Suburbia

Sometimes I enjoy my return to small-town life. Sometimes I feel like this:

"Suburban living is an utter mystery. I can't believe intelligent people set themselves up for a lifetime of that kind of inertia. I got to Richmond already longing for my books and movies and favorite coffee shops, and the next thing you know I was functionally catatonic. Good coffee and meaningful conversation don't exist there. No one reads. The movies suck. Nothing is in walking distance and there aren't any sidewalks anyway...There's something soporific about the manicured lawns and pots of skunk cabbage. Sweet Williams around the mailbox posts do to me what the poppy fields did to Dorothy. In the suburbs it's so easy to live easily, and so hard to live interestingly."

-Karin Goodwin, Sleeping with Random Beasts

New York, I miss you.

Hunt for "Blood" Continues

I'm Blood thirsty, y'all. The hunt for disc 4 of True Blood season one continues. Two days since my last post and the local Blockbuster still has not received their one and only copy of it from whichever jerk-face in town rented it. Since my last entry I've continued to contact Blockbuster, asking for the disc. I stopped actually going to the store (because I didn't have time to sharpen my stake). I'm pretty sure the employees recognize my voice over the phone. I had my mom call once because I was embarrassed. I mean...

The employees we spoke to kindly checked the computer database to find out when the DVD was rented and when it was due back. Turns out whoever rented it, rented it WEEKS ago and has a MAJOR late fee coming their way when they decide to bring it back. COME ON, PEOPLE. GET WITH THE PROGRAM. HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE YOU TO WATCH THREE GODDAMN EPISODES?! I wanted to ask the employee for the address of this vampire-loving, True Blood-hogging jackass, but assumed they wouldn't give me such personal information. Perhaps I should find the time to sharpen my stake, make a visit to Blockbuster and then ask for that information. Maybe not...

If that plan doesn't work, which I don't expect it to (stake or no stake), I have another idea. One of the Blockbuster employees is a guy from my graduating high school class. He's very nice. We played the alto saxophone together in band in fourth grade. We were never friends in high school, but he knows who I am and I, likewise, recognized him when I was at Blockbuster (every day this week). He's very nice, but maybe a little bit odd. He's very tall and very lanky. His skin is very pale, I guess the kind of skin you would expect someone to have who works inside a Blockbuster all summer long. He probably rents a ton of movies to watch when he's not at work because he must get a mega discount. So, even when he's not working he's probably inside watching all these movies, so he must not see the sun very often. But, I digress.

This very nice, pale, lanky dude knows I'm on the hunt for Blood because he's been working nearly every time I've gone into the store asking about it. He's usually the employee I ask to check the return bins to see if the disc I'm searching for has recently been returned. He's also the one who suggested I stop coming in and try calling the store asking for it, so that I don't have to make a trip into town for nothing. I smiled and explained that I was already in town and decided to pop into Blockbuster on my way home, since I was passing Blockbuster anyway. I have other things to do than just watch True Blood, thank you very much. (This isn't entirely true, but we'll keep that between you and I.)

Getting back to my idea...I'm thinking about seducing said tall, pale, lanky Blockbuster employee. See, I asked him if I could put my name on a reservation list. There has to be a waiting list for disc 4, right? Nope. There's not. If you had such a list, Blockbuster, I wouldn't have to make trips into your store and then harass your employees because you DON'T HAVE IT. This would make both our lives easier. Since there is no list, I'd like to seduce the employee and get him to call/text me when the DVD is finally returned. It will be like Can't Buy Me Love...(because I'm obviously super cool and popular) I'll agree to go out with him, people will think he's cool and I will finally finish watching season one of True Blood. It's genius.

I think it's a great plan. Look where Patrick Dempsey is today. He's McDreamy. Tall, pale, lanky Blockbuster employee will totally thank me for this one day. Just you wait.

For the Love of "Blood"

Over the weekend I made the mistake of watching episodes 1 through 7 of True Blood season one. I've been to the Blockbuster in town every day since searching for the next disc with episodes 8 through 10. I think I'm starting to get on the employees' nerves.

Apparently, the Blockbuster in my town is unaware that True Blood is the best/most watched show on HBO and has failed to notice that vampires are taking over pop culture because they only have one copy of each disc in the season. What are you thinking, Blockbuster?! Don't you know that there is NOTHING to do in this town?! What are we bored, unemployed, single twenty-somethings supposed to do when some jerk rents disc 4 and NEVER returns it?! Does Blockbuster think I'm going to buy the entire season from them brand new? They're selling it for $55!!! That's outrageous! Obviously, the only reason I'm living in this town is so I can bunk up with my parents because I can't afford to live on my own. And they think I can afford to buy the season?! I wasn't even sure if I could afford to rent it! I guess I never should have rented it and saved myself the $1.99 because now Blockbuster is just teasing and tormenting me because they DON'T HAVE THE NEXT DISC AVAILABLE!

I tried to go about watching the rest of season one the illegal way. Didn't work out so well. A very gracious friend sent me a link where I could download each episode. I was ecstatic! I couldn't wait to get out of work, go home and download all the episodes I had missed. To my dismay, when I clicked the download button, the page refreshed and said "that link is no longer available." You can imagine my disappointment. I know there are other ways to illegally download this show. Unfortunately I am not a computer-savvy, nerdy rebel and don't know how to go about doing this. I do, however, know one computer savvy, nerdy rebel who could help me, but he tends to tease and torment me almost as much as Blockbuster. All I want to do is get lost in Bon Temps, reunite with my girl, Sookie, AND FIND OUT WHETHER OR NOT BILL WAS BURNT TO A CRISP WITH THE REST OF THE VAMPIRES IN THE HOUSE THAT WAS SET ON FIRE BY THE ANGRY TOWNSPEOPLE!

Actually, I already know what happens because I read the books, but that's besides the point. I think I'll call Blockbuster this afternoon and ask if they have disc 4 instead of going into the store again. It's likely I'll harass the employees, should disc 4 still not be there. I wouldn't want to be thrown out of Blockbuster. I can see the headlines now...

Local Woman Threatens to Stake Blockbuster Employees

Colchester - A woman was thrown out of Blockbuster Wednesday after threatening
to stake two employees. Witnesses say the woman, 23-year-old Colchester resident,
Jenny Erasmus, became violent when she discovered disc 4 of season one of the
popular HBO television show True Blood was not in stock. It was her fifth visit to the
store since Sunday. A Blockbuster employee said, "She came into the store with the
devil in her eyes."...

Maybe I should move back to New York.

Fitting for a Giant

The days of Bubble Spinning my life away while mindlessly answering a phone that rarely rings are soon to be over. I've been hired elsewhere (thank God!). In just a few weeks, I will begin my new life as hotel guest receptionist extraordinaire. It might not be the most prestigious position in the world, but hey, it beats watching Mr. Meaney walk to the bathroom with the most recent issue of Law Journal tucked under his arm. Ick.

I applied for this position months ago (which gives me hope that maybe some of the other hundreds of jobs I applied for back in the day will eventually get around to contacting me). It's really quite thrilling. A new chapter in my life is about to begin! Hallelujah!

Before beginning this new chapter, I had to be fitted for my uniform. It's quite simple. Skirt/pants, t-shirt, suit jacket. All black. It's classy. I dig it. I'll be saving a whole lotta money on a work wardrobe. This always tends to be a problem for me, since it's not easy to find pants long enough for my body type. I have to order my jeans from a special store that makes a 37" inseam. This is no joke. The jeans issue I can deal with, but dress pants on top of the jeans issue...not cool.

Fortunately, everyone is personally fitted for a uniform at my new job. This means the clothes will be sewed just for me! How wonderful! Not. When the Asian ladies working in wardrobe saw me, their jaws hit the floor. "So tall!" they said. I've never seen a more flustered, perplexed Asian woman in my life, than the one who was assigned to fit me. She was gawking up at me, trying to decide how she could possibly make a uniform cover my long legs and long arms. Let me remind you, this is her JOB. This should not be a problem. I can't possibly be the only 6-foot-tall female to ever be fitted for a hotel guest receptionist uniform. Give me a break! After measuring my hips and waist, (which she had to reach up to do, mind you) she ran in the back room for what seemed like an hour. I could only imagine this tiny Asian woman rummaging through piles and piles of pants, searching for a pair that just might fit me.

She finally came back with two pairs. The first was too tight. The second fit just right. Around the waist, that is. All of the uniforms are un-hemmed. This way, they can hem each pair of pants to the exact length they need to be depending on who is wearing them. Unfortunately, without the hem, the pants were the perfect length for me. Great, just great. I'll be the receptionist looking like Steve Urkel in my high-waters! My baffled seamstress let out a cute, Asian giggle when she saw the length and promised to make the hem as short as her little Asian fingers would allow.

Luckily, I can wear the skirt, should the pants be too short. And luckily, the skirt is long enough for my legs. Often times, a skirt looks extra short on me even though it's not. My thighs are just longer than everyone elses! There's nothing I can do to change this! Back in high school I got yelled at by the vice principal once because she said my skirt was too short. This really pissed me off. How dare she accuse me of dressing like a skank. I really gave it to her. First off, I said it wasn't a skirt. It was a skort. There were shorts built in underneath the skirt part. (Skorts used to be cool, ok?) Secondly, I told her to find me a skirt that didn't look short on me. She threatened to give me detention if I ever wore a skirt that short again. It was a SKORT!

Man-hunt

I think I should maybe spend less time in my parents basement catching up on True Blood with my dog, Trixie. She's great company, but sometimes she snores and never talks back. I need to go out and meet people. Granted, when I start my new job next month, I'll be sure to make a ton of friends. Until then, hiding in the basement watching vampires is where I'll be. Lately I've been wishing I had a girlfriend to man-hunt with. Yes, I said it. Man-hunt. I'm not about to go out by myself. I need a companion, a partner in crime. I've considered posting an ad in the classifieds:

Hot, single female searching for hot, single female to man-hunt with. Preferably between the ages of 21 and 28. Must be SINGLE and LOOKING. Must be outgoing. Must be flirtatious. Must be willing to share hot guys with man-hunting partner. No man-hogging allowed. Previous experience in man-hunting a plus. For more information please call XXX-XXXX.

Think it will work?

Hey, Jude

Yes, folks, last night I had a ticket to ride. I fulfilled a lifetime goal of mine (and my mother's) by seeing Paul McCartney in concert at none other than Fenway Park, the greatest place on Earth. Before entering the park my mom stopped me and told me with dead seriousness that tonight would be the most important night of my life. Second only after being born. Even my wedding day, she said, would not be as important.

I must admit, my mom was right. I don't think anything in my life will ever compare to hearing/seeing Sir Paul McCartney sing "Let It Be" live. I was choking back tears! I firmly believe the world is a better place because of that song. I was in awe. I was in heaven. "Hey Jude" was almost as good as "Let it Be." A few years ago my mom saw McCartney at Madison Square Garden. She called me during "Hey Jude." It was the best phone call I ever received. I made sure to pass this on and called a special someone who I knew would appreciate it as much as I did. (You know who you are.) Ever since that phone call from my mom, all I've wanted to do is sing along with Paul to the "na, na, na, na, na, na, naaaaa's." This is mostly because when my mom called me all those years ago, I could hardly hear Paul McCartney over her screaming. This time I could hear him loud and clear. (Hopefully the person I called heard more of Paul than myself. I can't imagine by na, na, na's being very in tune considering how loudly I was screaming them.)

My mom's best friend, Nancy, accompanied us. They have been friends since they were 3-years-old. They grew up next door to each other. Their entire relationship...of 50 years!...has revolved around their love for Paul McCartney and The Beatles. When he ran on stage last night and started singing "Drive My Car" (beep beep, beep beep, yeeeeeah!) the two of them flew out of their seats and proceeded to jump up and down, waving their arms in the air, screaming on the TOPS of their lungs (as if he could hear us...we were so far away he was the size of an ant), dancing and smiling wider than I've ever seen anyone smile. It's like they were 8-years-old again, hearing Paul sing for the first time. By the end of the night, I looked just like them. My arms hurt from clapping so hard and my voice was gone.

Their reaction alone was worth going for. I've never seen my mom so happy. I'm 100% sure that she loves Paul McCartney more than me, my father and her father. They looked super adorable, too, because I made them t-shirts on customink.com that said "Lovin' Paul Since '64" with a picture of a young Paul McCartney's head in the middle (see pic). SO many people came up to them asking where they got their shirts. I should have ordered more and sold 'em! I woulda been rich!

Blood Suckers

Is there such a thing as Vamp-aholics Anonymous? I am addicted to vampires. Ok, maybe addicted is the wrong word. I am...enthralled? mystified? in love with? All of the above. I blame this on the Twilight series. And Rob Pattinson. And pop culture's current obsession with the blood-sucking undead. Thanks a lot.

While (im)patiently waiting for the New Moon movie, I started going through what I like to call "vampire withdrawal." I read all the Twilight books and watched the stupid movie a few times (my sister owns it), but I wasn't satisfied. I would just like to point out that I know the movie is horrible, awful, a sad display of cinematic art...but after reading the books, it's just so good. You can't understand unless you're 1.) female, 2.) read the entire series, and 3.) love Edward Cullen (because of reasons 1 and 2).

To ease my frustrations and vamp longing, I considered watching True Blood. Problem is, I don't get HBO and my current cash flow is not generous enough for me to purchase season 1 on DVD. Bummer. Instead, I settled for the book series that True Blood is based on. Let me just tell you, I am obsessed. In one week I flew through the first three books and intend on making a trip to Walmart on my lunch break today to pick up books 4 and 5...and maybe 6, 7, 8 and 9. They are fantastic. FANTASTIC. (FANGTASTIC? Too corny? Sorry, couldn't help myself.) There's mystery, lust, love, comedy, drama, horror and fang-bangers (a.k.a. vampire groupies who go to vampire hangouts for the sole purpose of meeting and screwing vampires. Vampire sex is no joke, people.) I can't get enough of them. And in addition to the freaking awesome vampires, Sookie Stackhouse, the story's main character, is a doll. I love her almost as much as I love the vamps.

Now, I like to consider myself an intelligent, well-educated woman. I am a college graduate. I used to be a news writer. I'm not stupid. However, I understand that my so-called vampire addiction sort of lowers my level of intelligence. But whatever. It's my guiltiest pleasure. So what? Just because I have a crush on a tall, blond, 200-year-old former viking vampire named Eric, does not make me less intelligent. After getting a glimpse of Alexander Skarsgård, who plays Eric in True Blood, I think I'll start saving up to buy or rent season 1. Dare I say it...Eric Northman is better than Edward Cullen in every possible way. I'm off to Walmart!

Movie Review: 500 Days of Summer

Go see it. It's fantastic. It's not a chick flick. It's not a love story. In fact, it actually hurts. But in a good way. It's a wonderful story. It's artistic. It's realistic. Zooey Deschanel is adorable. Almost as adorable as Joseph Gordon-Levitt's dimples. If Zooey weren't engaged to the Death Cab guy, she would totally be with Joseph Gordon-Levitt and his dimples. They are irresistable. The story makes you feel good. And then it makes you feel like crap. But by the time you're walking out of the theater, you'll realize just how good it is because it's so believable. It's not perfect. That's why I loved it. It reminds you why love sucks, but at the same time, makes you want to fall in love regardless of the pain it may bring. Just go see it. You'll love it. And then you'll be super cliché and download the soundtrack just like I'm about to do right....now.

Kate, How Could You?

A few weeks ago I got an offer in the mail from People magazine: "Mail this back and get 6 issues FREE!" Um, ok. I could enjoy reading mindless celebrity gossip...for FREE (I sound like Grandpa Fred). My first issue arrived yesterday. Hooray! Just in time for my Saturday spent floating in the pool.

I was enjoying the magazine until I arrived at the story about Kate Hudson and Alex Rodriguez's new found love. Um...what?! Apparently, I have been hiding in a hole because this is old news. Even my mom was aware of it. My initial reaction to the news was utter shock and dismay, which has since turned to anger and now I'm just in mourning. Kate!! What the heck is wrong with you?! How could you?! A-ROD?! REALLY?! SERIOUSLY?!

Their romance is everywhere. Google "Kate Hudson Alex Rodriguez" and you get "Kate Hudson & A-Rod Are Really a Couple!", "Romance Between Kate Hudson & A-Rod Heats Up," "Alex Rodriguez and Kate Hudson Get Cozy." You have got to be kidding me. Kate, you're dating the enemy. THE ENEMY! What happened to super cool, band-aid, Penny Lane, how to loose a guy in 10 days Kate? A-Rod is an idiot! An idiot. You're so much better than him. You could date anyone. ANYONE. And you choose him? That bubble butted, steroid-takin', thinks he's better than everyone else A-Rod? You used to date rockstars. ROCKSTARS! How do you go from rockstars to A-Rod? She can't possibly like him. Someone must be paying her big bucks to pretend. I wonder how much she got paid to kiss him in public.

I'm going to watch Almost Famous and remind myself why I love(d?) Kate Hudson.

It's My Party and I'll Barf If I Want to

Real lady-like, I know. Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. In honor of the occasion, my friends and I went to Margaritaville to celebrate with Jimmy Buffett and his tequila. What better way to celebrate my birthday than wasting away in Margaritaville searching for that lost shaker of salt?!

Turns out Margaritaville isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's actually a cheesy place with bizarre characters and way too much Jimmy Buffett memorabilia. I get it that it's his restaurant, but that much Jimmy Buffett just isn't healthy. And after last night, I won't mind if I never hear another Jimmy Buffett song for as long as I live.

We started off with a round of margaritas. What else? My Desdemona Raspberry Rita was good, but too sweet. For my second drink, I opted for a Bahama Mama. Yum. And for dinner I ordered a Cheeseburger in Paradise. How could I not?!

My Cheeseburger in Paradise made me barf. No lie. I barfed it up. It's not because I was drunk. I had one margarita and was only halfway through my Bahama Mama when my meal came. The burger was DELICIOUS. I was thoroughly enjoying it until I started to feel sick. I got this awful pain in my chest like heartburn, so I tried to breathe deeply hoping it would go away. It did not. Then I started to sweat. I could feel cold drips of perspiration rolling down my cheeks and back. I had to take off my cardigan. Then I got a bit dizzy. I repeat: I was not drunk. I hadn't even finished two drinks! I had to excuse myself, went to the ladies room and puked up the burger, fries and pickle (which was the size of a canoe) that I had just eaten. Happy Birthday to me! GROSS! I felt much better after I barfed.

My sister came in to see what was taking me so long. She wasn't entirely concerned. (Mainly she was asking because our 18-year-old neighbor who tagged along wanted to know if I planned on finishing my burger because he wanted it.) She immediately noticed that my face was as green as the paint on the walls. When I told her I yakked she shrugged her shoulders, asked if I was ok and went on her way.

Upon returning to the table, I did not finish my burger, fries, or canoe-sized pickle (my 18-year-old neighbor who tagged along ate it despite the fact that it made me sick), but I did eat the complimentary birthday ice cream sundae that came later. No one even sang to me, though. The waitress brought over the desert and said "Sorry, I can't sing. You're friends will have to because I can't." WHY NOT?! Where's the rest of the wait staff? Aren't you supposed to sing to someone when it's their birthday?! Isn't that in the job description?! PLUS, we were in a VIP section because one of my friends knew someone who worked there. You're telling me they don't sing to birthday girls who sit in the VIP section?! JIMMY BUFFETT! WHAT KIND OF RESTAURANT ARE YOU RUNNING?!

No one sang me "Happy Birthday." I didn't get drunk (though at times I questioned whether or not I was simply because everything about the evening was so strange). All I got was an upset stomach and a dumb balloon hat that some guy on stilts made for me. (I told you the restaurant was filled with weirdos.) Next July 29th, I'm staying home.

TMLYM

Jack White, you are so cool.

Independence Day (the Gay Way)

I celebrated the Fourth of July on a rooftop in Manhattan with a handful of fairy godfathers and a bottle (or 2...or 3...) of champagne. No one makes me feel more fabulous than the hottie in the fedora pictured below.
To top the weekend off, Lady Gaga (yes, THE Lady Gaga) commented on one of my pictures on Facebook. This is not a joke. I thought it was a joke when the hottie in the fedora pictured above called to tell me the news. "No way," I said. "She did not. This is a joke, right?" Hottie in the fedora replied, "No! She did! I'M SERIOUS! YOU HAVE TO CHECK IT OUT!" I did check it out. Now you have to check it out. It's super awesome. Click here.

Got No Game

I've been told recently that I "got no game." Not really sure what that means, so I decided to do some research.

According to urbandictionary.com "game" is:

1. a measure of smoothness with the opposite sex


2. lines or moves you use to get the opposite sex into bed


3. pick up lines


4. skill


5. mojo/sexdrive


6. the ability to seduce anybody of the opposite sex...or same sex for that matter


7. discourse marked by force and persuasiveness, either with women or in any situation to get what one wants; also the art or power of using such discourse


8. the quality of forceful or persuasive expressiveness (ie: "Tyrone pulled that hot chocolate model last night because he got game.")

Tyrone! You dog, you! Teach me your ways!! I've come to the realization that having "game" is crucial, especially since I'm single and would like to date. How will I ever meet anyone without any game? This is a crisis. I recently set a goal for myself: I want five guys to ask for my number before the summer is over. That can't be too hard, right? I've never had a guy ask me for my number before, so the idea thrills me. Does that make me corny? Old fashioned? A loser? I don't know and I don't care. I'd like some summer lovin'. However, no one will be asking for my digits unless I get some game first.

I asked my sister and half-brother (who so kindly informed me that I got no game) what that meant and how I go about changing this. They rolled their eyes and walked away. Apparently they care about me enough to let me know my game is lacking, but not enough to help me get some.

To start, maybe I should play less Bubble Spinner. That might help. Secondly, perhaps I should put myself out there more. Let's face it, I'm probably not going to meet any hot young thangs at Cocktails with the Whales (my new favorite summer event). I honestly don't have the slightest idea how to go about getting game. Should I wear my hair differently? Change my wardrobe? Take dance lessons? Topdatingtips.com says I should flirt more. The site provides a list on how to flirt by use of body language:

• Prolonged eye contact
• Dilated pupils
• Arched eyebrows
• Winking
• Rapid eye movement and blinking
• Stroking or toying with hair
• Smiling
• Licking of lips
• Touching the lips or teeth with tongue
• Thrusting chest or breasts outward
• Mirroring or copying posture
• Crossing legs
• Leaning inward
• Open-legged posture

So if I arch my eyebrows, sit with my legs open and stick out my boobs I'll get a date? HA!
For now, I'm just going to watch The Pickup Artist and take notes. If anyone reading this (does anyone even know I have a blog?) has any tips for me, I'll be super duper thankful.

"Our greatest weakness lies in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time." - Thomas Edison

Making Friends

Since leaving New York, moving home and becoming single I've decided it might be nice to make a few new friends. Don't get me wrong, I love the friends I have. It's just that I rarely get to see them since they're all the way in the big city. It would be nice to know a few faces around Colchester. I used to know a lot of people in town, but lost touch with them during the college years of my life. Most of them have moved on to bigger and better places (much like I did until Fox nearly killed me).

These past few months I was feeling quite sorry for myself, which is not a good thing. I hate feeling that way and didn't want to feel that way, but couldn't seem to get around it. Last week, however, I miraculously discovered that I am not the only one suffering this regression thanks to the recession. (The Recession Regression?) Turns out, several of my old high school friends have also moved back in with mom and dad. I am not alone! What a relief. I have since smiled more, had actual PLANS and no longer consider myself a one girl pity party. Hooray!

My exciting new small town life began over the weekend when I was invited to happy hour with a few old friends. Yes, please! I could not have been more excited to drink cheap margaritas while catching up with my high school BFFs. We went to this cute little Mexican place near the water. One of my friends brought a couple of her grad school friends along. I was thrilled to be meeting new people.

As the afternoon turned into evening and the tequila started to kick in, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. I was in a heated conversation about Jonathan Papelbon and his ego, (I say he can be as cocky as he wants. The other person in the convo - an obvious Yankee fan - thought otherwise), when my girlfriend asked me if I knew of some guy who graduated from Manhattan College with me. I won't mention his name or any names for that matter as this story is about to get pretty freaking embarrassing. I did, in fact, know this guy, so I said I did: "Oh yeah, I know insert name here! He was in love with me freshman year!" Oh, no, Jenny. Did you really just do that? Shoulda kept your big mouth shut. Turns out one of my girlfriend's grad school friends has been dating this guy for some time now. Fail.

Could I have been more embarrassed? I don't think so. My jaw hit the floor. My face turned red. What a jerk I am! Now, if you know me well enough, you know that this is not like me. I don't often make such egotistical remarks. Comments like this don't normally come out of my mouth. It was the tequila, I swear. How was I supposed to know that guy and this girl were together!? I tried to explain myself. The thing is, this guy really was in love with me. He actually said those words. We met freshman year. He was in one of my classes and we shared mutual friends, so we hung out a few times. He decided he had a thing for me and coincidentally his roommate decided he had a thing for my best friend who lived down the hall from me. The two of them made frequent, unexpected trips to our dorm. One day he decided to tell me that he thought he was "falling in love" with me. I hardly knew him! I was freaked! After that, my best friend and I tried to keep our distance from them. That was the extent of our "relationship." Cut to five years later and I'm blabbing to his current girlfriend that he used to be in love with me. Damn you, tequila!

As soon as I finished explaining myself, (though I'm not sure his girlfriend understood/cared), she whipped out her cell phone and started texting him! "What's your name again?" she asked. I told her. "I'm asking him if he knows a Jenny from Manhattan College." Two minutes later he texted back asking, "Erasmus?" Ha! Told ya I knew him.

I can only imagine the conversation they had later that night. It doesn't really matter, though. It happened several years ago and honestly, what even happened? Regardless, I still felt kind of terrible. My attempt at making friends was an utter failure. At least I entertained one of the old high school friends in attendance. He laughed so hard margarita almost came out his nose.

Drowning in Coleslaw

Happy Daddy's Day, y'all! Father's Day '09 has been quite anti-climactic. The only exciting part was the coleslaw... and it wasn't a good exciting. It started this morning when my dad decided he was going to make his famous coleslaw to go with the BBQ ribs we were having for dinner. This is the only dish my dad makes. Ever. He never cooks aside from flipping burgs on the grill. For whatever reason he makes really good coleslaw that everyone seems to enjoy... everyone aside from my lil sis who would rather cut off her left foot than eat shredded cabbage in a creamy mayonnaise dressing. Yummy.

He started shredding cabbage just after breakfast. It smelled disgusting. The entire house smelled disgusting. Since I slept late, I had the pleasure of smelling the cabbage while eating my Raisin Bran Crunch. Delicious. He shredded enough cabbage to make enough coleslaw for an entire army and always does. Keep in mind, only my immediate family members would be eating dinner at the Erasmus house tonight. Just Mom, Dad, Julie and yours truly. (Didn't mean for that to rhyme.) Dad didn't seem to notice the extreme portion. I'm fairly certain that he only knows how to make enough coleslaw for an army. No less.

Six o'clock rolled around and we decided to eat. My mom asked me to take the coleslaw out of the refrigerator where it had been sitting all day. As I peeled the tin foil from the top of the enormous bowl, I gagged. Turns out my dad made coleslaw soup. Mom and I stared at the seemingly inedible mixture of cabbage and liquefied mayonnaise and wondered if we should serve it in bowls and use spoons instead of the forks that had already been set on the table. Dad did not seem to notice or care that his coleslaw-making skills were severely lacking. And what was he doing cooking on Father's Day anyway? Aren't dads supposed to sit around and be waited on and do nothing all day long? Lord, how I wish that were the case in my house this year.

In honor of the occasion, I ladled some of the 'slaw onto my dish and tried to inconspicuously drain it with my fork before bringing it to my mouth and forcing it down. I'm not a huge fan of mayo as it is. Mayo soup, therefore, did not appeal to me. I was able to swallow some of it and hid the remaining soup on my plate under the rib bones. Julie lucked out and didn't have to eat any since dad knows she doesn't like it to begin with. Lucky bitch.

When dinner was over, Julie and I offered to clean the kitchen. "What do you want me to do with the leftover coleslaw?" I asked my dad. The bowl was still pretty much full. What was left was an even soupier, repulsive mush. My dad studied the mush for a moment and said, "I guess it's pretty soupy, huh?" No, really? Julie could jump in and swim in it if she so desired! He then directed me to dump it out. Alas! The coleslaw (if that's what you want to call it) is in the garbage.

My Secret

Fun fact! I've got a mega crush on Michael Bublé. I daydream of him serenading me. Croon, baby, croon!

"No one should give up a dream without giving it a chance to come true." - Valley of the Dolls

Brush Your Teeth, Gross Mouth

After 22 years of perfect teeth, I finally have my first cavity. Times nine. That's right. I have nine cavities. Well, eight cavities now since I got one drilled and filled last week. That's right. Just one. I told the dentist, "Look, Doc. For financial reasons I can only afford to get one tooth fixed. No job means no dental insurance, which means eight cavities have to wait. So pick the worst and drill away."

He chose a molar on the bottom right. I'm not going to lie, I was maybe a tad nervous. I mean, I've never had a cavity. Ever. I never had braces, either. I was born with perfect, straight teeth much to my sister's dismay. She was a brace-face for several years and to this day sleeps with a retainer. Gross... The most amount of dental work I've had was getting my wisdom teeth pulled a few years ago. That didn't hurt, though. It was actually fun. I loved the laughing gas and the pain killers and the laying in bed eating nothing but pudding and ice cream for three days.

I had no idea what to expect as I sat in the dentist chair. I was prepared for the worst and the decorations in the office weren't helping. Apparently the dental hygienist is obsessed with wolves. There was a wallpapered wolf border around the entire room, stuffed wolves sitting amongst the dental gear and the hygienist was wearing wolf smocks. Those wolves were eyeing me, laughing at me, knew the pain I was about to endure.

Before I knew it, Dr. Babinski was coming at me with a giant needle. He pulled my cheek out and jammed that sucker right in. Amazingly, it didn't hurt! I didn't feel the slightest pinch! As I was revelling in the fact, my mouth and face started to tingle. Before long numbness spread from my cheek to my tongue to my lips and all over my gums. For fear of drooling all over myself, I was constantly checking the corner of my mouth, wiping away nonexistent saliva. What a strange sensation!

When my face and mouth were fully numb, Dr. B. started poking around in there with all sorts of stuff. I couldn't quite figure out what exactly he was doing. I kept my eyes shut for most of the experience. The Novocaine needle sort of freaked me out and I didn't want to see anything that scary enter my mouth again. Just moments later, Dr. B. sat up, pushed that blinding dentist light out of my eyes and told me he was all set. Really? That quick? That's it? I didn't feel a thing! And still wouldn't feel a thing for the next couple of hours. My face stayed numb longer than I thought it would. I was pulling and pinching and biting my lips and cheek and chin for what seemed like hours until finally that tingling came back.

After getting my first ever cavity filled I feel brave and tough, like I finally fit in. I finally feel like I'm part of the club, like I finally have something in common with the rest of the world. Cavities are cool, man! Everyone's got 'em! Perfect teeth are boring!

Brb, I gotta brush my teeth...

"Poor Meggie longed, quite what for she didn't know, but the basic pull was there, and it dragged her inexorably in the direction of Ralph de Bricassart. So she dreamed of him, yearned for him, wanted him; and mourned, that in spite of his declared love for her she meant so little to him that he never came to see her." - The Thorn Birds

Menopause and a Pollock

This morning on my way to work I took a left turn through a red light. For those of you non-drivers out there, that is highly illegal. Don't ask me why I did this because I can't answer that. I guess I was day dreaming/still waking up/losing my mind and hoping to get arrested...? Thankfully, the po-po weren't around and I made it safely to work without any blue and red lights flashing behind me. Woohoo! Cranmore, Fitzgerald & Meaney! This place is sucking the life right out of me. At this point, after five months of this tedious nothingness, it's like a straw trying to suck the last few drops of a milkshake. Can you hear it? That loud, obnoxious slurping? I'm almost empty. No life left. SLUUUUURP!

I think I'm going to plan a trip. Actually, wait. Scratch that. I'm not going to plan it. I'm just going to wake up one morning, jump inside Rhonda (my new car) and put the pedal to the metal. My very good friend, Michelle, who I haven't seen in forever, suggested the idea. I say, if neither of us has a full-time job in two weeks (not likely) then we'll road trip. Just me, the Michdawgz Tullmeister and the open road. Maybe we'll go to California (Californiaaaaa, Californiaaaaaa, here we cooooooooooome!). Or maybe we'll go to South Carolina and visit Grandpa and Grandma E. I don't care where we go. Anywhere, but here.

I've been living home now for six months. It's time for me to go. I'm not yet ready to move out for good (especially since I still don't have a legit job and now I have car payments...What was I thinking?) A road trip is just what I need.

It seems mom has finally hit menopause. Last night I jumped up from my seat across from her at the dinner table when I noticed a hot flash approaching. Her face turned beet red and drops of sweat immediately began dripping down her face. Without bothering to unbutton her sweater all the way, I pulled it off her arms and proceeded to fan her with my dirty dinner plate. It didn't last too long, but it was enough for my dad to suggest investing in an air conditioner for their bedroom this summer. We've lived in a house without air conditioning for 22 years, so this is obviously a big deal. She reminds me of Kitty from "That '70s Show". Short tempered, always drinking... It's quite entertaining, but semi-frightening at the same time.

Meanwhile, Dad's turning into an old Pollock, much like Grandpa Fred. My younger sister's new boyfriend came over the other night and was meeting my parents for the first time. He was supposed to arrive at 7:00, but ended up being late. While Julie stood at the window, anxiously waiting for him, my dad kept yelling about him not being "punctual." He must have said the word 25 times, if not more. "He's not very punctual, Juile!" Five minutes later: "Where is this kid? Not punctual!" Five minutes later: "Julie! Your boyfriend isn't punctual, is he?!" I couldn't help but laugh and thank my lucky stars that I wasn't the one introducing a new boyfriend. My dad isn't exactly the friendliest person. He has the tendency to scare the crap out of most males. He doesn't smile much and when he does, it doesn't quite make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. The only guy he ever truly liked was one of Julie's. When she ended the relationship, my dad might as well have been the one who was dumped. His heart was just as broken.

I think a road trip and mini-vacation away from the menopause and Pollock is just what this hunny needs.

Excerpt

"I was running for my life. As fast as my legs could carry me. Tree branches grabbed at me, scraping my arms, tearing my clothes as I flew through the woods, searching for a hiding place. Whoever I was with earlier had disappeared now. They had most likely been attacked and was now one of them. The zombies. They were everywhere. I could hear screams, distant cries for help. It was no use. Was there anywhere to hide?

I spotted a house up ahead and ran faster than I thought possible. The wind in my hair, sweat dripping down my spine, darkness all around me. I prayed they couldn't see me, wherever they were. Prayed that I was faster than them. That I could reach the house before they reached me.

I entered a clearing and found myself pacing down a long driveway heading towards the house. As I was approaching my safety, I heard a voice. Loud and clear. Right behind me. He called my name. He wasn't running, didn't sound scared. I knew deep down that he was one of them. A zombie just like the rest. Why else would he stop in the middle of a clearing where they could so easily get him? I knew he wanted to attack me, wanted to steal my soul and turn me into one of them.

I knew all of this, but still I stopped running. Trying to catch my breath, I stood in the driveway ahead of him, not yet daring to turn around and face him. I knew who he was, what he was. Knew what he wanted. And there I was, ready and willing to give him all of me. I couldn't resist. That's how it has always been.

And then I woke up."

"Your regrets aren't what you did, but what you didn't do. So I take every opportunity." - Cameron Diaz

Perks of Being a News Fox (there aren't many)

One year ago I started a job as a News Assistant/Production Assistant/News Fox at Fox 5 in New York City. I was assigned to work for a show called Good Day New York. It's a local morning show much like Good Morning America. It ran from 5am to 9am, so my shift started at...wait for it...2:30am. Yes, 2:30 in the morning. As in, the middle of the night. When most everyone in "the city that never sleeps" is in fact, ASLEEP.

During my seven months as a News Fox, I did not sleep. I tried to, but it wasn't easy. My body never understood that bedtime was from noon to around 8:00pm. When I fell asleep at noon, I almost always woke up just a few hours later. My mind thought I was just taking a nap. Despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep. (Note: I will have no trouble being a mother and waking up several times a night to take care of an infant. I've had plenty of training.) Since I was always trying to sleep, I never saw anyone. My bed was my best friend/worst enemy. I also cried at least once a day.

There are some (but not many) perks to being a News Fox and living like a vampire. For one, you have the whole day free! I got out of work at 11:30am, so I had the entire afternoon open to do whatever the heck I wanted. While everyone else in Manhattan was stuck at their 9 to 5, I had the city to myself. There are some things you can do in the afternoon that you can't do later in the evening...like go to the post office! I never had a need to go to the post office after work, though, because I didn't have any friends to mail anything to because I didn't talk to anyone because all I did was try to sleep. And if I did have anything to mail, I probably wouldn't have made it to the post office because after working for eight hours in the middle of the freaking night, I walked out of Fox like a zombie. Every day I fell asleep on the subway ride back to the boogie down Bronx. I was that embarrassing person on the train with her head bobbing, falling over on other passengers. It was only noon, so I'm sure people thought I was on drugs or drunk or something. Surely they wouldn't consider that maybe I was a sad, tired News Fox desperately wishing I had chosen another profession.

Another perk was that I could swear like a mother fuckin' trucker. Everyone did. In case you're unaware, working in television news is incredibly stressful. There's a million things to do in a short amount of time. The show is live, so if something doesn't get done in time, you're screwed. While sitting at my computer, frantically working, I would occasionally hear a fellow writer or producer scream out "FUCK!" It would go unnoticed, for the most part. No concerned heads turned in the direction of the curse. It was totally normal. Bad part is, I got so used to swearing like a trucker and hearing others around me swear like a trucker that I began to constantly swear like a trucker. It's not an easy habit to break. Although, I did somehow manage to fix my dirty mouth before moving home with Mom and Dad.

The third and final perk that I can think of at the moment is that no one at Fox cared if I complained about being tired. Everyone working for Good Day New York was utterly exhausted. None of us could see straight and we were constantly yawning. No one expected us to come to work well-rested. In fact, you're expected to be dead tired. Haven't slept in 2 months? No one has! It's cool! There were several instances where I actually had to smack one of the producers because he was SNORING at his desk.

Needless to say, I don't miss it.