a girl and don't know this stuff" card...which is a total lie. I took two years of recording studio classes and can find my way around mixing boards. So now it's me, Dylan and my little buddy Hornsby's hanging around the Hobbit Hole. My butt is sore, too. Little seats...

An Erinku:
And if
But what
So then
The end.

Extreme-ism

I swing between idealism and being practical. I tend to stay on the practical side of things, but having been there for a good four years or so, I find I'm heading in the other direction. In a way, idealism for me is a lot like spring cleaning. I wait until I can't bear it any more and then completely clean everything from cobweb to dust bunny. I've been told by several people that I'm a lot more interesting during my idealistic times as I make sweeping changes in most aspects of my life.

I was thinking about this during my evening walky today. I had an epiphany years ago that I've made every life decision based on fear. That was an upsetting observation. And while I walk around and have realizations, it doesn't mean I'm good at changing my habits. That's why I have walking epiphanies fairly routinely.

During my walk today, I realized that I am, again, being fear-based and in fact have been coerced into a situation I'm not happy with by someone who was actively using fear propaganda to make me submit. Grr. I'm also using big words and being abstract as a side effect of a glass of wine. Grr. I'm off to a concert tonight and as concerts are THE BEST places for me to meditate (it's bizarre and I can't help it) I'm hoping to have a more concrete plan of action for my upcoming swing. The dust bunnies have accumulated long enough.

An Erinku:
I'll never be
as short as my
shadow
at noon.

Expectations

A wee while ago (oh, about ten years now), I went to the movies. I went to see Meet Joe Black. I was expecting to see Mighty Joe Young. I didn't really want to see either. I spent the ENTIRE movie trying to figure out just how they were going to work a monkey into the plot line.

Was the monkey going to save Brad Pitt from being hit by a car? (By the way, that was the funniest moment in the movie…though I was the only one who laughed. It was just SO fake and I like seeing Brad Pitt get hit by cars apparently. Who knew?) Was the monkey going to show up at the party? Would that one guy stumble upon the monkey during a solitary, moody walk? No.

As the credits were getting ready to roll, I leaned over and asked my friend when the monkey was going to show up. The look she gave me made me repeat, ever so slowly, "When...will…the…monkey…show…up?" I sat there for several, long, tortuously boring hours only to see a whiny, weepy Brad Pitt. I've never forgiven him for not being a monkey.

An Erinku:
sunlight and
sprinkler
personal
rainbows

Something About Blue Men with Red Hats

Well, I do sometimes fill out those little questionaires that friends will email to you. Those little get-to-know-you type things. As I'm a lazy____ (noun), with a tired_____ (noun), (I love Mad Libs!) I'm just cutting and pasting my answers here. That way I won't have to worry about the various websites my little blog goes to visit...

**In April 2003**

How old were you?
A robust 25.

Where did you go to school?
Naropa University. I drank the inconsistent chai, I ate the hummus, I learned I'm not tragic enough.

Where did you work?
The den of evil. Also known at the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Shop. GAH!

Where did you live?
"The Normal House" in Lafayette with Chris, Kristin and Tom (and the kitties). It was an eeriely normal house with a fenced back yard and multiple levels. We created odd artwork to off-set the normalcy.

Where did you hang out?
Hmm. Dolan's with school folk, downtown Boulder with work folk, and that one Mexican restaurant with the killer margaritas in Lafayette...I forget the name, the margaritas are that good.

How was your hair style?
Very long and straight and mildly red.

Did you wear glasses?
No. Was I supposed to? You bet.

Who was your best friend?
Kristin & Kristen. I like everyone to have the same name. It makes it so much easier for me.

Who was your regular-person crush?
Huh? Is this like squishing your head?

What car did you drive?
My zippy, often broken, 1990 Ford Taurus. That thing is still going.

What was your worst fear?
Never leaving the quiet horror of working in a retail chocolate shop.

Had you smoked a cigarette yet?
But of course!

Had you been arrested?
Why, yes. Thanks for asking and reminding of that lovely day!

Had your heart broken?
Yes. Bono never calls, he never writes...

Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter?
Married.

**AND NOW in April 2008**

How old are you?
GAH, I'm 30.

Where do you work?
An herb shop by day and at the local choir by night.

Where do you live?
Dana's garage. She hates it when I say that. It's also known as the "Hobbit Hole."

Where do you hang out?
Niwot Tavern with orchestra folk, Mountain Sun with Kristen, Woody's (love that name!!) with the other Hobbits, downtown Boulder with day job people, Dark Horse (for some reason) with choir people.

What is your hairstyle?
Long, straight, mildly red.

Who are your best friends?
Here in Colorado: Kristen, Dana, Ducky.

Still talk to any of your old friends?
Why yes. With the magical power of the internet, I can keep in touch with old friends, buy airplane tickets and check the local weather. What a wonderful invention!

Who is your current interest?
Huh? Like love interest or more like worried fascination? Either way, I'm going to say Papa Smurf.

How many piercings do you have?
Let's count. One in each ear would count as two, yes? So then (2, 3, 4, 5). Hmm. I thought it would be more than five.

How many tattoos?
Sadly none. I've been thinking about one for years. I'm such a whimp when it comes to pain though...it took a while for the nose piercing bravery to come through.

What kind of car do you have?
Ha! Still the 1990 Ford Taurus. The new car is a fancy Lexus. Both cars were presents (thank you, moms!!)

What is your biggest fear?
Aside from skidding off an ice-packed road into a mountain stream near Boulder and dying because my power windows short out? Hmm. BLACK HOLES! I'm terribly nervous about them. No, seriously, it's been an obsession of mine for the past few years how galaxies spin wildly around them. AH!

Have you been arrested?
Still only that once. Thanks for asking!

Has your heart been broken?
Yes. Orlando Bloom never calls, he never writes...

It's Bad, M'Kay?

When I went to college, there was this class about how drinking alcohol is bad. And drugs are bad. And having sex is bad. The only thing I remember from it is that shy girls are the personality type that are most likely to become overly fond of alcohol. The reasoning behind this theory is that alcohol allows these girls to be more outspoken and then alcohol becomes a crutch in social situations. All I know is that my hands smell like fishy kitty treats. I wish Dylan liked other kitty treats.

I had a beer tonight and I do become much more talky after a beer or two (godforbid). I think about this sometimes when I'm hanging out with strangers with beer. I think about this after a beer when I'm spouting off about one of my topics (I have three). I think about this the day after a party and wonder if my talking offended anyone because it's rare to find someone else who can match my passionate opinions on onions in the Antarctic...or about Dylan's stinky little fish treats.

While I think these things, I do know that Dylan has other options and if he were a good kitty, I could get him to try other treats. I also wonder if I have beer-induced ADD. As in Tetris, all things are possible.

The moral of today's story: sex is not bad.

An Erinku:
melted wax
drippings
frozen at
room temperature

Contagions

I have no sympathy for hypochondriacs. I used to find them mildly sad, then a bit worrisome and now I just want to slap them to show what physical pain really does feel like. I have a girl cousin-in-law who has been "suffering" from chronic fatigue. Now I know this can be a real disease, but the only thing my girl cousin is suffering from is wake-and-bake fatigue.

She wakes up at noonish and smokes some pot upon arising. This, in turn, makes her tired and so she stays in bed all day, occaisonally smoking pot and rummaging in the kitchen when she has the energy. While this is chronic, it is not called chronic fatigue. My cousin is kindly working his wife's job so it'll be there for her if she ever recovers. Sucker!

Mostly, I see people with too much time on their hands and a fixation on exagerating their issues for attention. If you really had all those diseases, at the same time, medical studies would be vying for your affections in a big way! It's unfortunate because this distracts attentions from really sick people. They are usually trying to get better and are focusing on that as opposed to those folks who feel they are special for catching the fad disease of the week.

I could spend a few days and come up with a mysterious story about how I'm so tired all the time. How this lack of energy is starting to affect my day-to-day activities. How I don't have the energy to do everything I want and that I catch colds fairly often lately. OR I could be up front and say I work two jobs (55+ hours each week), volunteer at another place, play cello in three different groups, exercise every day, and have a hyperactive kitten at home. I often don't sleep enough, I drink too much coffee and I interact with so many, many people, the odds are I will catch whatever is going around.

Perhaps if I have more time, I'll be able to come up with a doozy of an illness. Humph. Maybe I'll sleep until noon and call it chronicly fatigued Erinitis and that it can only be cured by iced caramel lattes. A lack of iced caramel lattes results in a crabby little rant about hypochondriacs.

An Erinku:
dust covered
sunblock skin
I will not burn
I will not burn

Lincoln Logs or Otherwise

There was that song a while ago about walking 500 miles or so. One of the lines was something about "havering." Co-worker Dribbles idly wondered what "haver" meant. I, being a responsible co-worker with internet, instantly looked it up and found two definitions on Urban Dictionary:

1. to talk nonsense
2. to paint a log pink, while naked, and drinking Canada Dry ginger ale with no ice

I instantly resolved that number two shall be the correct answer from here on out. I also instantly resolved that I will someday be able to be as funny as the person who came up with definition number two. Apparently, part of my one joke is to have very specific definitions. I wept with laughter over this haver idea for a good long while.

It reminded me of a short article I read by Bill Bryson, about how peeing on Lincoln Logs (the real ones, not plastic) bleaches them white. I've longed to try this for a good long while as well. But this would not be havering. I wondering if painting a real Lincoln Log pink would count as havering...assuming I followed all the other directions. The definition would then read: painting a log (Lincoln or otherwise) pink, while naked, and drinking Canada Dry ginger ale with no ice. There needs to be a word that describes the act of bleaching a Lincoln Log white with urine...

An Erinku:
new glasses
square with
shiny frames;
world in focus

Friday Night Shallows

I was thinking today about how some things wear out much faster than others. Like erasers wearing out before the pencil does. Like my patience before Dylan falls asleep. Like my left shoes before the right ones. Lopsided wear is wierd. The word wierd is wierd. Or weird.

I'm having a day where I'm much more shallow than I want to be. As I can't seem to stop, I'll just do a moment by moment life synopsis. My hair is reddishly long, my sunburned nose is healing and I'm currently listening to bubble-gum poppy music. I'm also wearing vaguely kakhi-type pants and I have my dorky glasses on. For gods' sake I even drank several pints of hard berry cider at the bar this evening. I need some stout and I need to think long and hard about something more substantial than whether my left arm is more flexible than my right...it is.

An Erinku:
vague discontent
can be traced
to little kitty marks
down my calves

Sick All Winter

I decided to act like a normal person a few days ago. I sat outside with Kristen, savoring my coffee (then savoring Jasmine Hot Cocoa) in the sun. It felt lovely. As the day progressed, it started to feel like my face might be a bit pinkish. Sadly, I overestimated how long I could act like a normal person instead of a pale, freckled girl who has a long tumultuous history with sun radiation.

In addition to walking around with a sad, burned stump of a nose, I felt a cold coming on as well as various full-body aches. This has lead to the perfect storm of physical misery that has been my last few days. I’m now feeling mildly better, though still stupid with tiredness and I now have a terribly odd-looking face. More odd-looking than usual. I’m hoping to avoid everyone as long as possible. Oh, my poor little screaming-red nose. Ow.

An Erinku:
worst is having to clean
for a visitor
then running away
under floppy hat

Dogs and Calculators

The dogs we’re currently watching are o.k. for dogs. They’re a bit needy and a bit barky for my taste. When the nightly bark fest woke me up last night (3:00 a.m.) I spent the next hour and half thinking about calculators. About how I used to know what all those buttons did. About how people probably use their cell phones or laptops instead of graphing calculators (which were TOTALLY cool!) About how much math has leaked out my ear in the last decade or so. About how I was thinking about calculators far too much in the middle of the night.

When the next bark fest woke me up at 5:00 a.m. I started thinking about things like how my iPod plays far too many annoying songs/pieces and how much responsibility I should take for it.

When the next bark fest woke me up at 6:00 a.m. I started thinking about the morality and cost of buying those dog collars that give an electric shock each time it hears a bark.

When the next bark fest woke me up at 7:00 a.m. I started thinking about dog-ka-bobs and the odds of a grizzy bear eating fucking dogs that won’t shut up.

When the next bark fest woke me up at 7:30 a.m. I yelled that I wished some dogs would shut up or they’d be in a kennel for the next three days. I took a shower and was unmoved by howling. Grrrr.

An Erinku:
like coupons
litter the desk
like snowflakes from
an office supply fairy

An Anti-Dog Rant

The problem with dogs is that none of them are Link. Link, by the way, was my dog growing up. He was perfect. And annoying at times, as all dogs are. As we are dog-sitting currently, I think of why I became a cat person:

1. I worked in a kennel for a bit and cleaning out cat poo is much more pleasant than rinsing dog poo off a husky. Sigh.
2. Anti-social cats don’t need to be taken on walks, they are fine living in their little cage home. Anti-social dogs on a leash can and will bite repeatedly.
3. Cats don’t howl at four a.m. because some fucktard leaves a flyer on the front door...leaving flyers at four a.m. should be illegal.
4. Dogs are like having a two-year-old around constantly. One that is overly obsessed with starving to death.

I will admit I’ve met some good dogs. I should clarify: I’ve met some well-trained dogs. They are awesome and a joy to be around. Most dogs don’t live in this category. And so:
Your dog jumping on me is not cute. Especially if the dog weighs over 75 lbs.
Your dog begging is not cute. It’s one thing if I’m eating doggie treats...but I’m not.
Your dog barking, biting, peeing, knocking me over, stepping on someone’s balls, chasing a neighbor’s cat, stealing dinner from my plate is not cute. You need to train your fucking dog.

Dogs evolved (like little parasites) to be around humans. If it’s annoying now, do you really think our cavemen ancestors would have put up with this? Nope. They’d club them and have dog-ka-bob for dinner.

Yeah, I’m no longer a dog person.

An Erinku:
newspaper
cut-out
determining
weekend plans

Reasons

People have various reasons for doing the things they do. I’m sure the lady who cut in front of me at the grocery store had a perfectly good reason (she had a perfectly large full cart while I had a loaf of bread). The last two times I’ve adopted kitties from the Humane Society, the reasons listed for leaving the kitties were a bit weak from my point of view.

Dylan was given up because he plays too much. I got a big kick out of reading the questionaire of his previous human. It went like this:

Q. Does the cat like to play?
A. All he does is play.

Q. Would the cat rather nap or play?
A. All he does is play.

Q. Does the cat stay wound up after a play session or does she/he settle down quickly?
A. All he does is play.

Q. Is the cat a healthy weight?
A. Yes, because all he does is play.

Q. Has the cat ever bitten you?
A. Yes, when I dangled a string in front of him. All he does is play.

It went on like this for THREE PAGES! I imagine Dylan’s previous human currently looking somewhat haggered, large bags under his eyes, whispering woundedly to himself in the dark (in typical Poe-like fashion) "all he does is play," "all he does is play," (maniacal laughter here) "all he does is play."

An Erinku:
new photocopier
crashed and
burned as
I pressed keys

On Shrinking Sheep (again)

Yes, yes, a few months ago I had a toothbrush epiphany about "wool shrinks when washed, why don’t sheep shrink in the rain?" It was brilliant. It was pre-coffee.

I also have an unholy fear of black holes. I read how scientists are creating little black holes and how it’s safe...until the science lab gets sucked in. I’m often missing some things from my life (keys, a sweater, water bottle) and I know that I choose to blame these "safe" black holes. I think I stole that idea from Douglas Adams...hmm.

Anyway, late last night (post-beer) I had another epiphany:
1) Black holes are created by a little tiny dot of REALLY squished together matter.
2) Wool continues to shrink every time it’s washed. Every time. Again and again and again. To the point of becoming a little tiny dot of REALLY squished together wool.
3) Coincidence? Or did I just save the planet?

Don’t let anyone tell you taking a Critical Thinking class is a waste of time.

An Erinku:
to fear
that sheep will
end all life
stay naked