Have you ever turned on Comedy Central on like a Sunday afternoon and watched two straight hours of stand up? I mean, so much stand up that by the time you finally wipe your eyes and get off the couch you're so overdosed that you're shaking your head and chuckling at the Charmin commercial and then you're chuckling at the chair and then you're chuckling at an empty Diet Coke can and then you see an unfolded napkin and you completely lose any semblance of holding your ridiculous shit together?

R and I drove four hours home from Pinetop yesterday and we listened to XM Comedy the entire way. By the time we pulled in the driveway both sleeves were soggy, snotty disasters and my face was frozen in this incredibly fucked up half-cry half-laugh. With squinting. And drooling. And the uncontainable whine that was creeping out of my contorted face sounded like someone bludgeoning a deaf goat. "Deaf" because goats that can hear have some semblance of dignity when they're being bludgeoned... they've heard their goat friends get bludgeoned and they know how fucking retarded they sound. Seriously. We stopped at Dairy Queen after three hours and the poor girl at the window made the sign of the cross* and hissed at me.

That's it. That's my whole story. I hope for our sakes that terrorists don't seize control of satellite radio. Really, I just hope for my sake. Mine and the goats'. With little goat hearing aids and a weak spot for jokes about Pictionary.

*With a triple-dipped cone. Which counts three times with Jesus.  
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, January 31, 2005

 

Just When You Were Almost Positive That The Week Had To Be Uphill From Here:

Indulge me in a brief synopsis of the time I spent this morning between 8:17 am until 8:26 am.

Today was the first day of a mandatory "Diversity/ Inclusion" meeting that my company (excuse me, 'Company') is sponsoring in an effort to take the edge off our legal department. That's pretty much how they present it to us, in language just short of "you have to go to this two-day meeting so that we can laugh in the face of the next female employee you call 'stupid bitch' on the clock." Anyhoo. This meeting runs from 8:00 to 4:00 and is full of busy yet highly observant executives and impressionable underlings and it's being officially hosted by my department. So it's my direct boss who's standing up front giving the "you're going to love this, plus there's a free lunch" speech when I trip through the door at 8:17. The last one in. I look her in the face and in that three seconds of sickening sweet eye contact I know that I can expect a "Come to Jesus" meeting. Probably during the free food. Can we call it a lunch and learn? A dine and demote? A scarf and stutter?

So I'm sitting there, weighing my excuse options (I don't think that the "got stuck in traffic for two hours" routine will work given that my hair is still dripping, but something tells me that the "Shit, I thought this thing started at 8:17! No?... oh, then my watch must have stopped," gig seems played out) when the facilitator asks us to turn to our neighbor and introduce ourselves, tell what we do, share a story in which we remember having been treated as a diminished other, and then identify one word to share with the group that sums up how that experience made us feel.

I turn to the crack whore next to me, and she tells me her name and her position.

ME: "Hey! Aren't you a trainer in the management training program?"

(This is a program for which I recently wrote twenty-two chapters of material, then handpicked 400 in-store trainers to learn and deliver said material complete with three-weeks full of classrooms in which the TRAINERS could be TRAINED... if this project were an infant, it would be giggly, dressed in Prada and eating hand-mashed everything. I'd be out milking a free-range, organic-grass eating goat three times a day.)

CRACK WHORE: "No."
ME: " Really? I recognize your name. I picked you out, I talked to the District Supervisors about you, I made you a training binder... invited you to like three different classrooms..."
CRACK WHORE: "I have no interest whatsoever."
ME: "Ah. Huh. So... but you did get all those emails?"
CRACK WHORE: "Yeah."
ME: "And the personalized invitation? That I sent to your house? You got that?"
CRACK WHORE: "Yeah."
ME: "Okay. That's cool. I'll take care of it."

I know that there's no way for me to explain how UNBELIEVABLY PERSONALLY OFFENSIVE this was. Just imagine that she ripped that infant from my tender, loving arms and left it all alone-- with a dirty bottle half-full of spoiled milk from the gas station--sobbing uncontrollably in... say it with me... A CRACK DEN.

Then, to escape the awkward and not at all "inclusionary" hatred that I'm now wielding, I launch into this whole long animated story about that one time with that girl and the truck and the fire and the thing and all the crying...

ME: "So... I think I have to say that my word is... 'helpless'."
CRACK WHORE: "Huh."
ME: "So... what's your story?"
CRACK WHORE: "Ummm... I really can't think of one."
ME: "Really? Not even one? Not one time when you felt, like, 'unequal'? Or when you witnessed someone else being treated badly?"
CRACK WHORE: "Nah, not really. I pretty much just go to work and mind my own business."
ME: "Okay. Uh, is there at least a word that I can give the rest of the room when she asks?"
CRACK WHORE: "I'll just use your word."

WELL OF COURSE YOU WILL, YOU STUPID BITCH.

For the record, when the instructor later asked us to sum up the day in another word, Crack Whore's word was, "Learned a lot."

Another topic.

Please Microsoft Paint my tattoo. I give you no hints except to tell you that when I described it as "large", I meant that it's "small", and when I said that it's "unrealistically close to my action", I meant that it's "REALLY, VERY SHOCKINGLY CLOSE TO THE PERTINENCY."

If you don't know the Microsoft Paint deal, look at this and this. Everyone can play... send it to the email address in the sidebar and I'll post it (eventually, shut up) and link you. Let's keep this relatively tame, shall we? I don't need thirty detailed Paint renditions of my pertinency on this website for all and sundry to snicker at. Let's leave the pertinency out of it, frankly. Well, mostly out of it. More "Cinemax" than "Vivid".

P.S. MAKE THE PICTURE COMPACT. I don't know how to tell you to make these small, but ask The Crunch. He's a computer-literate team player like that.

P.P.S. Yes, I totally did just send you to a verified porn site. Deal with it, you big pertinency.
 
¶ posted by Erin on Thursday, January 27, 2005

  Riding the Speculum

So I saw my faithful old-school gynecologist today for the first time in several years, since I'm finally off of the university "We're Here To Make Sure That You Don't Get Any Worse Than You Are Right Now" health insurance, and I think I speak with some authority-- after announcing that I've been off the pill for four months, that I'm now using the ever reliable "pull out at the very last second, sort of" method, that I need some more herpes medication, thanks, and that my mom has breast cancer at fifty-- when I say that the worst thing that your gynecologist can say to you, regardless of context, is "Oh, wow."

(I want to throw in here as an afterthought that, aside from the flagrantly unprotected sex and the incurable STD, the appointment went fine. Just, as a general rule, you know, you don't want your gyno to say "Wow". At anything. Ever. Even at a dinner party. I say this to slow down the sweet concern emails. No negative prognosis... I'm just a slut. With a large tattoo unrealistically close to my action. That's it. But thanks. Wow.) 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, January 25, 2005

 

The Audible Side Of A Conversation That R Had With The Jake On Sunday Morning As I Pretended To Be Asleep On The Couch And The Jake Also Pretended To Be Asleep, Also On The Couch:

"So pretty much for all you know the yard could be crawling with cats right now. There could be cats just runnin' all freejack all over the damn yard and where are you? Huh? And what about roosters? There could be cats and roosters just going crazy out there and you'd never know it, would you? There could be cats and roosters out there RIGHT NOW having a picnic for all you know. A big cat and rooster picnic... with cold cuts, Jake. COLD. CUTS. Oh yeah. How do you like them apples, huh? Huh?" 
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, January 24, 2005

 

It was a frosty, ice-covered, extremely confusing morn here in Phoenix, friends. But The Jake wasn’t going to drive himself to the groomer’s. Not again. Not after last time. So what do you do when forced to operate in less-than-moderate conditions here in The Land Where The Hair Dryer Brings A Cool And Welcome Respite?

1) You refuse to get out of bed. That’s first and foremost. Fellow Phoenicians understand that January plans made before or after the sun is high in the sky are prone to cancellation. Generally via bullshit transparent excuses (“I checked my messages, but I think my voicemail must not be working,” or “I called you yesterday, but I think your voicemail must not be working,” or “It’s like 68 degrees in my house right now and I’m afraid that if I put my foot on the floor my toes will freeze and then snap off leaving me partially toeless which will make it difficult to wear thong sandals, ahthankyouverymuch.”) because we Phoenicians are a shallow, superficial bunch—a fact that’s hard to believe given that we’re so goddamned attractive.

2) Once you’ve established that you have to get up, and the down comforter has been bandaged around your toesies all “hypothermia prevention” style, shuffle quickly into the bathroom where the radiant heater from Lowe’s has been purring smartly on it’s timer for an hour, ready for The Great Toe Unsheathing. Brush your teeth.

3) Call the dog groomer and make sure that she didn’t try to call and cancel yesterday but, strangely, your voicemail didn’t record the message.

4) What to wear? Ordinarily it would be borderline obscene in Phoenix to be caught dead out of the house before ten in anything other than pajamas. But the entire lawn is covered in The White Crunchy. You’re not sure what this is exactly, but when you walked on it barefoot last time to get the paper it was excruciatingly painful. When you later rolled on it in your bedtime tank top in the name of further Neanderthal experimentation, it was likewise excruciatingly painful. Times arms. So you know that the tank top is out. Throw on a sweatshirt. You only have the one… that pilly, threadbare freebie that you throw on when autumn evenings begin to take a chilly turn for the Moderately Comfortable. Throw that on, and put nothing on underneath it. Layers are for pussies.

5) Jeans. Do you have any that need another fifteen minutes in the dryer? Like, they’re hot, but four minutes after getting them on you realize that they’re still completely wet and now you’re enveloped in cold wet denim that’s determined to suck the heat force out of your lower limbs while simultaneously making it impossible to bend in any direction? Perfect. Those.

6) Flip flops.

7) Stop licking the yard.

8) Once in the car, turn the seat heaters on HIGH. Six seconds later, turn the air conditioner on medium. Roll down the windows. Fan yourself.

9) Did you remember the sunscreen? Jesus, close the window then.

 
¶ posted by Erin on Sunday, January 16, 2005

 

Woohoo! How brazen and hedonistic and “laugh in the face of reality with white, shockingly appallingly white teeth” to stay an extra day in paradise!

Or

Woohoo! Excellent drunk off my ass decision making skills! I get an “A+” in Getting Pretty Seriously In Trouble At Work! I don’t have the caliber of teeth to make decisions like these.

Or

C U Next Friday, you stupid cunf!

Or

Wait… what day is this?

So yes. We stayed an extra day. Actually three out of seven of us stayed. Four people decided to go ahead and honor previous real-world commitments. One of the rum-slogging three owns his own business and paid for the trip. Another of us doesn’t start school for thirteen days and lives rent-free with that first person. THEN THERE’S ME, THAT THIRD PERSON.

The good news is that I didn’t throw up even one time. Which, between six flights (two on tiny one-prop airplanes that seat six people and a constantly distracted pilot what with turning around to french some chick and buzzing his friends’ bungalows and or BICYCLES) and twelve-foot seas on boats that make scuba diving in shark-infested waters seem safe and normal and not nearly as shark-infested as they were previously, is quite an accomplishment. Thank you.

(SIDE BAR: I’m watching the OC right now, and is Peter Gallagher seriously singing? It’s like David Hasselhoff times FUCK YOU IN THE EARS.)

And pictures are forthcoming as soon as I dig my new Costco camera (complete with all the memory of a blindfolded hooker) out of my carry-on. It’s in there with like forty packets of chewable Dramamine, a half-empty bottle of Belizean rum and a bathing suit that didn’t make the “Smells Okay Enough To Travel In The Suitcase” cut.

For the record:

1) Since Other Estarted working at a gym and J went head and retired, the “Chicks in Bikinis Contest That Isn’t An Acknowledged Contest Because Hey, We’re All Family Right?” contest has gotten A WHOLE LOT MORE SERIOUS in terms of pudding cup quantity. I’ve got some catch up work to do. So I should probably STOP. EATING. PUDDING. TONIGHT.

2) Those sharks? That infest? Those are real. They’re nurse sharks. And they’re so excited to see all the divers that they just snuggle up to you looking for decaying fish head treats. BUT! The dive master strongly suggests that, when holding said sharks like babies and rocking them upside down in your arms while stroking their white sandpaper middles while they wriggle and wriggle and wriggle their fins, don’t put your hands near those mouth holes or they’ll go ahead and suck your skin right off. And though that's still getting off easy in terms of shark tummy-rubbing reciprocation, I bet it's a pain in the ass. Or... wherever.

3) Shortest List Ever. SHA-KAH.

4) Oh, wait! Captain Crunch’s. I’m playing. FOR REAL. While I wasn’t the one who bitched and swung and BITCHED and SWUNG last season, I did in fact bail. What with the dog jumping out a window drama and the mom with cancer drama and the I’m managing my time poorly drama, I had to bail. BUT I’M BACK IN, BABY. So root for me. Even though you won’t know who I am.

5) Rum. In my carry-on bag. Right now. SHA-KAH. 
¶ posted by Erin on Thursday, January 13, 2005

  C U Next Tuesday!

It's been exceptionally cold and rainy here in Beantown (I mean Phoenix. I just REALLY wanted to type "Beantown". Sorry.), so much so that people are staying home and knitting sandbags. (They figure that they've got some time.) It really has been pretty TC Boyle out there. So today I wore black wool pants, a black wool top and a red angora FLOOR LENGTH sweater to work. The days that we can wear WOOL and ANGORA on the same day... well... we really shouldn't ever do that. Because the Office Hot Flash Squad went ahead and overcompensated on the central heat, and by mid-day I was seriously scrubbing under my arms with a Clorox disinfectant wipe. They say to "rinse hands off after use", but you can loofah your pits with it. That's okay.

On my way home I stopped at a used clothing store to buy $50 worth of shorts and tee shirts and offend countless people whose feet didn't smell like mine. When I threw my thigh-high nylons out the car window on the way home, I was seriously more concerned than if I had pitched a Michelob bottle into oncoming traffic.

So there you have it. I'm completely fucking disgusting, and I now have to pay $9,000 to have wool pants, a wool top and an FLOOR LENGTH ANGORA SWEATER dry cleaned.

I'll see you next week. WITH PICTURES!  
¶ posted by Erin on Wednesday, January 05, 2005

  Conversation That R And I Had On The First Day Of This Joyous New Year In Which The Love, The Love My Friends Doth Floweth:

ME (blindly stumbling into the room after locating a sloth-like couch-ridden R via olfactory mechanisms and truly dimension-altering television volume celebrating the majesty that is Predator): "Oh, absolutely the fuck not."

R (slothish. Olfactory-ish.): "Why don't you make yourself useful and go out into the yard?"

 
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, January 03, 2005

 

I know I haven't posted in a while, but from what I can tell everyone seems to be on a semi-New Year's hiatus, anyway. R and me and all the kids and all the kids' significant people are going to Central America next Thursday. Scooba. Scooba scooba.
R's a big fan of The Scuba. I usually freak out in some terribly unhip way that belies my apparently crepe-thin facade of cool. For starters, I look ridiculous with that regulator thing in my mouth. Really. And if you're thinking, "Hey, everyone looks awkward with a giant metal and plastic hose apparatus hanging out of their face," yes, "awkward" would be an awesome and dramatic improvement for me, thank you. I always manage to look like I'm being invaded by something. All of my hysterical throat-screaming probably doesn't help.

Also, I generally throw up about four times per outing. In the boat... in the water... anywhere there are people around who need a good first impression. Because nothing says, "It's really nice to meet you," like forcing someone to helplessly flail and drift through your floating vomit. Oh, and when I get below eighty feet I get nitrogen narcosis and freak out and try to take my regulator out of my mouth while swimming straight down. Other people look forward to nitrogen narcosis... it's like a buzz or something. Not me. I immediately try to kill myself in like six different ways.

Plus I'm pretty sure (ha) I won't be able to fit into my bikini, so I'm going to do the whole gig in sweatpants.

(You have to know me pretty well here to know how FUCKING STOKED I really am.)

And in other news, I'm finally going to replace my camera today. The very best piece of shit digital camera that $39 and Costco has to offer. Booyah.

P.S. There are now Google ads in the right margin. All profits gained here from said ads will be promptly and forever donated to Doctors Without Borders.  
¶ posted by Erin on Sunday, January 02, 2005