Friday, November 26, 2010

A supportive bra for my 10-12 toes

I am well aware that this post is a day late. Yesterday, I had strong intentions of writing a thoughtful post about all the wonderful things that I am thankful for in this beautiful world. Unfortunately and fortunately my mother loves me and allowed the white wine to sit next to me at dinner and said post is just now being birthed.

Whenever a movie or TV show films a Thanksgiving dinner, the turkey eaters always take turns listing the things that they are thankful for. They take turns listening to each other say that they are thankful for the food on the table and the cloths on their backs. Although my family has never done this TVland tradition, it does not mean that I am not thankful or that I shouldn't take the time to reflect.

As cliché as it may be; I am thankful for my health. I am thankful that I have ten toes and I am extra thankful that said toes are evenly distributed among my two healthy feet. I can imagine having 10-12 toes on a single foot would be both inconvenient and unattractive.

I am thankful for rest stops with clean bathrooms and for hotels with complementary breakfasts. I am thankful for supportive friends and supportive bras. Although I have a degree in English-Writing, I am thankful for spellchecker on days that my spelling is feeling extra creative. I am thankful for hugs and for kisses. In this time of economic doom, I am thankful to have a job and thankful that I work with such an awesome team of people. I am thankful for my 20 blog followers. Although I wasn't at the time, I am now thankful that my mother tortured me with multiplication table quizzes over my middle school summers. I am thankful for Ruth Wakefield who accidently invented the chocolate chip cookie in 1934 and I am thankful to be an American.

I am thankful for my sister and for my roommates who are always timely while paying the rent. I am thankful for warm socks. I am thankful for the heat in my car and in the hearts of my friends and family. I am thankful that you are reading this and keeping the eye rolls to a minimum. I am thankful for my freedom and for my privacy. I am thankful for IBprofin. I am thankful for both of my parents. I am thankful wine, red and white. I am thankful for every teacher I have ever had. I am thankful for caller I.D and clean water. I am thankful for my self-esteem and for the people who tolerate my sometimes silly behavior.

I am thankful for a lot more things, I am sure, but like earlier mentioned- the wine sat next to me at dinner last night.

Friday, November 19, 2010

French stinkbugs smell like beef products

Today is the one week anniversary of the day that I accidently kidnapped a Frenchman. Don't worry, I didn't lure anyone into a van with promises of free candy or use physical forces of any type. It truly was an accident and truly makes for a nice blog entry. Feel free to follow along.

I was an attendee of a small social gathering at a new friend's home and I was having a marvelous time. The party had been active for about an hour and I had already had an opportunity to discuss three of my top five favorite conversation topics: tall creepy men, baked ziti, and anything that will allow me to tell a ridiculous story about myself. The other favorite talking points include my vast knowledge of Ben and Jerry's Ice cream and other dairy products as well as the mating traditions of wild animals. Unfortunately those topics will need to be discussed at a later party.

As I was chatting with my new friends, I noticed a suffering stinkbug clinging to a window shade for dear life. Although I was devastated that I was going to have to put my conversation on hold, I was also in the mood to save a life. I always save bugs and allow them to continue their lively bug lives in the wild. I do this for a few reasons. 1.) If the roles were reversed, I would appreciate it if the stink bug would let me continue my life rather than mash me against his/her shoe. 2.) I like to consider myself a hero of sorts and 3.) although karma is sort of an asshole; I am not.

I separated my heart and soul from my wine glass scooped the stinker into my hand and carried him safely to the front door of the apartment. I swung the door open with my free hand and without hesitation, I threw the stinkbug into the air with intensions of allowing him to live a life of freedom. A life without the fear of falling into my wine glass.

If you get anything out of this post let be that you should always look ahead before sending stinkbugs into the air. As soon as the stinky bug left my finger tips, I realized that there was a tall man walking towards the door. Nothing could be done to prevent the stinker from hitting this man in the forehead.

As the bug bounced of the man's head, I tried to hold my giggles inside and offer him a sincere apology, but I couldn't keep it together. We both began to laugh and all seemed to be forgiven. Just as I was about to go back inside, Buggie man asked in a strong French accent if I knew where apt 717 was located. Ordinarily, I would have made up a set of convincing directions and sent him on his merry misguided way, but I had already thrown a bug at his head and I figured honesty might be a nice thing to try out for a change. Also, it is worth noting that there are few things that I love more in this beautiful world than bald men and cheese. Men who barely speak English happen to be one of those things. I couldn't have told him a lie if I wanted to.

I admitted that I didn't know the apartment complex well and therefore was not qualified to give directions and asked him where he was from.

" Me name eees Seeevan. I am from Fronce"

That was the moment I fell in love. I simply knew that I had to impress him with the 2 years on French that I took and barely passed in College.

"ummmmmmm. Je m'appelle Erin. Uuuh. J'adore le fromage" was the only thing that I could remember.

For those of you who are not as skilled in the French language and culture as I am, that translates into " My name is Erin. I love cheese."

There was a moment of awkward silence before I realized that I was granted a rare opportunity to act as an American ambassador of sorts. it was my patriotic duty to give Sevan a cultural experience to share with his Mere and Pere back in his homeland.. I took him by the hand and dragged him across the hall to introduce him to my friends, repeating the phrase " Welcome To America. The land of boxed wine."

Turns out, I was not the only lady in the room in love with his French accent and Sevan was automatically the the center of our 3 wined circus. Although he occationally mentioned that he had friends waiting for him in apt 717, he never actually left our group. He spent the evening discussing the difference between French and American women, and taught us essential phrases in the French language, such as " Your Mother smells like beef products".

I think that I will add "kidnapping forgieners" to my list of skills. It will join my other talents of blowing spit bubbles off my tongue and coloring inside the lines.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Single Sweaty Sock

"I'm not drunk. This is just the way I am" is a phrase I have been hearing myself say a lot lately.

It is no secret that I enjoy being awkward and that I take great pride in my ability to entertain my friends with my interactions with strangers. Although I always enjoy my ridiculous episodes, I often forget that I live in a small city and the chances of me running into the same person more than once is quite high. This is beginning to get me into trouble.

Last July, my friends and I hosted a bachelorette party for my roommate. The night started out mellow and low key but I never doubted that by the end party our innocent intensions would be misplaced with my left shoe, poise and "inside voice". Although I knew that things were bound to get rowdy, I never expected to end the night with seven single dirty socks and a priceless story to share with my future grandchildren.

After dinner and a few themed martini's at a local American Bistro, we decided that it was in everyone's best interest to go dancing at the club with the frog porn display. Please note: it is never in ANYONE's best interest to watch me dance for I am about as graceful as a blind giraffe on roller skates. But like I said, I had sampled a few martinis and had conveniently forgotten that my moves on the dance floor could be considered cruel and unusual punishment for my victimed viewers.

At Club Frog Porn things began to get interesting. We had a stack of Bachelorette Party dare cards that we designed solely to embarrass drunk girls at parties. Lucky for me, I rarely get embarrassed and therefore always dominate these games.

As we were taking turns pulling cards from the deck, I was beginning to grow bored. My friends were picking cards telling them to " dance with someone more than 20 years older than you" or " Ask the DJ to play Celine Deon and sing along". Yawn. I wasn't sure how this game was going to make the bachelorette party any different from any other Friday night of my freakshow life.

When it was my turn to pull a card, I wasn't even excited. I was strongly considering hiding the card from my friends and making up my own prank. I would make an imaginary " write your own dare" card. I was confident that I could think of a dare more entertaining than anything on these cards and considering my impressive experience in the fields of lying and bullshit- I knew that I could make it sound believable. . It would probably include a bald man, an elaborate fabricated story, and/or a fart. I am 24 years old and still firmly believe that farts make everything a little funnier. I pulled the card I was pleasantly surprised to see that I needed to " Ask a man for one of his socks…and keep it!". I knew I had hit the bachelorette dare jackpot.

I immediately turned to the first man with in grabbing distance. Without wasting any time with an introduction- asked for his left sock. He said no. I rolled my eyes and sighed as if he was refusing to tell me the time. This was going to be more challenging than I thought. Not wanting to give up hope on my socked prey, I politely asked again. I can be very persuading when put my mind to it and eventually I had his sweating sock in my hand.

Above all things, I am a competitor. Since the rest of the bachelorettes had grown bored with the game, the only competition was with myself. The card technically said that I only needed to collect one man's sock, but my strong work ethic would not be satisfied with a solo lonely tube of sweat and feet juice ( gross sorry). I decided that it was only logical to push myself to collect as many socks as possible before the night was through.

At first, I thought that I was a sock collecting failure. I asked at least a dozen men to donate 1 sock to the cause of Katie's blissful marriage and no one was willing. Although I was impressed that in my efforts, though I had not collected any socks, 2 men had asked for my number and 1 man had compared me to Chelsea Clinton. I ordinarily would not take this as a compliment of any kind, but if I had to look like any of the Clintons- I would pick Chels.

As the bar was closing, my luck turned. As I was on the dance floor, performing my drunk giraffe dance, almost all of the men who had refused their footwear to me earlier in the night were approaching me with socks in their hands! It was amazing. Within 6 minutes I was holding 7 single sweaty socks!

I left for the night with my head held high-proud to be labeled the sock collecting champion from game of which I was the only competitor. However, in all of my glory, I had forgotten that there were now 8 men in the city who think that I have some sort of foot fetish.


Tuesday, November 2, 2010

“Running from the cold up in New England- I was born to be a fiddler in an old town string band”

After one case of lost luggage, two bald men, fourteen blog entries, several profanities, and numerous awkward encounters; I am pleased to announce that my travel season has come to an end. I am only 2 plane rides away from a somewhat settled life that will allow me to sleep in the same bed for multiple weeks in a row; a life that will allow me to go grocery shopping without the fear of spoiled eggs and milk. Its going to be great. Although I truly love the traveling aspect of my job, I am exhausted and more than ready to stop living out of my hot pink suit case with a fashionably broken zipper.

This blog was originally intended to keep my family and friends posted about my journeys and adventures as I traveled through the frozen lands of New England, but it has developed into a spit bucket for the creativity that I often feel I have nowhere to express. Travel season is over, but I think that I will try to keep up with this blog in order to a.) document the outrageous situations that seem to follow me b.) continue to entertain my friends families and new followers and c.) have a therapeutic venue for creativity.

Bring it on, Chapter two!