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