Monday, April 27, 2009

Maybe a family can be too honest...

Grandma: What is it you are always doing on that computer?
Erratic: Reading blogs, writing blog posts (that I never publish), IMing your youngest grandaughter, you know, interent stuff.
Grandma: What is a blog?
Erratic: Sort of like an online diary that everyone can read.
Grandma: EVERYONE can read it?
Erratic: Yeah, that is sort of the point. It's a way to communicate your thoughts and feelings with the world.
Grandma: How many people read your blog?
Erratic: Not that many. I am not that cool.
Grandma: What do you write about?
Erratic: I don't know...just life. Here, read my last post (note: the one where she asked if she was interfering in my love life.)
Grandma: Did I really say that?
Erratic: Yep
Grandma: Did he really grab your ass?
Erratic: Yep
Grandma: Oh. Well, I guess I have one less thing to worry about; my grandchildren have a healthy sex life.
Erratic: That I do.
Grandma: Good. Let's never talk about it again.
Erratic: Deal.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Signs of Summer

The deck is open. Come on by for a margarita. :)

As the boy was leaving tonight, I gave him a big hug and a kiss. Grandma looks up and says, "You know, I really hope I am not ruining your love life by being here." The boy and I just sort of looked at each other, like, well, it certainly isn't helping. Then he grabbed my ass.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Enough Ass Already!

It is Saturday night - day 8 of my recovery from the incident with the devil dog. 8 solid days of rest and relaxation. When I was put on short term disability, I thought, hell yeah. I am going to catch up on all those books I wanted to read. I am going to write the next great American novel. I am going to have a drink with breakfast, god damnit. You know what really happens? Nothing. I mean, seriously, nothing.

Pee, shower, brush teeth, get dressed.

Go downstairs.

Meds, breakfast, plop my ass on the couch.

Lunch, meds.

Dinner, meds.

Go upstairs.

Wash face, brush teeth, bedtime, meds.

Repeat. Somewhere in there I go for a walk so that my muscles do not become completely worthless and I turn into some sort of couch-blob concoction that becomes the major focus of a study by the CDC.

The weirdest part of all of this? The part that I don't think I ever expected in a million years? How lonely I am. I feel so disconnected from the world. All I ever talk about is me. How I feel, how I look, when my next doctors appointment is, have I pooped, when do I need to take the next round of is maddening. I used to talk to these same people about politics and books and art and mutual friends and family. Now we talk about if I was able to shit with or without a suppository. Seriously, people. I am officially banning my ass from all topics of conversation. Unless it is something like, damn, that is a fine ass. Because, come on, I'll take the compliments where I can get them.

And, I know what you are going to say - they are concerned, they love me, they want to make sure I am ok. I get that. I love them for that. But, I am just not that interesting. Especially to me. Because all I do all day is hang out with me, thinking about me, doing stuff with me. I am sick and fucking tired of myself! For reals. There is an entire world going on outside of my couch and you are all the window into it. I want to hear some juicy gossip and funny stories about stupid people doing stupid shit. I want to laugh and forget about the fact that my very existence consists of being heavily medicated on the couch drinking diet Vernors. Because, dude, that existence blows some serious ass. Damnit. Here we are back again talking about asses.

I know it will go away. I know that I will once again be released into the wild, to wreak havoc upon our poor city in some sort of post-couch drunken celebration. I know that this is just a temporary frustration. And the important thing is that I get better...blah, blah, blah.

Until then, have faith that Erratic will rise yet again. And if it gets that bad, I'll totally share my meds.

Road Trip

Erratic: The speed limit is 40 mph
Grandma: I am doing 35 mph and everybody is whizzing by me
Erratic: That is because the speed limit is 40 mph
Grandma: Well, all these people speeding are making me nervous. I can't talk and drive that fast.
Erratic: They aren't speeding. Why are you slowing down?
Grandma: That person up there looks like they are going to turn
Erratic: They are. After you pass them. You can't just stop in the middle of the road.
Grandma: I didn't stop, I slowed down.
Erratic: You are going 5 mph
Grandma: Well, sue me.

Erratic: You need to turn left at the light.
Grandma: OK
Erratic: Left. You need to get over one more lane.
Grandma: OK, OK. Jeesh
Erratic: Left. You need to turn left.
Grandma: Oops, I just turned right. I really don't like making lefts, you know.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Cleaning Day

Grandma: I am going to clean today, but I can't find any rags.
Erratic: They are in the blue basket in the basement. That is all rags.
Grandma: I looked there, all I found was this old stained towel.
Erratic: That is a rag.
Grandma: Oh.

**Approximately 15 minutes passes, I am watching Chuck and paying no attention to her.**

Erratic: Where did all the pictures on my mantle go?
Grandma: They wouldn't fit.
Erratic: Where are they?
Grandma: I don't know.
Erratic: Well, you had to put them somewhere.
Grandma: I put most of them in the bathroom.
Erratic: Why would I want my pictures in the bathroom?
Grandma: Because they wouldn't fit on the mantle.
Erratic: OK, you win.

**I again, zone out on the television and am paying no attention.**

Erratic: Why are all my pictures on the end table?
Grandma: You sounded upset about them being the bathroom.
Erratic: Well, now they are just stacked on the end table. I can't see them.
Grandma: Well, you can rotate them. You really have too many pictures.
Erratic: OK, you win.

**Another 15 or so minutes have passed**

Grandma: This dusting spray you have is worthless.
Erratic: All my cleaning supplies are animal friendly. They aren't quite as good as the regular stuff, but they are safe for kids, people, and animals.
Grandma: Oh, well, that is nice of you. Why do your dogs shed so much?
Erratic: Because it is spring. It is shedding season and I haven't been able to brush them.
Grandma: Do you think I could just run the vacuum over them?
Erratic: (stunned face, no response)
Grandma: I mean, lightly. I wouldn't hurt them. I'd use the hose.
Erratic: I don't think that is such a good idea.
Grandma: Well, somebody needs to vacuum them, because the shedding is out of hand.
Erratic: I will have the boy brush them tonight.
Grandma: Well, that is fine, but tell him not to leave the hair all over the floor.
Erratic: Do you think that is what I do, is brush them and throw their hair in the floor?
Grandma: Well, I just can't think of any other explanation for all this hair. How much water have you had today?
Erratic: I don't know, I haven't been counting.
Grandma: Well, if you aren't going to drink tomato juice, you should at least be drinking water.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Conversations with Grandma

Well, kids, I was going to blog the Monday/ Tuesday experience at the hospital, but, frankly, when on Oxycontin, your memory retention is fairly nonexistent. I remember, vaguely being there, some shots, a nurse, maybe a doctor, being stranded in the hallway after an X-ray with a belligerent racist know, typical Monday.

Tuesday was release day, which consisted of me pushing the nurse call button approximately every nano second to see if the release papers had been brought up yet. I am pretty sure there is a dart board with my picture on it somewhere in that hospital.

Now that I am home, I am relaxing, and holy mother of shit, am I sleeping. It is all I want to do. I know that is partially the drugs and partially being home. Whatever it is, I slept 13 hours last night and woke up feeling like I had just fallen asleep.

So, to help out, my 77 year old grandmother is staying with me. First of all, do you know what a complete useless human specimen I feel like when the 77 year old woman can move around better than me? I kind of want to fling myself in traffic. Also, she never stops talking and asking questions. Which is scary for two reasons; first, I may kill her before this ordeal is over. But, secondly, I am a very inquisitive person and just had a 50 years from now flash forward, and frankly, I am going to require that I be shot at 65. I will hire the hitman myself. Nobody should have to deal with me then.

Here is the conversation I have had while I was typing this:

Grandma: Is this Nip/Tuck?
Erratic: No, it is Charmed.
Grandma: Have you ever seen Nip/Tuck?
Erratic: No.
Grandma: Oh, he is a sex addict.
Erratic: Good to know.
Grandma: What does your step mom do when your dad is out of town?
Erratic: I have no idea.
Grandma: Is she good at her job?
Erratic: I have never watched her work.
Grandma: Does she make a whole lot of money?
Erratic: I have never asked.
Grandma: Could you go to the college she teaches at for free?
Erratic: I don't know.
Grandma: Is there anything in your oven?
Erratic: A cast iron grill pan. You can put it on top of the stove.
Grandma: How many baked potatoes will the boy eat?
Erratic: One
Grandma: How do you turn on the oven?
Erratic: Hit bake, use the arrows to adjust the temperature.
Grandma: I hit bake, nothing is happening.
Erratic: It has to preheat.
Grandma: What?
Erratic: It has to preheat
Grandma: Oh. Do you like tomato juice?

I am not even kidding here. It is like a constant flow of her asking questions. Constant. So, I have decided I am going to do a segment (I apparently think I am some sort of TV producer here) called conversations with grandma. Good times will be had by all. Except me. Who may hang myself from the ceiling fan. If my back is strong enough to climb the step stool and kick it out of the way.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Thank You

Tomorrow is my fifth and final day in the hospital. This was a challenging experience for me. It tested my threshold for pain, as well as my ability to let go and just allow myself to be taken care of. I spent 2 days bedridden, unable to move without searing pain. I spent 2 days struggling to walk, while my legs shook under me and all I wanted to do was crumple on the floor and give up. But, I didn't. I took every step. I let people wash me, because I was unable to wash myself. I watched as people around me held cups of water to my mouth so that I could get a drink. I watched everyone I love file in and out of my hospital room, giving me hugs and their best wishes. I listened as my family back home rearranged their lives to be out here and take care of me until I can take care of myself.

I saw my mother and my father talk to each other on the phone, putting everything aside but their love and concern for me.

I watched the good in all the people around me. I watched them struggle with me as I fought to overcome this hurdle. And as the last person left every day, I realized how truly lucky I am to have every single one of them. I thought of every time I got irritated with them, or short with them, or was just plain awful to them. And, yet, here they all stand.

I realize that not everyone has this, that not everyone is surrounded by love the way that I am. I realize that a lot of the people on this floor sat and listened as we all laughed and talked and figured out a way to get me through this. I realize that a lot of these people have no one to go home with. Have no one to come stay with them until they are able to be by themselves.

I would do the same for every single one of them. I may have a lot of regrets in my life. I may have ended some friendships and walked away from people a little too easily. But, the ones that are left, the ones that really matter, are amazing. I don't have to sit and wonder how I am going to get through this because I have every single one of them by my side helping me every step of the way.

I love you all. Thank you for making this difficult time incredibly easy.

The Arm That Will Never Be The Same

Sunday, April 19, 2009


Friday morning, while on a conference call with work, I tripped over devil dog. Originally, I thought that this was another one of my back spasm moments that would pass with some rest and plenty of muscle relaxers. I was wrong. As the day progressed, I called the boyfriend to cancel the trip and asked him to come over to take me to the ER. Here is my story.

The boy arrives and immediately wants to call 911. I feel stupid. I hurt my back, I didn't accidentally chop off my leg trying to construct something useful. So, I try to get off the couch, and manage to roll myself on to my hands and knees, then pull myself into a kneeling position, using my love seat for support. Oh, Internet friends, this was the end. I sat there for 5 minutes and said, call 911.

The medics arrive and I am expecting them to point and laugh until they cried. I looked ridiculous. I hadn't showered since the previous morning. I was on my knees, doing what can only be described as praying to the love seat gods. I was also covered in dog hair, shaking uncontrollably from the pain/embarrassment, and crying. It was not my finest moment. They finally get me loaded into the ambulance, and we're off. I am feeling slightly euphoric because there is help in the future and I am no longer stuck on the couch like some sort of condo-sized whale.

Did you know that there is no feasible way to get from my house to a hospital without driving through a crater farm, a train yard, and military land mine practice site? Because it's not. It was like they laid me on a gurney of nails, patted my shoulder, and said, "this may hurt a little." We finally arrive, after I have screamed myself hoarse (please note: when in pain, I am a screamer. Who knew?) They wheel me into my little room, transfer me from the gurney to the ER bed, and EMT #26 is on it's way to help someone with a real emergency.

Here is what I learned in my 5 hours in the ER:

  1. The registration guy has nothing better to do than watch Hulu and buy baseball caps.
  2. You will answer the same questions 500 times because they are, apparently, incapable of simple human interaction with each other. Or they were testing me to make sure I said the same thing. More on this later.
  3. If you complain of lower back pain, someone will shove their finger up your ass "just in case."
  4. TBS plays a "That 70's Show" marathon on Friday nights.
  5. After Percoset, Valium, and something else I can't remember, you still say you are inexcruciating pain, they will test you. By raising your bed really fast. You will scream obscenities at the woman and she will treat you like shit from then on out.
  6. When the doctor hears you scream, he admits you.

So, they admit me to the hospital. The first night was a blur of excruciating pain, and honestly, I don't remember much of Friday day and night. I was on no drugs...all I remember is pain.

So, the next morning I wake up, alone, in a hospital bed, scared out of my mind, and literally trembling from pain. I have never been admitted to a hospital before. I had no idea what to expect. The night nurses were nice, but I truly remember almost nothing of those interactions. The day nurse walks in, her name is Jen. She is snarky and rude and demanding and yells at me and I LOVE HER. She is exactly what I want in a nurse. I don't want fucking unicorns and rainbows and awww...sweetie, let me love you to health. Fucking gag me. I want someone to come in and say "get your fat ass out of that bad or I am going to give you the herps." True story.

Now, I have been in the hospital for three days and this is already ridiculously long, so I will number the remainder of the story, in chronological order, for your reading enjoyment. Please beware, I have lost all sense of modesty, shame, and privacy. This is going to be brutally (and disgustingly) honest.


  • I'm sitting there, all hopped up on pain meds (I will provide a list later) when I realize I haven't peed in 24 hours. Um. This is bad. I call the nurse. It is decided that I need a catheter, because my bladder is asleep.
  • And, I am all, wake the fuck up bladder, if anyone deserves a little resty poo, it's liver. So, first, they clean it with that Orange sanitary shit, and I am laughing my ass off because I have oompa loompa cooter. Seriously. Bright orange. Funny shit. Then, you know, they stick a tube up my shit, and I am all, this isn't funny anymore.
  • The boy spends the next 2 hours telling me every time I pee. And then giggling because he is watching me pee.
  • I go for an MRI. I am claustrophobic. And terrified of being buried alive. An MRI machine is like a giant, metal, grave. That makes a lot of noise. And is hot. And if you move, say, due to muscle spasms, they have to start the scan over. I believe that Obama should use these machines as torture devices.
  • I do not believe in torture. But, dude, if I can do it, so can you.
  • My stomach swells to approximately the size of Texas and I am having stabbing pains. The doc has another hospital on stand by, pending an x-ray, for emergency surgery. Turns out I am just full of shit. Literally. I am given laxatives, suppositories, and some goo that is supposed to make your poop slide right out like some sort of fucked up luge.
  • They ship my night nurse in from Guantanamo Bay. I am freaking out about shitting myself, because, you know, it could happen. I have been given enough laxatives to shit out an elephant. Instead of, you know, giving me my options, she says, "I'll put a bed pan next to your bed." Um. Right. Do you see the size of my stomach? I am going to need some sort of industrial sized shit tank. A pretty pink plastic kidney shaped bed ban isn't going to do shit. Pun intended.


  • In walks Jen, favorite nurse ever, and says good morning. Then proceeds to brow beat me until it is blatantly clear that my ass is getting out of bed and walking. Because if I don't shit soon, she is going to shove a tube up my nose and pull all of my shit out of my nose. I had this look on my face for the remainder of the day:
  • I finally get my ass out of bed and am moved to a chair, where I proceed to have muscle spasm after muscle spasm. They don't stop. I am like some sort of demented, twitchy, chair person. At least one person ran from the hospital screaming "why, god, why?"
  • They tell me I need a suppository. Literally, I was told to stand, thrown over the bed, and had yet another finger up my ass. Seriously - any of you out there that are into all that ass shit, I really recommend coming to the hospital I am at. They hand out rectal exams and suppositories like pedophiles hand out puppies at the playground.
  • I start walking around, which is at about 2 feet per minute. Believe it or not, I was THRILLED with this progress.
  • They give me another MRI and X-Ray again. Exec pt this time, they leave me in the hallway for an hour. My nurse comes running down the stairs looking for me. I personally think she was afraid some doctor had confiscated me for their own personal ass slave. The look of relief on her face certainly did not just mean "oh, there you are."
  • Big Jed and Krackle stop by, bringing me tons of entertaining goodies, like magazines, crosswords, a machete, and this cute little pocket pet thing. They thought it would be fun for me to take care of. Let me tell you about my pet pocket dinosaur. ALL THAT MOTHER FUCKER DOES IS SHIT. Seriously. And every time it shits, it beeps. So, you can clean up it's shit. And then you have to feed it. And love it. It was one needy fucking key chain pet, let me tell you.
  • I ate my first real meal - turkey, mashed potatoes, and carrots. I am taking a bite of the turkey, when I turn to my visitors and say there is no way this is turkey. I think it is tofurken or some shit. They both looked at me and laughed their asses off. What is tofurken you ask? I have no idea. Apparently, when on drugs, I make up words. I think I was going for turducken or tofurkey. But, I am not totally sure either of those things are real either. Along with the wizard that has been sitting in the corner of my room granting all my wishes. Because, my sponge baths are still being done by the nurses and not Collin Ferrel.

So, the moral of the story here is that prescription pain killers are good, wizards lie, Guantanamo Bay is not a good place to recruit nursing staff, and never take your ability to walk or urinate on your own for granted, people. It is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Also, protect your ass holes at all time. You never know when a rogue doctor will shove his finger up it.

More to come later in the adventures of Erratic at the hospital.

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Zip Your Flap

The boy and I are going on a weekend getaway this weekend to a secluded cabin in the middle of a state park. OK, that was way hard to explain when I could have just said the name of the park. Stupid anonymity. Anyway, we are going to a cabin and taking the dogs and spending the weekend hiking and relaxing. I need this. I need a weekend away to decompress and regroup. To drink in the middle of the day for no reason other than I can. Oh, vacation.

So, everyone who I tell about this trip, keeps asking, why aren't you going camping? My response to this is generally a blank stare and then laughter. Maybe some pointing. Definitely more laughter. See, camping to me is the equivalent, of well, unnecessary torture. Like, repeatedly stabbing yourself with a pen. In the eye. Or reading anything written by Danielle Steele.

I have been camping once. I was young - maybe 7 - and it was with my brownies troop. It was a father daughter camping trip. My dad describes the trip as where souls go to die. I squealed at every fly, spider, bee, snake, leaf, blade of grass, and worst of all, the death traps they called tents. I have since matured and left all that ridiculousness behind. I never squeal at the sight of grass. However, the bug phobia has never left. Nor has the fear of being eaten alive by a bear in the middle of the night because I am being protected by a structure that contains a zipper and a flap. A FLAP. You camping people are nuts.

Plus, there is nature everywhere. I love nature, do not get me wrong. I like to hike, I like to sit outside for brief periods of time, I like to drink. Um, I mean, drink outside. But, I like to go inside and take a hot shower and wash all that fucking nature off too. Camping is just not my thing. I will drink all day at a tailgate, pee in a Porto Potty, but when it is time to pass out at the end of the day, I want a bed, four walls, and temperature control.

One of my favorite quotes, of all time, is from Monk; "You can't clean nature with nature!" Monk, it is so true.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Milk and Pencils

So, today, I got one of those inane forwards that list your astrological sign and a description of said sign. I am a Libra, but am on the cusp of Virgo. Here are the two descriptions:
VIRGO - The Perfectionist (Aug 23 - Sept 22) Dominant In relationships. Conservative. Always wants the last word. Argumentative. Worries. Very smart. Dislikes noise and chaos. Eager. Hardworking. Loyal. Beautiful. Easy to talk to. Hard to please. Harsh. Practical and very fussy.. Often shy. Pessimistic.
LIBRA - The Harmonizer (Sept 23 - Oct 22) Nice to everyone they meet. Can't make up their mind. Have own unique appeal. Creative, energetic, and very social. Hates to be alone. Peaceful, generous.. Very loving and beautiful. Flirtatious. Give in too easily. Procrastinators.. Very gullible.
Both Mrs. Williams and Hannah Montana immediately insisted that I fit every criteria of a Libra, that it was me to a T. I disagreed, saying I thought I was a combination of the two. So, I decided to consult the boy. He thought the description of Virgo fit me, in his words, "ALL THE WAY!"
These two descriptions are vastly different. I mean, complete opposites. To me, one is sort of sweet and angelic (I believe I used the word cherub), and one is kind of a raving bitch. Which is why I believed I was a combination of the two, taking traits from each, creating sort of a bitchy cherub. Like cupid with death arrows. Or something.
This lead to some serious self evaluation. My immediate thought was, um, I have multiple personalities. But, I am not losing time, and I don't wake up in outfits I don't remember putting on. At least not often. So, then, I wondered, do I really treat these two facets of my life that differently?
The answer: Yes. Yes, I do. I knew that I did. I didn't need a forward to tell me that. But it started a conversation between me and MW about WHY I do these things.
I am struggling to write this because it is pretty personal. But, here goes. I have this fear of being wrong. Of making the wrong choices in my life. Things that can be fairly easily changed don't bother me. But, the major ones, the ones that I can't just walk away from if necessary, paralyze me. One example of this is my career. My career fell in my lap. I started in an entry level position at a company and worked my way up. I work hard, I enjoy what I do. But, it is not what I pictured myself doing with the rest of my life.
I have been to college about 4,000 times and taken about 10,000 classes. Every time I find something I think I can do for the rest of my life, the fear paralyzes me. I stop going to class, drop out, and repeat the whole process several months later. Let me tell you - financially - this is fucking stupid.
The same thing applies to relationships. With friends, not so much. I can walk away from a friend if I realize they are complete tools. And I do. I do not keep friends around that are toxic to my life. This has left me with the most amazing group of friends anyone could ever ask for.
But, when it comes to relationships with men and feelings and stuff, I pretty much suck. I am terrified of being wrong. Of marrying the wrong person, having kids with the wrong person, making a life with someone only to realize (or have them realize) that this isn't right and to have to completely take apart a life I spent years building.
I went through more than my fair share of divorces as a kid. 3 to be exact. That might not seem like a lot, I am sure there are people who went through more. But, it left it's mark. I don't want to ever live through another all out war over who gets the $30 coffee pot. It changes people, it makes them monsters. The fear of being there paralyzes me. It makes it hard to breathe.
So, I treat those relationships different, I treat the boy different. It is subconscious. I don't want to. It is not who I really am. I really am more like a combination of the two. I think everyone is different with their friends, their family, the people they work with, etc. I think it is in the nature of who we are. But, I don't think it is OK to do out of fear. I don't think it is OK to live your life being scared, instead of just living it. As MW said, just stop it.
So, I guess I am going to stop being scared. And I guess I am going to have to stop being some kind of mythical shrew/cherub/evil/good creature and just start being me. Whoever that may be.
And if you are wondering why the title of this post is Milk and Pencils - I really have no idea. Ask Mrs. Williams.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

My "Cool" Friends

So, here is the thing with Facebook...I have, like, 10 friends that get me. The rest of them, the other 100 or so friends, are asshats. Now, let me tell you how Facebook works. At least for me.

I join.

I friend the people I care about.

800 people from high school send me friend requests. I accept, thinking, wow, I wonder what they are up to now? I quickly realize I don't care.

A cult in Tacoma, Washington tries to suck me in. I realize I am very unsure on how to spell Tacoma.

I stop accepting new friends, unless I actually like them. I decide to keep the friends I already have. I would also keep a dog that repeatedly gnawed off my leg. I am loyal like that. Plus, I want a peg leg. More on that later.

So, I don't take Facebook very seriously. At all. I just completed a quiz entitled "how you will die" with the result "crushed by a sumo wrestler." One of my "cool" friends is jealous because he is simply going to spontaneously combust. I don't blame him. How often do you hear of someone getting crushed by a sumo wrestler?

Sometimes my status messages are mundane like, "hiding another body" or "can't sleep. domestic violence again." But, sometimes, I break out the wit, and say something like "trying to blow up my pager with my mind." The results:

Cool Friend: You have a pager? How 1998 of you...kudos.
Cool Friend: I know I have that number around here somewhere....
Not Cool Friend: Have fun with that. Let me know how it goes...

It is funny, people! Funny! You know why it is funny? Because it can't happen. But, the image of someone sitting there, concentrating and trying (ala Big Bang Theory) is hilarious. HILARIOUS. OK, maybe I just find it funny. But, stop raining on my parade people. I don't believe there is a Ninja hiding in my bathroom, waiting to decapitate me on sight. I don't believe that zombies are being resurrected in my basement because my house was built on an Indian Burial Ground. (I wasn't sure how to capitalize that, so I just went all out.)

It is silly. It is stupid. It is Facebook. I feel sorry for these people who sit around their house all day thinking, "Oh, she must think that actually works. I must tell her immediately you can't really blow up things with your mind."

Then there is that friend who makes it all about them. Like, if I post my status as "getting that leg amputated today." They respond, with longest comment ever, explaining the entire medical procedure and how they know someone who went through it, and, oh, by the way, you are totally going to miss that leg. I try to reel them back in with a response like; "I won't miss it at all. SO STOKED FOR THE PEG LEG." And they go into a 4 paragraph tirade about splinters. And this one time they got a splinter and it hurt. And you should really not get a peg leg.

When I want advice I ask for it. When I want people to shit on my day, I go to work. Or call my Aunt. So, all you people out there who use Facebook for any reason other than to mess around and keep in touch with friends, can fuck off. Seriously. I don't care if I only have 10 Facebook friends. Because, you know what, when a Ninja really does attack, they will be the ones I call in to clean up the mess.

Saturday, April 11, 2009


I woke up this morning and read this:

I have been thinking about it all day. I can't stop thinking about it. The bravery it takes to be that honest with yourself, and then to share it with anyone who cares to read it. Many of the things she said hit home. Many of her truths are mine as well. I am not as brave as her. I choose instead to slap a smile on my face and pretend like everything is always OK. That I never hurt, that I never feel all those things she had the courage to write.

I think in some ways, we are all broken by our past. We all have secret pain and insecurities that we hide from the world. It is so much easier to hide, than to be honest and open. It is so much easier to smile than to cry.

That post really touched me. And for the first time in my life, I commented on a blog and it wasn't anonymous. I have read that post 12 times. And each time, it brings tears to my eyes.

I am now going to peel myself off the couch, go get a haircut, and meet my family for dinner. All with a smile on my face. Maybe one day I will get the courage to post my own feelings for the world to read.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Sweep This

Two posts in one day. I rock. Word.

So, due to the lameness of both my back and life, I am home on a Friday night, watching Wife Swap. I deplore this show, but reality TV is like a drug to me. I must watch the entire world unravel in front of me, via ABC. This isn't a new episode, because, you know, it's Friday night and most people are out realizing the world is bigger than their living room.

The first family "sweeps." I know, right? What is sweeping? They literally spend 8 - 10 hours a day entering in sweepstakes. Then every Sunday they go around and pick up empty bottles that people have discarded in the hopes they win...another bottle? And they go to "sweep" meetings where they tell everyone what they won. And it's things exercise ball. These people buy cat products because there are sweepstakes, and do not even own a cat.

What. The. Hell.

Who knew that this was going on? I mean, I barely even turn in rebates, not to mention spending my entire day entering sweepstakes. And the kids are like little slave drones. I swear, at one point, the daughter looked into the camera, with pleading eyes that just said "save me from this hell."

The other family was awesome. They lived on Key West and partied. All the time. I mean, I see some, their kids are pretty much being raised by their grandparents. But, dude, their life is pretty sweet. So, what does crazy other mom do? Makes them pick up bottle caps and teaches them how to sweep.

Where do they find these people? I mean, seriously. Do these people exist around me, but I just can't see them? Like, product obsessed little wizards? Or do my friends do shit like this and hide it from me, because they know I will point and laugh at them?

Also, why is Devil Dog following me around the house and staring at me? Does he want to start sweeping? I have ensured all his basic needs were met. This day really needs to be over.

The Banning of the Plants

Today, the company I work for banned plants in the office. I am not going to go into how I feel about this, because, well, we have all read dooce. But, I will tell the story of what happened afterwards. This is a recreation of a conversation between myself and Mrs. Williams. (hey - Williams is generic. You google Williams and see how many come up.) We are going to shorten it to MW because I am lazy and it is Friday.

MW: I wonder if we are allowed to have pictures of plants?
Erratic: I don't see why not.
MW: We should google "plants" and print out a bunch of images and put them all over the building.
Erratic: Like randomly just take company approved ticky tacky and just start putting them places?
MW: Totally. We could put them on the wall and door outside of our bosses office when he is not looking.
Erratic: And we totally have to pretend like we don't know who it is. OMG! We should take pictures of the plants that are in here now and start posting them everywhere after they take all the plants away
MW: OMG. We have to do this. I have my camera.

-Interlude while we go take pictures of the plants. Keep in mind, my back is acting up again, so I am walking around like a 90 year old woman who has never had calcium. Ever. We are stealth.-

MW: We can't tell anyone.
Erratic: Agreed. Do you think we can get fired for this?
MW: No. No way. OK, we have to tell Hannah Montana (now HM)
Erratic: We totally have to tell her.
MW: HM says we should start sending people flowers once the ban is in place.
Erratic: That is EVEN BETTER.
MW: I think we should post the pictures of the plants first, and then start sending flowers, so they will get what the flowers are for.
Erratic: And we can do it all anonymously and pay in cash and shit.
MW: But, do you think they will get it?
Erratic: We'll put something on the card so they do. Like "you banned plants. ha ha. we win."
MW: THAT will get you fired.
Erratic: True. What about "Here is something live for your office, because our souls are now dead?"

The best part of this entire story, is that there were two people watching this take place, while MW and I were laughing hysterically in our separate cubes, tears running down our face, asking us over and over "what is so funny." To which I replied, every time, "we are plotting evil things."

We really might do this. And if we do, loyal readers, you will be the first to know.

P.S. It is possible this was only funny to me. If so, I apologize for the 2 minutes of your life I just stole. I owe you one.

P.P.S. Come on, it was a little bit funny, right? I mean, picture me trying to sneak around, waddling like a duck and bent almost completely in half. Laugh. It's funny.

P.P.P.S. (is that even how you do that) None of you are laughing, are you. sigh Fine. No more "you had to be there" stories.

P.P.P.P.S. The P.S. thing is out of control. Also, it was funny.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Crazy Life Train. Or Something.

I read a lot of blogs. Like a lot. I find myself worrying about these bloggers, thinking about their lives, talking about their lives. Isn't that creepy? I mean, it is like peering in some one's windows at night when their lights are on. I would never do something like that by the way. I mean, come on, I have boundaries. (note: I do not)

I guess what is so strange is that these people are almost friends. Friends who have no fucking clue who I am. So, more like stalking victims. I thought about this a lot when I debated making this blog public. I wasn't sure I wanted to open that window and leave the light on for all my neighbors to peer in. Mostly because I am always naked. And nobody wants to see that. (note: I am never naked)

On a side note, wouldn't it be hilarious if the blind dude on American Idol was suddenly all "ha ha, America. I'm not blind. Thanks for your pity votes, bitches." I would totally vote for him then.

Anywho...when I decided to go public, it was a little daunting. I kept putting it off and putting it off, until finally, I got drunk at Big Jed's and just did it. I expected it to be liberating. I expected to feel vulnerable and exposed. It was more, got more wine? (note: she did) So, I guess I am doing this. I am jumping on that crazy ride they call life, and dragging you all along with me. (note: that was lame)

Also - what is with Kelly Clarkson dyeing her hair red and going on American Idol again? Certainly that is against some American Idol rule. Oh, and my picks for the AI Fantasy thingy...not good. Not good at all. I officially suck at this game.

This is like the worst post ever. I am all over the place. And on that note...

Monday, April 6, 2009

Lessons Learned & Some Rambling

Taco's are not a food group. Seriously. They are not. I want to know who the fuck sent out that memo, because I certainly didn't get it. Stupid healthy pyramid.


When meeting friends for dinner, especially if one of these friends is having serious back problems, you probably shouldn't open with; "Wow, you look like shit." Thank you, captain obvious. I feel like shit too.

I'm just saying.


Never ever ever ever ever (did I mention ever) buy couches that a tennis ball will fit under. Unless you don't have dogs who are so tennis ball crazed their eyes cross and their mouths foam at the thought of THAT BALL RIGHT THERE IS OUT OF REACH.


If you are a male, straight waiter, please do not comment on my purse. And then tell me that you have been purse shopping. And then emphasize that it was not for you. Then walk away from the awkward silence because my eye starts uncomfortably switching.


Don't wait until you are out of underwear to do laundry. YOU ARE AN ADULT. Not a frat boy. AN ADULT.

Beer is a food group. I don't give a damn what that evil pyramid says.


You cannot wear a jean jacket with a Celtic cross on it unless you are in some kind of goth band. Seriously. The pyramid forbids it.


The pyramid may have just become my God. I will worship it for all of time. Unless it takes beer off the pyramid. Then I will smite the pyramid. (Or the pyramid will smite me. I am not entirely sure how smiting works.)


This one time I went to visit my sister at college and we sat on her roof and threw stale doughnuts at the "alcohol free" religious party across the street. I am pretty sure if the whole smiting thing worked, I would have already been smote. (Is that a word? Writing about smiting is hard work.)


When people say things like; "The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know," you should smite them. Or at least steal their wallet.


Don't ever try to trump people on pain. Your shot in the face with buckshot could be their stubbed toe. It is all subjective. And by subjective, I mean my pain is the worst and the rest of you can suck it.


I hate those reality shows where people get a bunch of money to make themselves look better, and then they tell the $7M per cut hair stylist how to cut their hair. You probably don't know. They probably do. You wouldn't tell the brain surgeon which lobe to amputate, would you? Right. Shut it and let them do their thing.


There are dog people, cat people, and people who feel like they should like animals because it is the right thing to do. Those people, the "I own a dog because people will think I am less of an ass hole" people...stop owning pets. You hate them. They hate you. You are allowed to not like animals. You are not allowed to buy an animal and then BITCH CONSTANTLY about how the animal is SUCH AN ANIMAL. Well, duh. They eat poop. They throw up. They fart. They rub their butt on the carpet. They try to kill wild life. THEY ARE ANIMALS.


My blog went live. Yes, I said live. Not public. Live. Because that is a work term. And the last few months have been QP. And now I am LIVE! I need a hobby...

Gotta run. That beer isn't going to drink itself.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Beer + Couch = Bliss

My day starts off well. I get up in the morning, on time, feeling pretty good. I am excited for the all day meeting at work because I am finally going to get to learn a system I have been dying to learn. I jump in the car at 7:20 am, right on time. I get on the highway, and there is traffic, which is not unusual. I think, I have 40 minutes to get to the office, no problem. A few minutes will be no big deal. 45 minutes later I have gone a quarter of a mile. An hour and ten minutes later, I arrive at work. A half hour late. Awesome.

Hi world. Thank you for taking a giant shit on me.

I spend 8 hours listening to a room full of people try to get NDM working between two systems. I said nothing. I did nothing. The highlight of the day was the Cheetos I ate for breakfast. Yes, this followed the dinner of chicken wings. I am healthy. I also had Arby's for lunch. Suck it.

8 hours of agony later, I am free! It is a gorgeous day! I am going to take the dogs to the park! I stand up and that was the end of it. A very small man had attached himself to my lower back and was shoving shards of glass into my spine. So, I walked out of the office hunched over. And possibly dragging a leg. All I needed was a bell tower and a beautiful woman to fall in love with.

I am finally in my car. I am driving. Home. To my couch. And beer. And my couch. Now on a scale of crazy, where 1 is boringly sane and 10 is a padded cell, I am probably a 6. Definitely above average, probably should be medicated, but not hospitalized. I got behind a 10. This woman was waving her hands all over the place, swerving, honking her horn, and slamming on the breaks at, what I can only presume, was some kind of imaginary adversary in a vehicle. Because there was NO ONE around her. Except me. And I was keeping my distance.

Luckily for me, she got off at my exit. So, I was behind her, in a perpetual state of terror, for approximately 12 miles. When I get off the exit, I look over and it is three little old ladies. They are laughing and chattering happily, windows down, enjoying the nice day. I picture myself as those women, with my girlfriends, in 50 years, still enjoying life and I smile. Then I give them the finger.

I bet you think this story is over. Oh, my imaginary friends, it is not. Shortly after gesturing obscenely at old ladies, I go to turn left into the bank. My windows are all down. When somewhere, approximately inside my ear, a police officer blows that "you better pull your ass over" horn thingy and, let me just say, it was a good thing my foot was on the brake not the gas. Because holy fucking shit it was loud. IN MY EAR. Then he whizzes by me and pulls this Jag over in the gas station across the street. So, I go on my merry way, deposit my checks, and pull out of the bank. There are now 4 cop cars in the parking lot, a kid cuffed, laying face first on the ground, and the remaining cops are searching the Jag. And, the traffic is backed up because EVERYONE is slowing down to stare at this kid, I guess hoping to identify the kid? Or witness police brutality? I can't be sure. Luckily the guy behind me honked his horn, pulling me out of my gawking state.

What a crazy fucking day. If you need me, I will be on the couch. With a beer.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

SV...My life is crap

I sat down with my plate of chicken wings (stop judging me, they were really good) and turned on this week's episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. Speaking of, OMG. Have you seen Wet Hot American Summer? Because Elliot Stabler is HILARIOUS in it. He says things like "I am going to go hump the refrigerator" and something about fondling sweaters. I am also pretty sure he is in love with a can of beans. It is fucking awesome. Watch it. Now.

So, anyway, I am watching SVU and the episode is about this guy from Uganda whose family was slaughtered in front of him. He was then kidnapped by some bad dudes and forced to kill a bunch of people. (tear) So, then he gets rescued and he's in the US, and they are denying his citizenship because he is a war criminal. Apparently he killed people after 18, making him an adult. Blah, blah, blah.

I know you are now expecting me to rant about immigrations law. Wrong. I couldn't stop crying. These people on this show have been through some shit. I get that they are not real, but it does say "based on a true story." So, in my head, it means that exact situation happened and holy shit, it's fucked up.

I am not normally a selfish or self centered person (well, at least not everyday) but this sort of hit a tender spot in my rock solid, unfeeling heart. I spent my entire day at work arguing with people over what to call a status in a database. Do we call it in progress or testing started? WHO THE FUCK CARES? My job is not helping people. At all. In anyway. I mean, I get that eventually, someone, somewhere, probably makes some money off of something I did. Or maybe their day is slightly less stressful because I implemented something that helped them. But, most days. No. This is not true.

I have this bleeding heart need to help people. I am that person who meets a crack head on the street corner, buys him dinner, takes him home, probably dates him, then is heart broken when he steals my couch. It is a family trait. We all do it. Every woman in my family is married to someone they are trying to save. The point is, I want to help. I need to help. It is something in my blood and I am GOOD at it. And I need an outlet so I don't marry some drug crazed lunatic with a mommy complex. (shiver)

But, that is not what I am doing. Not even remotely close. So, I am sitting on the couch, with a plate of chicken wings on my lap, bawling my eyes out at a Law and Order episode. HOW PATHETIC AM I? I mean, who does this? Is there enough therapy or mood altering medication to fix this? I am pretty sure the answer is no.

So, maybe I need to start over. To go out on a limb and do something totally fucking crazy. Or...maybe...just maybe...I should stop eating chicken wings in front of the TV and crying. I am just saying. What I really think needs to happen here, that would help everyone, is for SVU to make sure that only rich spoiled people I hate get murdered. Because then all I have to do is cheer for the man, who won another one, and go on with my oblivious life.

And stop buying chicken wings.