Fuck Kansas and your little dog too.

This week has been a productive one for blogging. If you're an avid reader of this blog, then you'll know that earlier on this week I felt as if a storm was headed my way. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had this terrible panic inside my chest. Something uncomfortable was coming. I could feel it.



Uncomfortable is a huuuuugemotherfuckingunderstatement.



Today my dad got laid off in the January rift at ATK. I'm panicked inside. I know it doesn't do any good to sit and worry my little head off, but I can't help it. I know there's nothing I can do, but that's so hard to accept. There must be SOMETHING I could do or help with.



2010, Honestly? I thought we had an understanding that you weren't going to be a complete asshole like '09 was. It's been 28 motherfuckingdays and here you go, being a total douche. Ya know, I really had a good feeling about you. I rang you in feeling strangely optimistic about things. But ever since you've been here you've kept me really busy with studying new laws that affect my career, or reading books that make me google every other word to discover their definition, or working off my 10 pound-holiday-booze-n-food-appaloosa. What good are the holidays without Bourbon, nachos and chicken wings though?



Pointless. Purely pointless.

Here's to yet, another year of bullshit sayings like "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" or "This is a blessing in disguise" or "When one door closes another one opens" or "Don't shit where you lay your head cuz you'll get pink eye and pink eye is so not in right now!" --I know, Right?

Fuck.

Dear Husband.

Last night was dirty.











Devious.











Exiting.











Wrong on so many levels but felt so right.











Deceptive.











Last night I made you dinner and pureed a full serving of vegetables into your spaghetti sauce.











MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.







I watched you hunker down in front of your steaming plate of spaghetti.






I watched you cut your noodles and mound your first bite onto your fork.




I hoped you wouldn't notice that the noodles were %100 whole wheat.




You chewed and your head began to nod.




Once you were able to speak you said "Good spaghetti babe"



I looked at you from across the table with devilish eyes and simply said:



"Thank you."





It took all my will power to not start jumping around, pointing my finger at you, yelling "You're eating an entire serving of vegetables! MUSHROOMS, GARLIC, ONIONS AND SPINACH!



HA!



AND YOU LIKE IT!



What now, Bitch!?




Alas, I refrained, knowing that you may very well dump your entire plate into the garbage can, sprint out the front door, scraping the "icky" off your tongue and burnout in the drive way on your way to Burger king for chicken fries and a 687oz Dr. Pepper.



I owe a special thanks to a good friend for the genius advice of shredding vegetables up beyond recognition and hiding them in foods.


Let's see you pick that shit out now!


Eat up my little precious, eat up.

Today is for me to admit to you that I have a serious addiction and may need help.

Tomorrow (Or whenever I get around to it) is for me to talk to you about raunchy, loud, public bathroom sex next to a puddle of barf.






I know!







On with the show....


Some women have a serious problem with shoes. Some women go batshit bonkers over jewelery. Some women have problematic purse addictions. I know a girl who used to RENT purses. Seriously. Kudos to whoever came up with the idea of a purse rental agency and profiting from the crazy that comes over us women.


I don't go nutty balls over any of those things.


I'm simple. Rational, even? (When it comes to my girly needs) Easy as pie.


Mmmmm Pie....


No, my addiction isn't pie.


It's lip gloss.


Glorious-wondrous-shimmery-delectable-make-a-girl-feel-like-a-million-bucks lip gloss.


It's always been well known among my friends that I have an addiction to lip gloss. It doesn't even have to be gloss, It can be chap stick too. But so what, It's just lip gloss. Right? Who cares if I pack around anywhere from, oh, 2-19 different lip glosses with me at a time.


The one I use could depend on my mood, my eyeshadow, my outfit, if I want color, if I don't want color, sticky vs. non-sticky, smell good vs. plumpers. I mean, come on, a girl needs options.


Naturally, I started holding my purses up to higher standards. When shopping for one, it must be equipped with plenty of pouches to store all my little treasures.


That's when I knew I was starting to go a weeeeee-bit over board.


So.


I kiboshed the purse thing.


That's right, all I carried was a wallet.


My black, little worn-to-shreds, Volcom wallet.


I could fit one lip gloss by my check book and one lip gloss in the coin pouch.


Two.


Two is good.


Two isn't over board. It's a compromise, right?


I can deal with two.


Then I started noticing that lip glosses were popping up everywhere.


In every pair of jeans I'd put on, I'd find a tube of magic.


Every hoodie I'd wear, there, in the little hoodie pouch, I'd reach in and find awesome in a tube.


My camera case.


My gym bag.


My car.


My coat. (I found 5 through out all the pockets)


Lord knows I don't need any more of this shit but when I see a new flavor of my favorite glosses I have to have them! I MUST!


Plus, It's only lip gloss.


Some women's habits can be much more costly than mine. My usual dose of glossiness awesome usually runs about $15.00 for 3.


Or if I'm feeling like a racy, naughty little minx, I'll splurge and go anywhere between $18.00-$20.00 (But that's for the good shit)


I know, You're thinking "20 bucks on lip gloss, this bitch be crazy"


Shut up. It makes me feel pretty.


And it's waaaaay more cost effective than therapy to deal with self image issues.


See, I bargain.


Let a girl get her pretty fix.


I know plenty of women who spend their money on fake nails every 3 weeks. They spend anywhere from 30-35 bucks on their sloth talons, that house so many icky germs underneath that there's probably an entire germy community, building mud-huts and trading donkeys for prostitutes.


Dirty.


Where was I??


Oh, right. Problem. Addiction. Me. Yeah yeah...


So. This week my work-techy-pal set me up with 2 monitors at my desk. It's pretty much the balls, Except it put a cramp in my style and made me re-arrange my desk.


As I was cleaning, I was making piles. Grouping off office supplies, UPS shipping supplies, All my many binders, protractors, compasses, Texas instrument t-21-I-10Th power calculators, old world globes, Webster dictionaries, muscle and fitness mags and lip glosses.


I noticed my group of little pretties growing, and growing, and growing.....


Twenty eight. I know you're going to count. There's 28 different lip paraphernalia there.

















I'm a cancer. I like sparkly, pretty, shiny things and I like storing my little treasures away.


My name is Erica, and I have a problem.

*

There's a starm-a-comin'.

Do you ever feel uneasy? Do you ever feel like there's something wrong, or there will be in the near future but you can't put your finger on it? It's almost like this panic attack, anxiety fit comes into my heart and makes it feel all uneasy and hurty. Or maybe it's heart burn with a side car of indigestion. I'm not real sure. Either way I have this feeling.

It's like watching a tornado head your way and not being able to go anywhere. I'm not real sure what's up. I have a very fearful heart at the moment. I keep telling myself to forget about every thought that waddles into my head and focus on the important things. Work. Training. Excelling at my job and achieving another license. My home. The Husband. The gym. Myself.

I just can't quite shake this burning in my chest.

This panic.

Do you ever feel like the people you once knew aren't the same people anymore? The people you thought were genuine lifetime pals suddenly move themselves into a different category.

Who will truly be there when you need them? When you're down in the dumps and need a beer to cry in, what pal is gonna be sitting right next to you because they could tell you definitely needed some friend time. True. Genuine. Friend. Time.

I'm all about friend time. Weather you're single, dating, married or parenting, no matter how busy or stressful life becomes for you, at the end of the day everyone needs a good friend.

Sometimes change comes welcomed. Sometimes it comes suddenly and leaves you feeling torn, tired and fooled.

Change can be terrifying. Change can be the balls. Either way, it's almost always scary because it's unknown.


There are some people in my life I would walk around the world barefoot for. Would they do the same for me?

Do you ever feel like sometimes you need the people in your life to prove to you that they are in your life for a reason? Prove to you that they love you and that they are genuine people?

I feel like right now, I need proof.

And maybe some Prilosec OTC for the indigestion.

Is this what getting old feels like?

Something's wrong. Something's definitely wrong.

I'm not sure if my maternal instincts are slowly kicking in or if I'm getting old.

Maybe I'm dying?

I've noticed some definite....uncharacteristic changes in myself lately. Which, I suppose, may be good.

Ish.

Never in my life, would I EVER think that I would be the girl in the bread isle whom it takes 13 minutes to pick out one loaf of damn bread. This happened. You see, my husband has the palate of a 3 year old and only wants white bread for his lunches. Garbage. White bread? Seriously? The name "Wonder bread" is very true to suit. I wonder why the hell people eat it. It has no nutritional value whatsoever. You can mold it like play dough for Christ sakes! Then there's those people who sit and pick at it, rolling it into little balls and then eat them. Do you know what I'm talking about? It's like... Dude, If you have to ROLL your bread into BALLS so that you're actually biting into substance rather than poofy, floury air... PICK A DIFFERENT BREAD. One you don't have to ball-up just to sink your teeth into. My god.

Ew.

I digress.


So, There I am in the bread isle, Scouring each individual loafs back side to read the nutritional contents, just trying to discover ONE MOTHER F-ING GRAM OF FIBER per serving, and it suddenly became clear to me that I must look batshit bonkers.

Really though? Have you ever tried to find fiber in white bread?

Exhausting I tell you.


Next on my shopping list was bologna. Yes, Husband wants bologna sandwiches for his lunches. So there I was, balls deep in processed meat, again, checking the nutritional contents of the back.
Simply READING the back of the Bologna package made one of my arteries clog. The best thing, nutritionally speaking, I could find was turkey bologna, So I threw that into the cart, (as it bounced around like a lunch meat bouncy ball) hoping husband wouldn't notice it was slightly healthier than the traditional "lips, tits and assholes" bologna.


Suddenly I'm the person that's concerned with building strong bones and avoiding osteoporosis at all costs. I'm the person trying to hide spinach in my husbands bologna, cheese and mayo sandwiches because I read somewhere that leafy greens help protect against prostate cancer. Why the fuck do I care? I don't have a prostate!


I'm the wife using reverse psychology on my counterpart to try to get that bastard to eat some god damn vegetables! Seriously. I'm up at 7am PEELING an ORANGE to put in husbands lunch box because the odds of him eating an orange are WAY higher if it's pealed for him.


Would it be frowned upon to start crushing multivitamins into powder and sneaking them into his Mt. Dew that he drinks for breakfast? I would feel so underhanded and dirty, but dirty can be hot too, Right?


The other morning I practically forced him to take a banana. However the only way I could do it was with a bribe. "If you eat this banana, I'll pack you two cookies!"


OH, and guess where the cookies came from!? Husband works 2 blocks away from Lofthouse. I'm sending him out with lunches that one day will save his BALLS and he's bringing back fucking lofthouse!



Sigh. I can't win.



I'm not entirely sure why I give a shit though. I'm not sure when or why all of this happened. When did I become concerned with eating shloads of protein and vegis instead of a cold 6 pack and easy cheese for dinner?



Last night at dinner I ordered one beer. ONE. One 12 ounce beer. PLUS A WATER.



And you wanna know what? The water was gone WAY before the beer! I feel like I'm having an identity crisis. Who am I? What's happening to me?



Lately beer hasn't been turning me on. Liquor either. I really could just... go without. Those of you who know me probably just fell off your chair. I realize the severity of this statement and no, this is not a joke. I'm dead serious.


Another thing. I'm actually... liking sex. I mean, It's nothing so super awesome that I'd give my right leg for, Or my reality smut shows on MTV, Or my secret hiding place that I stash junior mints. But, It's definitely do-able. (No pun intended) Plus, who'd wanna fuck a one legged gal anyway?



I know, right?



Certainly no offense if by the very off chance you're a follower of this blog and indeed, only have one leg. I'm sure you're very fuckable. Calm yourself.



ANYWAY

So THEN something else happened.

The other night I just felt...blah. I need a change. Not in 2.6 weeks. Not tomorrow.

Now.

SO.

I went to Smiths.

I bought hair dye in a fucking BOX. (Against everything I've ever known)

I went home and gleefully dumped an entire box of black, feria hair dye on my head.
(And my ears, forearms, face, wall, vanity mirror, drawer, trash can, one running shoe, the blinds and my cat)

This is highly out of the ordinary for me.

It definitely taught me a new found appreciation for my hair goddess, Tiffy. She's amazing. She's been with me through thick and thin. The day we met and I had to explain to her that she needed to be careful around the lower, right side surface area of my skull because I had recently been in a terrible golf cart accident and had completely fractured my skull and it was still really gooshy back there, but I still wanted to be hot... and she DIDN'T run away... I knew that she was a keeper.

I just don't understand what's happening to me. I'm becoming more concerned with getting my 8 hours of sleep each night, rather than getting hopped up on booze and Nintendo. I'm making PROTEIN and WHOLE GRAIN a priority? Really? And SOBER SEX!? It might as well be the apocalypse.

Am I getting old? Am I maturing? Is this my body's way of letting me know that I'm not a completely irresponsible fuck, and I'd actually be an OK mother one day?

Personally, I don't like any of my options.

However, Lately, I've felt really great.

This is what life must be like with no hangovers.

I always suspected Jesus was Chinese.

My loving, generous and STRIKINGLY BEAUTIFUL mother-in-law gifted me a new blow dryer for Christmas.


She got me the CHI Ceramic Iconic Hair Dryer.

(This is where I'd probably concoct some dirty comment about getting the best blow job ever for Christmas, But............ I'll refrain.) You're welcome, Mother-in-law.


It says that it's made in China.


















I'm completely convinced it was crafted purely by the hands of Jesus.


Not only was it made by him, I'm pretty sure he lives inside this bitchin iconic orgasmic hair dryer. I looked down the barrel of this magnificent piece of equipment and there was a complete miniature fantasy world, set up by Jesus himself that had mini everything. Shetland ponies, mini coopers, mini golf courses, mini fridges with little mini beers and go-gurts inside, mini ninjas, mini pigs and hot virgins in mini skirts. Jesus looked up from his mini laptop long enough for me to thank him for, indeed, being one helluva miracle worker.


Miracles are exactly what I need when these are the locks I've been so naturally blessed with.




















Thanks to the CHI Ceramic Iconic-bonerific Hair Dryer, My Chi flat iron and hair serum-lube, the "Dianna Ross do-on-a-white-girl" you see above, instantly *Read: forty five minutes worth of precious time* transforms into smooth, sleek, non frizzy, straight hair.


This is me, Professing my "Endless love" to all products CHI.


Oh, and Jesus.


Chinese Jesus.
















*

Dear 2010.

I'd like to start off by saying welcome.

To make sure we're on the same page, I'd like to bring a few things to your attention.

2009 was a total bitch. Seriously.

I mean, OK, Sure, there were some really great things that happened in 2009.

There were also some things in 09 that I'd really rather not go through again.

Although it was hella fun saying "Oh niner" for 365 days last year, I couldn't be more relieved that it's over.

2010, I rang you in wearing a sparkly tank top, lip gloss and a fedora. How could you NOT love me at this point? I've got a great attitude and I'm very optimistic about you.

Just make sure you're not a complete whore like your sister year "Oh niner" and I can see this being the beginning to a beautiful relationship.

2010, You're gonna be great. I can feel it.

Love your tummy. Kisses!

P.s. Don't fuck with me.