I've been out of regular laundry detergent for about a week, and rather than load the handtruck into a U-Haul and head down to Costco for another fucking oil tanker full, I've just been using Woolite on everything. In the interest of selling more product, the Woolite people would have us believe that Woolite should be used on all our fabrics all the time, but they can't fool me: I know that Woolite is the liquid platinum of detergents, only to be eked out by the thimble-full for use on the tenderest of satin delicate things, things with lace and garters and maybe hidden beaded snaps, things that I don't want to know how you got dirty.

The Clorox people taught me this lesson a long time ago; back when I lived at home and did the family's laundry Clorox was pimping their "put a cup in every load of whites" line, and I did, because the Clorox people told me to, and all of our whites ended up looking thin and desperate, like they'd just come through the apocalypse. It was like the Chernobyl of laundry.

So fool me once, right? But all week I've been washing sheets and towels and everything with Woolite, pouring through the pain, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And I'm not sure what the original point of this story was, except to tell you that I just found a cluster of washcloths under the sink discussing the benefits of a caste system, and a pillowcase just tugged on my sleeve and requested a seven o'clock wake up call. 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, March 31, 2006

  Epilogue.

Having had her backwards sea creature thrown to the mat, Emily would like to enter Exhibit A into evidence. Nice job, Emily. It's just like a thesis defense: keep making shit up, and the faster the better. I myself was thinking that the fin placement might have resulted from the sea creature's decision to swim in the opposite direction, but this is much more logical. I don't know what I was thinking.

In addition, Amy Choppa's man, Matt, has submitted an entry; a humbling submission which, if you've seen his Absurd Dolphin or his African Octopus renditions, you realize is the Paint equivalent of having The A-Team show up to help you find your gym shoes.

If I'm not mistaken, that's a White Trash Vodka-Guzzling Stylist Pirate who may or may not be a Cyclops. Those low-slung purple pirate pants lend an authenticity here that I don't even want to get into. I love that she's wearing a Dutch clog. That dog might be the Anti-The Jake, since it's not eating, sleeping, or running away from a bird. Check out my insane forearms; bitch better get ready for a double peg. I don't blame the sun for sheepishly hiding behind the earth. Smart move, Sun.

I've been stapling Barbi heads together and making a sort of wig-thing so that I can go to the store later (we're out of enormous plastic jugs of generic hard liquor) so I'll be working on that if you need me.

 
¶ posted by Erin on Thursday, March 30, 2006

  If God Had Intended For Us To Cut Our Hair, We'd Be Born Bald And Crying.

I'd just like to say that I don't have particularly picky standards when it comes to most things, my hair included. I don't send food back in restaurants, I don't itemize receipts for accuracy. I'm a "goes along, gets alonger". Being a fundamentally lazy person, and also being fairly objective (objectivity requires less effort than the other kinds of -tivities), I don't feel comfortable holding people to a standard that I myself probably couldn't (or wouldn't) meet. So I get a lot of ranch when I asked for balsamic, I probably get blindly overcharged at the grocery store, and occasionally I get a little too much taken off the length of my hair.

But this. THIS does not fall into my gray standards area. And I ask you to bear in mind here that my gray standards area was able to justify quitting my job with no prospect of other employment in sight. My gray standards area would kick your gray standards area's ass right now if it wasn't so busy trying to find a "petty larceny" workaround.

Okay, let's go ahead and get the obvious out of the way: Emily titled this, "I felt bad for Estella until I found out that she was going to Costa Rica". Yeah, touche. I admit that complaining about a haircut and then announcing a ten-day tropical paradise vacation pretty much in the same sentence is tantamount to bitching about a wrist cramp while signing the lottery paperwork. But I ask you to imagine for a second that your wrist is cramping because someone is sawing on it with a rusty hacksaw.

That didn't work, did it? Fair enough. Okay, Emily worked off of Haircut Phase 1, the haircut that resembled this fetching Carol Brady do. My standard off-the-cuff rationale for the re-cut went something like, "People like Carol Brady, but nobody's fighting to take her home." Well, shit, I guess I win! Not only does no one want to take me home, but no one likes me now, either. I love the pop-off mannequin arms, Emily. And anything with a sea creature in it gets an automatic bonus.

Styro knows me well, and so her unabashedly furious interpretation here is completely accurate. Flinging the fingler? Check. Volcanic glass ground down to sand between my shaking, clenched jaws? Check. Madness in the eyes worthy of my great-aunt who was happily committed after sneaking out of the house to hunt cougars downtown and who tried to poison the entire family with Comet cleanser because she swore it cured cancer? CHECK! She's even got my personal mantra imprinted on the shirt (some people claim that it's really not an "appropriate" mantra for all occasions, forcing me to reiterate that I never asked to be invited to the goddamned christening in the first place). You do realize, of course, that any justifiable lack of empathy that you tried to impart here is completely negated by the fact that you fucking misspelled "Costa Rica". I love you, too.



Chris, you would think that a picture like this would make me feel better: a giant afro with a mangy mullet in the back. It doesn't get much worse than that, right? The problem is that I spent two hours yesterday furiously making iron-on NASCAR mock-turtlenecks against my will. It's like a mullet compulsion. I'm genuinely worried that tomorrow I might wake up with an urge to put the Howard Stern Show on speed-dial and grill cheap meat at someone's apartment complex pool. If I had to guess, I'd say there's probably a pretty solid line of Maybelline demarcation along that jawline. Mental note: Buy more Keystone Ice. Mental Note 2: And more lip plumper.

Oh, AP. I love you and I love Gmail chat. There's so much here that no one else is going to understand, and frankly my mood is dictating that we keep it that way. LONG LIVE THE INSIDE JOKE! When I first saw that #1 Grandpa had succumbed to the lava, I laughed an evil snarly laugh. but then I noticed his very softly closed eyes and his serene, peaceful smile and I stopped laughing. And when I spied his little soft tufts of grandpa hair? That he probably lovingly combed every morning with his dead wife's silver-handled brush that still smells faintly of White Shoulders? I'm not ashamed to tell you that I cried for Grandpa then, and I cursed the evil lava. CURSE YOU, LAVA. That park ranger's hair is fucking hot, but I assure you that if I had any "latent goth tendencies" I would quickly throw them in the dusty emotional sack with all of my other repressed latent tendencies. You know. Like working. I understand why you were concerned that I might not think the "herpes" comment was funny; apparently there are people out there who don't find incurable sexually transmitted diseases to be the golden jackpot of comedy that I do. Particularly those who are thinking about starting up a romantic relationship with me. When R and I started dating, I remember one particular romantic dinner wherein he presented me with a dozen red roses, and I in turn presented him with a legal waver. "Press hard, Baby," I murmured, my face close to his. "It's in triplicate."

This is one of the several pictures we have that involves the butcher stylist's cheap-ass vehicle. Cindy, how did you make me look so badass despite having a weird hair pompom on my head? That between-the-eyes furrow tells the whole story. You have an old Paint soul, Cindy. The fact that I very clearly just slammed the bat intimidatingly and threateningly into the palm of my other hand means that the carnage is obviously impending. I can't wait. I'm going to pretend that the smudges on the truck are dried stylist blood. Oooh! Or maybe I forced her to dye her hair "Muskrat Dead Leaf Brown #23" at bat-point! One thing, though: Cheap Truck Chick totally couldn't afford the awesome Backwoods Hunter's Light Kit. Somebody should explain that to her, preferrably with some lead pipes and a tow truck.


Scott, I think you've participated in every Paint contest that I've hosted thus far. And so it's with sincere genuineness and genuine sincerity that I tell you that your wife has schooled your Paint ass every single fucking time. I do love that I have a Bottomless Pit of Despair for a maw. I don't necessarily love that I have my aunt's pre-op titties, but the Mutant Steroid Fist Of Fingerless Cement Death makes up for it. Dude, Scott, that is not a cheap truck. Check out that lift kit! I do love the confederate flag, though. It's fitting, too; I don't think I mentioned it, but she's originally from Olympia. Racist whore.

Grampa very kindly offered to scalp Cheap Truck Bitch and torch her cheap-ass ride for me, although you probably already knew that thanks to his not-at-all-on-the-downlow comments. Oh, and his tee shirt. Is that a "V" for peace or are you throwing the bird? You did the whole fucking thing in Paint PENCIL so it's like trying to interpret an Etch-A-Sketch drawing. Dude, did you cut her head off with a pair of scissors?? I bet that took a really, really long time; thanks for seeing that shit through and not giving up in that tedious fourth or fifth tendony hour. I was actually on the verge of taking you up on your offer of destruction until you happened to comment that you're currently going through chemo. That sort of sobered me out of my petty revenge bullshit agenda, and as my priorities shifted back into focus and the universe became relative again I stopped and went down to one of those organizations that collects hair... where I was told that there weren't any tow truck driving Statler Brothers fans from 1979 who needed anything right now, thanks though. So Grampa? WE'RE BACK ON.


Michelle, I know you're in a cool ass band and all, but I think you may have missed your calling. This is incredible. I think my favorite part (aside from the deer-- it goes without saying that deer are always my favorite part, especially just the front ends) is that I have the shoulder span of an NFL lineman. Okay, let's just stop a minute and take a look at quadrant B. Cheap Truck Chick's hand? Has knuckles. And KNUCKLE. WRINKLES. I was merely going to point out how she has the thumb of an Audi mechanic on a first date, but then I noticed the knuckles and I'm stunned, I'm just stunned into Paint awe. I want you to know that I would wear any one of those wigs, ANY GODDAMNED ONE OF THEM. I guess this isn't very mean, but you caught me off guard. You had me at 426 x 500.


Okay! This one was sent to me almost immediately after the call for submissions. (I'm like 98% sure it's just someone fucking with me, but what if it's not? I can't ignore Romania!) Hi, Lucaci! This is awesome! Hey, I accidentally let my UN security clearance lapse last year, just FYI. What is this, like a light rail system or something? Fantastic! Okay, thanks for playing!

Moving on! Okay, there's so much cuteness here I can't hardly stand it. The almost completely accurate The Jake, the eyes brimming over with adorable little aquamarine tears, the Dolly Parton physique... I love that my arm is really a probing alien suction device. And that it's NOT. FUCKING. WORKING. My eyelashes are longer than my hair, which is pretty accurate. It's so cute that you've got me packed up in a suitcase that doesn't require an extra $50 and a crane. Okay, for the third time... that truck. NOT CHEAP. What is that? A '65, '66 Chevy? Jesus. We need a class on defining "expensive" for you people. (I showed this to The Jake. "'Holy moly?'" he repeated. "The fuck's that mean?")

Ceece decided to point out some people who actually have better hair than I do currently, which I think was thoughtful. And eye opening. Who is that guy on the left? Is he on trial for something? Off topic? Sorry. I'm a little concerned that I don't have any legs, but not overly so. I'm more concerned actually that my eyes are so poorly aligned. Do they really look like that? At least my roots are done. I'll take my small victory solace where I can drink it. I mean find it.





Oh god, Proud Mary, you know how to use Photoshop, don't you? DON'T YOU??? I can sense the layers. I'm going to be very still and calm, now; Photoshop layers can smell fear. And crippling inadequacy. Wow! Mouth! Damn! And that hair is... pissing me off, frankly, because you're not far off. Would you believe that when I initially went to Cheap Truck Chick we had a whole conversation in which I pooh-poohed Farah? Oh, we laughed and laughed. "Yes," we agreed, "That would look stupid." Not like this. Oh no.


Volcano Girl got a couple of things completely right: I was thinking "Butcher" even while I was "under the knife", so to speak, and I do actually look like a 47-year-old with a three-pack-a-day ( fuck those pussy lights) habit. As perhaps the most pro-smoking ex-smoker around, I mean that in the most complimentary sense. Which.. still isn't that complimentary. I mean, check out that eye shadow. I think that color comes free in the three-carton Winston special offer pack. This mouth can only belong to someone who's got at least one 12-year-old living in a trailer in another park. That makes me sad for her. I mean me. I mean, where's my drink? Did I even mention my hair in this one? No? Okay, I'm serious about my drink. Give it.


I admit: I thought I got this. And then I decided I was wrong. But then? I thought I got it again. But alas no. I didn't. Not really. Although on some level, Spirophita, this is really very empowering. Let me just say that if I got a bad haircut and I was Kristy Turlington? I'D BE PISSED. Just SO MUCH MORE pissed than I am right now. That may not seem possible, but it's only because the way my hair looks doesn't dictate how much money I make. I mean, a) I don't have a job, and b) I'm not a supermodel. Okay, wow. 60 to zero. Almost immediately. Thank you. Could you at least send me this top?

I love Microsoft Paint (I still hate Photoshop, motherfucking layering Adobe enigma bastards) and I love you. Even though I don't feel significantly better or stronger or more confident, we here at the Loggins and Messina Mullet Base Camp would like to extend our warmest thanks and appreciation. Mullets $3 off. Rat tails half price. 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, March 28, 2006

  Annoying Questions To Which I Received No Response: Part 2 of 17

[Text messaged on Sunday, March 26th to a colleague of Randy's who was kind enough to volunteer as our designated driver to and from a celebratory work event for roughly a thousand people, an event at which Randy was specifically recognized and called to the stage to accept an award-- an act of good fortune that apparently necessitated my drunk ass to stand and scream, "YEAH THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT BRING IT OH YEAH THAT'S MY MAN RIGHT THERE MINE THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT," an act I would soon follow by: a) taking my bra off and throwing it away in the restroom, b) publicly making fun of the hired speaker by insisting loudly that this wasn't church and that I didn't want to get up and hug anybody, goddamn it, and c) sincerely promising the misty-eyed woman next to me that I was henceforth accepting it as my personal responsibility to get her laid at next month's function:]

"Hey, when you get a chance, can you see if my shoe is in your car?" 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, March 28, 2006

  Workin' It Out.

For Scooterdeb.

 
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, March 27, 2006

  Annoying Questions To Which I Received No Response: Part 1 of 17

[Directed toward the beefy young man in a sleeveless BudBowl tee shirt who very carefully placed a breathtakingly precarious high and narrow stack of Banquet Pot Pies on the checkout belt at Safeway on Sunday, March 26, 2006 at approximately 5:44 pm]:

"Wow, you sure you got enough pot pies, there?" 
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, March 27, 2006

  Fake Meme! SHA-KAH!

Yesterday Erin tagged me for this meme that apparently her friend Tom made up, which is just about the coolest fucking thing I've ever thought about, the making up of a meme, because here all this time I thought memes were handed down like little sovereign kings, like little legacy nuggets birthed by the heavens or something. Well, thank you, Tom and Erin, for opening my eyes to a brave new world. And also for making me type my real name and my ex-fiance's name together in that last sentence for what I hope is the last goddamned time.

RANDOM FAVORITE THINGS FAKE MEME-- SHA-KAH!

Candy Bars:
Okay, so there's been some discussion over here about this "Take 5" candy bar bullshit that according to the comments is second only to having an orgasm in an expensive car. Well, you know what? I didn't want to get all up in your comment face, Caitlin, but I've had that Take 5 candy bar? AND I THINK IT SUCKS. People, there's a PRETZEL IN IT. A pretzel. In a candy bar. I was starving one day at work? And my coworker generously dove into her purse and shook a Take 5 fun size into my trembling hand? I wolfed it down and then immediately spit the whole thing back into her purse, just out of horror. And then I slapped the bitch.

1) Heath Bar. Not negotiable.
2) Skor Bar. A little thinner than the Heath, so just stack like three or four on top of each other and pretend.
3) Milky Way. This was my favorite when I was a kid, the one that I'd beg for in the checkout lane. Sometimes Mom would say yes, but that I couldn't eat it until after dinner. "Can I just hoooollllld it?" Okay, so I'd hold it in the car on the way home where I could slink down in the backseat, surreptitiously chew a tiny hole in one corner, and then suck out the entire mashed up candy bar through said pinhole, like an alien overlord sucking the insides out of a scrumptious human. Mmmm... who's hungry.
4) Milky Way Dark
5) Snickers
6) Anything that's not a PayDay, a Butterfinger, or a motherfucking TAKE 5.

Shows that were on Nickelodeon that year my parents had cable when I was a kid:
We never had cable. Ever. My parents only got cable two years ago, and only then because there was no way to expressly NOT get it. Apparently basic cable is now a fundamental requirement of citizenship. I don't know, my dad's got some big "Anti-Cable" protest planned for next Sunday. It airs on channel nothing, so mark your calendars.

Disney Cartoons:
My instinctual answer is "none", but I can sing the entire DuckTales theme song and that shit had to come from somewhere.

Video Games I've Played:
Wow, a lot. Everything they ever made for the original Nintendo. We worshipped our Nintendo machine. And even after it became old and sporadic and shit didn't line up right in its primitive, boxy chest cavity, we developed these intricate, superstitious Nintendo Rain Dances to keep that thing afloat. Pop the cartridge in, take a deep breath, turn it on... and if the game didn't come up? Well, not a problem! Just take the cartridge out, blow in it (left to right), blow in the machine (right to left), pop the cartridge back in, click it up and down eight times, slap the lid shut, kiss the 1st person controller, and try it again. Still didn't work? THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE.

All games pale when compared to Zelda. When I was living in my first "sans roommates" apartment, Blockbuster was offering a three-day rental of the second-generation Nintendo (I can't remember what it was called) for like $14.99. And being the completely strapped, full-time employee-slash-college student that I was, I bit. And I played Zelda for 72 straight hours. I called in sick to work. I didn't make it to class. I checked the Yellow Pages for Zelda support groups. I didn't eat. I drank cheap beer. I checked the Yellow Pages for Church of Zelda locations. When I took that machine back, it was with a heavy heart and a vow. I'm not telling you a vow of what.

Inventions (all-time):
1) language
2) the wheel
3) oil
4) fire
5) the beach
6) the sun was a pretty cool invention
7) oh, and the moon!
8) cubic zirconia
9) fruit

Favorite Office Supplies:
1) stereo
2) refrigerator
3) bed
4) private bathroom
5) pajamas

A month ago I might have mentioned the two-hole punch. But now I don't even remember what a two-hole punch does, exactly.

Okay, I tag ELB (I think she can really get behind this one) and Fresh (enough of the four sentence dailies, brother. Let's get to fuckin' gettin'). 
¶ posted by Erin on Saturday, March 25, 2006

  Every Story Has One Side. ONE side. ONE.

I've been cleaning the house today like a good little Stay At Home Nothing, and in the process of stashing all of our shit in cabinets and under beds and in the attic, I ran across a 48-page personality assessment provided to me by my previous employer. Based on an hour's worth of questions, someone compiled this incredibly detailed outline of my positive and (overwhelmingly) negative personal characteristics. I'm really astonished at how accurate it is, given that I was text messaging, talking shit on the phone, and eating a sandwich while I answered the questions. Here's an encouraging sampler:

"Estella needs a work environment that involves stimulating deadlines, working with the general public, lots of activity and sounds, and working on her own rather than part of a team. Estella may have difficulty dealing with stress when it occurs. Estella is very forthright or frank. Estella is helpful and responsive to others' needs. Estella enjoys trying to influence others. There are some interpersonal areas in which she could improve. Estella may sometimes have difficulty being tactful. Consequently, Estella tends to be blunt and this will alienate some people. Estella is uninterested in self-improvement. Estella can be somewhat dogmatic. Consequently, Estella may have difficult communication with people who don't share the same beliefs. Estella may at times be inflexible. This could sometimes cause strain in communication with others. Estella may have a low tolerance of people who are evasive or indirect.

"Estella is highly motivated by a chance to have decision-making authority, a chance to take initiative, an opportunity to work for someone she respects, an opportunity to earn high pay, an opportunity to do something worthwhile for society, and a chance to be in a leadership position. She is demotivated by seeing no opportunity to earn high pay, and goals unrelated to her own.

"Estella enjoys analyzing facts and decisions. Estella is comfortable in a decision-making role. Estella probably spends little time analyzing the potential difficulties of a plan or strategy, so it is good she doesn't like to take big risks. Estella may occasionally become dogmatic, reducing the effectiveness of her decisions. Estella has a strong desire to be in a leadership position."

It goes on to say that I lack clear goals, give little importance to having a stable career, need advance notice with regard to changes, am extremely self-certain and over-confident, and that while I am "sometimes willing to collaborate with others in the decision-making process, Estella may strongly want to make the final decision."

They handed me this packet on a Thursday, and after four whole hours of furious and 100% internal contemplation, I gave my notice on Friday.

The last thing I need is a bunch of idiots who don't know me trying to tell me a bunch of bullshit. I mean, that meeting wasn't even fucking scheduled. 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, March 24, 2006

  Voicemail from my dad, 10:24 am:

"Hey, this is your dad, I just wanted to ask how the flank steak went last night. And also, a little input on your message, on your voicemail message? You say, 'I'm not here right now,' and I want to know where you are. Because you have to be somewhere. 'Cause it's a mobile phone. It's a cell phone. It's a mobile. So if you're not here, where are you? And tell me about the flank steak. I love you." 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, March 24, 2006

  It's Like Christmas!

R spent a couple of days surfing while we were in Jaco, and he managed to get hundreds of tiny wax beads lodged under the skin of his chest from paddling out on the surfboard without a shirt on. When he came to me a couple of nights ago with my reading glasses and a pair of tweezers, it was better than if he had presented me with a gaggle of sunburned 10-year-olds with peeling backs. YAY, GIMMEIT! 
¶ posted by Erin on Thursday, March 23, 2006

 

I went to my parents' house yesterday morning for the Mullet Evaluation.

I unclipped the tiny barrette that was holding the rat tail captive against the back of my otherwise severely layered skull.

After my mom picked her hysterical blind ass off the floor, she told me no, there was no way she was touching that with anything. Not an experimental comb, not a hopeful round brush, certainly not a pair of scissors. WAY beyond her level of expertise. And because, really, her level of expertise peaked out at the "lay a child on the counter and rinse a home perm out in the sink" stage, I had to agree. But because she's my sweet mother (and because my hair was both bewildering and painful) she offered to take me along with her to her hair appointment this morning to see what could be done.

Here's roughly how my conversation with her stylist went:

ME: "So, do you think you could just..."
STYLIST: "No."
ME: "I didn't think so. But what if you..."
STYLIST: "Not a chance."
ME: "Yeah, but if you cut this? And then, like, that part?"
STYLIST: "Hey, how about if I cut the mullet off and give you a short ass haircut?"
ME: "DO THAT, YES, PERFECT, THAT'S WHAT I MEANT."

So now my hair is short. And less weird. I'm much happier. And if I PULL REALLY HARD I can still get it to go into the same (albeit nubbier) unflattering ponytail that I habitually run back to like an unattractive port in a greasy storm.

The Paint pictures are great... I'm still getting entries, which is also great. Anyone who's ever participated in a Paint production knows that I drag this shit out forever. It's because I'm fundamentally lazy and easily overwhelmed, but if it makes you feel better we can say it's for "effect".

(For those of you who are already poised to make snide comments about the tattoo post, I'll just address that now so that you can save your snideness for your husbands: I didn't post the tattoo pictures because, while the pictures I received that made some effort to reflect the subject material were fantastic, the overwhelming majority of pictures that I received of my Paint rendered vagina were not. I was turned off of the project, in short. And since I have yet to receive a single picture of a ten-year-old's frenetic rendition of a Paint airbrushed pubic nest, we're okay to go. And yes, while I realize that by merely mentioning "Paint" and "vagina"* in the same sentence I'm setting myself up for disgusting failure, it was just that important that I explain to you exactly why those pictures were never posted. I love you, baby. And you know I never meant to hurt you.)

(I would like to point out here as an afterthought that I DO NOT have a tattoo on or, uh, very near my vagina.)

(As an additional afterthought, I'd like to delete this entire post.)

Anyhoo, while I was at my parents' yesterday I started digging through old photographs of me and my family and my hair and their hair, and then I got all excited and I went to Costco and finally bought a scanner (it was the last one they had because I'm the last person on the planet to buy one. The instruction packet read, "Congratulations, Lucy! You finally bought a fucking scanner!") and then I scanned a bunch of pictures and put them on flickr. If you're not on my flickr contact list, get there. Work it out. I'm tired of explaining basic shit to you people. I'm a busy technologically savvy person, here; I have a scanner, for Christ's sake.

(Jesus, I just realized that I didn't give props to Erika for the kickass P & V link above. I'm awesome! Most post-edtited post ever! SHA-KAH!) 
¶ posted by Erin on Wednesday, March 22, 2006

 

I'm home! And sort of in a hurry. After much tearful negotiation, my mom has signed on to cut off the mullet part, so I'm due to sit in a kitchen chair in her backyard in about ten minutes.

The paint pictures are fantastic, and if you're sitting around pissed at yourself that you didn't send one to me, stop punching yourself in the side of your noggin and SEND ME ONE. You'll wish you had when I'm making fun of everyone else and NOT YOU.

I've posted about 40 of the 561 pictures I took in Costa Rica on flickr. Go look at those. Immediately. Me and these first-grade safety scissors have an appointment to get to before the "stylist" blows her sight wad on a magazine or something. 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, March 21, 2006

  It's A Paint Contest!

As I think I made unerringly clear in my last post, I have recently been the recipient of a bad, really bad, horrifyingly bad haircut. Actually, the initial haircut wasn't really the problem... it was when I decided to taunt God and go in for just the tiniest of tiny cut adjustments that I ended up fucking SCALPED. It's a problem, people. It's a big problem. And that's why we're going to Microsoft Paint it. It'll be like therapy. Only meaner.

1) Using Microsoft Paint (or Photoshop, or whatever, you big showoff), draw my haircut. Or something relative to my hair. Get creative. For a definition of "creative", click on the links under "Paint Participation" on the right.

2) Your image can't be any bigger than 500 x 500 pixels. Sometimes people get a little carried away and actually scan a lifesize canvas into their computer and send it to me. And that's fun and all, but let's not do that this time.

3) If you've seen photos of my actual face or actual hair on flickr, please don't cut and paste those photos into your Paint project. You can incorporate other photos, though; just because I end up crying whenever I try to figure out "layers" in Photoshop, that doesn't mean that you nuclear fucking scientists should be penalized.

I'm leaving for Costa Rica this afternoon and I won't be back until Sunday the 19th. (I know. It's fucking awesome.) Send your paintings to the "contact" email on the right before then, and I'll begin posting them the following week. I don't know how many entries there'll be... I could get ten, I could get thirty. I could get thirty just from Erika. I don't really know. I may have to post a few a day for a while to get them all in. But as usual, all entries that are sent to me before the deadline, follow the rules, and don't gross me out will be included. Everyone who takes the time to participate gets to play, so include your name and your URL so that I can link to you when I make fun of your stupid drawing on my website.

Okay. I'm going to go to the hat store and buy some hats and then I'm going to go to the cry store and buy some more crying. Everybody be good while I'm gone and don't get in any horrible accidents or get your hair cut or anything. 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, March 10, 2006

 

Let's say you go and get your hair cut on a Saturday? And you get home and it's a little weird and you deal with it for a couple of days and it's still a little weird but you don't really want to call the girl and have her redo it because she's fundamentally a nice person who shares an apartment with two other people and who just bought her first truck without a radio or a clock, and plus a friend of yours works at the desk and you don't want to be that picky bitch who's causing all the trouble?

Yeah, let that be your LAST concern, motherfucker. The REAL reason you shouldn't call and go back in on say, TUESDAY, is because the bad motherfucking haircut you got on SATURDAY should have tipped you off that the

cheap truck chick had no business cutting your

FUCKING HAIR IN THE FIRST

PLACE. 
¶ posted by Erin on Wednesday, March 08, 2006

 

You know that I took those tests, two standardized tests that have to be passed in order to get a teaching certificate. Except that actually only one test has to be passed, the subject specific test (in my case an English test); the "secondary education" test isn't even required of people who are shooting for the "Alternative Secondary Path to Certification" because it's assumed that the last time the Alternative Secondary people dealt with children in a formal setting it was while doing another eight-month criminal arson stint in juvenile hall. So the powers that be just waive that shit for the time being with the understanding that you have to pass it within a year of earning your certification.

But because I had already signed up and paid for the non-refundable secondary education test, and because "I'm just taking it for practice" seemed like a really great way to turn a careless misunderstanding into a sign of dedicated sincerity, I went ahead and took it. Or, actually, I took half of it. The four-hour test was broken into two parts-- a multiple choice section of 150 questions, and an essay section in which you answer two very specific questions concerning policies and state laws over four or five pages. I finished the multiple choice section in just under an hour. And then I got up and left, because a) I don't know shit about my constitutional anything and I didn't have to that day, b) I fucking hate essay questions, and c) it made everyone else in the room feel super inadequate when I calmly handed in the test and headed out three hours ahead of schedule, whistling "We Are The Champions" under my breath.

The English test (which was mandatory) was formatted the same way and took me three and a half sweaty hours. I was one of the last six people in the room with pencil cramp, covered in eraser dust. I fucking hate essay questions.

I got my results for both tests back yesterday. I passed both tests.

I passed the Education test even though I didn't even consider TRYING to complete the second HALF.

And I don't have a copy of the test, of course, but allow me to sort of reconstruct how approximately 147 of the 150 multiple choice questions operated:

27) You're teaching a culturally-diverse class of eighth graders. Several of your students are having trouble understanding you, as English is not the language predominantly spoken in their homes. You should:

A) Request that the students who are having difficulty be transferred into a lower grade.
B) Request that the students who are having difficulty be transferred into another district.
C) Realize that students from diverse backgrounds and cultures have different strengths and opportunities for growth, and these differences should be embraced and incorporated into the learning structure for the long-term benefit of not only the students in question, but for all mankind.
D) Announce to the class that anyone who can't keep up gets to spend recess locked in the coat closet.

Apparently I'm so openminded and anti-closet that no one gives a shit that I think the Arizona Constitution is a World War II battleship. 
¶ posted by Erin on Tuesday, March 07, 2006

 

The Jake and I walked out to the mailbox on Saturday (The Jake is in charge of scooping up the newspaper and then running all to hell with it, scattering sections all over the neighborhood and making me glad that we don't personally subscribe to the newspaper because man! what a mess!) and I winced when I saw the tell-tale padded internet order envelope in the box. Because clearly I had been drunk interneting again. Clearly someone had fallen asleep on watch and I had been able to sloppily wrench my credit card out of his watchman's grasp.

I wracked my brain on the way into the house, kicking someone's "Lifestyles" section out of the garage and coming up with nothing, and then when I got inside and opened it I found this tee shirt from The Vixen:



The Jake didn't understand why I was laughing so hard; he has shreds of editorials hainging out of his mouth all the time. This is doubtlessly the best tribute to Arrested Development I've ever seen. And it's not a bad tribute to my boobs, either.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hang out in front of the Cardinals training facility. 
¶ posted by Erin on Monday, March 06, 2006

 

I'm not afraid to tell you (largely because I already have) that so far this week has been a yawning, fingercombed-ponytail festival of gigantic crockpot meals that all somehow taste like paper towels and potato skins regardless of the amount of wine I throw in there. We're all a little chafed, frankly, in a way that on Tuesday was funny and sort of sexy but on Friday isn't remotely sexy and might require a cream or a salve of some sort.

As an added bonus I've regressed to the days when I lived alone, only speaking when absolutely necessary; back in the day if I didn't have to work or go to class, I could easily go three or four days without saying anything. So when Caitlin called me yesterday to save me from myself, it took a minute for my "Top Tracks" addled mind to register the ringing, and then when I realized that it was the telephone and that someone was calling, calling to talk to me, I was so freaked out that my first instinct was to eat the phone. Luckily my second instinct was to answer it, but then, alas, my third instinct was to drop trow and shit on the floor.

So today I decided to shake things up a bit and, get this, leave the house.

I know.

FIRST: I took The Jake for a walk with my mom on very narrow sidewalks bordering very busy streets. My mom has trouble seeing. And walking The Jake is like walking an eighty-pound Roomba on crack. Logically, I should have just suggested that she stand on the sidewalk and let me throw pies at her instead. At least she would have known where she was, and she would have been covered in less pet hair. And more filling, which is always a plus.

SECOND: I went to the post office. This is kind of a big deal. I've had a package waiting for me at the post office for four weeks. There was a note in my mailbox a month ago stating that I had until today to pick it up, and it looked like the date was written as an afterthought; I mean, who would wait FOUR WEEKS before driving TWO MILES to pick up a package? You would. (The only other person I know who's been sent to collections by the public library. More than once.)

The biggest problem here is that I'm genuinely proud of myself for even picking it up at all. Pride. I'm patting myself on the back that I managed to not let the package get SENT BACK after A MONTH. If my set of personal standards was a game of limbo? I'd walk straight into the stick without flinching, high-five someone, and then see a man about a drink.

THIRD: I went to Target, and I got these really great tee shirts! (That's totally me in that picture. I know it looks like a Target model, that same Target model who's in every ad, but it's not, it's me.) I didn't really need any more tee shirts, and that's the main reason I bought five. They're really soft and long (I like a long tee shirt) and they're only ten bucks each! Go get some.

FOURTH: I went to get my brakes checked. In the past I've always happened to get my brakes checked because it was free with an oil change or someone's brother had a brake place or my car had stopped coming to a halt in traffic. In fact, I don't think I've ever gotten away with the standard "brake pad change" like other responsible, middle-class Americans; I always end up having to have the rotors machined (or the machines rotored, one of those) for eighty million dollars. And the guy always looks at me in disbelief... "Didn't you hear it grinding?" No, man, I only heard it not stopping in traffic. Grinding? Isn't that, just, the sound of the car???

This car is new, and what with all the driving that I've done over the past year to and from my job in fucking New Mexico, I've tried to be in tune with noises that my car makes, little cues it gives off, and when it refuses to stop in traffic. Today I took it in and I was informed that I still have at least 10,000 miles in my brake pads.

"But," I told the guy, "it was grinding!"
"Nah," he admonished, "that's just the sound the car makes."

Fuck everybody.

FIFTH: I drove into my old neighborhood because I really felt like Middle Eastern food and the best Middle Eastern food place in the Valley is down near where I used to live. It was absolutely packed, and as I was standing in line my eyes were drawn to the only thing printed in English in the entire restaurant, a sign above the counter: "A SMILE IS THE FIRST STEP TOWARD PEACE".

That could be the single best way to get a bunch of hungry, awkward Caucasians to smile their fucking asses off. It worked; I mean, you try not to smile. You warmonger. I would have gone one further, though: "A REALLY RIDICULOUSLY LARGE TIP IS THE FIRST STEP TOWARD PEACE". Or "LOVE PEACE? YOU'LL LOVE THE FALAFEL! WHY NOT BUY SOME EXTRA? JUST... FOR YOUR NEIGHBOR OR SOMEONE."

R and I are going to go downtown tonight for First Friday, this big artwalk they've just started having in the city. (Anyone who lives in Phoenix knows that by "city" I really just mean "next to the Hyatt".) I'm taking the camera, so probably no good stuff will happen. 
¶ posted by Erin on Friday, March 03, 2006

 

Yesterday morning I stood up from the computer, still in my robe, and I sort of yawned because sitting hunched over in front of the computer in a robe is really very exhausting, and then I glanced down at my watch to see how many more hours I'd need to wait until I could reasonably have a drink ("Hey, it's always almost eleven in the morning somewhere!") and I realized with horror that my watch-- a watch that relies on movement to keep rolling-- had stopped. WHILE IT WAS ON MY WRIST. From the looks of things, it gave up the ghost at 9:17, which, once I started thinking about it, was right about the time I ran out of coffee.

Chastened and horrified that my laziness had evolved to this point-- that according to my watch I was essentially the shallow-breathing equivalent of a dresser or countertop-- I jumped up and got a proverbial move on. First I shook my arm around. A lot. Fuck a bunch of imperialistic, judgmental watches, anyway. And then I started cleaning out the pantry (I'll spare you the details of this, except to say that I found a glass bottle of wheat germ that expired in September of 1997, and when I opened the bottle the wheat germ inside coughed at me and asked for a piece of aspergum), and once I'd moved aside R's broken antique cell phone collection I found an unopened package that Scott and Michelle had sent me. For Christmas.

Almost three months ago they sent me a gift, and I NEVER SAID A FUCKING WORD ABOUT IT to them. Because it was sitting, unopened, behind thirteen Nokia flip phones.

I'd like to formally apologize to Scott and Michelle. My unappreciative rudeness is fueled by a complete lack of organization and not, as commonly thought, by bitch. Thank you for thinking of me, guys. If you ever need an extra cell phone cord, I've probably got one. 
¶ posted by Erin on Thursday, March 02, 2006