Eeeno's World

Erin, the Birthday Explorer

2010-06-07T06:48:00.001-07:00

Well, hello there! I know it's been a LONG time. Thought I'd jump back into the blogosphere with a photo diary of my Birthday Adventure.

My birthday was not for another 3 weeks, but with my friends and I all having competing weekend schedules, and me going through some very difficult times, a couple of my girlfriends decided to kidnap me on Sunday afternoon for a few hours of pre-birthday mystery craziness. These girls were PREPARED! Well, with the exception of our first stop... but we'll let that slide!

It started with "OK, well, what should I wear? Cute shoes, or comfy?" "Ummmm....like, cute comfy." (as if that combo exists in this plane of reality). "We'll be indoors and outdoors. There will be some walking. Not too much". So, I made something up (which consisted of grabbing whatever shirt was closest at the time, and throwing on some boots. I had a headache, and was really trying to rise to birthday-surprise level enthusiasm (but failing rather miserably). I figured we would stop off at a museum or something, wander around, then get dinner /drinks /dessert, and go home. WELL, there were 6 stops on this birthday cruise, and it took me about 4 of them to get warmed up.

As we left the house, I felt something being tied around my skull.
Enter: the cardboard "birthday queen" crown.

"Seriously? Do I really have to wear this?" "Yup." "Umm....for the whole t---" "Yup. Get used to it." Just as the idea of the "crown" was sinking in, they handed me my first "clue". (The actual clue card is in a Hollywood gutter somewhere)...

"a genetic trait that some say enhance the smile is what they are,

now it's time for you to be a star
so get in the car
and go to the bar
that's not very far
from where you work har(d)"

My first guess was a karaoke bar near work (obviously). "Nope!". My 2nd guess was a happy hour bar near work. "Nope!". After mulling over "genetic trait that enhances the smile", I finally came up with...."Ummm....a teeth-whitening bar???"

Finally, "Ohhhh---DIMPLES!!!!!! I get it!" Another karaoke bar near work.

Well, fail #1:
Dimples is...(notice Vanna White pointing)...

....CLOSED on Sunday.

So, I was forced to "sing" part of a Carrie Underwood song outside of the locked door, as a man stared from inside his car across the street. Our dance moves to "Before He Cheats" got us a few honks---don't hate.

Back in the car, time for clue #2:

I figured this one out immediately---the plant-covered dinosaurs at 3rd Street Promenade.

The Promenade was a hobo/street performer covered MESS (as usual)--we ran in and out of there as quickly as possible (well, a quickly as is possible when you're tripping over tourists, street performers, small dogs, etc.). We found the dinosaurs, but access was blocked by 2 huge trailers promoting Jada Pinkett's show "Hawthorne". Apparently they were giving out "medical services" because when we tried to pass through (keep in mind, I am still in "the crown"), we were stopped by a young guy in sky blue scrubs who says (in a perfectly sleazy Hollywood voice) "Sorry, girls. No more massages for the day--you can't walk through here". Friend 1 promptly announced "We are walking through".

As we march confidently through the mess of Hawthorne promotion, the scrubs guy thrusts a little card into my hands with a wink, and says "This is for YOU, birthday girl!". the front of the crappy little thing said something about (once again) "Hawthorne", and I thought "Really? You're going to give me a piece of crap little card that says 'Yay for TNT?' with a straight face?!" The answer was YES, he really was.

And he did.

So I thought "Well, there must be some kind of coupon for a free massage or something on the back of this since he said it was especially for the 'birthday girl'." Right? RIGHT. Well, there was definitely something *special*.... Meet my new pocket calorie counter! Message delivered: "Happy Birthday, FATTY. You may want to re-think any celebratory eating you're considering today".

Yes, seriously.

Your eyes do not deceive you....that IS a calorie-counter. Thank you, Hawthorne--I wasn't going to watch your show for the obvious reason (it looks terrible). But now I'm DEFINITELY not going to watch it.

We made it through the Hawthorne debacle, and snapped a quick pic with the dinosaur.

Pic w/dinosaur, check. Education re: calories contained in radishes, check.
Time for the next clue!

We head off towards the Santa Monica pier, where we encounter hurricane force winds. Literally. The pigeons and seagulls literally could not fly straight. They were being pushed backwards. It was crazy--crown would not stay on my head!

After 25 minutes of walking through "The Day After Tomorrow", the ferris wheel was (fail #2)....
closed due to winds.

So, I took a brief respite in the "safari car"....

...before we took much needed break inside Bubba Gump Shrimp Company for delicious shrimp dip, mojitos, and a pep talk from a 29 yr-old waitress (who, bless her heart, I sincerely hope looks older than I do).

Time for clue #4:

Back in the car for some Cat & Fiddle action.

If you look closely, you'll notice I'm pulling my best "cat" impersonation on this pole. Well, not my best, but what do you really expect from me on a lazy Sunday afternoon?!

None of us had ever been to the Cat & Fiddle, and pictured it as a dumpy dive bar for some reason. It was actually quite charming, and the outdoor patio feels vaguely European. Good times! Lavender champagne, and Irish coffee...Mmmmm....aren't they pretty?!

Time for Clue #5:

I thought we were going to Madame Tussaud's for a pic with my darling Matt Damon's wax likeness. I was wrong. Finally figured out we were looking for his STAR on the Hollywood walk of fame.

Somewhere between Cat & Fiddle and Hollywood/Highland, that coffee kicked in! It only took me 4 stops to warm up to this crown idea, and embrace it's cardboard supremacy. Better late than never! When we arrived at Hollywood/Highland, there was (needless to say) absolutely no parking ANYWHERE. After circling the crowded neighborhoods a few times, we pulled over, flipped the hazards on, and friend 2 and I jumped out of the car on a mad dash to find Matt Damon's name on the street (but not before we were accosted by ghetto Bugs Bunny).

Friend 1 had said (as a joke) "What if the address was wrong on Google, and we can't find him? We'll just have to pretend you really like.....um....Groucho Marx! Ha!".

Well, we did NOT find Matt Damon. We DID, however, find Groucho Marx almost immediately! Hilarious.

Friend 2 was barking orders at me, while snapping pics candid shots (like this one) that should never see the light of day:

"Erin, stand over here! Get between the Hollywood/Highland sign! Pose! Go! PEOPLE WE ARE TRYING TO TAKE A PICTURE HERE--------MOVE".

Mission finally accomplished.

I'm smiling awkwardly as creepy men (who think I'm a would-be actress, naive, and just having got off the bus from the Ozarks) walk by and say things like "Oooooh...You should be in a MAGAZINE!", and the dread-locked owner of a WIND CHIME KIOSK jumps into my pic, sticks his tongue and says, "I'm gonna make YOU a star!!!!"
Sure... I can tell that your wind chimes have a lot of pull with the studios, you weirdo.

Friend 2 and I run back to the car, where we shriekingly explain to Friend 1 that Damon's missing, but we found GROUCHO MARX!!! We're about to drive off into the sunset when we see....a Michael Jackson impersonator, band-aid on his nose and everything.

Friend 1:"Get out of the car! Go take a pic with him! Now! Get me in the pic!"

Superman left Harley Quinn's side to open the car door for me...

The Avatars looked like they'd been smoking the Na'vi peace pipe...

No Hollywood day is complete without a Faux Jack Sparrow.

Oh, Hollywood.

We escaped the madness---final clue time!

MICELLI'S!!!

Micelli's (for any of you who don't know) is a yummy Italian restaurant featuring waiters who sing...and usually sing WELL. They take turns singing live with a baby grand in the middle of the restaurant while you enjoy your penne pesto and cabernet. Lovely!

We all come from a long line of Micelli's lovers. In fact, the tall Caucasian waiter (below) and I have a bit of a history ;-) And by "history", I mean he likes to sing directly into my FACE, as my friends watch and laugh, and I turn a frightening shade of magenta.

Get it, girl! Blow out that candle! Time for Birthday wishes! More like birthday COMMANDS, b*tches!

All in all, it was a lovely experience, and a great way to start this new year. Big thank you to "Friend 1" and "Friend 2" for all of the thought and effort you put into this! Love you both <3

I'm coming back, I swear!

2010-04-15T08:33:00.000-07:00

Rest in Peace, Dad. I love you!

Hello! I know I've been MIA for quite awhile, but I will be coming back....with a vengeance. My 63 year-old father passed away very suddenly last month, and I'm still not ready to talk about it. I will be at some point, just not quite yet. There are so many unanswered questions, loose ends, etc. Extremely difficult.

In other news, it's time for me to make some BIG changes. Stay tuned, more to come....

Hits the nail on the head.

2010-03-01T11:58:00.001-08:00

Thank you, Hollywood, but some things should be left alone. Not everything can/should be "improved"!

For your enjoyment:
Lyrics below...

There comes a time (eh)
When we heed a certain call (eh)
and the world must come together as one

There were people singing
some famous but most not
a big swing that didn’t work at all

We Are The World
Was good the first time
But this remake
It was a big mistake
But well intentioned

It just seemed chaotic
And so disorganized
Most people wouldn’t take off their sunglasses. Hey!

This hurts again
Though good intentioned
Though hey, come on
I think I saw Vince Vaughn
And that’s Jeff Bridges

The host of the solos
Was cheaply autotuned
And the whole thing seemed to frighten Justin Bieber

Their strength was more
These people meant well
But tell me who
Is this weird dude
Right in the front row

There was someone’s baby
And a man who’s now in jail. Woah whoa whoa WHOA!
A guy who everyone hates
And Wyclef’s great yell!

Oooh and standing in the back
The icing on the cake
Next to Vince Vaughn
Could that be Farnsworth Bentley?

Yes we confirm
It’s Farnsworth Bentley
He was the fella
Who held the umbrella for P. Diddy (ella, ella)

We were there I tell you
‘Twas like a glimpse of hell
If everyone in hell smelled like weed

We Are The World
Was good the first time
But this retake
Was like that bad remake
They did of Psycho

Which oh my God
That had Vince Vaughn too
It all make sense
It all makes sense
It all makes sense now

We Are The World
Was good the first time ….

"Oh hey, Kayla. WAIT......"

2010-02-16T17:47:00.000-08:00

Have you ever noticed that a lack of sleep and/or extreme stress can have an, ahem, *interesting* effect on your verbal skills? Or cause the filter between your inner monologue and what actually comes out of your mouth to temporarily altogether vanish?

Studies have found that sober drivers who drive while exhausted perform as if they were driving drunk. I recently had an experience that left me wondering if sober people who attempt social interaction while exhausted ALSO perform as if they were intoxicated (well, minus the "You're like, my besssssst friend. You're soooooooooooo pretty!" part).

A few weeks ago, I had an unfortunate incident with my baby puppy. Yes, she's two and a half years old, but she will ALWAYS be my baby! Long story short (after about 5 trips to the vet), she needed surgery. It was very painful for her, painful for my wallet, and painful for both of our sleep cycles. I didn't sleep for about 3 days---had to lay on the floor next to her to make sure she didn't wake up in too much pain, or get hooked on bedroom furniture with her "lampshade cone collar". By the way, God bless you, single parents! It was a challenge to get through those few weeks with a PET, much less a child! But, I digress.

For one of her three follow-up appointments, I had sped home after work to grab her, and rushed over to the vet to squeeze in a check-up before they closed.

As I was standing at the counter holding my dog in one hand, my purse and pet meds in the other (waiting nervously to hear how many paychecks this little adventure was going to cost me), I saw a platinum blond woman to my right.
The following two thoughts occurred simultaneously in my sleep-deprived mind:
"Oh, I know that girl.", and "She looks exactly like one of my co-workers".

These two separate thoughts prompted me to immediately wave at this woman, and say "HI!!!!" with gusto and enthusiasm. I was so excited/relieved to see what I (sleepily) perceived as a familiar face in a stressful situation!

When I received a hesitant half-smile in return, the part of my brain that normally would have prevented this whole exchange from happening in the first place (had it not been exhaustion-drunk) sounded the "Hmm...something's not right with our facial recognition function today" alarm. Apparently, the "Look away while you try to figure out where you know this girl from" part of my brain was STILL asleep since I continued to stare at her, puzzled, with my head-cocked to one side as my mental wheels spun furiously. I was completely perplexed until it hit me---YES, I DO "know" this woman...she's Kayla Radomski, one of the final four contestants on last season's "So You Think You Can Dance".

And she DOES look like one of my co-workers. Neither one of these facts make us personal friends. Whoops.

By this time, she's starting to look a bit uncomfortable. This is understandable--being stared at by a frazzled stranger who's squinting at you with her hands full is probably a bit disconcerting. So next out of my super-smooth mouth comes:

"And I JUST realized why I thought I knew you".

And............SCENE. That was it. That was all I said. Then she got taken to an exam room, I paid my bill, and left.

No "Sorry! I'm so tired, and you look like my friend. I just realized you're from SYTYCD! Your performance of Mia Michael's 'Addiction' dance was absolutely inspired. How's your dancing coming?" Nope! Nothing like that. Nothing that made any sense whatsoever. Just an awkward "Hi!", followed by head-cocked staring, followed by "I just realized why I thought I knew you". And, OUT.

My roommate and I were avid "So You Think You Can Dance" followers during Kayla's season, so when I got home and relayed my embarrassing tale, she just about died laughing while repeatedly yelling, "That's all you said? That's ALL YOU SAID???!! You IDIOT!".

So, Kayla, if you're out there, sorry for the awkward confusion. We loved your dancing, and I hope whatever pet ailment brought you to the vet is healthily resolved.

Friends don't let friends leave the house when exhausted.

I present to you: Krav Maga Master, Floppy the Fish

2010-01-26T13:35:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Phoenix for her "Little Crane/Kung Fu" post that reminded me of a very painful memory. I will share it with you all (so that you may laugh heartily at my expense), because I am that awesome. Let's get the laughter started by looking at the above pic of me with my red face, and erotic mouthguard. Here we go...

It was a typical weeknight; a girlfriend and I were in the middle of a Krav Maga Level 2 class. My friend is as pale/melanin challenged as I am (YAY, IRELAND!), and Krav is an incredibly physical, intense workout. Combine these two facts, and you get a double dose of exhausted, sweaty girls with purple faces. The sexy factor is sky high (and by "sky high", I mean non-existent).

On this particular evening, we were being instructed by a man who had recently become one of our favorite teachers. In fact, I will admit that I was developing a little crush on him (which makes the rest of this story doubly painful). He was (and IS) an excellent instructor--intelligent, courteous, thorough, great at explaining corrections, and practically perfect when it comes to executing the actual form (which is just HOT). Great--I can already hear his head swelling.... Anyway, I'm a sucker for the aforementioned qualities, but was trying my best to ignore my growing attraction, as I was in a relationship at the time.

He began teaching us a defense against takedowns, which I will ***attempt*** to verbally explain. Standing face-to-face with a partner, you put each other in a clinch position (your hands locked around your partner's neck, and vice versa). Next, you take turns trying to dive for your partner's legs (causing them to fall backwards onto the floor, whereupon you would mount them and pummel their face, UFC-style. You know---just typical girl stuff..HA!). The defense involves immediately jumping your legs backwards the second your partner dives for them, while putting all of your weight into your arms (and therefore, onto your partner's neck). Hopefully that made some sort of sense...

My partner and I were having serious issues with this technique, as we both have neck problems. There was no WAY I could imagine putting all 100-and-something lbs. of me onto the neck of a female friend who is my size! We stood there looking very hesitant till said instructor came over to help us.

Instructor: "What are you having trouble with?"

Me: "I don't want to put all of my weight on her neck."

Friend (as if a truck is about to be driven over her neck--gee, thanks): "YEAH!"

Instructor: "Why? It's fine! You just saw me do it to that guy 10 times, and he survived. You'll be fine. Let's go."

Me (starting to feel really lame): "I know, but he's big, with a big neck, and she and I both have neck problems..I'm just worried..."

Instructor: "Ok, Erin, try it on me first. Put me in the clinch."

By the way, my partner and I were at the front of the room, where the rest of class could plainly see us. I hesitantly lock my fingers behind his neck...I'm already starting to turn an even darker shade of red-purple.

Instructor (his words muffled from the edge of my collarbone): "Ok, GO!"

I jump my legs back at the waist, keeping my weight in my legs (not on his neck). The idea is to make your body as straight as a board, with all of your weight in your arms. I was jumping back with my legs, but my body was in an upside-down "L" shape--not a straight line.

Instructor: "NOOO---Erin, listen to me. I didn't say 'bend over at the waist', I said 'jump your legs back, and put all of your weight on me'! Now do it! Let's go!"

I make a 2nd attempt. It's as pathetic as the first. Friend is starting to snicker. I'm feeling flustered. It's puzzling for both of us because I'm usually a very quick study. This was the first time that I just could NOT wrap my head around a technique. I can sense that he's becoming frustrated with me, and that makes me even more discombobulated.

Instructor: "ERIN. Stop being afraid! My neck can handle this. Seriously. I'm going to count to 3, and if you don't do it right on 3, I'm going to take you down so you see what you're trying to avoid. 1.....2....3!!!"

I JUMP. I jump back with all of my might! And I did it RIGHT---my body was straight as a board, and it was a thing of beauty! One slight problem....my conscience just wouldn't let me put my weight on his neck. So, with my infinite compassion and care for others, I LET GO OF HIS NECK to prevent injuring him.

My "straight as a board" perfect form hit the floor face-first--- so hard that it knocked the wind out of me, and I literally didn't know what happened. I felt my entire body slam against the floor, then bounce.

My disoriented inner monologue: "What? Why am I--what?! OUCH. Can't. Breathe. Am I on the floor? What just happened- oh my God. My boobs HURT!!!!! Everyone is staring. I think I just lost a bra size. Get up as quickly as possible, and act cool! Wait---which way is up?"

The first thing I see when I lift my head up is my "friend" sliding down the wall laughing. She is laughing so hard that she literally has to lean against the wall for support. I repeat, she is SLIDING DOWN THE WALL, LAUGHING. Her face is contorted into a shape I've never seen. It's bad.

Next, I turn my head to see our instructor crouched down by my face, staring at me, mouth open, with this look of utter confusion mixed with absolute DISDAIN/disgust/horror/any other embarrassing thing you can think of. I jump up, and try to act casual. It didn't quite look as casual as planned, as I immediately lose my balance, wobble, and almost fall back down. My chest is on FIRE, and my face is a shade of purple that's never before been seen in the human species.

Disapproving instructor: "That had to hurt."

Me (speaking as fast as possible because that makes it much more convincing, right?): "Umm..what-no-I'm-fine-no-big-deal-I'm-totally-fine-Totally-fine."

Friend has slidden all the way down the wall by this point, and is sitting on the floor trying to catch her breath. She has TEARS running down her face from laughing so hard. She points at me, and tries to say something, but can't get it out without dissolving back into stomach-cramping laughter.

Instructor (DRIPPING with DISDAIN): "Don't FLOP like a FISH!!!!!!"

Then he walked away, and finished teaching class. It was absolutely petrifying.

Long story short, it must've been somewhat endearing, as that instructor and I started dating, and have been together for a couple of years now. Yes, he gets to date all of THIS (motions up and down to oneself). After we had been together for a couple of months, I finally got the courage to tell him how humiliated I was by the look of disdain on his face, and the "Don't flop like a fish!" comment.

Super Lucky Boyfriend: "It wasn't disdain...I was just trying not to crack up in front of the class. Honestly, in all of my years of teaching, I had never seen someone so talented do something so utterly retarded!"

Thanks, babe. I was trying to save your neck.

I did it.

2010-01-17T18:08:00.001-08:00

After 7 years of thinking and talking about it, I finally filled out my paperwork to volunteer at a domestic violence shelter, and mailed it! Seven YEARS. Way to move on that one, Erin! I've had my reasons, but I'm ready now.

There were options on the forms to state what you'd be interested in helping with--one of them being "exercise instructor". Krav, anyone??! Dance?

I'm really excited. Either I love it, and will be off to school to get an MSW degree, or law school, or I I realize it's not for me, and find my niche elsewhere. I can't imagine the latter being the case though. We'll see!

2010!! A new DECADE.

2010-01-05T11:18:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you, but I could not be more excited for a new decade!

2009 was not my favorite year...nor was 2008, or 2007. GOODBYE.

The last few years have been a learning and growing process for me, and "growing" can be a painful experience. Probably the biggest lesson I've learned is to never settle--no matter how scary/daunting/impossible choosing the right path may seem.

I have many goals this year---first and foremost is to get on a career path that I love, (or one that affords me the time and resources to pursue what I love on the side). Second, to get healthy (this means cutting out the foods I recently discovered I'm allergic too---hello, Paleo diet!, and committing myself to getting back to Krav Maga and dance). Third, to follow my HEART---this means piano, and lots of it. This also includes worrying less, having a lot more FUN (!!!), and minimizing the importance of the word "should" in my life....I KNOW what's right and wrong. Making decisions because I "should", or based on what others may think is out--goodbye! Fourth, to make a conscious effort to be a blessing to others on a daily basis, including finally volunteering with victims of domestic violence like I've been talking about for years. And finally, fifth, just DO IT! No matter how "scary", no matter how seemingly impossible, no matter how tired, etc. Get it DONE.

And that's where I'm at for year 1 of this awesome new decade. How are you guys?

THANKSgiving.

2009-12-08T14:08:00.000-08:00

I've been absent from the blogosphere for awhile---a mixture of busy holiday/work schedules, being sick for a couple of weeks (I got to swallow a tube so the doctor could see my vocal chords! Pretty proud of myself for that one), family emergency, and just general reluctance. Moving on...

It was the night after Thanksgiving, and boyfriend, his son, and I were at his Dad's house for their annual Thanksgiving extravaganza. 56 people, 5 kids, and a dog. Somewhere between making pink playdough sharks, playing "She had the scissors first, this is how we wait our turn" referee, turkey, and pumpkin cookies, I got into a discussion with one of the women there about a CNN special on "everyday heroes". We got to talking about charities, and how one person's convictions and actions (no matter how small they may initially seem) can lead to extraordinary events that change/save countless lives. This woman is currently volunteering for an organization that helps victims of abuse, and abused children. Which brings me to this....

CALLING MYSELF OUT: I have wanted to volunteer with domestic violence victims for years now. Initially, I'd like to help out in any way possible--whatever they need. Ultimately, I would love to offer Krav Maga classes to abuse victims who are in shelters, and/or trying to muster the courage to leave their abusers. I could also easily teach some type of art/music/dance class to victim's children (as I firmly believe in the healing power of creativity, and having a creative outlet). BUT........I haven't. I have contacted a couple of organizations, but either haven't had the time to commit to their minimum hours requirements, or haven't heard back from them, and didn't pursue it. So, although I've been feeling pulled to get involved with this issue for years, I haven't followed through. In all honesty, I think a part of me is scared to get involved---scared that I could become jaded by all of the atrocities I would see, scared that once I see the depth of the problem, I'll be sucked in for life (unable to sit back and do nothing once I actually SEE what's going on).

For the record, I have no idea why this type of abuse brings up such strong feelings within me--I didn't witness it growing up, and am not a victim myself. I saw a video on domestic abuse in my college "Women's Studies" course, and it absolutely chilled me to the core. That feeling has haunted me ever since. Such a feeling of utter helplessness. Horrifying. It's a vicious cycle---children who have witnessed domestic violence most likely will either choose a partner who is abusive, or will become abusers themselves. And so it continues....

I once heard a pastor say that everyone has a calling (obviously), but if there's an injustice that you just can't STAND, then there's a reason, and you have an obligation to take a stand to fix it. Makes sense to me---people are naturally more effective and successful in areas that they're passionate about. So, I've got some work to do.

Back to Thanksgiving. The woman at the party was telling me how one of the kids she'd worked with sent her a card with that famous starfish story about how although throwing one shore-stranded starfish back into the sea may just seem like a drop in the bucket, to that one starfish it means everything! The girl wrote that she "was that one starfish".

As I was sitting there sipping my coffee in a warm home, surrounded by happy people, children's laughter, pets, and a 2-table dinner spread, it suddenly hit me: We have SO MUCH to be thankful for in this country. Now, I know this. I KNOW. We hear it constantly. At Thanksgiving we're supposed to think about all of the things we're thankful for, blah blah blah, and I do. But this year, sitting there in the warm house, thinking about how some people have to walk for two DAYS just to fill a rusted pail with muddy water (that will eventually make their waiting family ill), how some children spend their lives scavenging through garbage dumps and will never have the simple luxury of squishing a playdough shark, how many people in the world would have DIED from the sinus infection I was getting over (when all that was needed to clear it was a $12 co-pay on some easily accessible antibiotics that I didn't even have to get out of the CAR to obtain--thank you drive-thru pharmacy), the true meaning of Thanksgiving hit me. THANKS.

To those who have been given much, much is expected.

My infamous inappropriate manicurist experience.

2009-11-16T14:01:00.000-08:00

It was a foggy day in June, and my birthday was rapidly approaching. After a long day at work, I decided it was time to treat myself to a much-deserved mani/pedi. I have a place that I usually go to (the home of the "ghost bite"), but they had just opened up a new location that was closer. I thought, "Hmmm...closer, same amenities, newer equipment. I'll try the new one!". I figured that some of the original location's staff would probably be at this one, but when I walked in, I was greeted by a man who looked like a cross between Adam Lambert and that Korean pop singer "Rain".

Apparently their new location is more "hip"? I don't see even ONE familiar face. There goes my theory that I may see someone I know. Booo. Oh well.

It's a weekday afternoon, and they're pretty slow. I follow Glambert Rain to the back of the salon. Fyi, he doesn't smile. Ever. I think smiling could potentially cause a crack in his mass of product/spike-wave hair? I'm greeted by two not-so-friendly-looking women who gesture toward the spa pedicure chair with half-enthusiasm. It is important to note that I was wearing a white, somewhat low-cut V-neck t-shirt. This will be important later.

Glambert never offered me magazines (not to mention my "complimentary mocha"--the NERVE!!!), and I didn't see any lying around, so I thought, "Well, I'll just take this opportunity to relax, and spend some much-needed time away from celebrity 'news' ".

The woman working on my toes looked like the women from the other location---very little makeup, plain straight haircut, etc. The woman/girl working on my hands was more of the Tokyo Glambert type--same shaggy/spikey hair on top, but longer in the back, and dyed an awkwardly unnatural bright auburn. Very reminiscent of Gwen Stefani's "Harajuku Girls", or one of Fergie's knock-off trashier Harajuku girls 2.0--fashionable, visible tattoo, etc. These two also do not smile, and Harajuku is actually a bit intimidating!

Everything's going fine, I'm relaxing, they're not speaking to me, they do not seem happy to be working with Glambert the Non-Smiler. We're at my favorite part...the MASSAGE. Best. Thing. EVER. All of a sudden, Harajuku speaks:

Harajuku Girl (while massaging my hand, with a slight head nod toward me): "Yur boo luh neye."

Me (Oh no, here we go...): "What?"

HG: "Yur boo. Dey luh neye."

Me: "I'm sorry....what?"

HG (forceful this time..I'm a little scared..B-A-N-A-N-A-S!): "Yur Boo. BOO!"

I'm wildly running through the options of words that could possibly sound like "boo"....Books, maybe? OH--She's referencing the trash tabloid mags! Just as I'm about to respond, I realize that Glambert the Non-Smiler failed to offer me any magazines, so I don't have any. That can't be what she means. Just as I'm about to go in for my 3rd "What", she vaguely gestures towards my chest.

HG: "BOOOOOO. Boo! Luh neyeeeeee..."

Oh. My. God. Is she saying what I think she's saying? She pointed to my chest...Really?! Nooooo..it can't be.

Me (laughing/turning red): "My...boobs?"

HG: "Nyah. Dey luh neye. Wuh sighee?"

Me (still in shock): "Oh, uhh, thanks! What?"

HG (still massaging my hand): "Wuh sighee? Nnndee?? NnDee?"

Me: "D! Why yes, actually. But, you know, thirty-FOUR 'D', so...uh..you know, that's smaller than like a thirty-SIX 'D', umm...but..yeah."

HG (still massaging): "Dey luh neye. Dey uhreer? Uhreer? Dey uhreer?"

Me: "Yes, they're real".

HG: "Luh neye. Dey luh soff. Luh guh. Neye."
(Btw, in case you're lost, that's "Look nice. They look soft. Look good. Nice.")

Me: "Wow. Umm...thanks."

The rest of the salon/spa experience was ruined for two reasons: 1) I was uncomfortable because after the conversation above, Harajuku kept giving me the sexy eyes, and I swear she slipped in a couple of subtle eye winks. She obviously wanted to have my babies. 2) I couldn't wait to get out of hearing distance and call the boyfriend to let him know that he has some major competition.

It was AMAZING.

Uninspired, with a side of pity party.

2009-11-10T22:05:00.000-08:00

Feeling generally uninspired today. Oh heck--let's be honest...Been feeling uninspired for the last week and a half. Don't know what to write about, but need to force myself to write....So here goes.

I think I'll rant a big selfish blurb of "Negative BLAH", to be followed with a blurb of "Positive YAY!"

BLAH: Time Warner. Elbow that's been injured for exactly 2 years this week, completely interfering with martial arts training, and exercise. Going back to Krav training for the first time in 2 years, only to find that a) you've forgotten 80% of your training, b) where you used to be fearless, and excited to try new things, you now back away from the group exercises, seeing nothing but the injury potential from all of the spastic beginner student's flailing elbows and feet. When your father (upon hearing the news that you've just been elected the first female U.S. President) would probably respond with, "My GOD--your SISTERS are GORGEOUS!". Credit card rates. Coworkers who play inappropriate R&B songs while the rest of us are trying to actually work...think R. Kelly singing in falsetto "Girl, take yo pants off, before I get through that door, 'cause I'm gon' take you on the floor, and make you scream, til we do it again...uh...uh...UH (heavy breathing, with some moans thrown in there for good measure)", etc. Cancer. Cancer in CHILDREN. The 11 year-old granddaughter of my self-proclaimed adopted Godparents going in for a very dangerous, extremely strong round of chemo, AGAIN. The fact that this December will mark 2 years that she's been battling a form of cancer/tumor that's (from what I can make of all the scientific terminology) wrapped around her ear canal, attached to part of her brain, and pressures a facial nerve that causes her little angel face to droop like that of a stroke patient. My Nana having a stroke last week. Jury duty the week of Thanksgiving. Best childhood friend dealing with her 2 year-old being hospitalized possibly having cancer? Car problems. Ex-wives. Wanting to be able to provide for my mom (who REALLY deserves to be pampered for the rest of her life), but not being in a position to be able to do so yet. Birth-control side effects. Families coping with special-needs children, and watching the endless responsibility strain their marriage. Having given up piano for so many years that playing again is both daunting and discouraging. Losing faith in certain organizations. Losing faith in humanity. Sore throats. Allergies. My baby doggy having tummy issues today. Knowing you should've a) never settled re: schools, b) left after the first semester at said school. Death of my PC.

Ok, there it is! It's all out there! It's just been one of those WEEKS, capped off with one of those DAYS...

Moving on...
Finding the POSITIVE in it, declining to RSVP for the pity party.

YAY: Time Warner's total lack of efficiency gave me some GREAT material to re-create on my Vlog (which I will be starting as soon as I get a new computer). GREAT material. At least I HAVE my arm---I'm sure that amputee servicemen/women would be happy to have my "owie arm", and the ability to do what I can in Krav, no matter how small. With the forced "coworker music appreciation days", at least I'm being exposed to lots of music I can use for a (Borat voice) "CD of the musics for the SEXY TIME". Or, a personal soundtrack if I take up pole dancing. The possibilities are endless!! The family stuff I will never understand, and won't attempt to in a public forum. My dad has a genius I.Q., so at least I got those genes in the package. With college, I made friends who are irreplaceable, and learned the hard way to never settle, and always trust myself. I WILL be able to pamper my Mom someday soon. Credit card rates can't follow you to the After Life. Birth control side-effects are preferred over birth control failure. The little girl with brain cancer has been a blessing to everyone around her, has inspired countless people, and is still HERE fighting the fight! She also has one of the most amazing families I've ever had the pleasure of knowing, and the resources to seek the best medical care. My friend's little boy has NOT been actually diagnosed with the C word. My Nana comes from a long line of strong women, and if anyone can push through a stroke like a champ, it's her. I doubt if a public courthouse will be open on Thanksgiving, so that lessens my chances of being called downtown for jury duty. If I do get called downtown, it will be a welcome departure from ****(fill in the blank till I'm free to write about my experiences--which, btw, is going to be HILARIOUS when I can actually do it...you follow?). I don't have an ex-wife. Hopefully from witnessing so many painful divorces, I'll be more equipped to avoid divorce someday myself. After riding the subway a few weeks ago, I'm happy to a) have a car even if it's having issues, and b) have a car that doesn't smell like the subway. My doggy still has an appetite, and is happily playing with her little dog roommate friend. The piano skill will return--it's just going to take some hard work and dedication on my part. Death of the PC was eminent...it's old. Now I will be forced to somehow get another computer, and I'll be able to VLOG. Frozen yogurt (totally irrelevant, but a definite "positive"). And finally, my faith in humanity will be restored when someone lets me over on the freeway tomorrow, or says a simple "Thank you!" when I hold the door open for them. Of course, being that this is LA, and apparently there were only 8 other people in this county whose Mom's raised them with manners, it may be another 3-4 days before my faith is restored ;-)

Hang in there, everyone.

No thank you, Time Warner.

2009-11-07T14:59:00.000-08:00

You've probably been wondering why it's been so quiet on my blog and newly formed Twitter account...Hopefully it hasn't been keeping you up at night.

I got up early Wednesday morning (as part of my new commitment to myself that I will get up early and practice piano for at least 45 minutes, 5 times per week). I sipped my French Vanilla Coffee Bean coffee from my tall, sky blue snowman mug (which I love almost as much as my over-sized Tinkerbell mug) between songs, opened the blinds to let in the beautiful sunrise, finished my piano session, and headed upstairs to get ready for work. Btw, piano is electric--I use my headphones, and voila--silent piano! No neighbors/ears were harmed in the making of this piano practice.

Back upstairs, turn on computer to check the email, pay a bill, read the morning's updated Facebook statuses, write some inane blurb of nonsense on Twitter, etc...

"Internet Explorer cannot display this webpage".

Seriously?

I try again. Same result. I'm trying to fight the panic slowly rising through my chest. I think "Well, maybe it's just an MSN problem. I'll just type in a different address, and bypass MSN".

Nope.

I begin the awesome process of unplugging the modem, the router, restarting the computer. I wait about 10 minutes for the computer to restart (yes, it's a PC dinosaur, and it's dying. Just moving the mouse throws it into a tizzy of never ending hourglasses). Hook everything back up, double-click the IE icon and........nothing.

I go to work, disheartened, rush home, try it all again, nothing. I'm left with no choice... I have to (cue Mozart's "Requiem" here) CALL Time Warner.

NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

All of the TW operators have a personal catchphrase:

Operator 1 = "Full name? Address? Last 4 of your social? What can I help you with? I can definitely help you out with that. I can totally help you out with fixing that. I'm glad you called, because I can definitely take a look at that. Look at your modem. Do you see where it says 'power'? Is there a light on there? Oh there is? Hmmm....so it is plugged in. Ok, here's what I'm gonna do for you. I need to transfer you to Tech Support Level 2, and they can totally help you out with that".

Operator 2 = "Full name? Address? Last 4 of your social? What can I help you with? Oh, hmm...do you see your modem? Do you see where it says 'power'? Is there a light on there? Oh there IS? Hmmm.....so you're sure it's plugged in. Okay, here's what I'm gonna do. I need your email address. Let's see...Erin Kelly...that's Kelly like ....Kilo like K, E like.....uh...E, Lima, Lima, and....Oscar" . <-----Please take a moment to fully realize the genius of the completely unnecessary phonetic spelling FAIL. In case you are having a slow day, he couldn't figure out a word for "E", and gave me an "O" for the "Y". Kello. Plus, why would he need my email address? Was he going to email me instructions on how to fix my internet via...the internet?? Riiiiight.

Over an hour later, my phonetic spell failer has come to the conclusion that the problem lies not with their modem or service, but with my computer's network interface card. He tells me to call Dell. That's a huge Whitney Houston style "Oh HELL to the NO"!! I'd steal one of Nadya Suleman's kids, sell it on the black market, and use the money to buy a Mac before I'd call Dell in India. But thanks.

I hang up frustrated and discouraged. Since my computer is a) a PC, and b) old, it's entirely possible that Mr. "Kello" is correct. This is bad news. Roommate brings her new laptop into my room. We disconnect the router completely, plug connect her laptop directly to the modem (that I've just spent an hour being told is working properly).

Fast forward 30 minutes, her laptop cannot connect to the internet either. Time for another soul-withering call to TW.

Operator 3 = "Full name? Address? Last 4 of your social? What can I help you with? Is there a light where it says 'power'? You need Tech support 2."

Operator 4 = "Full name? Address? Last 4 of your social? What can I help you with? Is there a light where where it says 'power'? There is? Hmm... well, I can fix it for you from where I stand. (What? They stand at their computers? Catchphrase FAIL) Ok, you're tring to connect to the router, which is going through the computer with the broken NIC card. So unplug the router. Oh--you already did that? Perhaps, the NIC cards on both of your computers randomly went bad on the same night. Oh, the laptop is brand new? I don't think it's a problem with our service. Well, let me try something else. I think I'll be able to fix it from where I stand. Is there a light where it says 'power' on your router? No? We've been through this same scenario 15 times already and you already unplugged the router because you have an I.Q. that made it into the triple digits? OH. I'm having trouble fixing this from where I stand. I'm going to transfer you to a different Tech Support, which I can do from where I stand".

Operator 5 = "Full name? Address? Last 4 of your social? What can I help you with? Ma'am I'm very sorry about this. I'm very sorry that 2 and a 1/2 hours of your lives have been spent on the phone with this. I'm very sorry. Let me ask you something...look at the front of your modem. There should be a little light under where it says 'power'. Is that light on? Oh it is?! Ma'am, I'm very sorry but I can see that our Time Warner signal is going through to your computers just fine. Perhaps both of your computers broke overnight? Oh, you don't think that's likely since one is brand new? Oh. Ma'am, I'm very sorry. I'm going to have to send a technician out to you. Today is Wednesday...I can send someone out on Friday, between 12-2. Oh, you both work? Oh...hmm...Then Monday evening. I'm very sorry that you'll be without service for 6 days, ma'am, very sorry."

So there it is. 3 hours of my/roommate's lives GONE, and still no service for at least 6 days. And to add insult to injury, I was home sick on Friday. Being home sick without functioning internet MUST be what the Catholics describe as "purgatory". This blog comes to you via boyfriend's computer (that I hijacked for my desperate internet fix).

Time Warner, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!

My life with Pearl Jam, Part 2: THE video

2009-11-01T20:12:00.000-08:00

Forewarning: Attempting to express my feelings regarding the depth of this song and performance in a written format is probably a futile effort. When I try to explain the passion behind this performance in person, it inevitably becomes a giant pile of rambling words and hand gestures, with every sentence ending in "It's just...so GOOD! SO GOOD!!!!" (with huge, excited, imploring eyes). But, I will **attempt** to explain why the following video blows me away.

As you know from my previous Pearl Jam post, I began listening to Pearl Jam again (following a 15 year hiatus) after boyfriend decided he wanted to go to their L.A. concert. I quickly rediscovered the song "Black"---only this time it was very different.

I had liked this song in Jr. High because of the haunting melody, and the background "do do doo do do do doooo" towards the end. However, I had absolutely ZERO comprehension of it's emotional magnitude at the young age of 12--I had never been in love, never lost a love, and couldn't identify with anything other than liking the melody.

For me, there are artists who have vocal talent, artists who may not have the best voice (and/or are terrible live) but have incredible passion, and the elite few who have BOTH. I, personally, would take a performance from someone with passion over a vocally-perfect-but-emotionally-uninformed performance any day. If you are singing about losing the love of your life, you better be FEELING that loss, or it's just a waste of creativity, and a slap in the face to the songwriter.

That said, either Eddie Vedder deserves an Academy Award, or the events that inspired this song were still incredibly raw when he gave this performance. This video gives me goosebumps. Stick with it---he's a little shaky in the beginning, but it gets better as it goes along, and the end is ridiculous. Watch his FACE, watch his body, watch his tortured death-grip on that mic.

For anyone who has ever endured a painful breakup, or unrequited love (this is not me, of course, as I am incredibly desirable <---sarcasm), these lyrics absolutely hit the nail on the head.

My favorite lines:

The sarcastic bitterness~
"And all I taught her was everything (that's ALL)..."

The metaphor of love as art~
"Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay"-- When you're "in love", and you can see yourself with that person for a long time, it's exciting! The world is your oyster, life is colorful and blooming, you can paint/sculpt your future together, etc.

UNTIL...~
"All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...All the love gone bad turned my world to black..Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I will be"-- Game OVER. The colors are gone, the future is gone, everything is tainted, lifeless, and poisoned.

"How quick the sun can, drop away"---one minute everything is fine, then GONE. The bottom drops out, the candle is snuffed, and you're left to navigate through the darkness alone.

"And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything"~
I love this line because it captures so many emotions in one sentence--- the anger/bitterness, the downtrodden attempt to literally pick up the pieces, the brokenness of the relationship and the heart, the pain of picking up the shards of "everything" (like handing broken glass), and the use of "cradle" to illustrate the desperate tenderness still felt despite the mess and loss.

And finally, the line that hit me like a ton of bricks:
"I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a star"-- He still believes she's worth it, and knows she'll move on and find happiness...then he throws the lyrical curve ball, digs the knife in, and twists with, "in SOMEBODY ELSE'S SKY but why, why, WHY can't it be, can't it be mine??? WE belong TOGETHER...together..."

My GOD. Am I the only one who thinks this man is a genius?

LARF.

2009-10-30T08:34:00.001-07:00

Certain pick-up lines create a mixed sensation in one's body. I have coined a phrase to describe it: Larfing.

Larfing is what happens when a situation is so ridiculous, you want to laugh, but at the same time, are so disgusted that you'd like to vomit simultaneously. Laugh+vomit didn't produce a viable hybrid, so I went with laugh+barf.

For example, my friend's girlfriend was moved to larf when she experienced the following at the gym:

Random guy she's not interested in speaking to: "Yo, girl. Whatcho name? I go by CRUNCH."

I was moved to larf last night as I was running down Hollywood/Highland in a mad dash to the press screening of "The Blind Side".

***Side note---Go see "The Blind Side" when it comes out on November 20. I LOVED it. I will definitely be seeing it again, and now I have to buy a Baltimore Ravens shirt (if you don't understand why, you will after you see it).***

As I was flying by, I heard the following:

Random guy showing off for his 3 friends: "Mmmmmmm....Girl, on a scale of 1 to 10, how much do you want me?? 9.5? 9.25?"

I ran up the stairs, desperately trying to move quickly, while avoiding tripping on my unnaturally long scarf, and I could still hear him yelling behind me, "Girl, just be honest wit yo-self! 9.9? 9.35?"

LARF.

Everybody go outside--there's something dead in here.

2009-10-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

Winter was just around the corner--it was one of those Southern California Fall days...you know---the kind where it SHOULD be about 48 degrees, and a bit "blustery" like the fall weather in Winnie the Pooh books. Yes, I am referencing Winnie the Pooh, because that is where I'm at this morning. I'm feeling like the jaded, cranky L.A. version of Eeyore today---please just go with it.

Anyway, it was early December, 5:40 p.m., and about 88 degrees outside (because nothing screams "Merry almost Christmas!!!" like bikini weather). My friend Breanna and I head to our favorite Krav Maga (Israeli Hand-to-Hand combat/Yeah, we're kind of badass) class. We walked into the building, checked in with the blank-faced girl at the front desk, and made our way to our classroom. We were a little bit early---there was only one other student there (we'll call him "Ted"). Ted seemed like a pretty nice man, probably early forties? He was sitting in the corner, stretching his hamstrings.

We opened the glass door. The second our feet hit the rubber mats we were absolutely full-on assaulted with STENCH. It was as if we had walked into an invisible wall of foul. We both stumbled backwards, hands instinctively fly upwards to cover our mouths and noses.

Me: "Oh my G--"

Breanna: "HOLY MOTHER OF.... oh my GO---"

Together: "What IS that??!"

We run out of the room faster than we've ever run during class. What??!! Shhhhh...don't tell our instructors.

Anyway, our instructor walks towards us with a knowing look. I can tell by his face that he's painfully aware...

Instructor: "Don't go in there!!!! You guys went in there, didn't you?"

Me and Breanna talking over each other/nodding our heads wildly: "OhMyGodItIsSoTerribleDisgustingWhatHappenedVomitWe'reGaggingOhMyGodWHY?"

Instructor: "I know--it's horrific. I don't know how Ted is sitting in there! I think there may be a dead rat in the rafters or something. We're gonna look right now. Just stay out here till we figure it out."

In hindsight, we should've been tipped off by the fact that we had been in that classroom less than 24 hours prior (taking a class the night before), and it did NOT smell.....but that did not cross our stench-clouded minds.

Two instructors enter the Room of Doom with a stepladder, and begin pushing the ceiling tiles up, and poking their heads inside (<----wow~perfect set up for a "that's what she said". Yikes). Their search yields no results.

They start pulling up the rubber floor mats...looking for??? I'm not sure what kind of dead rat would be small enough to fit in a 1/8 of an inch space between concrete and the rubber floor, but....bless their hearts, they were looking. Surprisingly, they did NOT discover a Secret River of Stank under the mats, so they gave up and asked us to wait outside, and keep all of our fellow students from coming into the room. They send Ted out to wait with us.

Instructor: "There's something dead in here somewhere, and we can't find it, but it's NASTY. So, everyone line up, we're gonna take 3 laps around the parking lot, then continue class in the parking garage. Bring your gloves--let's go!"

Breanna: "Eww--RUN?! I HATE running. I don't wanna run!"

Me: "Me too. He never makes us run! I'm still sore from last night's class. Booooo!"

Breanna: "Let's just kinda take our time walking out there, and then they'll already have finished one lap, and we'll just sort of add ourselves in and pretend we did three."

Me: "Sweet."

We walk to the door with what I like to call a "slightly motivated wander", head for the stairs, and begin walking up the stairs to the top level of the parking structure.

My nose begins to do that subtle little wrinkle crinkle, a la "Bewitched". Weird... Still climbing the stairs. Nose scrunches again. I look at Breanna...

Me: "Am I losing my mind? I swear I still smell it!"

Breanna: "I was JUST going to say that...."

Random hot male student who we like to fantasize is a wild Brazilian named 'Marco" (WHAT?!! No we don't!): "Dude, it f*ckin' smells in these stairs too."

Me: "The smell is FOLLOWING US. Ewwwwww!"

The smell is increasing with altitude. As we get to the top of the stairs, we find Ted. Apparently his "slightly motivated wander" is even less motivated than ours, because he left for the stairs at LEAST a minute before we did, and we caught up with him. Dang it! This "Ted" was completely screwing up our plan to blend in, and casually pretend we had already run one lap!

Then, it hits me. 2 things: First, 100% of the horrifying stench caustically scalding my nostrils, and second, the realization that the cause of all of this stench, and class location drama, and running laps IS TED!! HE is the "dead rat" in the rafters! Oh dear LORD, what does one do to make oneself smell like that?! It wasn't the typical body odor smell....it was more like Port-a-Potty/Diaper rank. Like a dirty diaper that had been sitting out in the hot L.A. "winter" sun all day. Just WRONG.

I hold my breath, and slip past him quickly while frantically motioning to Breanna to hurry. We confer.

Me: "Oh my Gosh, it's HIM! The smell is coming from HIM!!!! That's why the stairwell smells so bad, and the smell is following us!"

Breanna: "What the FR*CK!! EWWWWWW! Sick, sick, SICK! How can he not know?!"

We spent the remainder of the class taking shallow, tentative breaths, and standing as far away from "Ted Nasty" as possible, and our instructor was assigned the lovely task of informing Ted that he would not be welcome back to class if he ever reeked in that manner again.

"Thriller", Part 1: Why I skipped my high school reunion.

2009-10-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

It's been a strange/challenging couple of years. Going through a "transitional" period---finally joining adulthood (bleh), getting stuck in a dead-end job for almost 2 years due to the economy....Needless to say, I'm one of probably 300 million Americans who has found myself increasingly discontent, and confused as to which direction to go.

One of my dearest friends (and roomie) forwarded me an email from her friend about some Michael Jackson Thriller event to break a world record. I'm not a card-carrying MJ fan---I think he was tremendously talented, and I enjoy his music (who doesn't love them some Billie Jean, or "Mama-se, mama-sa, ma-ma-coo-sa", right?), but he's not in my top 5 favorite artists of all time. So, I saw that the event was scheduled for the same day as my 10 year high-school reunion, and didn't give it a second thought. You may be asking yourself, "How can this girl claim to be 23(ish), and be having a 10 year reunion? Something's not adding up...". Well, it's because I started high school when I was only 9 (obviously). So, that's settled.

I had had a really tough couple of weeks. Roomie mentions to me that she's going to a dance class to learn the Thriller dance, and that I should come too. She says it's free, and at world-renowned dance studio Millennium. This piques my interest immediately, as I've always wanted to take classes at Millennium, but have never gotten around to it. Plus, I've always wanted to learn the Thriller dance because a) it looks fun, b) they do it in "13 going on 30", and c) the choreography is very interesting---the accents aren't on "typical" beats (if that makes any sense at all). Roomie says I need to get out, have fun, and not think about work. I know she's right. It's settled--I'm going to do something for ME. Who cares if it sounds a little weird, and I "should" be grocery shopping and cleaning my bathroom?! I'm going to go DANCE.

We head to rehearsal. Just being in a dance studio awakens a part of me that's been comatose for awhile. My soul starts to smile! <-------So disgustingly cheesy, but true. We get there just in time--a line begins to form behind us. We meet up with roomie's friend, and wait for the studio to empty. The line soon multiplies all throughout the building, and out the front door. We all agree to make a beeline for the front of the room, so that we will be able to see the instructor (and not get stuck behind 50 people all executing the choreography in various degrees of "a little behind", "wrong foot-but good effort", "nope, sorry, that's not it", "totally wrong", and "literally couldn't be more WRONG what the HECK are you DOING?!!"). I get bored and frustrated if I can't watch the teacher.

Mission accomplished! We're in the front row. Turnout is much larger than they'd planned, and we have about 100 people in a space the size of an average living room. It's HOT before we've learned the first step. The event organizers are excited--blown away by the amount of people who showed. We sign release forms...to be...on CAMERA??! Oh NO. I look like a hot tranny mess! I get over it.

Instructor starts teaching: Walk right, left, right, left. Then back with right, left, right, left. It was the simplest choreography (basically "Walk like a zombie for 8 counts), and I was already enjoying myself! I forgot all about work, and lost myself in "It's close to miiiiiiidnight... somethin' evil's lurking in the dark".

The class was a perfect 10 on the dance-class-stereotypes scale:

-the group of completely inept (most likely straight) men who were consistently 6 counts behind, but made up for their lack of talent with enthusiasm

-the pushy, attention-starved, fame-hungry girl trying to out-dance everyone while in knee-high UGG boots (did I mention it was about 1000 degree in there?), who kept stepping on my feet in a desperate attempt to get her face on camera...Oh, and the clincher----her MOM (who had 1.5 inch black acrylic nails) was also trying to dance behind her, while carrying the girl's infant BABY....because, you know, that's a good, safe idea...

-the gay guy who is FIERCE, and will do 16 finger snaps dangerously close to your face just so you know he's fierce

-the guy who is blissfully unaware of his own horrifyingly pungent body odor (gag)

Nearly three hours and six buckets of sweat later, we knew the entire dance, in all of it's six-minute-long glory. It was AWESOME. I had sweat stains in locations that I'm hesitant to mention in a public forum (which, by the way, are forever immortalized on a reel contained inside of an NBC camera somewhere), and I was HAPPY. I had never intended to actually attend the actual world record event---just went to learn the dance, and relax. But as roomie and I walked to the car, we realized that I hadn't had that much fun, nor felt more free in quite awhile. The wheels began to turn....hmmm...the Thriller event went from 2:30-5:30, but my reunion started at 7, and was over an hour away. Maybe I could do both, and just be really late to the reunion?

As the days went on, a number of factors contributed to my decision: increased ridiculousness at work, nothing to wear to reunion, no time to shop, friends who had promised they were going changed their minds, only 10% of our class had bought tickets, car trouble that I can't afford, etc. Would it be horrible of me to skip the reunion? I felt a HUGE nagging dose of Jewish-Catholic guilt (I'm neither, but have a Jewish boyfriend and huge Irish-Catholic family on father's side to influence my guilt meter). After all, I was VP of my Senior class. OUCH. Doesn't that mean I "should" go?? There's that word again...

After listening to roomie and friend discuss zombie makeup, arrival times, and fun hairstyle ideas, I decided I was definitely going to attend the MJ event, and try to head to my reunion late. Long story short, that would not have been a logical nor safe plan, and I kicked that guilt to the CURB, along with it's dear friend "should"!

I ditched the dress and classy makeup for an L.A. Subway Dance Adventure looking like THIS:

I am sad that I missed out on the chance to see my high school peeps, and in no way do I mean to belittle all of the hard work and effort that went into planning it (thanks, Julie and Lisa!) but for me, this is what I needed to do. I'll see you all in 2019!

Coming soon: "Thriller", Part 2: A day in the life of an L.A. Zombie, and Pearl Jam, Part 2.

My life with Pearl Jam, Part 1: "Mom, Doc Martens ARE feminine!"

2009-10-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

I had my first Pearl Jam experience in the bedroom of my neighbor, Sally. Not like that, sicko!!!! Gosh!! We were in middle school/junior high, and her mom used to take me to school. So, I would head to their house in the morning, and we would listen to music until her mom was ready to load us into the suburban.

The grunge scene was just taking off, and Sally was a FAN. Like, dark roots with the blond hair, black lipstick, flannels, Doc Martens, ripped jeans FAN. I thought she was pretty much the coolest person EVER.

Just so you really understand where I was coming from, I was not allowed to listen to Madonna, nor pierce my ears yet. Yep. Of course, I listened to KROQ on my "walkman" (Ouch, I'm really dating myself here), and secretly applied a Wet'n'Wild dark purple lipstick in the bathroom at school. Oh take THAT, Mom!!! I spent hours of my young life begging my mom to let me wear ripped jeans ("NO. Why would you want to trash yourself, and look like a slob?"), and Doc Martens ( "NO--are you planning on kicking someone to death? Why do you need army boots?", "But Mom!!! Even my church friends wear them! Come ON!!!!"--eyes fill with "How-will-I-ever-be-cool-without-Doc-Martens?!" tears). I think the only things I successfully talked her into were Converse tennis shoes, and a couple of long-sleeve flannels.

So, when Sally-the-Cool played Pearl Jam and Nirvana in her room, I listened in AWE. I remember really liking Pearl Jam, but literally couldn't understand most of what he was singing, and was too young to comprehend the emotional magnitude of the lyrics I actually could understand. Nirvana's "Smells like Teen Spirit" made me want to jump around the room, while flailing my arms and tossing my hair, but I was a little scared of "Rape Me" (keep in mind-- "I Love Lucy", and "Family Matters" were the only shows I was allowed to watch at this point). So Kurt screaming "Rape me, my friend" was a confusing/frightening concept for me.

Fast-forward quite a few years. Boyfriend hears that Pearl Jam will be performing in L.A. in a couple of months, and this sends him into a Class A Pearl Jam listening party. iPod at home, CD's in the car, Pearl Jam EVERYWHERE. He keeps talking about how much he wants to go see them perform. I'm thinking "Hmm....I can't remember any of their early songs, but I vaguely remember liking the stuff in Sally's room...black lipstick--wow--REALLY?! .....a concert could be fun.....I like that 'Better Man' song.....I don't like that song about the car crash and the dead girlfriend..."

Boyfriend: "You KNOW Pearl Jam songs, trust me."

Me: "Remember, I'm like, 27 years younger than you are, so....."

Boyfriend: "Suck it. You are Robin, I am Batman."

Me: "And then you woke up. In your power chair. Making chirping noises. Because you are Robin, and you are old."

Boyfriend (while making very pointed hand gesture towards me): "Shut it. Listen to these songs--you know them."

He proceeds to play about 20 seconds of a song, then another song, then another, etc...

Me (getting progressively higher pitched with every exclamation, hands flying excitedly in every direction): "Oooh! I like that song! Oooooh, I LOVE that song! Ooooooooh! I FORGOT about that song! WOW. They're really good, huh?! Can I borr---"

Boyfriend: "Yes, you can borrow my CD's. Bring them back, or I'll kill you."

Me: "Whatever, Grayson. And then you woke up. The hum of your powerchair must've put you to sleep."

We have a pattern. And yes, we've been successfully running the same jokes into the ground for a couple of years now. Easily amused.

***Side note to completely belabor the point~ Boyfriend just called, it went like this:

Boyfriend (in Britney Spears accent--we enjoy recreating this): "Whatchu doin', babyyyy?"
Me: Writin' a blog... you know..."
Boyfriend: "Is it funny? I like the funny ones. Am I in it?"
Me: "I hope so (?), and yes, you're in it. It's about Pearl Jam."
Boyfriend: "You better give me credit for taking you to the concert, or I'll kill you, b*tch!!!"

Me: "Oh YEAH. You're definitely getting credit. In fact, just for that, your entire last sentence will be published. Suck it, Boy Wonder."

Done, and DONE! Ask and you shall receive, Robin!!!! (Fist bump for myself).

Coming soon~ Part 2: The video performance that sold me on Pearl Jam...

Conversation with the intern...

2009-10-22T11:53:00.000-07:00

So this just happened..

Typical day at work--the Today Show is on, it's the Kathie Lee and Hoda hour. Segment involving a wild animal trainer. Lots of cute animals. We love this segment!

Poor trainer is having a ROUGH day. Hoda is petrified of the first animal--looks like an oversized chipmunk, and is in fact, the world's largest rodent. Hoda is not a fan. Next, they bring out a baby gator, who begins thrashing around so violently that they immediately run it off camera. Then, a nervous beaver (head out of the gutter, sicko!!). Poor little beaver is cute, but very camera shy (there's an anti-Paris-Hilton joke in there somewhere). It pees all over the trainer on camera (there's a Kim Kardashian joke in there somewhere).

Then, baby lions. BABY LIONS!!!! Love it! They are not fans of the trainer's beaver pee shirt, and start throwing wildlife tantrums in the trainer's arms. I repeat, he is having a rough day. Through all of this, he's still trying to get his organization's wildlife message out, and it is just not happening. Hoda tries to pet one of the restless cubs, it snarls and thrashes around. She jumps. Kathie Lee says something ridiculous (par for the course). Finally, the cubs are taken away, and replaced with a little teeny monkey who hasn't yet grown into his eerily-human ears. CUTE. The monkey crawls onto the trainer's shoulders.......and...the following exchange ensues:

Male Office Intern, mid-20's: "I wanna like, have, like, an animal that rides on my shoulder. That's like............awesome."

Co-worker: "Oh, like a parrot?"

Intern: "Yeah. Or a gazelle. That'd be like, AWESOME."

A GAZELLE. For his SHOULDER. This is REALLY where we're at.

To drive this point home:

Average Gazelle = roughly the size of a small to medium deer

Intern= 5' 4"

Thank you, and welcome to my life.

Mangled Lyrics, 1st Edition.

2009-10-20T10:35:00.000-07:00

Mangled lyrics crack me up. I was listening to Pearl Jam on the way to work this morning, and it inspired me to share this story with you, my 12 dedicated readers :-) I've recently fallen back in love with Pearl Jam music now that I'm older, and have the life experience to appreciate the depth/pain/brilliance of their lyrics (but I'll get to that subject at a later date)...

In the case of Pearl Jam, lyric misunderstandings/manglings happen frequently for me because Eddie Vedder sounds a bit like he's growling words through clenched teeth when he sings. And I love it.

Here we go...

"Better Man" by Pearl Jam ~

What I heard:

Waitin', watchin' the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop

Tell me, eh-ooh-oooooh, she practice says her seethe

And he opens the door, she roooowwwww,

Her testles creep, as he looks her over

She lies in sleep she still loves him, can't find a better man...

I knew something was inherently wrong with "Her testles creep" (the fact that "testles" is not a word could've been a good indication), but couldn't figure out for the LIFE of me, what the correct lyrics were. Hello, internet! Or as my incredibly esteemed (<----sarcasm, someone please deliver me from that situation) co-worker would say "Yo---how do I use the googles??!".

What Eddie sings:
Waitin', watchin' the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop

Tell him, take no more, she practices her speech

As he opens the door, she rolls over...

Pretends to sleep, as he looks her over

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man...

"Her testles creep" = "Pretends to sleep". BRILLIANT!!! Now that I know what he's saying, I love this song even more, as I can totally relate...but that's also another story for another time.

Another Erinized Lyrics Gem = "Invisible Touch" by Phil Collins ~

What I heard:

She seems to have a phys-i-cal attrac-tion

She reaches in, and grabs ahold of your heart.

What Phil sings:

She seems to have an invisible touch yeah

She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart

Suffice it to say, I was incredibly confused when I heard a radio DJ announce the song as "Invisble Touch", because I could've sworn the song should be called "Physical Attraction"...right?

This next one belongs to my best childhood friend, also named Erin. "Erin A." and "Erin O."--we were attached at the hip for the first 15 years of our lives.

We both became absolutely obsessed with the movie "Batman Forever" when it came out (did I mention I have a bit of a superhero complex?!), and even more obsessed with Seal's "Kiss from a Rose". I think we stayed up listening to it on repeat til 4 a.m. after we saw the movie. Then I created a harmony, and (WOW this is awkward), we woke her mom up with a rousing 2-part acapella version of the song. YEP. That happened.

Anyway, during the course of our Seal evening, Erin was absolutely convinced that she had solved a lyrical mystery that had been baffling us for a few hours.

What she heard:

To me you're like a grown dictionary that I can rely

Won't you tell me is that evident?

What Seal sings:

Baby, to me you're like a grown addiction that I can't deny

Won't you tell me is that healthy, baby?

I gently explained to her that the likelihood of those lyrics being correct was about as likely as my "her testles creep" idea. She insisted it made sense because, and I quote, "It's like she's his dictionary. And he can, like, go to her and look up stuff, like if he wants his clothes to match. He can go to her because she's the dictionary, and he can rely on her".

Over a decade has passed, and I'm STILL laughing about "Seriously, Erin--he can look up if his clothes match in her, the dictionary. Let's go sing it for my mom!"....

Some much-needed Monday inspiration: Dr. Ben Carson

2009-10-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

" There is no such thing as an average human being. If you have a normal brain, you are superior. There's almost nothing that you can't do."

~Dr. Benjamin Carson, M.D.

My mom is a fan of Christian TV. I KNOW...but do not judge my Mom--or I'll be forced to open a can of round-kicks-to-the-knee-then-head on you.

Moving on. Mom likes to tell me about various inspiring people/stories that she hears about. One person in particular sticks out in my memory---a groundbreaking neurosurgeon who had overcome incredible odds to become one of the most respected doctors in his field. He credits much of his success to his faith (hence the Christian TV reference), and his single mom who refused to quit. She first told me about him when I was in high school, then bought me his autobiography. I blew it off for the most part (I was 15ish, and had much more important things to worry about, like painting cheer posters for the Boys Water Polo team, and hairspray). The exchange went something like this:

Awesome Mom: "Look! This is that neurosurgeon I've been telling you about! He is SO well-spoken, and overcame unbelievable odds to become the best in his field! His story is incredible!

Snotty Teenage Me (with a half-a**ed attempt to sound mildly interested): "Oh?"

Excited Mom: "Yeah! It's really neat! I got the book for you! You'll read it, won't you?"

Teenage Me: "Ummm.....................yeah.......I guess........if I ever have time....I'm really busy."

Inner Monologue inside head of Teenage Me (twirls hair, smacks gum): "This lame book MAY happen after I finish listening to the 'Titanic' soundtrack again, and curling my bangs. But probably not.".

I put it away for a few....years...and forgot about it. One day, I was in college (and had realized the value of my Mom's opinion), when Dr. Carson came up in conversation. I decided to dust off the book, and flipped it open...

What I read absolutely blew my mind. The following is a (somewhat) brief, paraphrased version of his book, "Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story".

Ben Carson was born in 1951, in Detroit, Michigan. His parents divorced when he was 8, leaving his mom to raise both him, and his older brother Curtis. His mother, Sonya, had dropped out of school in 3rd grade, and gotten married at the age of 13. THIRTEEN. Yes. She was black, a single-parent, and female (obviously)---which, sadly, was pretty much 3 strikes against her in the 1950's.

Sonya came from an abusive marriage, and worked 2, and sometimes 3 jobs just to make end's meet. Ben recalls that his mom would often leave him and his brother in the care of her sister while she went away for a few days. He later found out that she would check herself into mental hospitals for a couple of days at time when she started to cave under all of the pressure. She didn't want her mental state to upset her boys, so she would quietly seek help in order to stay strong for her kids. She credits her faith in God with getting her through those years.

By fifth grade, Ben was at the bottom of his class in school, and his classmates teased him mercilessly. He developed a violent temper, was referred to as "dummy", and was seen as a "problem child".

Sonya decided that she was going to do everything she could to raise her boys right/improve their grades. She mandated that both of her sons must read two books per week, and submit a report to her on each. With her third grade education, she could barely read the reports that she asked them to write (and sometimes, she couldn't--but they didn't know that!). She persevered, and both sons soon rose to the top of their classes. She would come home exhausted, stressed, battling sexism/racism/judgements from the community because she was a single parent, could barely read herself, and she STILL made time to encourage her sons' learning. I think I love this woman! This world needs more Sonyas.

Ben with his mom Sonya Carson (on left), and wife Candy
Courtesy Academy of Achievement

The Academy of Achievement has a great interview with Dr. Carson, in which he says this of his mom:

"My mother worked as a domestic, two, sometimes three jobs at a time because she didn't want to be on welfare. She felt very strongly that if she gave up and went on welfare, that she would give up control of her life and of our lives, and I think she was probably correct about that. And, so she worked very hard. Sometimes we didn't see her for several days at a time, because she would go to work at five in the morning and get back after 11:00 p.m., going from one job to the next. But, one thing that she provided us was a tremendous example of what hard work is like...She would take us out in the country on a Sunday and knock on a farmer's door and say, "Can we pick four bushels of corn, three for you and one for us?" and they were always glad at that deal. And she'd come home and she'd can the stuff, so that we would have food. She was just extremely thrifty and managed to get by that way."

Ben began to read anything he could get his hands on, and set his sights on becoming a doctor. He graduated from high school with honors, and was accepted into Yale, where he graduated with a degree in Psychology. From Yale, he was accepted into the University of Michigan's medical school, where he changed his course of study from psychology to neurosurgery. His hard work, and reputation for excellence in all that he did, helped him rise to the top of his class yet again, and earned him mentors who were happy to pass their expert knowledge along.

At the young age of 32, he became the Director of Pediatric Neurosurgery for Johns Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore (one of the most respected and world-renowned hospitals in the world). The "problem kid" from the ghetto= foremost authority on BRAIN SURGERY IN CHILDREN. Are you feeling inspired yet?

In 1987, he performed the FIRST successful separation of Siamese twins who were joined at the head. He led a team of 70 medical professionals through a 22-HOUR surgery. He also performed the first "intra-uterine" procedure to relieve pressure on the brain of a hydrocephalic twin (translation: Dr. Carson was able to remove excess fluid on the brain of an unborn baby while it was still in the womb), as well as a successful "hemispherectomy", where he removed one half of an infant's brain who was suffering from non-stop seizures. The seizures stopped, and the child was able to function normally as the remaining hemisphere compensated for the portion he removed.

There was one story in the book that I found particularly inspiring/interesting: The one class that Ben had trouble with was Chemistry. He just did NOT get it (can I get an "Amen"?!! I loved Physiology & Bio, HATED Chemistry. Hated.) Anyway, the class had to be passed in order for Ben to remain in the medical program. He studied everything he could find, received tutoring, etc. It just would not "click" with his his brain (once again, AMEN). The night before the final for this class, he was at his wit's end. He finally prayed a simple prayer that was something like "God, you've given me this dream of being a surgeon, and given me hands that are gifted for surgery. You've brought me this far, and I feel like I have a calling to help change people's lives, and I've done everything I can....my future is up to you with this test tomorrow, 'cause I cannot grasp it." He went to bed exhausted, and dreading the morning.

During the night, he had a dream in which he was seated alone inside of the lecture hall. What he describes as a "nebulous figure" entered the hall, then began methodically writing out chemistry problems on the board. The figure would write out the problems, then the equations used to solve it, and finish with the answer.

When Ben woke up he thought, "Wow--that was weird...", and was a bit baffled as a Psych major...this didn't match the usual formula for a dream. He immediately wrote down as many of the problems and as answers that he could remember, then headed out to what he feared may be his last exam in the medical program. When he got to class, and opened his exam book, he was SHOCKED. The first problem on the test was the first problem the "figure" had written out in his dream! The next problem on the actual test was the next problem he had in his dream, etc. He didn't remember all of the answers, as the memory began to fade towards the end of the test, BUT...it was enough to earn him a passing grade on the test, and keep him in the program.

The cynic in you may scoff at this story (as mine initially did), but when I really thought about it, making this up wouldn't make sense. In all reality, this man is the Director of Neurosurgery at a world-renowned hospital, has over 50 (FIFTY!!!) honorary doctorate degrees, has broken all sorts of records, was named one of the nation’s 20 foremost physicians and scientists by CNN and TIME Magazine in 2001, and was selected by the Library of Congress as one of 89 "Living Legends" on the occasion of its 200th anniversary. He doesn't need any extra revenue from book sales. And even if he did, his book would be just as interesting without this one little story that could potentially put some readers off. So draw your own conclusion, but it makes more sense logically that he would be telling the truth, rather than embellishing.

In 2004, Dr. Carson was appointed by President George W. Bush to serve on the President’s Council on Bioethics, and in June, 2008, he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by the President (the highest civilian honor in the country). He created the Carson Scholar Fund with his wife, which gives college scholarships to young students, as well as a reading program based on the program his mom developed for him and his brother as children in Detroit.

I cannot do this story justice in one simple blog post. So if you could use some encouragement, or find anything in this story remotely interesting, I would highly recommend getting the book.

Happy Monday...

Daaaaaaaang, Mama....DAAAAANG!

2009-10-14T22:30:00.000-07:00

It was a crisp June morning. The "gloom" had just begun to burn off, and it looked as though it was going to be a beautiful, serene, pre-birthday shopping day for me and my good friend Breanna. We were taking a leisurely stroll through an outdoor mall, when two young men began walking toward us. At first, I didn't think anything of it, as there were throngs of people walking toward us, behind us, and into us with their Coach store bags.

***Note: The most important detail of this story is that both of the men looked eerily like the (ever-entertaining) Lil' Wayne~ see pic above***

Please take a few seconds to let that visual "marinate".

For those of you who are not familiar with the lyrical awesomeness that is Lil' Wayne, here are some sample rhymes to jump-start your appreciation:

-"She wanna li-li-li-li-lick me like a lollipop"

-"Shorty, I'ma hit it HIT IT like I can't miss"
-And (my personal favorite), "Wayne's World, planet rock, panties drop, AND the tops..."

Yes, I can perform multiple Lil' Wayne songs with ease.

Anyway, somewhere between Ralph Lauren Home and Auntie Anne's Pretzels, the Lil' Wayne look-alike and friend are walking toward us. They smile. I notice the "grillz". Faux Lil' Wayne looks me up and down. Then back uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup, then doooooooooooown.

He cocks his head back and slightly to the side (chin angled upwards), and speaks: "Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang, Mama!!!!!!"

I casually glance around trying to figure out who he's talking to, though the slow, deliberate elevator eyes had made it pretty clear. They pimp-strut past us. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Faux Lil' Wayne whip around and walk backwards, so that he can punctuate our romantic interlude by staring at my backside, and letting out one final lingering: "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!"

So simple, and yet, so poignant.

Breanna: "Wtf??! Do you ever get used to that?!"

Me: "Nope."

Breanna: "Do you want a pretzel?"

Me: "Yep."

I'm so hot right now---just ask the 5 year-old.

2009-10-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

Dating one of the "Chosen People" has it's perks~ you get 10 additional holidays per year. This is an excuse to eat more. I like!!!

***Note: This does not include anything to do with the Gefilte Fish. Gelfite fish, we cannot, and never will be friends. You will never enjoy a relationship with my mouth. That's NOT what she said.***

Moving on....

Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) was last month. New food (Gelfilte fish excluded, see aforementioned note), new experiences. And by new experiences, I mean I was hit on by a five year-old boy.

Yep.

The family is sitting around a T-shaped table, I'm trying to casually act like I know why we're dipping apples in honey? Hands are wafting candle-smoke, children are singing, challah bread is making it's way around the table.

Gentile Me: "Why do we take the challah bread again? There's a reason for having the knots in the bread, right?"

Jewish Boyfriend: "Umm, yeah...I think there is."

Me: "K....."

I can't just leave the question unanswered...I have to know! I think I'm secretly Nancy Drew. And Batman. But that's a story for another time.

Me: "So what's the reason? It's symbolic--I read that somewhere....something with the knots, and the circle being like a cycle, or something like that?"

Boyfriend: "Maybe. Something like that. Just take a piece."

Me: "You don't really know, do you?!"

Boyfriend: "Nope."

Well, now that that's settled...

Everyone is eating, I'm still wondering why the bread has knots, family is chit-chatting, etc. All of a sudden, Josh (the five year-old son of our lovely hostess) whips his head around, and abruptly halts when he sees my face. It was very "Wheel of Fortune"--the wheel is spinning, spinning, then tick, tick, tick...STOP. His eyes settle on mine with a disturbing owl-like intensity.

Keep in mind--- I have seen Josh probably 2-3 times total prior to this evening. I was pretty sure that he didn't even know my name. In our past encounters, he'd been busy running around playing pretend baseball, or creating abstract items with large plastic blocks. Besides, according to his mom, he's going through a bit of an Oedipal phase right now, where he wants nothing to do with any women other than her. This is evidenced by the fact that he refers to his mom as (no, I am not making this up): "Hot Sweet Cheeks".

So, I was a little caught off guard when he suddenly stared at me and said,

"Erin, do you have a huthsband?"

Josh knows my name? Husband? REALLY? Please tell me this isn't going to turn into one of those horrifying "Kids say the darnedest things!" moments at my expense. But it's no big deal, right? Everyone's talking---not paying attention. I'll just answer, then change the subject. I've got this ;-)

Me--quietly: "Uh no, Josh, I don't have a husband. You just turned FIVE, right? That's gotta be exciting!!! Did you have CAKE at your party?"

I was sincerely hoping he would take the "totally distracted by thoughts of TOYS and BIRTHDAYS!!" route, and this exchange would come to an end.

Josh (louder this time, wantonly waving his plastic-coated kid spoon in the air): "Do you have kithdz?"

Ugh. You are supposed to be five. YOU WILL FALL FOR MY DISTRACTION TRAPS, dang it!!

By this time, boyfriend is listening, Joshie's parents have paused their conversation, and are frozen in the fork-in-midair-halfway-to-the-mouth-so-as-not-miss-our-child's-hilarity pose, Josh's sister Rebecca is staring at me with huge, innocent, expectant six year-old eyes. I can feel the blood rising to my cheeks--waiting for boyfriend to rescue me and change the subject....

Slightly embarrassed: "Nooooo. I do not have kids. Umm, so did you have BALLOONS at your party??!!"

By this time, the whole table is listening intently. I'm thinking, "Breathe... There's still a chance I can keep myself from turning red, but it's gonna be pretty touch-and-go."

Josh (noticing he has the attention of the entire party) in full voice now: "Are you..............ALONE??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(drops previously waving spoon dramatically to the table, in both shock and disdain)

He said "ALONE" with such wide-eyed intensity---it was as if just saying that word wounded him to the core. Excuse me?! Is this a scene from "Sex and the City meets Punk'd"? Am I really THAT girl right now? Normally none of this bothers me, as I'm not ready for marriage and kids, and my biological clock isn't ticking...yet. But, the way he said "alone" made me momentarily second-guess all of my relationship decisions, as I sat at a table comprised mainly of married people and their children (who were all currently staring at my ring-less self).

Still waiting for someone to rescue me from the awkward....Doesn't happen.

Mortified: "No, I'm not 'alone'. I have...an...adorable dog!!"

Boyfriend's Dad (laughing): "Hey Erin---is it getting a little warm in here? You're turning a bit red!!"

Boyfriend: "Josh, are you trying to move into my territory?"

Josh gives a sly smile, and decides to go back to playing with his spoon/brisket. Catastrophe averted. Or so I thought....

Fast-forward twenty minutes. We've moved from the table to the den, and Josh and his sister Rebecca are gleefully showing us all of their toys, one by one.

Josh: "Erin, I want to give you a massage."

What? Who IS this kid?!

Josh's Mom: "I think he likes you...."

Josh to boyfriend: "Do you have a crush on Erin? You should call her 'Hot Sweet Cheeks'."

Me, about boyfriend: "He has a HUGE crush on me. HUGE."

Josh is not interested in this answer. He throws a beanbag Dodger baseball across the room, and hops up on the sofa behind me.

Josh: "I'm a monkey!! I want to give you a monkey massage. Wanna see my room?"

This kid is WAY ahead of his age. The "come see my room" strategy is usually not properly developed until the Junior High years. Rebecca decides that I should see her room too, because...."it's pink". I'm dragged by two little hands to the "pink" room. Then, the "blue" room. Josh decides he's going to lock me in his room, so I'm forced to resort to the tickle-escape. While he's busy cracking up, I slip past him, and head back to the "adult" room.

I'm walking back to the sofa when suddenly I feel my skirt fly up. A giggling figure streaks by me. The room erupts into laughter and applause. I figured Josh had just accidentally brushed my dress upwards as he ran by, by ACCIDENT. Oh well--what's a little flashing amongst family....at least I'm no longer under the dinner-table-marriage-microscope, right?

Josh's Mom: "Oh my gosh---I should've warned you about that. He does that to girls he likes!"

Josh (taking full advantage of the spotlight): "Show me your bra!!"

WHAT?!

It took me a minute to process that I had just been purposely publicly violated by someone who'd been in diapers less than two years ago.

I attempted to diffuse the situation by reading one of the children's books on the table: "Sammy Spider's First Rosh Hashanah". Guess what? They dip the apples in the honey to represent the blessing of a "sweet new year". I was about to get to the "Sammy gets his eight legs stuck in the Challah bread dough" page when my concentration was broken by the opening strains of Kanye's favorite song, "Single Ladies".

"Up in the club, we just broke up, I'm doin' my o-own thang."

I look up to see Josh, hands out in front of him, bouncing his left hip up and down. He proceeded to dance to the ENTIRE song with shockingly excellent rhythm for a Caucasian male! His eyes never left mine during the dance---not once. This performance was definitely just for me.

The moral of this story is probably that men always have an agenda. Josh can barely spell his own first name, and yet, he tried to tear me down, so he could move in for the kill---the monkey massage, and close the deal with his "Single Ladies" moves. I can't decide whether I should be horrified or flattered, but honestly it doesn't really matter. I'm too busy having a sweet new year.

"Hi, I'm a concert tool magnet": Dave Matthews Band edition.

2009-10-05T07:13:00.000-07:00

I've been to quite a few concerts in the last couple of years (thank you, boyfriend!). Recently it's become undeniably obvious that we have a thing: No matter what artist we're seeing, there is someone (sometimes multiple people) within one to two seats of us who could easily be top contender for Head of the Tool Academy. SERIOUSLY. Some of them are funny. Some of them make me want to hammer-fist punch them in the mouth. ALL of them make me wish I had a video camera ready.

I'll begin with Dave Matthews. EVERY TIME we go see Dave, we're seated near a "dancer". Oh, YES. Whether it's the Honda Center, Staples, or the Greek, you can literally look around the thousands of fans, find that one person who's flailing like an IDIOT, and we will be seated within arm's reach of Mr./Mrs. "Special". We've subsequently learned to accept our Tool Magnetism, and now look forward to adding new and unique moves to our dance repertoire.

The first DMB concert boyfriend took me to was at the Hollywood Bowl. It was a beautiful summer night---the sun had set, the air was thick with typical-Dave-fan-celebratory-herbal-indulgence, bass was thumping, Boyd's violin strains were filling our ears, etc. It was almost magical.

We were perfectly content--just taking it all in, looking up at the stars, etc., when some sort of liquid landed in my hair. We turned around in an attempt to figure out which incredibly annoying/stumbling drunk sorority girl had inadvertently splashed her Corona, when we saw..........HIM. The "One Finger Dancer" (OFD).

OFD was probably in his late 50's to early 60's, with salt and pepper hair--heavy on the salt. If I remember correctly, he had a military style buzz cut, and was wearing a T-shirt that said something about the Marine Corps. This made his choice of moves all the more enjoyable, as I'm pretty sure that "expressing himself" this way during his Semper Fi heydays would've been an open invitation for a pillowcase-full-of-soap-bars clubbing.

After we discovered the entertainment GEM that was this man, the concert became less about the music, and more about the tension-filled spazzing taking place behind us. We spent probably 65% of the remaining concert facing away from the stage, not wanting to miss a single moment of dance greatness.

OFD was a cyclical dancer-- he had a pattern. He'd begin by simply standing, and looking at the stage. Then, when he started to really FEEL a song, he would close his eyes, and slowly curl up in a sort of standing fetal position--- inner elbows touching, hands clenched in fists, back hunched. As the music would build, so would his enthusiasm. One foot would begin to tap rather tentatively. Next came the head nod. Then, the upper body sway. He'd sway side-to-side for a measure or so before beginning the AWESOME that begat him his name....the one-finger dance!!!

What happened next was pure GENIUS:
When he couldn't take it anymore, and had to let that music-evoked emotion OUT, his clenched fists would begin to turn in circles in opposing directions (upper body still swaying side-to-side). During these fist circles, the pointer/index finger on each hand would slowly begin to unfurl. He'd begin to form figure-8 type air drawings, while letting his arms creep outward---sort of a cross between Jim Carrey's "CLAW!", and a man trying to dig something out of a wall using just two fingers. Pretty soon, he'd be at full arm extension, with his arms and two pointing fingers slithering through the air like snakes on the head of Medusa. Weird, but true. It was AMAZING.

To this day, boyfriend and I still imitate OFD (especially while listening to music in the car). I, of course, have a knack for going all out with this imitation, only to find that people in surrounding cars are watching me in horror (probably wondering what condition/syndrome is causing my spastic movements). "That poor man must be a saint. Aren't there medications for that??!"...

The Pick-Up Lines begin: HALLMARK.

2009-09-28T18:05:00.000-07:00

Before we begin, here's the backside back story. As my roommate so eloquently put it, I am "gifted in the booty department". I'm just gonna say it----my butt is abnormally large for a person of mainly European descent and paleness. I am very proud of my junky trunk, despite the fact that it makes finding a pair of jeans that actually FITS nearly impossible. My parents have no idea where my Miss New Booty came from, but I've discovered through the years that it works as a magnet for a variety of men---and this gives me a lot of stories to share with YOU!!!

SO...

It was a lazy Thursday, and my large a** and I were in desperate need of a birthday card for my mom. After work, I reluctantly headed to the mall. I was exhausted, cranky, and looked terrible (hair up on top of my head, t-shirt, jeans, sneakers, most of my makeup worn off after a 10-hour work day). I wanted to get in, find a card quickly, and get OUT.

I'm well on the way to accomplishing my mission (hurriedly grabbing anything that says "Birthday-Mother" at the top), when suddenly I sense a presence next to me. I discreetly roll my eyes--- this person obviously isn't aware of the L.A. Personal Space Bubble. Probably just some tourist who got lost on the way to the Ed Hardy store. I shrug it off, and get back to skimming through pages upon pages of pastel-colored bad poetry.

The presence lingers. The presence is TALL. My discomfort is rising....

Suddenly, there's a voice. A deep, could-potentially-narrate-an-R&B-album-commercial smooth baritone voice...

The Voice: "Excuse me..."

This guy can't be talking to me---there's plenty of room behind me if he wants to walk past. He must be talking to the Asian family next to me that's somehow managing to block the entrance to TWO aisles between their 3 bodies, and 1 gigantic stroller that they can't seem to properly navigate (there's definitely a joke in there somewhere).

I hear the voice again...

The Voice: "Excuuuuusssee me...."

Oh. He IS talking to me. Weird. Maybe I dropped something? I look up to see a well-dressed, VERY tall, handsome black man. I say "well-dressed" because I'm used to having this experience with more of the thug love/Lil' Wayne type. This man was much more Tyler Perry than T-Pain, and the only gold gleam emanating from his direction was from his WATCH--not his teeth! I was thrown way off my game. Did I mention I looked TERRIBLE??

"Yes?", I answer hesitantly.

He smiles coyly, then (brace yourself):

The Voice: "You're distracting me".

What? At this point there are a few thoughts racing through my mind.

1) Is he serious? Am I subconsciously making disturbing noises while perusing these cards? How am I being distracting? That STROLLER ramming into anything knee-level is "distracting"! 2) He can't be hitting on me...he's not wearing a bandanna, and no visible tattoos. Maybe my nasty hair is bothering him? Maybe he just wants to know what time it is...because he doesn't have a cell phone to check for himself? No, even six year-olds have blackberries at this mall. Crap. 3) What?

Me: "What?"

The Voice: "I said, you're distracting me...I'm trying to buy a card, but I'm finding you so distracting...."

He's giving me baritone voice sexy eyes. It is now undeniably apparent that YES, he is hitting on me. No, no, no, no, don't do it, face! Don't turn red! Aaaaaaaugh! (face turns red despite my pleading).

Me: "Oh, um...thanks!" (I give the awkward half smile).

I immediately look away, grab the closest card I can find, and dive back into "Mother, you shine like the sun on the brightest of days. Your light and love have illuminated my very being, as the essence of you guides me along this path we call life". By concentrating on the word vomit disguised as birthday cards, I'm hoping that the blood will soon drain from my face, and I can casually move to a different aisle asap.

Keeping the corner of my left eye on my new boo, I wander over to the "Get Well Soon/Sympathy" section to escape. All is well. Elevated heart rate is beginning to subside. I'm in the middle of pretending to read a "Grandmother Passing- From all of us" card, when I feel IT again. The presence is back, this time on my right side. It speaks again.

The Voice: "One more question for you..."

PINK FACE: "Oh really? And what is that?"

The Voice: "How can we make this happen again?"

Make what happen again? You disrupting what was supposed to be my quick, hot-mess run into Hallmark, and freaking me out in the "Birthday- Mother" card section? You want to make THAT happen again? REALLY?

RED FACE: "What?"

The Voice: "How can I make sure I see you again?

See, that would be semi-romantic if it was coming from someone I actually KNEW, and wanted to see again. But this is a 6' 5" stranger, and I'm really ready to be done with it.

PURPLE FACE: "Oh...I have a boyfriend." (scrunches nose, apologetic smile)

The Voice: (looking like someone stole his puppy) "Oh...alright...ok..."

Now I feel awkward, AND mean. I HATE having to use the "boyfriend" line. I feel bad that he put himself out there, had the cajones to approach me TWICE, and I shot him down--right there in the middle of the "Sorry Grandma died" cards.

On the other hand, I can't wait to get out of Hallmark, find some reception for my phone, and start the BBMing! I'm so excited, I can barely type fast enough.....

To boyfriend: "Are your ears burning? Because you have COMPETITION. I am DISTRACTING!!!!!!!"

To roommate: "Be so jealous of my life right now---I look terrible, but my a** just got me another would-be-baby-daddy! He wants to 'make this happen again'--I'm DISTRACTING!!!!!!"

I am such a nerd.

"Grey's Anatomy" ramblings...

2009-09-27T19:58:00.000-07:00

Shonda, why can't I quit you?

I'm not sure what brought on my Bryan Adams/Richard Marx obsession last week, but I think it had something to do with watching the "Grey's Anatomy" 2-hour season premiere Thursday night.

Anyway, Grey's.

Ugh.

I have a personal experience from the set of Grey's, which involves a disturbingly lecherous "Helllloooooo, Nurse...." (elevator eyes, wink) from one of the "Mc's", as well as a ridiculous exchange about Porsches between both of the "Mc's". It's pretty hilarious---maybe it will inspire my first "terrible pick-up line" blog.

Back to the show.

Grey's used to be GOOD. Then we hit the Izzie goes crazy/starts giving wildly determined, chest heaving, arm flailing speeches about saving....a DEER....in the back of a pick-up truck.

Then, "I'm Bambi, George! I'M BAMBI!!". And just like that (snaps fingers), George and Izzie's forbidden relationship (which, in the episode prior, had been strong enough to cause the immediate demise of a marriage, and an up-against-the-wall romp), just "couldn't work" because there wasn't any "chemistry".

Oops!! We were best friends/passionately in love, but when we had sex on every usable surface of the set, we were just kidding. Now we avoid each other in the commissary, because we're just not that into it.

What?!

Then came Lexie, whose sole purpose on the show was to whine, while squinting and biting her lip. Oooh--multi-tasking! Thankfully, her character has slowly evolved, but the beginning was painful.

Then the interns started removing their own organs for fun. Because, let's face it, that's very very common. Viewers will absolutely identify with that.

Once again...WHAT??!

The downward spiral continued, as evidenced by the following:

"Are we doctors?

(A somber McDreamy takes a deep breath, looks at Meredith, pan to Meredith making the "pained face", pan back to McDreamy, close-up on scalpel in hands, back to his face, another pregnant inhale, anonymous nurses look at each other desperately over the top of their surgical masks--if the DOCTOR has questions, how are the NURSES supposed to function? Oh GOD!!!, more pausing).........

Or are we......GODS?"

Groan.

This was followed closely by the cringe-worthy "Am I a surgeon? (same deep breaths, blah blah blah, we're so conflicted)..... Or an EXECUTIONER??"

Thursday's 2 hour drama-fest was no different. Alex is "angry man"--has to cover up his insecurities with lots of storming around and yelling. McSteamy is hot, and has to talk about being...hot. Izzie is "all cancery" (her words, not mine). George got sick of "Are we Gods? I am going to SAVE THAT DEER!!!!" and got out of his contract. The Chief is "antiquated". Bailey is a "strong single-parent" whose lip quivers constantly. Callie is spicy. Her new blond doctor girlfriend is socially awkward. Christina is selfish, and can't be a friend. Mere is "coping, go away". Owen's in therapy. Lexie is "nice", and McDreamy is busy being a "surgeon", and living up to his nickname.

There were two mind-blowingly creative (sarcasm, thanks) theme phrases for the premiere:

1) "I need you to stay alive. STAY ALIVE!!"

2) Anything having to do with the word "people/person", i.e. "I can't! They're my people!". Or, "One of your people may have died, but that boy is MY PERSON."

They can even be used together for bonus points! Watch and learn:

"You have to stay alive because... you're my person!"

To really drive the point home, after all of the melodramatic "everyone is everyone else's people" talk, there was a commercial for their spin-off show "Private Practice".

Enter Kate Walsh--face contorted with conflict, slides down the wall in anguish: "I am a surgeon. And that is my person in there!!".

Someone PLEASE let Shonda know that the secret is out. We've figured out that they're surgeons. I'm not sure what gave it away--the roughly 28 seasons of people wearing scrubs, or the fact that the show takes place in a hospital....

With that said, I still watch it. Yep. And, I may or may not have wiped a tear from my face when Meredith finally cried watching them clean out George's locker...

I'll be right back---I have to go set my TiVo for next Thursday.

Cultural Lessons from my Manicurist.

2009-09-22T10:47:00.000-07:00

A little back story:

I'm a bit of a Krav Maga (Israeli hand-to-hand combat/martial art) enthusiast. We had been working on knife defenses in class, which involves pretty violent/painful wrist-to-wrist contact with a partner. This leaves bruises up and down the arms of a "normal" person who actually HAS pigment in their skin, and roughly triple the amount of bruises on my "porcelain" self.

The following story should probably be recreated via video in order to fully do it justice, but I'm going to tell it right now anyway. Yes, I'm THAT wild.

So, a couple of days later, I head to my usual nail salon for a mani/pedi. All is well, I'm reading crap gossip magazines, hands and feet happily soaking. Sue and Trina are about to wrap my blue/purple polka-dotted arms in hot towels, when Sue suddenly explodes into a fit of laughter. Tiny, high-pitched, dainty little squeal giggles--one hand over her mouth, one hand gesturing frantically towards my arm.

Sue: "Heehee heehehehehe! Yuu hah duh go bye!!!!"

I feel the beginnings of the "awkward smile" forming on my face...hoping this isn't going to be one of those exchanges that forces me to find 5 different ways to ask "what?" politely.

Me: "What?"

Sue: "Duh go-bye!!!!"

Whatever she's saying is both exciting, and hilarious to dear Sue. I try to use this information to help decipher what she's saying.

Me: "Oh!! I...wait. What?"

Sue: (still pointing, the giggling is beginning to subside now) "GOOOOO....BYEEE. Go bye."

Me: "I'm sorry, I just don't..I can't...what?"

Trina steps in to referee.

Trina: "Yu hah duh brew."

Me: "The bruise! YES!!"

This is good--we're halfway there!

Trina: "She say, wen yu slee, duh go come bye yu."

My mouth is open, brow furrowed, head tilting to the side like my dog's does when I use "walk" or "treat" in a sentence..

Me: "Huh? What happens when I sleep?"

We're almost there...

Trina: "Da GO come, an he BYE yu!!!!" (giggles, makes tickly fingers on my arm)

Me: "Ohhhhhhh!!!!!!! Bites! When I sleep!!!! The GHOST comes and bites me when I sleep!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Trina and Sue jump up and down (very daintily), all 4 hands up in a simultaneous "Touchdown!" motion. More giggling. I am thrilled that we sorted all of this out!

Me: "That's neat! How funny! It's just from martial arts though----fight class..."

For some reason I felt the need to punctuate this with some helpful (?) interpretative moves--- a couple of super-lame karate chop type arm flails (that would NEVER be used in Krav), and a mini-sidekick a la MadTV'S "Stewie".

They remove the towels, and each grab one of my hands. We've come to my favorite part---the hand massage! Aaaaahh...I'm happy, I'm relaxing...then..

Susie: "Oh yu lie figh? Yu lie figh wid duh boi? Yu hah boi fren?"

Me: "Well, I like to learn HOW to fight. I don't really like to fight with the boys. Yes, I have a boyfriend."

Back to the GIGGLES!

And so we begin....again. I love those girls.

Gettin' my feet wet....

2009-09-20T15:52:00.000-07:00

I'm doing it. I'm finally blogging.

I've been contemplating doing this for awhile, then put it off for a few months while I formulated...(drumroll)...the PERFECT IDEA. I soon realized that not ONE of my ideas seemed to be living up to my own standards of perfection, and decided to just dive right in with the everyday occurrences of my lovely little Los Angeles life.

So here we are.

A few things about me:

-I love music. LOVE. Music is my life, my love, my "soul food". Anything from Franz Liszt to Lil' Wayne. I'll tackle this subject in depth at a later date.

-I have been known to have slightly defective depth-perception on occasion. This creates a few awkward bruises, and stares/scoffs from throngs of (groundlessly) self-important Angelenos. I'd like to think my clumsiness is endearing, but I think it ultimately translates more on the side of wearing-a-helmet-while-on-a-harness-with-a little-bit-of-drool. I have also been blessed with the gift of accidentally decorating my clothing, hair, desk, etc., with whatever I happen to be eating/drinking at the time. Yes, super sexy. No, I will not marry you.

-I love making people laugh, and will do just about anything for it. This often ends in painfully self-deprecating humor on my part. I'm convinced that if I had a mirror in front of me at all times, and could actually SEE the expressions on my face, I would either immediately save myself from....myself....via liters of Botox, or take a lifelong vow of silence.

-I'm a magnet for shockingly terrible pick-up lines. And no, that is NOT the "beep beep" of my own horn sounding. These encounters are not being generated by the type of men, women, and most importantly, MANICURISTS (we'll get into this later as well) that one would ever willingly admit to getting "sexy eyes" from. TRUST ME. I may be persuaded to post video logs (vlogs??!) re-enacting these encounters. We shall see...

-I really enjoy the ....., ( ) , " ", caps, commas, bolding, and italics. My upper torso is under the distinct impression that I am Italian. So when I write, I use anything I can to convey the emphasis that would normally be punctuated by my wild hand gestures.

-I make up words. And SHAMELESSLY. These are commonly known as "Erinisms". It doesn't count as ignorance, because I am aware that I'm creating these words.

About the name:

When I was 18 months old, I had difficulty pronouncing the "r" in "Erin", and apparently found this very frustrating. So, I gave myself a nickname that was easier to pronounce with a total of 6 teeth:

"Baby Eeeno" (B' Eeeno for short, eventually just Eeeno).

And there you have it. My humble blog beginnings.