Live a little for Christ sake.... No... Really

Back when I was 16 one of my best friends forced me to do a beauty pageant. I hated every absolute minute of it. I broke out in hives all over my body two days before the pageant due to stress.

I don't like people. Especially people watching me.
Yeah, maybe if I have a couple bottles of booze around me I can sling drinks around for people like a monkey being watched at the zoo and for the most part I'm OK with it. Those people are drunk. And they tip me. Being a contestant in a beauty pageant was nothing but standing up in front of a room full of people to be judged.

Fuck. That. Shit.

The talent portion of my night consisted of dancing to Willa Fords "I wanna be bad."
My outfit was skin tight and pitch black.
When it came time for the on-stage question I was asked to please describe myself in one word.
My answer? Adventurous, because I was willing to try anything once.

It's safe to say I had an early retirement from my pageant career.

I laugh when I reflect on that night. My ris-kay dance moves to lyrics stating I wanted to be bad and me announcing I was open minded enough to try anything once should have really been a silent cry for help that someone should have picked up on.

Turns out? I really did know who I was and what I wanted out of life at the young stage of awkward teenageness.

Last Friday my company let us all leave work early. Instead of coordinating when I'd be able to meet my sister-in-law at the gym I texted her that I felt like blowing it off instead. It was the beginning to a very hectic weekend and I felt like I really needed some quality ME time. She seemed interested in squeezing a little ME time in before the holidays too. I had spoken with my mother-in-law earlier in the day and could tell she was teetering on the line of ditching a million bakers dozen of rolls and making bad decisions instead too. The final shove? A shot of tequila at 1:30pm.

The three of us wound up at the City Club. It's this fun little bar that's everything The Beetles. You pretty much have to scale a fire escape to get up to the front door but once you're there you so don't want to leave. Mainly due to tackling the fire escape obstacle back down to the parking lot with a hefty blood alcohol level. We sat and laughed over burgers and beer. We even had a couple shots together because it was Christmas, and what's Christmas without slurred "I love yous"?

We joked over dinner about making bad decisions that quickly morphed into real ones.
My sister-in-law was dead set on a piercing. We made our way to a tattoo parlor that was unfortunately booked for the remainder of the evening. Not wanting to see sister-in-laws Christmas hopes and dreams crushed I quickly remembered a little tattoo joint I found *Stumbled into* last year around the same time. I can't tell you where it is, or the name of it but I can drive right to it. They were the only tattoo shop last year that took in any randomers at the drop of a dime. This year was no different.

After batting our lashes and kindly asking if we could bring our bottle of bourbon in the shop, Sister-in-law got herself a pretty little hip piercing. It sounds strange and I was a little unsure of it myself but it actually turned out rather sexy looking.
Me? I wound up with a small tattoo on the inside of my heel. It's simple and something that won't ever change. Which is usually what you should take into account before permanently having something etched into your skin.

Once we had holes punched and permanent track marks on us we headed back to the inlaws house to help *cough* our father-in-law with the abandoned task of the rolls. Sister-in-law helped run the beater. I patted father-in-laws head for encouragement and moral support. I'm pretty sure we hindered the roll making process.
No sooner than the flour absorbed into the dough did we ask if we could be released from our duty to head to the bar.

My dad was there with all of his buddies gulping down Christmas cheer. We stayed, laughed and were merry.

The next day was Christmas eve. We did the typical run around and spread yourself thin all over fucking town to try to please everyone, in turn spending more time in the god damn car than at an actual family function. Our final destination was the inlaws and it felt so good to get settled in. We opened gifts, had cocktails and played games that revealed what sick fucks we truly all are.

The husband and I headed home later than night. This year we had promised each other we'd keep the spending moderate because our goal to get out of debt and be able to spend more time together was far more important than presents. I had a hard time abiding by this rule. A few days prior I went out and got us each a nice, new fancy phone. The husband hasn't ever had a smart phone. His was still the kind with the snake game on it and if you ever dropped it instead of the screen shattering it was the floor. They cost a fair amount, but his face lighting up was priceless. He immediately started downloading all the geektastic apps any nerd could ever ask for. He has a star tracker, a physics app and a "learn how to speak alien for dummies" app.

Really though, these phones are dope. I'm sure once we both know how to use them we'll probably be able to cure world hunger and save the whales.

They're THAT rad.

Christmas morning we started my new favorite tradition. My dad and the husbands parents came over. I made a breakfast casserole that was off the chain. We had spiked coffee, pumpkin bread, english muffins, bloody marrys and mimosas. We all just sat around and bullshitted with one another over booze and it was pure magic. It was a beautiful thing to be able to have our badass parents over all laughing and sharing Christmas morning together.

There's just 3 short days left of 2011.

Here's to an even better 2012. Hopefully it starts off a little smoother this year.....
I hope the new year welcomes you all in gracefully.

MAZAL TOV!

Get a load of this

The holidays have proved to be fairly tolerable thus far.

Aside from going to Walmart for last minute needs and completely testing my tolerance to dumb fucks, It hasn't been too awful.

YET.

• I helped an old lady out in Smiths parking lot the other day. It was cold, she looked fragile and she had walked away from her cart that held a bunch of groceries and toilet paper on the bottom rack. I yelled "Hey Mam, I think these are your groceries!" and carried them over to her. She was the nicest old lady ever. She was seriously so sweet and grateful. said all the bless your hearts and merry Christmases one little old lady is capable of. It totally made me feel all cheery inside.

• I also had the opportunity to buy gifts for the families on the Christmas Angel tree and deliver said presents to the families in need. It was a very humbling experience.

• Last Sunday I had the 2nd annual Bartender Christmas party. The bar owner got her son to bartend for it so that all of us regular bartenders could get together, tie one on and exchange gifts. I'm pretty certian this is the ONLY Christmas party out there that you can unwrap panties, vagasil wipes, mini bottles and mace and have it totally be normal.

• The husband and I pledged to go inexpensive on eachother this year. --as well as everyone else. But... I think I might have something a little special in store for us both. Hopefully I'll find time to post over the holiday weekend. I think Santa might be a super rad dude to both of us this Christmas.

• And, last but not least, the annual Christmas sickness has arrived. I've been feeling slightly less than stellar for a couple weeks now. The husband and I keep ping ponging sicknesses back and forth but yesterday after delivering Christmas cards around town in the bitter ass cold, I sat down at my desk and could literally feel a sinus infection infiltrate my face. In every effort to NOT be sick over this weekend I made a doctor appointment for this morning. I tried to tell him over the phone that I did NOT need to come in and that I knew what a sinus infection felt like and it's what I had so pretty please with a cherry on top write me a fucking prescription but I'm pretty sure he missed me so badly he made me come in regardless of my self diagnosis. Oddly enough, he took one look up my nose and said "Well, It looks like you have a sinus infection" My response was "No shit?!"

My doctor is pretty sweet though. I mentioned how husband and I were both sick and he wrote me a prescription for enough antibiotics for us to share.
He also wrote me a doctors note on his prescription pad that read "Erica is extremely contagious and should not be around anyone over the Christmas Holiday"
He told me I could use that note as I saw fit.

Well peeps, as my last post before the Jolly old elf comes to visit I wish you all a very merry Christmas. I hope this holiday finds you all happy and well.

Peace. Joy. and mad love.

Over and out.

Let the holidays (Increased bourbon drinking) BEGIN!

I bet you're all dying to know what I've been up to lately!

Are you having Erica with drawl shakes? Trouble concentrating? Do you toss and turn all night long never finding that deep desirable slumber? Me too. Only not the Erica with drawl thing... because... that's me...

ANYWAY.

I've decided I need a laptop.

And the internetzez at my house.

Somewhere between 4-7 glasses of bourbon and my nightly half ambien, my mind travels to glorious places and suddenly I have the funniest thoughts to morph into one hysterical blog.

Only it never makes it on here.

Why? Because I get distracted with overwhelming amounts of work. And that sucks all the fun out of my soul. And I get interrupted like, allthefuckingtime.

So, Santa...


I've been naughty in a really good way all year long. Can I please have a laptop and a year worth of Internet bills pre-paid? And a new phone. Because mine broke on Friday. Aaaaand the mustard volcom purse.


And the karma necklace.


and maaaaaybe a new camera, because the one I currently own is so old I'm fairly certain it was a handme down from God.


And then some new shoes!


OK-I'M-DONE-AMEN.

Speaking of the holidays, bottle orders have spiked and I've been super busy huffing spray paint in my garage, creating super cute gifts completely high off my ass. It's been tits.

Insert desperate ploy for more orders here: TELL YOUR FRIENDS! http://botbinc.blogspot.com/ :) WOOT.

Bad decisions in the name of Sunday. Amen.

I'm fairly certain I showed up to set class drunk this morning.

I stayed out way too late last night kanoodling with family, shooting vodka and making sex time with the husband.

At five o'clock this morning as I was driving to the gym, questioning my sobriety and pondering my blood alcohol level I came to the harsh conclusion that I'm not a spring chicken anymore.

6 hours of sleep and blowing a .08 on a breathalizer before running 3 miles in the morning was my personal normal a few years ago.

Now I'm knocking on the late 20's door begging for 8 solid hours of sleep, 4-6 servings of vegetables a day and seeking out a good night cream.

Getting older is blowing my figurative balls.

Speaking of getting older, it's the husbands Birthday week!

I'm throwing him a conspiracy theory party. Complete with an alien cake and UFO cupcakes and tinfoil hats so the aliens and government can't read our minds.

Shit's gonna be off the chiiizzzain.

The half

You know how a vagina feels when it's giving birth and ripping from side to side and bleeding and tearing and crying and then all of a sudden BAM! EXPLODES! EVERYWHERE. VAGINA SCHRAPENAL ALLOVER EVERYTHING!

Me either.

But if I had to pick the perfect analogy for how my calves feel, that would be it.


I survived my first half marathon. The first 5 miles were extremely downhill. Which, I thought, OK cool... Curvy girl, momentum, down hill, walk in the park. (Or canyon)

The thing about extremely down hill though, IT TEARS YOUR FUCKING LEGS APART!


I was running under 8 minute miles for the first 5 miles.

Then it flattened out just enough for my legs to readjust to the newly flattened grade and decide that cramping was a good idea.

I made it to a water station and tried to stretch.

Miles 6-10 were ok I suppose. It was cold. I was tired, sick and drenched in my own sweat but all in all I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Only 3.1 more miles and I was done.



Mile 11 things started pulling awfully wrong. It felt like my knees were rubber bands and someone kept pulling the bands away from my body and then flipping them back.


There's "tired, sore, I just ran 11 miles kind of hurt"..... and then there's "OH MY FUCKING GOD, SHIT'S GOING SOUTH QUICK AND I DON'T HAVE HEALTH INSURANCE AND I'M PRETTY SURE MY KNEES ARE FUCKED AND I'M GOING TO DIE" KIND OF HURT.

It was THAT kind of hurt.



Finally I started seeing people with medals on walking around. My garmin said it was only another half mile to go. I made it across the finish line just in time to get caught in a human sea of cluster fuck. No one was moving. I was stuck shoulder to shoulder, belly to back with random sweaty, strangers.

My personal hell on earth.

It's been 2 weeks since the race and last night was the first night I could actually run for 30 minutes straight with only minimal pain.

Am I glad I did it? Absolutely.

Would I take it back? Never in a million years.

Am I proud of myself? You bet your sweet ass.

Do I want to do it again? No fucking way.

How do non-religious folk pray?

Let's talk about life for just a second.

Tomorrow morning at approximately the ass-crack-of-god-damn I'm running my first half marathon.

I'm not going to lie and act all tough and prepared and ready.... I'M BATSHIT SCARED.

I kind of trained. Sort of.

I gave it my all up until I came down with a cold.

My brain is currently swimming in cold medicine and all I want is jammies and my bed.

And whiskey.

Things have been super stressful here at my big girl job. It always seems like every time I get super duper ooper stressed and worn ragged here at work I get sick.

Weird.

Tonight I'm having family over for a huge ol' spaghetti dinner.

I plan on gorging myself in garlic bread, pasta and tylenol cold and then saying my final goodbyes to everyone.

To all of my readers, don't be too eager to watch for my next post. This blog may not exist after tomorrow morning.



Godspead yall.

I'm pretty much the hooker in red lipstick standing on the corner in a matching track suit

A couple days ago a good friend of mine sent me a text message.
It read: "I bought you something today. When I saw it I just knew you had to have it. It's sooo you!"
This spiked my curiosity. What even IS me?

She knew I liked anything leopard print, shot glasses and sweats.
Other than that, I don't really convey A style, if you will.

Monday through Friday I dress like a corporate mother. Button ups, slacks and heals. THIS is totally not me. It makes me feel old and icky. Not to mention collars and cuffs are entirely too binding.

Saturday nights when I bar tend I'm almost ALWAYS in a black Tshirt of some sort and jeans. I don't wear any other color because when a keg blows all over you or you get grenadine on your shirt, you can kiss it goodbye. Black hides everything. It's just easier.

By the time Sunday rolls around I feel too chewed up and spit out to fathom wearing anything other than baggy man sweats.

When the occasion presents itself to go out on the town or to a party of some sort I always feel stuck.

Am I tough girl? Am I girly girl? Am I bohemian-shabby-chic? (Certainly not the last one. I don't even know what the fuck that means)

Another dear friend of mine recently introduced me to pinterest. And for this she must die. And be completely responsible for my lack of productivity. And social skills when my smart phone is in my clenches.

On this devil website I've stumbled upon really cute outfit ideas. None of which are me.

The outfits are always accessorized with matching rings, necklaces, purses, shoes etc.
I wear the same damn black heals nearly every day to big girl work. I pick my rings by their ability to keep their form after weightlifting, And nothing can fall out or snap off in case I decide to punch something/one. I carry a wallet only, a purse is way too much baggage. Unless I need to smuggle booze in somewhere. Then I totally have backup purses. But it's for their functionality, not coordinating with my outfit.

I know I love black. I feel pretty in anything that looks tough. I dig red lipstick. I like my nails painted. I gravitate to anything leopard print. I have a sick hoodie fetish and I like to be comfortable.

But not so comfortable that you're that girl who's "really let herself go since High school"

Oh, and what my friend bought me that was so me? An antique Jim Beam bottle. It fits perfectly.

I suppose it's time to update my eulogy.

Did I mention I have a half marathon approaching in T-minus 25 days?

Have I mentioned that I am in no way, shape or form ready for said half marathon?

A HALF MARATHOOOOOOOON.

Too bad there isn't such a thing as a menstruation marathon.

I'd totally dominate that bitch.

A gift card to the mortuary.

My big girl job deals in real estate transactions, so it's safe to say I see my fair share of Realtors.

Yesterday a certain agent came in and she was talking to me in her frantic-realtor-jibberish manor. Telling me things that didn't pertain in anyway to this particular transaction we were working together on and rattling off random facts.

I knew that my grandma (Nana) was the one who had listed the property and that she was doing it for free because her and this certain agent were like, best friends.

I went over the numbers with her on this transaction and showed her the bottom line figures she should expect from the sale of this property.

She said those figures were just about what she had figured and was so excited because she would be able to afford a gift certificate for my nana.

Naturally one would think $50.00 at chilis or a gift card for a mani/pedi.
So I asked "Aw, you're so sweet to do that, where are you getting her a gift certificate to?"

She said "The mortuary. I want it to be for $1,000.00 so these figures are great."
I'm pretty sure I looked like I'd just shit myself.
I thought:
A) What a fucked up gift.
B) Is that what best friends do now? Go in on each others plots?
C) She's got to be kidding me.

Then she quickly followed it up with: "Well you see honey, she always says how much she wants to get her daughter a real headstone. One she deserves since she doesn't really have one at all."

It took .5 seconds for that to register.
My eyes started to well with tears that I couldn't hold back.
She noticed.

Then it clicked with her. "Oh my god, that's your mother, I'm so sorry"
Through my ugly-cry voice and balls of wet tears rolling down my cheeks I told her to not be sorry and that was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever heard.

Still the very thought of this kind hearted, thoughtful act brings tears to my eyes.

With all the mass amounts of bullshit that I deal with in the industry I work in, I'm pretty sure this one thing makes the board even keel.

Just one of those days, er months.

Do you ever have one of those days where you have to go to the grocery store for two fucking items?

And the only two items you need in the entire store are either blocked off by palates of canned string beans or the only isle you need to go down is filled up with old people oogling and hoarding the glucosamine for thirty god damn minutes!?

Young people need joint lubrication too.

I swear to everything holy in this life, every time I need to make copies, the copier is out of paper.

Every. TIME.

I went to take a short power nap between jobs in the parking lot of Shopko last Friday. I parked in the very far corner, away from all vehicles. I reclined my seat, rolled the windows down so I could feel a cool breeze and shut my eyes. Just then a guy driving a bullet bike pulled up RIGHT NEXT TO ME. He shut off his bike and made a phone call:

"Yeah man, I'm just in the Shopko parking lot. Ok, yeah, cool. See ya in a second."

A minute later his friend arrived in a white Tahoe.

"Hey dude, you gotta check out this new album. It's sooo tight."

The Tahoe began blaring death-metal-punk-skaw bullshit that made me want to immediately punch one million babies.

Why do you hate me Jesus, Why?

Last Saturday I had a two hour workout. Between running 4 miles, lifting for 45 minutes, making sure to get a killer ab session in and all my big girl stretches it was just over 2 hours.

Saturday was also laundry day.

The one pair of jeans that fit me best were wet.

Knowing I had piles upon piles of jeans in my closet I set out to find a second best pair.

Not one pair fit. Even my fat pants were snug.

I immediately threw on a big, black, baggy pullover man hoodie and sulked down stairs.

I'm extremely frustrated with my body. I put this curvy, spiteful bitch of a body through hell and back at least 5 times a week. Most women would get a flat stomach and thighs that don't touch.

Me?

I get wrecked up knees and shin splints.

Can a bitch just catch a break?

And then I received an email with this horrid thing:

And suddenly things aren't so bad.

There once was this boy

When I was 16 my dad bought me a white Chevy cavalier. Towards the end of senior year I remember parking my white cavalier in the east parking lot of the high school. I parked there because it had prime locations for stashing your empty six pack of mikes hard lemonade before going back to 4th and 5th hour classes.
Most every day I'd watch this boy walk to and from his car with his dude friends and this one obnoxious girl that tagged along.
This boy had swagger.
He walked with a bad-boy-don't-fuck-with-me kind of limp.
From what I could tell he had mysterious hazel eyes.
Eyes I needed to get to know.
That boy and I just recently celebrated our SIX year wedding anniversary.

The husband doesn't read this blog. For too many obvious reasons.
Nonetheless I'm giving him a shout out.

Dear Bradley

You're one of the hardest working men I know. You juggle work, school, me and our canine family quite impressively. You even manage to find time to do yard work and golf. You humor all my whacky ideas and hang anything I ask you to. I may not know what the hell you're talking about when you're explaining to me, with your eyes as big as they'll go, how exactly sunsets emit color, and what a galaxy's composition is, or how magnets work or how aliens are among us every day, but I love your passion.
You're one brilliant dude, who without a doubt is destined to do great things and I'm honored to be by your side, and couldn't be prouder of the person you've grown to be.
Thank you for always being my shoulder to cry on, my person to vent to, my designated driver (babysitter) and the best back rubber in the world. Seriously, you have hands of gold.
When I watch you interact with our niece and nephew my uterus tingles just a bit. Then they spit up or start crying and it shrivels back into it's cold, dark cave. But I know one day you're going to be a remarkable father.
I don't know what drew us to each other, but just like the magnets I hope we never stop working.
No matter where we are in life, I'll always be happy as long as I'm with you.

8-3. Forever and Always.

E.

Brief update

Please review the list of bulleted items as follows: (I mean, only if you give a shit. You totally don't have to. My feelers won't even be hurt since I don't know who the hell even reads this blog) Hugs!

• After I got home from Alaska we had a big ol' shin dig out to the house to celebrate my "Utah Birthday." My two bests put it together and baked me a beautiful cake to go above and beyond as always.

• Uh. I threw a baby party for one of my bests. It was pretty off the chain. There was food, decorations, great people and flip cup.

Special thanks shout out to my best life partner/Mother-in-law/Sister-in-law.

• A group of us went to the Bay and cooked out, basked in the sun, played in the water and drank a whole lot of beer. It was tits.

• I've officially removed my lip piercing. I had contemplated it for a while and just decided after my 27th birthday and having it pierced for 4 years that it was time to start a new chapter. One without shit in my face.

• This last weekend was spent at Island Park, Idaho at a family reunion. The mother-in-laws side of the family was all there. Her cute mom and dad rented a cabin to accommodate everyone's clan and we all had a great time. There were mixed drinks, hot tubs, 4 wheelers, kayaking and camp fires. I had some awesome quality time with my nephew and niece, who are arguably the cutest things on this fucking planet. Spent some much needed girl time kayaking on the river with my sissyinlaw and mommyinlaw. Mommyinlaw had approximately 3 brushes with death, but all is well and she's alive.

• The weekend was so great, that we decided to bring back souvenirs in the form of the stomach flu. Everyone had their turn. A few people had it up there, a few of us took it home to savor it in all it's glory on a Monday. Really great stuff.

• I've recently become rather close and semi dependant on a woobie.

This is all for now.

Rewind.

Back in July the husband and I ventured off to a magical land.

Alaska.

The husband, Mother-in-law and I departed from the Salt Lake international Airport with our belly's full of beer and nachos from the airport pub.

After a short flight that seemed entirely too long due to the loud jackwads behind us, preaching LDSness to the entire fucking plane and boring us to tears with their conversations about punctuation and grammar, we finally had made it to Long beach.

We were in Long beach the perfect amount of time. Read: 2 eight dollar beers at the airport bar worth and back on the plane we went. Alaska bound.

After a very long 5 hour flight we arrived in Anchorage. We landed around midnight to a dimly lit sky and the biggest hugs ever from the father-in-law and grandparents. They were so happy to see us they even carried some of our luggage.

We spent our first night in the motor home in Fairbanks. The next day we headed to Soldotna.

After ooing and gooing at mother natures breath taking beauty over a 4 hour motor home ride to Soldotna we were finally there. We set up, Drank, had a fire and made smores.

The next morning we woke up and headed to.... somewhere... on the coast, or gulf, or peninsula, or inlet, or something to go clamming. I was a little nervous because I had heard that clams can leave you with some pretty bitchin' cuts, but after I saw my first air bubble in the sand I was determined to get that little fucker up rooted. I was a wee bit too aggressive however, and I smashed the shit out of my little gooey treasure.

After the mother-in-law getting stuck in the mud and me killing a few more clams, my father-in-law dug one up. He could feel where the clam was and told me where to go and that I needed to be soft and gentle and just wiggle him out of the sand and not fucking annihilate him. I did just that and brought the sea creature right to the surface. Alive and squirming. And most importantly, not in a million pieces. I think the little guy was grateful. He squirmed right out of his shell in an effort to give me a big slimy hug. Thus, scaring the ever living Christ out of me. Who knew a clam could move like that?

After clamming we stopped at a place called Jersey Subs. I was leery to walk in there without a spray tan and a wicked fist pump routine, but when I saw it was a sandwich shop running it's operation out of a bus and out houses for restrooms, I knew I'd be right at home. Best pastrami sandwich ever. Those Alaskan-Jersey sub bus drivers sure know what they're doing when it comes to a hot pastrami sandwich.

We arrived back at Soldotna and decided to get on the Kenia to slay some fish. Which is exactly opposite of what happened. As soon as we hit the river a storm rolled in, the bastard fish took raped all our bait and it was raining so hard water was going up our nose. On a boat with all men, the mother-in-law and I knew not to complain. So, with beers in hand, we just sat there, poles out, hands froze and a shitty grin.

The next morning the husband, in-laws and I headed to Seward to go on a day cruise around the gulf of Alaska.

This cruise was simply amazing. Right away we saw Orcas and Otters. Further into the cruise there was a cute little herd of porpoises that came and swam along our boat, jumping in sequence and throwing up peace signs. We started making our way through an ice field and arrived about a quarter mile away from a massive glacier. The captain said she was going to turn off the motor to the boat and for everyone to be silent and just listen. The cracks and pops that resonated off this monster glacier sounded like gun fire. Pieces of ice broke away and plummeted into the ocean. Everyone stood on deck in awe. It was this very moment a tear came to my eye. I looked around at the people who were seeing the same thing I was. Most of them were older. A humbling shock wave of emotion came over me. Here I was 27, wrapped in my husbands arms, My best in-laws to my side, in Alaska, seeing what most people dream of. I couldn't help but get a little emotional and feel extremely lucky.


The glacier marked the half way point and we began heading back the way we came. We saw puffins, sea lions and jelly fish. We docked at Fox Island, which could possibly be one of the most beautiful islands on the gulf and indulged in prime rib and crab legs. We skipped rocks on the beach and took a few pictures before boarding the boat (with rocks illegially smuggled down my pants) to head back to Seward.



About 40 minutes before arriving in Seward there was another whale sighting only this one, even more spectacular than the last. We encountered what was called a super pod. It's basically where all the whales from the sea get together to have a mixer. There's whale booze, fresh salmon, everyone puts their keys in the key bowl and then after that it's all just one big fuck fest. It's the mardigras of the sea.

We ended our day cruise with a bald eagle welcoming us back to dock.

We fiddlefucked around Seward for a bit, trying to get rid of our sea legs and headed back to Soldotna.

The next morning we left for Homer in the motor home. This is where I discovered that having a vehicle with a built in fridge and a toilet means you can drink as much beer as you'd like and you never once have to ask the driver to find a gas station that doesn't look like it's crawling with STD'S. Best. Invention. Ever.


We arrived on the Homer spit, enjoyed the best fish and chips I've ever had, EVER and then went to the Salty Dawg Saloon and had a bit of bourbon. We had a big day ahead of us so we kept things relatively calm.

The next morning we headed out, at five fucking A.M. to meet the captain of our deep sea charter boat and to get on the water. We had a bit of a hold up getting out to sea but we finally all were crammed inside the fishing boat and on our way out to the "fishing hole"--Which just means the sea.


Our captains name was Rod. I know right? Rod seemed super nice on the TWO HOUR LONG boat ride out to the fishing hole. We made small talk, He found out it was my birthday and didn't laugh too hard when my mother-in-law asked about an hour into the boat ride if we were in international waters.

We finally anchored down. Rod was demonstrating exactly what we were to do, and how to do it when he got a fish on his line. Naturally he yells "Birthday girl, get over here now"---

You see, nice Rod went bye bye once we had stopped. This was now drill sargent Rod. Which, I guess if you're dealing with 8 semi drunk adults on a 10x10 space all playing with heavy metal jigs that could take someones face off and such, one probably can't leave much room for horseplay.

So, I jumped to. I was so excited to actually catch my first fish EVER! The captain handed the rod over and my arms got immediately slammed into the side of the boat. I don't think I've ever really contemplated or assessed how much a fish ACTUALLY weighs, but you'd think not much since everything is super light in water. This heavy mother fucker put up quite the fight. I didn't have a technique, I couldn't get any sort of leverage, I didn't know where to hold or how to pull and reel. In my brain, the only logical thing to do was to shove the rod (Not the captain) directly between my legs and ride it like a fucking pony. Naturally.

I was so wrapped up in trying to NOT look like a jackass, and TRY to get this fish in that I can't really recall what Rod was telling me to do. I think I heard "idiot" and "are you kidding me" mumbled somewhere along the line. I found it quite fitting I was getting junk punched by a 60 pound Ling Cod 27 times on my birthday. Thank you sir, may I have another.
Rod came to my rescue to take over and with my last breath I exhaled "Thank you on behalf of my vagina." It was at that very moment captain Rod and I became best friends.

He finished up his lesson and in the next few moments we dropped, hit bottom, reeled up twice and waited. I got another fish on and brought that little bastard to the surface. Upon it's arrival, deck hand Michael, who wasn't previously briefed on my sensitivity to killing things, GAFFED IT RIGHT INFRONT OF MY FACE!. --For those of you, much like me, unfamiliar with fishing terminology, this means impale a poor fish, after it's brought out of it's cute little sea home, with a hook suitable for Hannibal Lectar.
THEN deck hand Michael put the fish on the deck of the boat, where it can flop around and slam into your legs while screaming "Thanks a lot bitch, are you happy now!?" and he bleeds it out. Which means, jams a knife through it's gills. Then the words "FISH BOX" are yelled, they open a compartment and throw the poor semi-lifeless fish below deck. Then they get a bucket of water from the ocean to splash the blood and guts from the deck. Which, awesomely splashed right up the crack of my ass.

Gruesome murder aside, the charter was awesome. I got to spend some amazing quality time in the middle of the ocean with my father-in-law. And by quality time I mean, him looking at his spaz of a daughter-in-law with a puzzled look on his face as to why I'm having a borderline epileptic fit on deck whenever a 70 pound fish is slammed down by my feet. It's all a little jarring still.

My mother-in-law and I had quite the time too. She made fun of me wearing my big silver hoops and all my rings on board. I cried to her about how badly my entire body ached from reeling in fish weighing the equivalent to a god damn fifth grader and that I couldn't even put a sandwich to my mouth AND that I didn't think I could fit in the pisser and I didn't want to pee infront of a bucket of dead herring staring at me.

The husband looked proud as ever reeling in all his fish. He was totally in his element. He's not a huge fisher or hunter, but he knew exactly what he was doing. I think all the natural outdoors knowledge is transferred upon birth with the penis package.

Once we'd all caught our fill we headed back to land. After very minimal sleep and 12 hours on a boat, I was sure no one, including myself was going to be in the mood to get crazy on my birthday. I severely underestimated the caliber of badasses we were on this trip with.

The in laws told us to shower up and be ready in an hour. We headed further down the Homer spit and the in-laws treated us to a wonderful birthday dinner at the Market Grill. Our appetizer was Tequila. Our main course was meat of sorts paired with beer and our desert was more than our fill of bourbon at the Salty Dawg.

I woke up with sand in every orifice the next morning with no recollection of the night before.

Me:"Husband! How did I get so sandy?"
Husband: "Oh, apparently you don't remember rolling around on the beach with my mother at midnight rambling something about "Can you say you've ever rolled around on the beach of the Homer spit at midnight on your birthday??" You two were like two drunken sea lions last night. It was like tending over grown toddlers on ambien"
Me: "Huh. weird"

Best. Birthday. Ever.

After souvenir shopping we hit the road, Soldotna bound once again.
The next couple days were pretty chill. We did some fishing on the Kenia, laid around and caught up on some R&R and then processed an approximate fuck load of fish.

By this time it was time to get packed up, clean up and head home. We caught a plane out of Kenia and had a 30 minute flight to Fairbanks. Which was WAY better than a 4 hour drive crammed inside a regular cab truck. While in Fairbanks we all ate dinner as a family and my mother-in-law, husband and I saw my father-in-law off on his connecting flight. The 3 of us caught our flight a little later.

We made it home from vacation tired, sore and in need of a chiropractic adjustment but I must say it was one of the most memorable, amazing trips Brad and I have ever been on.

We've been to some pretty badass places. Alaska might have just elbowed it's way to the top of the list.

To my in-laws: I can't think of two more awesome inlaws to have shared Alaska with. The memories made and moments shared will forever be treasured in our hearts. You two made Alaska all that it could ever be and more. I absolutely love, adore and cherish you two. Thank you for everything.


Best fucking trip ever.


I love yall to the moon.

Seeing Red.

*Spoiler alert to anyone with a penis. Never mind the cryptic title, this post is indeed about a menstrual cycle**

If I wasn't already bleeding, I'd cut myself right now.

Our lovely mother nature is a bitch.

A real low down, snarky, stabby, uppity bitch who thinks she's self entitled and better than everyone.

I've been googling "How to make your period stop"

"Why have I been on a period for three weeks"

"The aftermath of the depoprevera shot"

"How young is too young to get a hysterectomy?"

and

" Coping techniques: HOW TO NOT FUCKING KILL PEOPLE"

Honestly, how long can you use: "I'm sorry, I'm just on a really bad period right now"

Or: "Sorry for the prefuse sweating, bloating and my bitchy behavior, I'm completely emotionally unstable."

I called the doctors office this morning.

"Hey, My name is Erica Archibald, I got the depo shot at the first of June so I could run this race that was designated for crazy running masochists and NOT be on my period for it and as an added bonus; prevent children. Well, It worked like a charm, however the entire month of July I had a period hit about every 4 or 5 days and they'd last about a week and a half, and NOW, I'm going on three weeks STRAIGHT of NON-STOP crampy, bleedy bullshit and I can't stop sweating and I've blown through more feminine hygiene products in the last two months than what any girl should ever have to, and I just really need this DEMON period OUT OF ME. If I can't take SOMETHING to stop this, LIKE SOON, I WILL start hurting people. I NEED A YOUNG PRIEST AND AN OLD PRIEST!"

Um... OK... What's your date of birth and a phone number we can call you back on?

I waited an hour or so and they called me back with my option(s).

Hi, this is squeaky voice girl who sounds like she's twelve calling from the doctors office to talk to you about your vagina and I have a couple of options for you. You're due for your next session of the depo shot in one week so .......

"Stop. right. there.
NO DEPO, THANK YOU.
Continue."

Um... OK, well the next thing that you could do, which the doctor thinks will definitely help, is a one week prescription of estrogen.

"Will that make me crazier? Because I don't know how much more that myself or the people around me are willing to tolerate and I'm already contemplating swerving into on coming traffic, I'm down 3 bowls of my nice china and my husband said he's refusing to spackle anymore holes in our walls."

Well, actually, If you're already kind of crazy, this estrogen, even though it is the female hormone, should, actually... fix you. Sort of.
We hope anyway. Please stop yelling.

I sent Brad a text that I was picking up this hormone before we hit the road to go to Island Park for a fun filled family weekend of awesome.

"I'm genuinely scared for my life right now" was his reply.

Vacation here we come!

Stay tuned

I promise to get around to posting all things awesome involving Alaska. However at the moment, I'm in the midst of preparing to throw my first baby shower. Only instead of it being an actual baby shower, I've morphed it into a "Baby party". You know, one that dudes can come to, and we can all sit around with adult beverages in hand and shoot the shit and celebrate the couple and their short coming new arrival. Because if you ask me, showers are lame and party's are way better.

I've also been busting my creative balls. I had an order placed for some "Thank you" gifts. You can check them out here: http://botbinc.blogspot.com/

I think they're tits. If I do say so myself.

Feel free to place an order. (And tell all your friends)

Anatomically correct

Besides the whole having a penis thing, I usually consider myself to be one of the guys. I can hold my liquor, shoot a mean pool game and I appreciate a nice rack just as much as they do. I don't talk about emotions or my dreams and goals in life. Instead we usually sit around a fire listening to 80's hair band butt rock and throwing out funny jabs at one another.

And then there was this one time that I was having some female issues, and I thought I'd play doctor (not the dirty kind you played with the neighbor boy down the street) but like, the total self medicating kind (and not the kind you do with a bottle of bourbon after a really shitty day).

I found some expired hormone pills in my bathroom medicine cabinet. I thought I remembered my doctor telling me that if I started to experience problems that we could always fix those problems with progesterone. Well, I just so happened to have some. It was expired, but wasn't growing mold or anything. I took ONE pill. One.



The next morning I woke up one crazy(ier) bitch.

I had my nieces Birthday party to get to and the boys were on their way. I hustled to get ready in the mist of my emotional roller coaster and sweat spells. The boys were running ahead of schedule to pick me up. We needed to leave early to have enough time to buy fireworks and beer.

I tried on seven different outfits. I looked like a chubby sweaty line backer in just about everything I tried on. I finally settled on something black and flowey.

In a rush to get my hair done, I gave the boys a brief explanation that "I'd only be a few more minutes" and "I was sorry, it had just been a weird morning."

Half way through poofing my hair I heard "Erica, why has your morning been so weird?" I walked out with my hair balled up and ratted, looked at my boys sitting on the couch wondering what the hell was up with me, and started to explain in what can only be described as a sobbing-slobbery-sweaty-fit.

*Quakey high pitched voice, going octives higher each scentance and ugly-cry-face emerging**

I just, I'm an idiot. To spare you guys the details, I was having some girl problems and I remembered my doctor said I could fix it with this one hormone and I found some in my medicine cabinet that was expired, but I thought hey no big deal, So i took one... and then this morning I wake up all crampy and angry with fucking everyone and bloated and I don't feel cute and I can't wear any of my clothes because nothing fits and I can't quit sweating and I could seriously just cry at the drop of a hat!

They both just stared at me with their mouths wide open. Then they laughed. Then they started saying random words like "Banana" and "Dolphin" and "Baseball bat" because they were playing the game "Words that will make Erica cry"

I'm pretty sure I've been driving everyone around me, including myself right up the wall. My co-worker asked if everything was OK and what the loud popping noise in my office was and I had to explain that I had hit a wall. Both legitimately and figuratively.

I don't know if it's that I've been on my fucking period for 3 weeks now, or I'm stressed about leaving both my dogs and jobs and regularly scheduled life to trot off to Alaska for TEN DAYS with nothing but a carry on, or spending my birthday on a chartered fishing boat hopefully catching fish and NOT vomiting into the sea for 15 hours, or that I'll be away from all my friends on my birthday, or trying to plan my first ever baby shower co-ed celebration of life kegger for one of my bests and I want it to be so perfect, or that work is super crazy, or that right before my husband decided to leave for Twin falls to go golfing with buddies this weekend he told me that "we're" throwing a going away party on Saturday for one of his friends who joined the Air force and by "we're" he means ME since he won't be back until people start showing up for farewells and hot dogs, or that I was suffering separation axiety from being away from my sister for 5 days, or that one little expired hormone pill threw me into a fit of even more emotional instability than normal and made me forget how to deal with shit and multi task.

I feel. Super. Super panicky.

Things may be winding down however. Last night I was googling "lip gloss" right before bed. That is one sure small sign of normalcy.


I fucking hope.

If anyone knows me, It's Amazon.

I just logged in to my Amazon account.

Hey Erica, It's Amazon. We wanted you to know that based on your browsing history, we made you a list of things we're pretty sure you want right here on the main page.

My browsing history is as follows:

Whiskey glass set.

Pirate treasure chest.

Red pirate jewels.

Anti chaff stick.

Led head lamp.

A bormioli rocco selecta 7 piece whiskey gift set.

Teraforma whiskey stones

Webkins plush stuffed Dragon.

Toddler building blocks.

Pirate flag.

Decanter.

Pretty much just the every day essentials.

After the run it's the after party. After the party it's the hotel lobby.

I haven't had sweat drenched hair in over 72 hours.

I'm no longer chapped in places that have no business being chapped.

I've gotten to wear my pretty lacy bras and panties the last 3 days and smell like the Dillards perfume counter.

Last night I indulged in pizza, beer and sex until 11:00pm.

The best part of the race?

POST RACE.

Well, maybe carb loading. That was pretty neat too.

I actually had a really good time doing the Wasatch Back Ragnar Relay. They say it's one of the hardest, yet funnest races out there.

My first run was in the heat of the day on Friday. I ran 3.2 miles in 31 minutes. I was feeling good afterward, and to be honest a little proud of my pace. I maintained a 9:39 minute mile, and ran my best pace of 7:13 during the 1st mile.

My second run took place at 2:30am Saturday morning along Echo Reservoir. I ran 10 miles, in the middle of the night with no van support along a rocky dirt path complete with bear sighting and all. I finished my 10 miles in one hour and 57 minutes. I managed a pace of 11 minute miles over the entire 10 miles. Some miles were under 10 minutes, some miles were 12 minutes. Overall I felt very proud to have ran the longest leg on the entire course in under two hours.

The third leg was just as I suspected. Pure hell on earth. Over a short 3.2 miles I climbed nearly 1500 feet in elevation. It's the 2nd steepest leg of the entire course, and the steepest only has it beat by a short 200 feet. It took everything I had. My mind was as focused as ever and I was completely jacked up knowing it was my last run, but after being up for 30 hours with no sleep and fatigued muscles from the previous 10 miles my body was all "Excuse me, bitch!?!"



I finished. I cried like a little bitch at the exchange point. Tears for every emotion possible. I was so happy to see my suburban full of misfits waiting for me. I was so tired and delirious and my body needed to rest.

Our team crossed the finish line in 37 hours.

We ran into a few problems, but we overcame them and finished. Everyone poured their heart, soul, strength and determination into this unbelievable race. I know I made personal sacrifices and pushed myself to lengths that I normally wouldn't have all in the name of Ragnar.

I met some complete badasses. Our driver Derek cracked me up the entire time. Derek's wife Jodi is one neat chick. A few of us showered together, baring our cash and prizes to God and everyone. Jodi even dropped the soap. Derek and Jodi flew back east to their home on Monday. They contacted me through a friend to let me know that next year, they want ME in their van with them. The feeling is totally mutual.

Speaking of complete badasses, I had 11 of my closest ones at the finish line to cheer me on. I can't even begin to describe the amount of support, love and true friendship that I felt that afternoon. I have some of the most amazing friends and family a girl could ever ask for.

They're there for me now matter what, where, who or how. They're genuine people through and through and I couldn't feel any luckier to be a part of each others lives.



Thank you to everyone for all of the humbling support you've given.

We all make a pretty damn good posse if you ask me.

Oh, and the after party was off the CHAIN.

Cheers to next year.

Covering all my bases.

I remember when I was 17.
I was living with my dad and his wife.
I moved out one day while he was at work.
I relocated 4 miles south to live with my Nana.
My dad didn't eat or sleep for 2 weeks and had a borderline breakdown.
I won't get in to all the hairy details. Just know that I was really the victim here.

Today is his birthday and Sunday is fathers day.
I'm his only offspring and I'm pretty sure this weekend would be the worst weekend like, ever to die. Which, is WAY worse than moving 4 miles south.

But since the chances of me meeting my untimely demise are considerably high, I'd like to list a few of my final affairs.

I hate bugs. HATE THEM. Please don't put me in the ground. As unpleasant as burning up a body in a wrath of fiery inferno sounds, it's better than being stuck in the ground inside a pine box among creepy crawlies. I don't like tight, stuffy places either. I just don't think a burial is my style.

I want something super creepy done with my ashes.
Like, maybe make a shit load of little necklaces with glass vials dangling from them, and then disburse my ashes accordingly in to said vials?

Or maybe mix my ashes in with some ink and all my loved ones get tattooed.

In lieu of a funeral, I'd rather a celebration.

I want 3 beers on tap (Budweiser, Amberbock and Corona) and a shit load of liquor. By liquor I mean, mostly bourbon and tequila.

I also want a nacho bar.

My music play list shall consist of Eric Clapton, Neil Young, The doobie brothers, Bob Segar, Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Eagles, Bad Company, Journey, Styx, Foreigner, White Snake, INXS, Jimmi Hendrix and Fleetwood mac.

Each one of my friends and family members must get up and share their most favorite memory of something we did together. I hate public speaking, so if you wanna just sit in a circle and play spin the bottle to see who you have to pass the mic to, that's totally fine too.

Please print off and frame up all the bagillion pictures I have of nights the majority of us don't remember but somehow wound up on my camera.

Even the one of the Halloween night I drove home completely naked except for my ugg boots and a seat belt strategically covering my nipples.

As far as my personal belongings go, my infamous hoodie collection is to be divided among my 4 best girls. If you're unsure if you're on the list or not, small scrolls summoning your presence at The great hoodie division of 2011, will be delivered by doves to your house upon the occurrence of my death.

For all of my other belongings, I'm requesting all my loved ones gather in to one place. Get pant shitting drunk and have a physical battle to win ownership and victory of my things.

Also, please capture said events on a camcorder and then replay the video onto a huge projection screen so I can watch it from heaven.

***Someone please delete my facebook account. It's pretty disturbing when dead people keep updating their status and "Liking" things. My login and password will be written down in my day planner on my desk.

I also have a $20.00 deposit down for a tattoo at Michas Twisted Tattoo in Layton. My appointment is on the 25th of this month at 4:30 if anyone wishes to go in my place.

I love you all.

Not to jinx anything, but.....

I ran a short 4 miles this morning before work.

I did it in 43:10.

There were a shit load of birds lined up on all the telephone pole wires and a ton of asshole drivers with ZERO consideration.

I felt like I was stuck between a fucked up mixture of Angry Birds and Frogger.

I arrived back home and actually felt OK.

My mind felt good and focused.

My left knee hurt a little, but nothing intolerable.

For the most part, I felt really good.

Race day is in 3 days and I think, I might, Just have my oomph back.

LOST: Oooomph. Hefty reward will be given for it's safe return.

Death race 2011 is a mere 8 days away. Everyone I've spoken with is "Feeling great" and "Totally ready for it" and "Super excited".

Me?

I'm fucking tired.

I'm tired of running.
Running used to be an activity I did because I liked it. It was my "me" time. It was my stress relief. It was my therapy.

Now? It's a chore. Something I HAVE to do. Instead of running wherever the wind takes me, I'm setting up routes that coincide with the distance I need to run, the elevation changes I need for training, I'm constantly looking down at my garmin to see my pace, distance, heart rate...

Last night I set out for 6 miles. I just HAD to do 6 miles. I ran 6 miles on Sunday and it was the worst run of my life so I needed to do better this time. I needed to show myself that I could for the sake of restoring some confidence.

I made it 3.1.

I feel as if the more I train the worse I get.

I got home. I got in the shower and just about lost it. The only thing that kept me from having a complete ugly-cry breakdown was knowing that the boys were coming over to watch the Miami Heat game and eat dinner. I can't let them see me break.

Running is as much mental as it is physical.

I'm to the point where I'm willing to whore my brain out for a good mental mind fuck, because I don't know what else to do.

I'm tired of running.
I'm tired of being tired.
I'm tired of bugs in my eyes and up my nose and getting stuck in my chap stick.
I'm tired of the inside of my thighs feeling tender and chappy.
I'm tired of vomiting up everything I put in my mouth.
I'm tired of my feet bones hurting.
I'm tired of walking around like I've just been fucked by a 2x4.
I'm tired of ball sweat.
I'm tired of everything sweat.
I'm tired of lugging this thick, curvy, chubby, lady body all around town.
I'm tired of every decision I make in regards to food or beverage being a conscious one that revolves around running.
I'm tired of spending money on things like reflective vests, compression socks and anti chaff cream.
I'm tired of never having the time or energy to get laid.
I'm tired of traffic.
I'm tired of drinking fucked up drinks to help my performance or restore my body.
I'm tired of TALKING ABOUT RUNNING.

I'm at my breaking point. I've lost my oomph. I want to quit.

Hopefully writing all of this down and getting it all out will help me in some way because in 8 days I've got some pretty damn amazing people who are willing to make the journey to Park City just to support little old me, in what hopefully is one huge mother fucking accomplishment.

A balls out Sunday.

This last Sunday was made of magic glittery unicorns.

It was a cold, rainy day. I woke up around ten to let the dogs out. We peed, then got in bed together for a solid 3 hours of nothing but snuggles, Oregon Trail and wet noses.

I made it to Fort Bridger with 4 of my 5 members.
Let's all now take a moment of silence for Timothy, whom died of dysentery.

...............................................................................................................

The dogs and I were starving by one.
We made it to the couch for Spicy nacho Doritos and half of a left over breakfast burrito from the night before.

I decided to make something of myself and shower.
I dicked around on my guitar for a while. Learned half of two new songs.
Had myself a beer.
Then the husband and I met up with his youngest brother (s).

The 4 of us headed to the driving range to hit a bucket of balls.
The driving range is just like swimming. You're always hungry after, so it only made sense to hit up one of my favorite spots.

THE OAKS.

The Oaks is a tiny, bitchin' little joint up Ogden canyon. It sits right along the river and has outside dining. The weather totally sucked so we dined indoors but it was still awesome nonetheless. There was a live band playing everything from The Eagles to Nirvana.

The boys had burgers and I had chicken wings. We all sat around drinking beer, checking out the waitresses and playing with our balls. It was totally my kind of dinner. While we were there I recieved a text from a friend of mine who was bartending at the local watering hole in Brigham. The text read:
"Your dad brought his guitar in and is playing tonight if you want to come in."

We paid our bill, gave the waitress a phone number to reach my brother from another mother on, and hauled ass back to town.

We made it to the bar just in time for my dad to put his guitar away. I guilted him into playing an electric guitar that had been left out. He played me my favorite song, Bojangles and a few new ones I hadn't heard him do.

Afterward we sat and visited with eachother over a beer. It was well past his bedtime once 8 o'clock rolled around so I kissed my old man on the cheek and joined my boys at the pool tables for a few competitave games of "Fuck your neighbor"

To sum it up Sunday was pretty much the balls. Thanks brudders, for making me, an only child feel like the luckiest sister in the world.

Mad love.

What's on tap?

My brain left idle produces some pretty awesome results.

Saturday I was headed to a BBQ and in search of something to bring.

I haven't baked in a while. Maybe I should whip up some brownies or some shit. Ehhhh, I'm not really a "brownie" type of girl. Maybe I should just bring a bunch of bourbon.

...................................................................................................
Waaaaaaaiiiiitttt a minute.

Holy BALLS why haven't I thought of this sooner?!?!


BOURBON BROWNIES.

Can we say AWESOME?!

OK, so here's what I did to get some pretty flattering reviews.

Buy this:








Bake as directed only don't reserve any of the crust. Just put it all on the bottom of the pan.

Once your brownies are baked remove them from the oven and grab a fork. Jam the fork down (Yes that's an official cooking term, thank you very much) into the brownie, spacing about an inch apart each time you jam.


Now, while the cake is still hot, pour yourself a glass of bourbon. Drink said bourbon, but reserve about a 1/4 of a cup.

Using a spoon, drip bourbon (I used Jim Beam) alllll ooooover the cake. In the holes, down the side... OMG Everywhere!

Let cool.

While that's cooling... put half of this container:

into a bowl. Add 5-10 tablespoons of VANILLA VODKA.

Then plug in your electric mixer and whip the living shit out of it.

Once your brownies are cooled frost a thin layer of your vanilla vodka infused frosting over the top of them. Place in refrigerator to cool.

While the badass frosted brownie concoction is cooling, squeeze about half of the contents of this:

into a bowl. Add a few glugs of bourbon. (Glug is also a official cooking term)

Then stir until you reach the consistency of a glaze.

Remove cooled brownies and drizzle the awesomey-chocolatey-bourboney glaze all over the top. Place back in refrigerator to cool.

Now, I'm well aware that this probably looks like I was just bored and rummaging through my pantry while drinking and had a happy accident....

But I assure you, if you serve these (or make them just for yourself and indulge in all the chewy, marshmellowey, bourbon-vodka HYBRID BROWNIE GOODNESS!) You will not be disappointed.

And THAT my peeps is what's on tap in my brain.





Special thanks to Betty, Jim and Duncan. I couldn't have done it without you guys.

#1 Cause of death in America: BEARS.

My car is packed with running shoes, blankies, pillows, hoodies, hash browns and a healthy dose of bourbon.

Rapture survival kit?

Nope.

Tonight (Saturday morning if you want to get technical) at 2:00am, when I'm officially (Hopefully) off the clock of my last job for the day, I'm piling myself into my car, Picking up the sis-in-law and we're headed 100 miles north to Bear Lake.

I'm usually making bad decisions and displaying poor judgement on a regular basis, but something about driving to Bear Lake in the dark, BY MYSELF, after a 20 hour work day that usually leaves me fairly delirious just felt wrong.

So after a small amount of groveling and begging, my sisinlaw decided she'd take one for the team and stay behind to wait for me so that I wasn't alone in my death inclined adventure.
Then this morning it was brought to my attention that tomorrow is dubbed Judgement-rapture-zombie-apocalypse day. The timing is impeccable.

I can't wait to be two young helpless girls driving in the dark with zero arsenal, on a supposed Apocalypse day as all the good Christians float up to heaven and leave the rest of us to fend for ourselves against rabies-ridden zombies.

This is just the first of many probable deaths for me this year.

In a mere 28 days I'm going to be running death race. Aka Wasatch back ragnar relay series. First leg: Cake walk.
Second leg: I cry and beg for the sweet release of death.
Third leg: I'm going to meet Jesus. Or hallucinate and chase after a unicorn into a forest of life saver gummies and stiffly mixed drinks.

The odds of survival are bleak people. Fucking bleak.

I think a lot of people can sense my death quickly approaching. A couple of my dad's friends bought me beers two nights ago, my husband finally fixed my brake lights, my mother in law scheduled family photos 12 days prior to the race and the dogs have been extra cuddly.

It's all just a little suspicious.

If by some miracle the universe spares me in June, I'll be cheating death, yet again in July.

The husband and I are trotting off to Alaska for 10 days.

The same 10 days that I'll be on the rag.

There's fucking Bears in Alaska.

REAL LIFE BEARS.

You all might as well send your condolences now.

Happy Hump Day. Praise Jesus.

My lunch just consisted of a string cheese melted over crunched up Triscit crackers, doused with Cholula hot sauce and a handful of peanuts.

Some days, my job is less desirable than I originally thought.

An ode to Mama.

I still remember the important days. The days I wish I could forget.

Instead of it being my mothers birthday I wish it could just be Sunday.

The day she killed herself, I sure as shit wish it could just be a good ol' regular Wednesday with nothing in particular going on.

I've come to terms with the fact that big life events and holidays will never be easy. EVER.

She's still with me. Even though she's not.

I've become less self-destructive and violent over the years.

A lot of that is due to my wonderful "Other mother"



She livens up a room like it's no one's business. Most of the time, she IS the life of the party.

Not only is she my Husbands mother, but she's taken the place of mine as well.

Which, I tell you, Is no easy task. She loves me like one of her own and for that I will always be thankful and feel extremely blessed.

She cheers me on, brings me up and talks me down.

Even though she was raised with all boys, and had all sons, it's like she really GETS me. Ya know?

She gave me the most amazing husband. And 2 brothers I wouldn't trade for the world.

She supports me in all of my crazy, sporadic ventures, humors all my potentially awful ideas and even lets my bad behavior slide most of the time.

One of my best friends recently said "Erica isn't the type of girl you take home to mom"

I then added "Unless the mom is Sheila"

Seriously. Any other mother-in-law, I would have been totally screwed.

So, To Mama: A million and one Thank you's for letting, and encouraging me to be me. For loving all the fucked up and twisted parts about me, and embracing me as one of your own. Me and mine are forever in debt to you for being woman enough to step up and fill the shoes that were left vacant by choice.

You not only filled them, you busted the seems and soles on those bitches.

Even though you wear a petite size six.

It's because of you that I won't be drowning my sorrows with bourbon and nachos this weekend. Instead I'll be having margaritas and hot dogs with you, My mother-in-law, my best friend and my partner in crime.

Happy mothers day

Same cloth always.

E.

F*CK YOU HORMONES

My husband is a saint.
Each month I'm baffled he doesn't divorce my crazy ass.
Hormones are a bitch, AND coincidentally turn me into one too.

Last night we had a ..... small spat? if you will.

Over a ferret.

Yeah, you totally read that right.
A ferret.
A small, little furry, adorable as SHIT ferret.

A ferret that we don't even HAVE.

Me: (Eyes huge. Bright idea face. Totally excited) "BABE! We should get a ferret!"

Husband: (Totally unamused and rational) "Um. No. We shouldn't"

Me: (Slightly smaller eyes, still totally fucking jacked about my idea)
"Why not. Do you even KNOW how cute ferrets are?!"

Husband: "I knew I shouldn't have let you watch Meerkat manor on Animal Planet"

Me: "This is not about Meerkats, HUSBAND. It's about my needs! And my needs involve a ferret!"

Husband: "Sweetie...... NO."

Me: "Give me one good reason why not?!"

Husband: "Because I'll be the one who has to take care of it, just like I take care of the dogs."

Me: (Horns emerging, Talons extending, Hair standing up)---It was like the devil fucked Teen Wolf.
I take care of the dogs just as much as you do. NOTTOFUCKINGMENTION Everything ELSE in this whole entire world. You wanna get into that!? We can get into that!

Husband: "No. No. I don't want to get into anything. I'm just saying....."

Me: "Saying what, HUH?! That I'm a useless, fat slob who doesn't ever do anything and neglects my pets and you view me as an unfit mother who is a hoarder!?! Is THAT what you're saying because that's what I'm getting"

Husband: "Babe. I know you're on your period right now, and you're super crazy, so can we just talk about this in like... a week..?"

Me: "NO. AND PACK YOUR OWN LUNCHES FROM NOW ON!"

I stomped up the stairs, went in my bedroom and locked the door. I did my normal routine of face washing, zit popping, teeth brushing and moisturizing. I went to get into bed all to find the husband in MY room. The room I had LOCKED HIM OUT OF.

Me: "How do you keep getting in here everytime I lock you out"

Husband: (Wise ass smirk) It's a locked door in my own house, not Fort Knox.

Me: "Why are you even in here? We're fighting. And unless you have a ferret, I really don't want to talk to you"

Husband: leans over and in the most gentle loving way, kisses me on the forehead. "I love you sweetie"

Me: (Now bawling) I, I, I loooove you tooo--hooo-hoooo

Husband: "Why are you crying?"

Me: "I, I doooon't eveeeeen knooooow! I'm soooorrryyy... I lo, lo, love you soooo oh ooo much. I'm fucking crraahhh aayyyzzzy. I doooon't knooow whaaat's wrong with me."

Husband: (Holding back uncontrolable laughing) "Yeah. Sometimes you're a little challenging but that's why I love you."

Me: (Laughing and bawling at the same fucking time) "Yeah. We don't need a ferret. You were right"

Husband: "Glad that's cleared up. Sweet dreams"

Me: (Snot wipe) "You toooo oooo oooo"


Saint I tell you.