"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?