"Who's the douche in the fedora?" THIS GIRL!

Since the beginning of time I've always dubbed anyone wearing a fedora in public a douche.

That's right, A douche.

Well ladies and gentlemen, This New Years Eve, I, Erica, will be the douche in the fedora. I'm even pairing my awesome fedora up with a festive sparkly tank top.

If you know me, you know that this is NOT my bag. I was born with an automatic dislike for all things sparkly, pink and ANYTHING gold.

However in the spirit of ringing in the new year, I'm caving in. I'll be behind the bar being the most festive asshole ya ever did see.

Happy New Year. I'll see you in 2010.

Please be safe, and ALWAYS remember to tip your bartender. ;)

*Stay tuned for possible douche-tastic photos.

Two against One, 5 years (6.5), Tranny love, and *Gasp* Vacuum sex!?

Although the frost and inversion do absolutely

nothing for my air quality needs, it sure does make for pretty pictures.

I saw this tree on my way through the parking lot to work. It's beauty completely rocked my world. I thought "What a pristine depiction of winter!" I grabbed my camera and did a few snappy snappies. This photo made me totally hard so I set it as my desktop background.

Back to my air quality crisis......

This inversion SUCKS. It's forcing me to get all of my cardio exercise inside. Boo. I can't run on a stationary treadmill. I caaaaan't. It's a friggin' waste of time in my opinion and the monotony, oh LORD, the monotony! I need to be outside running. I feel like a caged animal at the zoo. The gazelle that only has 20ft instead of open fields to run. LET ME OUT!!!!

To avoid being totally crabby after cardio I decided to break it up by jumping rope Monday night for 45 minutes. Which, ended up being more trouble than it was worth because later that night I had to have a serious sit-down talk with my knees.

I said " Look here you weak, frail little bastards. I do as much as I can to fulfill your needs. I really need you two to step up and quit being such little pussies. I'm 25 *gulp* and you two are making me feel 90 for Christ sakes! Can't we compromise!?"

They were all "Oh no you didn't! Listen here bitch, Until you get us out of these worn down, poor excuses for running shoes, we ain't doin' shit!"

So I was all "I'm pretty sure I'm the one in control, and if you don't cut down on your back talk, I'll see to it that tomorrow is LEG DAY at the gym, You assholes."

They were like "Uh, In case you haven't noticed, there's two of us and one of you, SO if you ever want to see your bikini body again, you'll do as we say"

Needless to say, I've been making the equally monotonous elliptical my bitch, all week.

I know you're not supposed to buy yourself anything right before Christmas, But I need new running shoes TERRIBLY. Usually my lack of patience would have chauffeured me straight to the running shoe store last night, but then my memory reminded my impatience that my phone decided to just, curl up and die after I was nice enough to let it tag along hot-tubbing, (And nice enough to trust that drunkards wouldn't keep dropping it in puddles when trying to make calls)

THEN my transmission decided to start acting up like a little bitch Tuesday forcing me to pour two hundred mother f'ing dollars into it.

If there's one lesson I've learned, It's that Trannys can be some expensive, high maintenance assholes.

Speaking of Trannys, Something remarkable happened last night. I came home from a long day of work parties, filled with ten dollar gifts and Mexican food as far as the eye could see. Plus a tender little recognition of yours truly for 5 wonderful, dedicated years of the most awesome service they've ever seen. My boss lady cried as she presented me with my 5 year pin (After 6 1/2 years working here) and I think she mumbled something about brains AND beauty and OMG, I'm totally lying about that part. But, I am pretty amazing.

I digress.

I walked into the kitchen after my aforementioned long day and read my "self-made-to-do list" quietly to myself, and then aloud to my husband so he knew exactly what was on my agenda for the night. I huffed and puffed and made my way upstairs to start on my first "to-do"

#1. Shower. (Shut up. I needed to get this done first because I needed to wash my hair and give it time to dry out a bit so that I could re-dye my bright red strips BACK to bright red instead of some gross hue comparable to elk piss. Fucking high maintenance, I know! I'm giving them the boot as soon as I can get into my magical, hair-goddess, Tiffy)

As I'm showering, and mentally checking it off my list, I look in the mirror and much to my surprise I see my husband gathering all of my old water cups, tea mugs and empty beer bottles off my bathroom counter.

(Don't judge. If you haven't experienced a steamy hot shower, paired up with an ICE COLD BEER, You're not livin', buddy)

So I was all... "Whaaaat? He's cleaning up a mess that was solely made my ME!?" Whoa, Sweet.

Mentally check that little chore off.

I finished up showering and as I'm drying off I hear the sound of the vacuum. THEN I felt.... a... tickle?..... and OH MY GOD, DID I JUST SERIOUSLY GET TURNED ON BY THE SOUND OF THE VACUUM CLEANER!? What the shit!? I dried off and made my way into the hall, stark-ass naked, where I saw my husband, vacuum in hand, at the top of the stairs. AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS. He'd just done the STAIRS. As I turned around to make my way back into the bedroom, dumb founded, I heard the unmistakable sound of kitty litter being sucked up in the next room and I nearly dropped to my 90 year old knees in PURE orgasmic bliss.

Sweet baby Jesus.

He vacuumed the ENTIRE house. It was like that scene in Mrs. Doubtfire, when Robin Williams is dressed up all "Tranny-Nanny-Drag queen style" Waltzing around the house while vacuuming, Only in a totally less creepy, way more fuckable way.

I made time to, Uh, "Show him my appreciation" since he did, indeed, just check off, like FOUR of my items on my "to-do list" Hello! Oh my god. So hot. So so so Hot.

Anyway, THEN, I made up my own little game. It's called "See how much laundry you can put away, how many toilet bowls you can clean and how many chapters you can read in your book after taking a Tylenol pm, before the effects kick in and leave you lying in the fetal position in a small puddle of your own drool having the BEST sleep EVER"

Oh yeah.

All in all, It's been a pretty eventful week. I'm totally pre-gaming the holiday.

The holiday is my bitch.

Merry Christmas to all.

Cheers.

Shit Bricks.

This cute little shit brick turned one on Sunday.





















This cute little shit brick turned 22 on Monday.
























Happy Birthday, You December birthday bastards!

(See that hot cocoa maker Casey got? Yeah, He's totally sharing and making a batch of Hot Buttered Rum on Christmas eve for me.)







.

Elbows deep in glitter.

We get between 1 and 14 Christmas cards a day delivered to our office. Other Title companies, Lenders, Agents, Brokers and our other affiliates send out gorgeous, uppity, pricey Christmas Cards that look like they should be scented and have little squares of tissue inside.


We don't.


We do something uber cool. We hire out 1st-4th graders to produce our Christmas Cards in mass quantities for no pay. It's like our own little Christmas card sweatshop. These small children endure long hours and suffer many-a-paper cuts. That is, until they get to go to recess and play 4-square and share fruit roll ups. Which totally sounds awesome. I don't know why we don't incorporate recess into every day, grown up shit.





"Dude, I'd totally like to tell you why you haven't received your commission check yet, But the bell just rang and Tommy's got that crazy look in his eye like he's gonna dish out one mean round of tether ball and I've got some 7-11 nachos and a 6-pack on the line sayin' I can beat him. I'll call you back in 30 minutes"





Heaven on earth, I tell you. Heaven on earth.





This year the children that produced our Christmas cards must have bathed in glue for 2 straight days and had a very strange, unlimited supply of loose glitter. Kind of creeps me out. Some of the cards STUCK TO OUR CLOSING TABLE AND HAD TO BE CHISELED OFF WITH SCISSORS. True story.



I'm genuinely concerned that one of our clients will open their card and get attacked by loose shards of glitter. They're going to wind up with glitter in their eye ball and be all "Thanks, Thanks a lot you bastards. I just spent CHRISTMAS in the fucking OPTOMETRISTS office getting GLITTER reMOVED from my fucking EYE! You A-holes!"



At that point, the sticker inside the cards that we put there to let everyone know that we made a donation to the school at which these cards were produced, by sweaty, crying, glue huffing, red-eyed-monster, glitter fiends isn't going to look so charitable.



Plus, glitters way dangerous. I'm not even sure why it's allowed in schools anymore. Isn't glitter like... a bunch of sparkly shards of flesh piercing glass that always finds it's way into every nook and cranny of your body? I've been seeing glittery beams of light out of my peripheral vision for 2 days now and I'm pretty sure my shit sparkles.

Sigh.

Tis the season.

Because blogging is cheaper than therapy.

(Disclaimer; This is not my typical writing. My heart and soul have been heavy for a few days. I recently met up with my father and a comment was made that transformed my normally dormant emotions into a crazy cyclone of feelings that have been stewing around in my head. I can't seem to think of anything else. I don't have a journal. I feel crazy talking to myself, so instead I thought I'd take my craziness one step further and write to a dead person. Consider yourself warned)




I've been wearing your diamonds lately. The diamonds that were once worn around your finger as a promise and token of my fathers undying love for you are now worn around my neck, as close to my heart as I can get them.

Walking past the Estee Lauder counter in Dillards the other night I snuck a sample spray of Red Door onto a paper cut out. The smell brought such a familiar comfort in my heart, But such painful memories.

I've been embracing my all-natural "mess" that I call hair lately because it reminds me I'm your daughter. I've even colored some select pieces red. I stand in front of the mirror with my big blue eyes and the frizzy, kinky, curly mess of hair and all I see is you staring back at me.

I met up with Dad last night for a beer. I had my crazy hair pinned in various ways to try to keep my side-show-bob locks out of my eyes. The way it was pinned must have showcased the red pieces. Dad asked how long I'd had those pieces dyed red. I told him a few weeks. It looked like he was in deep thought for a moment and then he looked up at me and said "Sometimes you look so much like your mother it kills me." For a split second I think both our hearts ached at the exact same time. We did our usual "Hurry and make light of the situation, change the subject or quickly crack a joke" I finished my beer and left him to finish his with his friends. I went and did my grocery shopping. I'd almost made it home when it hit me. A complete left hook of emotion socked me right in my face. I started bawling at a stoplight.


I miss you so bad. I constantly wonder about your timing. We left on such a loving note. If you would have chose to stay would we still be on that same note? Would we have the kind of relationship that I long for? Or would your sickness have divided us? Would we fight with one another because I wouldn't understand why you just can't buck up and get better? No sense in wondering I suppose.


I've lived longer without you than I have with you in my life. For some reason I feel like that's an accomplishment. I haven't done extraordinary things with my life but I feel content with what I have done. I'm a very strong, independent woman. I take a lot of pride in that. From time to time I wonder if you watch me. I wonder if I make you proud. Did you have higher expectations for me to live up to? Well, at least I've lived. That's more than what you seemed to be able to handle.


I'm still pissed off. I'm angry. Quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you. I'm also mature enough to understand why, and to realize that everything does happen for a reason, and as much as it hurts to say, it's all probably for the best. I think you knew that.


As frustrated as I get with you sometimes I always wind up singing your praises. You were an amazing woman who could light up a room. Your sarcasm, humor and crazy-off the wall behavior are traits I'm proud to admit I inherited. You were so spontaneous, fun, loving and daring. I hope I can live my life in such a fashion that it reminds you of yourself. I am your daughter and I'm very proud to say so. I need to learn to not curse my unruly locks, wide hips and freckles. They're the last reminders of you that I have. When I start laughing uncontrollably, not the polite dinner table giggles, we're talking actual gut busting laughter, all I hear is you. It's your laugh. The one I heard so many times. It's you. For one second you're right there in the same room as I am. Laughing. I suppose that's the reason why the way to my heart is through laughter instead of food. Although, you'll never see me turn down a burger, either.



I want you to know that I'm doing OK. The holidays get really, REALLY hard. Every year. Without fail. Not to mention the particularly shitty timing you chose to gracefully depart. The month of April totally blows; Your Birthday, Your Anniversary. The month of May is Mothers day; which, I'm proposing that holiday be outlawed anyway. I've taken it upon myself to turn it into "Get trashed with your friends day." It's all good. They get it. June first is the day you died. Seriously? 2 weeks before Dad's birthday and fathers day!? A month before my birthday!? Really?

Ya know, I really didn't have a lot going on in the fall. That might have been a better time for everyone. For someone who was doing such a "selfless act" you coulda' thought it through a little better. I suppose being a complete wreck inside for 5 months outta the year ain't bad though.



I'm taking care of dad as best I know how. I make sure every year I can afford to get him a 20 round punch pass to Eagle Mountain. I'm pretty sure it's the only way the man can get out and golf with his buddies. For me, That's priceless. I know how truely important friends are. I try to pry his home-body-ass out, and come meet me and his buds at the bar once in a while for a few beers. I invite him and the 12 string you got him for your anniversary out to my house for an afternoon of jammin'. Hearing him play is absolutely amazing. Depending on the song, He can still bring a tear to my eye. It makes me feel like a little girl again, safe, inside her bed, being sung to sleep by her dad, without a worry in the world. (Unless he's singing the song about dildos of course. Or the one about good beaver gone bad) It's safe to say our relationship is a good one. It's also safe to say I've got a one way ticket straight to heaven. This year I actually made an effort and bought his stupid wife a little something for her stupid birthday and stupid Christmas. I'm a fucking angel.


When it comes right down to it, at the end of the day, I'm good. People comment all the time on how well I've turned out considering my childhood and the unpleasant circumstances I grew up with. I'd like to think I turned out OK too. I do have some sort of weird, crazy, insane need to have a damn plan for everything. I can't seem to shake it. My entire childhood revolved around having a plan. Preparing myself. Having approximately 2-9 different options on what I'd do, who I'd call, Where I'd go when I walked in and found out that you'd finally succeeded in one of your many attempts to leave me. That trait has followed me into adulthood. I think it drives most of my friends fucking bananas but at the end of the day they're probably thankful that we'll always have more than enough beer, know where the closest hospital is and reservations made 9 months in advance.

I'm not quite sure of the most graceful way to end the most unorganized post of 09. I feel better though. I get told all the time that "I'm so Kathy" or "You're just like your mother" I can't think of a better compliment.

I don't know how you can still love someone you haven't seen or talked to in over 15 years, but, It's still there and I love you very much. I miss you like crazy and I hope all is well in your world. Wherever that is.

Sincerely,

Erica.

Sharing is caring. Especially, with Jesus.

I feel bad for people who have Birthdays in December. Like, really bad. My brother-in-law Casey, My nephew Rykee baby and my Co-worker/Friend Debbie all have December birthdays. They've got to share their birthday month with Jesus of all people and they get a whole lotta "This is for your birthday AND Christmas" bullshit. Or the classic "Hey, what totally rad gift set did I get this year for Christmas that I'll never use, to wrap up and pass off as someones birthday present"

This year Casey told me he needed T-shirts. So, Being the wonderful sister-in-law that I am I went out *Read: cozied up to my computer for online shopping* and got him 2 T-Shirts I really think he'll like. (Since he was patient enough to reply back to all my texts consisting of "Do you like red?" "How about Element?" Or "If a shirt had a pink collar, would that turn you off?") I'm confident that our joint forces narrowed down two T's that Casey will actually wear.

Next was Ryken. His mom told me he needed toys and socks. I half way listened and got him a flannel, plaid, long-sleeved, hooded shirt and socks. His mother should thank me for only half way listening. I saved her an emergency room co-pay by NOT picking out a toy acceptable for a 1 year old to play with. I would have sprung for the "for ages 8 and up" toys with lots of choking hazards and sharp pieces because "It looked a helluva lot cooler than the lame toddler toys" Plus, plaid is totally the new black.

Deb, well, the jury is still out on deb. I picked her up a couple little things I knew she'd like... But it's kind of a collaborative effort between all the other females in the office to decide what she gets. I probably shouldn't post it on here anyway. Going against everything I believe; that no one reads this blog, she, just might.

Anyhow, I felt so accomplished to actually remember my December birthday people. Even though I think December birthdays should be against the law. Damn it, I remembered them.

I've got quite a busy month (As I'm sure everyone else does) So I sat down for 3.5 hours straight last Friday night and got all of my Christmas wrapping done. Then, It was time to wrap birthday gifts. SHIT. Birthday wrapping. I spent hours *read: minutes* scouring my house for acceptable birthday wrapping paper. I have none. It's also that time of year that I refuse to go anywhere to buy anything for anyone. (My refusal to bear the masses to get all of you December birthday bastards acceptable birthday wrapping does in NO WAY reflect my actual love for you.)

Casey's two T-shirts ended up being rolled into the shape of a burrito and wrapped in tissue paper. Since I don't have any Happy Birthday cards I just wrote directly on the tissue paper "Happy birthday burrito. From Erica, Brad and Floribertos"

I actually found a small box and some plain silver wrapping paper to wrap Ryken's gift in. That's birthday-ish, Right? His card is pretty lame though. I explained how "it's not really my fault his card is lame, it's his, because HE is the Christmas baby" all to him in a letter. Since he's 1, and can't read, I'm counting on his mother to convey my message.

To all of my December birthday peeps, no matter how on top of your birthday I might feel, Your gift will most likely, always be lacking in one way or another.

What else do you expect when you share a birthday with Jesus?

Happy friggin' holidays.

Oh how I love this magical time of year. There's still a hint of Autumn in the air, I get to incorporate cozy sweaters into my work wardrobe, rock hoodies and jeans on the weekend and most importantly, my adult sized fleece footed pajamas. Even things that are already appealing suddenly become even MORE appealing. Like drinking. "It's the holidays, come over for a few drinks and laughs" Right? Not only do the holidays help mask alcoholism, The cozy hoodies and sweaters enable me to hide my annual 10 pound holiday-booze-n-food-a-polooza.



So bottom line is "The holidays are the shit!" - Right?



WRONG.



Fucking wrong my friends.



Holidays are the shit until people get incorporated into the mix. I.e. Extended family. Every year we end up being spread so thin that it makes Nicole Richie jealous. We do the whole "We might need to leave a little early to show up somewhere else a little late..." To TRY to make everyone happy and satisfied, when really, we spend more time in the car driving from place to place to place than we do at the actual destinations. It's exhausting. Yet, for some reason, year after year we continue to do it. After all, we just CAN'T be the bastards that make grandma cry on Thanksgiving or Christmas due to our absence.



No one is ever happy. Ever. Especially ME. I take on the task of trying to please everyone every god damn year and hear nothing but "Oh, Why are you leaving so early?" Or "Oh, You can't show up late, You'll miss dinner"


One of these years I really am going to stick to my guns about not leaving my house. I can enjoy the damn holidays from inside the comfort of my own home. Dressed in my footed pajamas, Sipping on spiked eggnog, Cuddled up with a good book and happier than a pig in shit.

Now that's my idea of a good god damn holiday.

Bahhumbug.

Tearful teeth cleaning.

Genetically blessed people blow. This morning I came to the conclusion that I seriously got the shittiest end of the shittiest stick in the shit puddle called "The gene pool." It certainly hasn't been a well kept secret that I wasn't blessed with naturally narrow hips, Big chibongas and a metabolism that could pass a speeding bullet. Instead I was blessed with a natural LOVE for anything and everything FOOD, Hips wide enough for any infant to army crawl their way through the birth canal, metabolism that moves at a pace slower than cold tar, and apparently cavity prone teeth.

Six months ago I made my first dentist appointment in like... 4 years. (Don't judge) I guess it just kept slipping my mind. My teeth were white and shiny. They didn't bother me at all. I took really good care of them with brushing and uh.. flossing.. *Cough*.

The day of my appointment came and I was patting myself on the back for being a responsible adult and going in for a check up. As I left I was kicking myself in the ass due to the 6 cavities Dr. W found with a warning one might be a borderline ROOT CANAL.

Three appointments and a TRUCK LOAD of Novocaine later, Dr. W had me all patched up and even saved my tooth from the dreaded root canal. I took a vow to myself to never skip a 6 month check up again and make sure I floss more. Over the last six months I've done just that. I brush no less than 2 times a day. Sometimes even 3. I floss a couple times a week. (If you claim you do every night, you LIE!) I've been so dedicated to being an anti cavity activist that I was actually EXITED to go to the dentist this morning to get checked and cleaned.

Dr. W came in, Poked around, Laughed a little, then said "Erica, What are we gonna do with you?" I gave him angry eyes, Since that's really all you can do with 3 different utensils and a fist in your mouth. I heard him telling his assistant "something something mesial, something buckle, and something else more mesial". I've been around the dental block enough to know that mesial talk means "This bitch has got 3 more cavities DESPITE all her efforts."

So my friends, I go in on Friday to get 3 more damn cavities filled. Dr. W told me one wasn't my fault. It's located in the "Buckle something something" of my tooth rendering tooth brushes and floss useless against the cavity battle. My reply was "Can't we just rip all these puppies out and fill my mouth with more porcelain than a toilet bowl?" He said "You can still get cavities with veneers" I told him I'd brush with Clorox toilet bowl cleaner, But he didn't take me very seriously.

So here I sit, Drinking my 75 ounces of water, taking my multivitamin, glucosamine chondroitin, biotin and calcium supplements, brushing my teeth with prescription toothpaste and rinsing with straight fucking fluoride after flossing, watching what I eat, working out like a roid raging maniac, having a "get ready for bed regimen" that takes me as long as it does to get ready for work in the morning and making sure (If in my control) I get enough sleep, all for what?! huh!? what!?

What good does any of it do, If at the end of the day I'm still genetically fucked?

Douche-T-K.

ATK (douche hole located in the middle of Podunk) recently did layoffs. Shocker, I know. My husband was one of the casualties. I've fully completed the five stages of grief.

1.) Denial.
Me: You got cut, huh?
Brad: Yup.
Me: No, You're fucking kidding, right?!
Brad: Nope.
Me: No fucking way?!
Me: No, you're seriously joking!?! Right, RIGHT?!

2.) Anger
Me: What asshats! Atk can suck it. I hate that place.
Brad: Silence.
Me: Seriously, Atk can kiss my cellulite ridden ass! Fuck them! Who needs them, anyway?!
Brad: Silence.

3.) Bargaining
Me: How much do you think we could sell the house for?
Brad: Erica, You're being completely...
Me: What about the end tables!? They're good lookin' end tables, I bet we could sell those.
Brad: Silence.
Me: The DOGS! We paid damn good money for those two assholes, I bet we could at least get what we paid for them, AND no more buying dog food or paying for their shots!
Brad: Seriously, You're an idiot.

4.) Depression.

Please refer to the "Big bag of assholes" post or the "Amendment post"
Both equally delightful.

5.) Acceptance.
There isn't anything I can do about my husband being laid off. It's completely out of my control. However I'm not the type of girl to idly stand by in hopes that we really will be OK. From a very young age I learned that you need to take matters into your own hands and that it never hurts to have a game plan. With that said, I'm going back to Bar tending. I work some hellacious hours this week just to get re-trained, but I'm sure once this week is over my schedule will be manageable between both "day-time-big-girl-career" and moonlighting at the local pub.
Wish me luck.

Unemployment, You picked the wrong bitch to mess with.



Kisses!

Toddlers Vs. Dogs

Pets are fun. I personally enjoy dressing my dogs up in ridiculous outfits purely for my own entertainment. Relax PETA people, They like it. Trust me.















You can do the same thing with toddlers. Except, they cry.


Once we stopped forcing him, I mean, letting him rock his shirt "Beavis and Butthead" style, and put the headband around his noggin in a more socially acceptable way, he was all shits & giggles.

Relax DCFS. He likes it. Trust me.




















See, All better.

Amendment No. 1

I'd like to make an amendment to my previous post today.


It's more like,



FUCK MY LIFE.


Happy god damn Tuesday.

One big bag of assholes.

I'm finding myself in a terrible mood today. I'm feeling very impatient, frustrated, angry, bitter and extremely annoyed. My ass is chapped over approximately 7-29 different things ranging from completely shallow, silly, stupid, unimportant things I'm too embarrassed to admit because the second it leaves my mouth I'll want to punch MYSELF in the face, to things that are valid enough to have any girl throwing herself one hell of a self-pity party.

Boo-motherfuckin-hoo.

I'm off to go buy some Desitin.

Look Ma', No hands!

I like my purses how I like my men. Long and Black.

Just kidding.

I always find kick ass bags. Ones with funky patterns, Bitchin details, Tons of pockets, ect. But the shoulder straps are never long enough. I can't do the tote thing. Totes are useless. They either have to hang in the crease of my elbow, rendering one of my appendeges useless while making me walk around like a one armed retard. Or I have to try and force the straps up over my man shoulder, wedging my bag in between my ribs and arm making me look even more like a NFL linebacker.

My purses, just like my men, need to be able to stand the test of two things. Handle all my baggage and make me look cute. Is that too much to ask? I was browsing the world wide web trying to find my fantasy purse. I stumbled on a website that had Ump-teen different categories narrowing my search down dramatically. I could choose from such categories as : Fashionable, Feminine, Casual, Travel, ect. There is even : Skater, Preppy, Surfer, and VEGETARIAN.


Here's a category for you. How about : Badasshole handbags as cheap as your mom?!

That way if you're like me and get bored easily you can justify your next new purse purchase with the low price tag. My BFF Ernl-bear-panty-face works part time at a local clothing store. A while back I was perusing their billabong fall collection catalog and saw my fantasy purse. I didn't know how much they were, but I told her to order me one in every color.

After much time spent pestering Ernl-bear about where the fuck my new purses were, they finally came. Both of them. They're everything I could ever ask for and more. They're what I like to call, "Hands-free Handbags". Do you SEE how long the strap is?! Yeah, It's pretty much a sling to drape across my body, going under one arm and sitting comfortably on the other shoulder. That way it stays on me at all times and I have BOTH my appendeges freed to do whatever the fuck I want to do.




















I'm so glad I didn't break down and buy a handbag to hold me over until my fantasy purses arrived. Especially one of those uppety, over priced, ugly vegetarian-douche-handbags.

Those were ridiculous.

So, If you're out and about and see someone frolicking around, grabbing everything in the store with BOTH hands like a high crack whore, Thats me! Why? Because I can.

Stiffy

I have a friend. She answers to Li Li. No, her parents didn't lose a bet with god, forcing them to name her that. It's just what I like to call her. She always responds to it, So i think she likes it too. Lately Li Li and I have both been stressed. We're stressed over different things but at the end of the day we're both left feeling frazzled, run down and overwhelmed.

Yesterday Li Li asked if I'd like to get together at the local bar for a drink. I quickly responded to her with a "Shit yes!" Then I remembered I have a plethora of booze at my house and its totally socially acceptable to wear my Jammie's in the comfort of my own home. We moved our venue to my kitchen and enjoyed one anothers company along with a few stiff drinks.

Li Li also turned me on to Cookies & Cream Hershey Kisses and is probably going to hell for that.
I even took some of this devil candy into the shower with me. Have you ever taken a hot shower in the dark while eating Cookies & Cream Hershey Kisses?! If you haven't, It's something I'd highly recommend. It's like getting a warm and fuzzy hug all over your body. Yes, Even your naughty parts.

Don't judge.

Crazy Aunt.

You always hear stories about someones crazy aunt. I, Myself, Do not have any of these stories. My dad only has one sister and I've never really been very close to his side of the family. She's nice enough, Seems normal, Always has off the wall, funky shoes. It's safe to say I like her.


My mom only had one sister. She's pretty bad ass. I vaguely remember doing shit with her when I was younger, but it hasn't been until recently that we've gotten a lot closer. I realized we should have done this much sooner because she's totally rad. She accepts my vulgarity, totally bitchin' sarcastic attitude towards life, and she laughs at all my dry humor and dirty jokes. She even tried a sip of my beer one night at a girls sushi outing.


It never really occurred to me that I might be some one's aunt one day. I'm an only child. I don't have brothers or sisters to shit out kids to make me an aunt. Then I got married. Now I have 2 Brothers. I leave off the "In laws" Because they've truly proven to be the annoying little brothers I've always felt I've missed out on.


I remember meeting them for the very first time. I had primped, powdered and glossed for hours. It's normal to want your boyfriends brothers to think you're smokin' hot upon meeting you, right? Anywho, We all decided to go to dinner. We were all in the car for about 3 minutes when the youngest brother decided to rip the meanest, wettest, juiciest fart in the back seat. My eyes bunged out of my head and then I felt them start to burn due to the exposure of the hazardous waste gas that was fumigating the car at that moment. I sacrificed my perfectly primped hair for fresh air by riding with the windows down for a good 5-7 minutes.


They are my brothers.


The middle brother married a total Badass-Biatch last year. They popped out a child, hence making me an aunt. I've already self proclaimed me as the "Best Aunt Ever." I think they're OK with it. They let me have total V.I.A (Very important aunt) Privileges. Like, giving the little squirt his first lollipop! Yeah, I totally got to do that. I'm sure I'll be the one to give the tike his first beer too. I'm also pretty sure that I'll be the crazy aunt to all this kid's stories. I might even start pinching his cheeks now and continue to do so until he's 37.















Love you Rykee baby! - I'm not letting go of that mushy name either. He will be called Rykee baby until I die.

Sincerely,

Crazy Aunt Erica.

To answer the question of what the fuck is on my head, Yeah, It's totally Rykee Baby's pants.

Rock on.

The Bastard Child.

Lately I've felt like I don't belong. I'm kind of a bastard. I'm not tight with Mormon Jesus, I don't really grasp the ooey gooey family togetherness bullshit. I haven't done anything super neat with my life, like procreate in masses. I'm just me. I'm dysfunctional I suppose, but I guess I find some sick comfort in that. It's all I know. The things I grew up with as "normal" are sort of derailing me in "real life."

There are some scenarios I can't avoid. Weddings in the family, Deaths bringing family together, Family Barbeque's for Birthdays, Etc. Being a girl who comes from a very limited supply of family I dread every said event. I don't do well in these things. I try like hell to avoid these gatherings. I'm the girl awkwardly sputtering off words and perspiring because I'm afraid the word "Bitch" or "Ass hat" or "douche bag" might slip out of my mouth.
If one of these events forces me into a church, I'm constantly on guard listening for the lightning bolt that is going to strike me down in a fiery blaze of glory. I'm pushed to make a decision to either be struck down by the hand of god or continue being the bastard child of the family. I usually opt for the latter, because at least my safety isn't immediately compromised.

I'm goin' through a funk right now. I don't feel like I belong anywhere. I'm most comfortable holed up in a bar on a Sunday afternoon in my tattered jeans, shootin' pool and enjoying mass amounts of beer. I guess a mother mighta helped out in my childhood development, eh?

Maybe it's time to consider relocating. Moving would be tiresome, But so is the constant feeling of being one big fat dissappointment.

Now it's off to the gym for fight night and then home to a lovely bottle of wine for dinner.

A good woman who likes to sniff ass.

Meet, Layla.

She also answers to "ManBearPig."

Her favorite color is purple. She doesn't like long walks on the beach or any form of exercise for that matter. Her interests include but are not limited to: Being a selfish bitch to her boyfriend, Dax. Grunting excessively, Eating, Sleeping and always being the center of attention. (And if she isn't, prepare to hear it through a series of grunts)

So far my maternal instincts have only taken me as far as being a proud pet owner....and by proud I mean I like to take embarrassing and hysterical photos of them and then post them on the Internet as I mock them and giggle. I'm sure karma will give me my turn.

I apologise for the poor quality of the photo. It was taken from my shitty-balls Blackjack phone, inside my shitty-balls SUV that runs purely by the grace of Mormon Jesus.

Out of retirement.

Not too long ago I deleted all of my Internet sites. Blogspot, Facebook, Myspace...ect. O.k. I didn't delete Myspace due to a completely ridiculous game application on there that has me by the balls.


Anywho, I threw my Internet fit for a number of reasons. None of which I'll go into. However as the days go by I notice awesome "Blog worthy" items that I find myself telling my friends who still have Blogs, to blog about.

Then my selfish, independent and opinionated ways took over my brain and made me realize that I want to do it myself. (Would it shock you to know that I am an only child?)

Without further adieu, enjoy the Blog of the day.




THIS IS WHAT MY THURSDAY LOOKS LIKE;














I'm being threatened by some sort of a gamboo. Swollen glands, Runny nose, Sore throat, Body aches, Fatigue and overall lameness. (Think I could get away with emotional instability as a symptom too?)
I've been popping so many pills that my co-workers probably think I'm some crazy cracked out, Vitamin C fiend. My daily ritual this week has been 3 vitamin C pills, 6-9 Echinacea pills, 7-24 Halls defense vitamin C lozenges and then, of course, my daily multi vitamin and glucosamine chondroitin. All washed down with 75 ounces of water, 2-4 cups of coffee, and 1 hot mug of lemon and honey all in a 8 hour period. I've forwarded all my calls to the ladies room.
It's not getting any better but it isn't getting any worse. I have a really hard time going to the doctor for things that aren't life or death. (By my own definition, of course)

I really need to kick this. This sub-par health issue is keeping me from my morning jogs and nightly aerobics class. The only thing this gamboo hasn't taken away is my appetite and desire to drink a lot. The combination of this week has left me feeling like one chubby, snot nosed, whiny, achy, discouraged, little bitch who is all sorts of depressed.

If you feel like leaving any suggestions, By all means. And if you feel like bringing me soup, I'm the thing balled up on the couch drinking a lot of whiskey.

Cheers.