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