1. An apostrophe shows possession, not plurality. If you want to pluralize something, an s is quite sufficient. When an apostrophe is used after the word "it," however, the word means "it is," not "belonging to it." An apostrophe should not be used for the word meaning "belonging to it."
2. The word "literally" means something actually happened. Don't say "I literally ate a whole cow" unless there's really really nothing left.
3. If you don't know that the word "grammar" is not spelled "grammer," then don't tell me you're picky about it. Even decent grammar can be ruined by bad spelling.
4. People are "who" and things are "that." It is incorrect to say, "the woman that works at the store."
5. Please don't say things like, "her and I." It's "she." "She and I went to the store." Similarly, when you are talking about yourself and another person, put yourself last. I cannot express how horrible "me and her" sounds.
6. Even after Ross yelled at Rachel on Friends, people still screw it up. Y-O-U-(apostrophe) - R-E is "you are." Y-O-U-R is "your."
7. Never end a sentence with a preposition, especially questions, because that just sounds awful. "Where you at?" I'm at the Grammar Police Station, and I'd like you to come in so we can book you.
8. "Alot" is not a word.
9. The word "mischievous" is pronounced mis-chuh-vuh
s, not mis-chee-vee-uhs.
10. "Irregardless" is not a word.
Christmas seems to start earlier every year, and even though the leftovers from Thanksgiving are still in my fridge, I have already begun my holiday celebration, thanks to my TV.
I love Christmas movies. White Christmas has been a favorite in my family for years, as has National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, and I never miss A Charlie Brown Christmas or the 24-hour marathon of A Christmas Story. Those are classics, a holiday staple as crucial as cookies and garland.
Christmas movies are like guilty pleasure movies without the guilt. They can be silly, cheesy, sappy and trite, but we can still love them, because Christmas is the season for silly, cheesy, sappy and trite. What other time of year could we hear "every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings" and not puke?
But this isn't about those movies. This is about the movies often overlooked during holiday time -- the non-Christmas Christmas movie. These are the films in which Christmas plays only a supporting role; the story takes place at Christmas, but it's not technically a Christmas movie. No one becomes a better person or learns to appreciate the joy of the season; they just live their lives among twinkle lights and Douglas Firs.
Here are some of my favorites.
The Long Kiss Goodnight -- Geena Davis plays a suburban soccer mom who has amnesia but is beginning to remember bits and pieces when she is attacked in her home. After hiring a private detective, played beautifully by Samuel L. Jackson, she learns she is actually a CIA assassin. A couple of Christmas parades and some fantastic yard lights and decorations make this a fine choice for holiday movie-watching.
Bridget Jones' Diary -- Nothing says "non-Christmas Christmas movie" like a film that hardly mentions Christmas but does feature holiday themed sweaters.
The Ice Harvest -- John Cusack and Billy Bob Thornton steal some money from a mob boss on Christmas Eve, and bloody killing ensues. What better way to celebrate the most wonderful time of the year than to see a woman shot to death beneath her tree?
Gremlins -- A solemn reminder that breaking into the holiday treats after midnight is not a good idea.
Rent -- A landlord threatens to evict his tenants on Christmas Eve and they respond by staging a protest and singing about the joys of Bohemian living. Add a song which includes the words "Happy Birthday, Jesus" and you've got yourself some heartwarming holiday fun. That actually kind of sounds like a regular Christmas movie, but it also features other holidays, so I think it qualifies for this list.
So go forth and celebrate this joyful season!
Dear Window Repair Guys Who Showed Up At My Home Unannounced This Morning,
Perhaps if you had called ahead, I would not have answered the door wearing flannel lawn gnome pajamas and Crest White Strips. This situation could not have been fun for either one of us. You have my number; please use it next time.
Love,
Erika
Last night, my fiance and I began our journey toward a Catholic wedding by taking a scan-tron test, full of questions about ourselves, our relationship and our views of marriage. We each completed one, and on our next visit, our answers will be compared. According to the priest who will marry us, the process is meant to begin dialogue about things we might not have talked about, so the test was full of statements like, "my future spouse and I have discussed and agree on how to manage our money," or "my future spouse and I have discussed how we will divide the household chores," with which we had to say whether we agree, disagree or are uncertain.
Some of the statements left me baffled, because I couldn't believe people would not have discussed these things before considering marriage. Children, for example. To me, it seems common sense to at least talk about whether you want children, and how you plan to care for them, i.e. one parent staying at home, etc. These are things that could become big problems if two people aren't on the same page.
But those statements were nothing compared to some others, which left me absolutely horrified. I think about the people who would answer affirmatively to statements like, "I am sometimes afraid of my future spouse," and I'm not sure whether to feel lucky for myself or scared for everyone else. There were several statements about addiction and abuse, as well as things like, "I wonder if I am marrying the right person." I just cannot believe there are people who would even consider getting married under those circumstances.
But maybe I should reserve judgement till I see my fiance's answers.
I've heard of things getting out of hand at bachelorette parties, but this was ridiculous.
Last night, I went to a casino with a group of friends to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my pal Clare, who is getting married on Friday. We planned to have dinner, have a few drinks and gamble. We did not plan to get our photographs taken over and over...but we did.
When I arrived, I parked in the garage that was attached the casino and planned to meet my friends in the hotel on the other side. To do that, I had to walk through the casino, so I showed my ID to a man who had to have been almost seven feet tall (I am 5'9" and was wearing heels, and I still had to tilt my head to look him in the eye). He told me to step over to the side, where I would get my photo taken; they do this with anyone under the age of 30, he said. They also scan driver's licenses. I'm not sure what purpose this accomplishes, but I wanted to get in, so I complied.
When our group came down the stairs to go to dinner, I had to show my ID again, and the lot of us got our photos taken and licenses scanned. The other girls had come into the place via a different door, so it was only their first time, so I asked the security guards if I still had to since they already had my photo on file, and they said yes. Getting my photo taken once didn't count, because I had gotten it taken about 50 feet away at the other entrance.
After dinner, we went back up to the hotel for a drink before gambling, and when we re-entered, they tried to make us get our photos taken until we protested. I mean, come on. It's not that much of an inconvenience, but it's still annoying. Every time we moved into a different area, it seemed, we had to get our photos taken.
The funny part was that when we tried to take a picture of the bachelorette (obviously a bachelorette because she was wearing a sequined cowboy hat with a veil attached, and a sash that said "bachelorette"), we got yelled at by a man who looked strikingly like Tattoo from Fantasy Island. He was really mean, too; my guess is he doesn't see much action in at work and wanted to take the opportunity to show what muscle he has as a casino security guard to yell at a bunch of girls who are obviously just having fun. From what I understand, most casinos don't allow photography inside, and that's fine, but there were no signs posted; we didn't know. A simple gentle warning would have been more than sufficient. But I digress.
When it came time to leave, a friend and I went upstairs to get our coats, and, in my case, a bag of Party Lite candles I had purchased from another friend that she'd brought to deliver to me. We had our coats on and were obviously leaving, but to get back into the casino to go to the correct exit door, we had to show our IDs again and get our photos taken again.
The friend I was with at this point, JG, had actually gotten kicked out of this same casino a month or so ago for refusing to let them take her photo. The security guards told her it was state law, and when she asked to see a copy of the state law, they could not produce one. The head of security came out to talk to her, and when she asked about the casino's privacy policy, he had nothing to say. No explanation what would be done with everyone's photos or driver's license information. She refused to get her photo taken and was asked to leave. She sort of has a reputation for getting asked to leave places, though; she was once escorted out of the DMV as well. She kind of likes to be difficult, which is highly entertaining for the rest of us.
But JG had a point with the privacy policy. These days, identities can be stolen with very little information; how am I to know that the information from my driver's license won't be sold? Apparently I can't know that, because the head of casino security can't even answer that question.
And if it is it really necessary to take that information from a person, how necessary is it to take three photos of the same person in one night? Couldn't they just take one photo of you when you come in, and, if you leave and come back, scan your ID and see that you've already been photographed? If it's not you, they'll know, because you'll look different than your previous photo. It just seems like such a waste of time and resources to continue to photograph the same person over and over.
So I ask, is it really necessary?
It's a Christmas miracle!
A few weeks ago, my friend Marla told me that Cadbury had released a Christmas version of my favorite candy of all time -- the Mini-Egg. Usually, the Mini-Eggs are only available at Easter, and every year, I wait patiently for Valentine's Day to be over so I can grab a purple bag full of Cadbury chocolatey goodness.
Now, don't confuse these with the Cadbury Cream Eggs, or, as I think of them, a perfectly good chocolate egg that has been ruined because it looks like someone blew their nose into it. The Cadbury Mini-Egg is a crisp sugar shell with a delicious chocolate center.
When Marla told me that Cadbury had released a Christmas version, I rushed to my local Target to find them...and couldn't! I walked the candy aisle twice and found no eggs! None!
When I reported this to my friend, she told me that they are not in the regular candy aisle, they are in the Christmas candy aisle, which in my Target is cleverly hidden between men's clothing and outdoor stuff, where I never think to go. I think they did that on purpose so that their employees can keep all the Cadbury Mini-Eggs for themselves, especially because when I did venture into that section last night, it took two or three sweeps to find them, buried in a corner on a bottom shelf. Those Target employees were trying to hide those wonderful chocolatey wonders, but I found them.
Ha ha, selfish jerks, I outsmarted you, there are no Cadbury Christmas eggs for you, so you just go home and cry and see if that helps you get into the holiday spirit.
As for me, I cracked open my bag as soon as I got home and enjoyed this little bit of Heaven, brought to me by Cadbury.
God bless us, everyone!
I am a bit of a control freak. If I can't decide what will happen and when, I at least like to know. So I was very pleased today to find this site, which tells you what your obituary will say.
I'm not quite sure when my time will come, but I sure hope this is accurate, because it sounds like my remaining years are gonna be a blast.
But knowing me, it will probably look more like this.
Over the summer, I wrote about a woman at my gym, who attends a kickboxing class that takes place during the time I'm usually working out. I dubbed her The Shrieking Machine because, well, she shrieks. At the time, she was simply a thorn in my side, but over the past several months, she has become much, much more.
I have a tendency to let small things annoy me way too much if they continue too long. But I can't remember the last time something like this annoyed me quite this much. Partly because it's lasted so long and partly because it got worse.
She used to simply count down, but scream. The instructor would say something like, "jab...cross...knee," and she would respond with "AND THREEEEEEEEE!" Then, "jab...cross...knee," "AND TWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" She even changed her inflection, so sometimes it was "AND TWWWOOOOOOOO??????" and sometimes it was "AND TWWWOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Then she started saying things other than the numbers, I guess because she didn't feel her mouth was getting enough of a workout. And after several months of listening to "KNEEEEEEE???????? KNEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! KNEEEEEEE???????? KNEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!" I was fed up. The gym is a noisy place -- cardio machines are going, music is pumping, the instructor is barking into his microphone, other members of the class counting down with him, but this woman's screaming sailed right over all of it. This was no normal gym noise. This was an alarm clock, an air horn and Gilbert Godfried all in one.
Once, I heard the instructor tell her, "more kicking, less shrieking," and a few times I could swear that he did more counting and yelling than normal in the hope that if he said things, she wouldn't. But it didn't stop. I tried avoiding the gym when I knew she would be there, but that took away two whole evenings, so mostly I've just gritted my teeth. But it's gotten to the point where just thinking about going gets me thinking about her and her shrieking. What could I do? Working out is supposed to relieve stress, not create it, and I was at my wit's end.
Last night, the whole time I was driving to the gym from work, I was dreading going in. I really wanted to work out, but could I stand the shrieking? All I wanted was one evening, just one evening, to work out in peace, but would I ever get it? As I entered the gym, the woman at the front desk said, "hello, how are you today," and I wasn't sure what to answer. I heard the familiar kickboxing music coming from the next room and steeled myself for what I would hear next.
But, lo, what was this? A female instructor, not the guy who usually teaches the kickboxing class. And what else? Students who counted down with the instructor, at a normal decibel level. Why, this seemed like any other class! The Shrieking Machine was not there! My prayers had been answered!
I don't know if the absence of the regular instructor had anything to do with the absence of the Shrieking Machine, but I think it might. He's a very energetic and demanding instructor, and his students always seem to enjoy working hard in his class. None of the other instructors seem to get that enthusiasm. So if she knew he wouldn't be there, she might have decided to skip. Or maybe it was a coincidence.
Whatever the case, I am thankful for the fact that I was finally able to get a decent workout. I suppose it is too much to expect her to not return, although a girl can dream. If she does come back, I'm not sure what I will do. Grit my teeth again? Maybe.
A parrot owner I know recommended shrieking back; apparently that is often effective. I'm not too loud, though, so I might just have to get a parrot of my own to take with me. I can train it to say "shut up, stupid lady," and, failing that, to peck out her voice box.
Dear Boss Who Brought In Your Leftover Halloween Candy,
Thank you for bringing all of those candies that are wrapped up to look like eyeballs and severed fingers and toes, because even if they are peanut buttery delicious on the inside, I just can't bring myself to eat them. This is very good for my weight loss efforts.
The normal peanut butter cups and Snickers bars that you brought, however, are not, so could you take those home?
Sincerely,
Erika
Yesterday was Election Day, and like many others across the country, I went to the polls and cast my votes for some people for some positions.
It should have made me feel good to fulfill my civic duty and not contribute to the dreaded voter apathy, but in most cases I felt more apathetic than ever.
There were a few races I felt strongly about and wanted to cast my vote a certain way. But there were some others that I didn't even know anything about till I got to the polls. There was a whole page devoted to sitting judges and whether they should be retained. I don't know any of those people; I haven't heard anything about any of them or whether they are good at their jobs. I didn't even know these names would be on the ballot; they weren't publicized at all or even listed anywhere that I've seen.
So I had three choices. One, I vote all yes or all no just because. Two, I mix it up and probably base my choices on whether I like the person's name. Three, I don't vote in those races, which is what most people I know say they do. None of those options appealed to me, although the second would have been the most interesting. In the end, I wound up going for option one, because option two would take too long for the amount of fun I'd have, and I didn't want the polling people to think I didn't care enough to vote if I'd gone with option three.
But really, I didn't care enough to know who these candidates were ahead of time, so I ended up voting in favor of a bunch of people who could, theoretically, just be made-up names that the ballot-makers had fun putting on there. I guess I just have to wait until I am called for jury duty and find out if there is a Judge Seymour Butts presiding to know if I made the right choice.
I appreciate the fact that I live in a country where it is my legal right to vote. And I want my voice to be heard, so I do vote. Not all of my candidates won this time around, but I'm still glad that I voted.
But I am feeling some voter's remorse about those judges. The only reason I voted for them at all was because I didn't want people to think ill of me for not voting. But if all people voted like I did for those judges, would that really be a good thing?
Even in the "big" races, people cast their votes for all sorts of reasons. For example, in the gubernatorial election in my state this time around, the candidates' hair was an oft-discussed topic. Which would emerge victorious -- Democrat incumbent Rod Blagojevich's helmet or Republican challenger Judy Baar-Topinka's Ronald McDonald-like dye job? Hair aside, this was one of those "lesser of the evils" type elections where you hold your nose and vote helmet or dye job, or you vote Green Party out of protest, so I can imagine that people voted one way or another because of hair or any number of other reasons if they weren't sure who to choose.
Is this how we are supposed to make our votes count? I would rather have people who don't feel strongly about a race exercise their right not to vote than choose arbitrarily. Either do your homework and vote for who you want or don't vote at all. But then again, is the latter an exhibition of voter apathy? Should we all simply buckle down and study up on every single candidate in every single elected office? That seems like a lot of hassle. And what if there is no personal connection to base one's vote on? If I have never been to court or know anyone who has been to court, and cannot predict what reason I might someday go to court, how am I going to know who I want as a judge when I get there? Seymour Butts is sounding like a better and better candidate all the time.
I don't know what the solution is, but trying to figure it out just seems like a lot of hassle.
I looked it up, and it turns out that the Mac can't be my brother. Not because he is a computer, but because he is a real guy with a birthday, and that birthday is only a few months before mine.
I guess he could be an adopted brother, but that's not really how I envisioned it.
My sister once told me a story about elves whose job it is to make sure that everything is right with the world. They paint pictures of everything that goes on every day, and when things go wrong, it is because the elves made a mistake. For example, you put a pair of socks into the washing machine, but when your laundry comes out of the dryer, there is only one sock. How does that happen? The elves forgot to paint the other sock. This could also explain finding a five dollar bill in your coat pocket when you have no recollection of putting it there.
When I flew to Michigan three weeks ago, I was wearing a green shirt with a v-neck and three-quarter sleeves under a warm wool sweater. I hadn't thought to wear the shirt since then, until last weekend, when I went looking in my closet and couldn't find it. I looked in my laundry basket, on the floor near the washing machine, under my bed, even inside that sweater, all to no avail. I asked Marla if I'd left it in Michigan, but she hadn't seen it either. I had just taken a bag of clothes to donate, so I figured it had somehow wound up in there and my shirt was gone forever.
I was bummed. The shirt was nothing special, but it was a nice color and looked good on me. I figured I'd go back to Kohl's, where I bought it, and get another one, but I was still bummed, because it had become one of my favorite shirts, and I hate to lose things.
Today, however, I was sitting in the chair in my bedroom and happened to look into my open closet and catch a glimpse of green. I don't have anything else in that shade of green, so I went over and looked, and I saw it. It was my shirt, hanging out the bottom of that wool sweater, the same wool sweater I had looked in at least twice before. It had somehow slipped off of the hanger (or had never been on it, I guess), but ended up stuck inside the sweater, out of my sight.
I guess I just didn't look far enough down into the sweater. Either that or the elves just remembered to paint it back in. Either way, I'm happy to have it back.
On my way out of the gym today, I was accosted by two teenage boys who were raising money for some charity. I don't remember the name of the charity, but the one who did the talking told me that it has something to do with teaching kids family values. They were selling sun catchers for donations.
I kind of wanted to ask what organization teaches kids that they don't need to be in school in the middle of the day, but maybe it was an in-service day or something. But that's beside the point.
They seemed like nice kids; they were very polite, and they were patiently standing outside on a cold day to do this. Normally, if asked, I'll pony up a few bucks for charity if I've got it. Today, unfortunately, I didn't. I just got back from vacation and am out of cash except for a few coins. I said I was sorry, but I only had ten cents in my wallet. They asked if I'd be willing to donate the ten cents.
I looked in my wallet and found out that I actually only had six cents. I gave it to them, and they thanked me as they might have if I'd given them ten or twenty dollars. I apologized that I couldn't give more, and one said to me, "it's the heart behind it, not the amount."
It kind of made me wish I had lied about only having six cents. I walked away feeling worse than I would have if I'd just rudely brushed past them. I almost hope that as I got into my car, the boys looked at each other, shrugged and snidely called me a cheapskate.
...but if I did, I think I would want him to be the Mac from the Apple commercials.
He just seems so nice. He's always so kind to the PC, and he never boasts. And for some reason, I can picture myself laughing with him over the crazy antics we pulled when we were kids. Plus he'd probably be able to help me when my computer crashed.
I am not sure how high this thought rates on the weird scale, but probably pretty high.
Another article from the "are you kidding me" file came across my desk today.
The good folks at UK-Disco.co.uk conducted a survey of UK disc jockeys to determine the top 10 songs couples use for their first dance at their weddings. Most songs on the list are sappy, cheesy, but appropriate love songs. Topping the list, for example, is Aerosmith's "I Don't Want To Miss A Thing." But two of them are just wrong.
Coming in at number 7 is "You're Beautiful" by James Blunt. Putting aside the fact that the song is about a guy who sees a pretty girl on the subway when he's high, the lyrics don't even make sense for a wedding. I cannot imagine myself looking into my new husband's eyes, thinking about the happy, wonderful life we have ahead of us while listening to the words, it's time to face the truth that I'll never be with you.
Number 10 is the Whitney Houston hit "I Will Always Love You." The title has a nice sentiment, but the tune falls short as a wedding song with the very first words. If I should stay, I will only be in your way. It's a breakup song, people! Just because a song has a sweet, lovey title does not mean it is a song about everlasting happiness.
Is it just the Brits, or is everyone this dumb? I looked for results of similar surveys for Americans and couldn't find that such a survey had ever been conducted. It makes me wonder, though, do people ever listen to the lyrics of these songs before choosing them?
I once saw Sting on TV talking about how people tell him they used The Police song "Every Breath You Take" for their weddings, to which he just chuckles and replies "good luck." People who choose this song simply baffle me, because there isn't even a catch phrase that makes it sound like a romantic song. If my fiance ever suggested we make that our song, I'd go straight to the actual police and get a restraining order.
A quick Google search turned up more odd choices. Wedalert.com lists "Memory" from the musical Cats. That's not about anything even remotely connected to a wedding, or love, or anything! It's a beautiful song, but unless you met while performing Cats, you should not use that as your wedding song.
Wedding Web site theknot.com recommends another Whitney Houston hit, "One Moment In Time." I want one moment in time, when I'm more than I thought I could be, when all of my dreams are a heartbeat away, and the answers are all up to me. Even putting aside my cynical attitude toward wedding reception traditions, this song just screams "desperate girl who thinks getting married is the only worthwhile thing she will ever do." Either that or "this couple can't wait to get divorced," since the song ends with the words in that one moment of time, I will be free.
Similarly, weddingtips.com recommends "Hero" by Mariah Carey. That's a song about loving yourself and making it on your own. Why not use the Mary Tyler Moore theme instead? Weddingtips.com also lists "Against All Odds" by Phil Collins. This must the the song for people who hope the exes they'd previously given up on are at the wedding and whisk them away before the cake is cut.
I suppose it's possible that there are some couples out there to whom one of the songs I mentioned has a special meaning. Perhaps they really did meet on the subway while the man was high, for example. Or maybe one of them was stalking the other before they fell in love, a la "Every Breath You Take." I'm all for personalization, and if you're going to have a first dance song, it should be meaningful.
As for me, well, there will be no dancing at my reception, and especially none of those traditional dances. I'd rather do things that have a special meaning for my fiance and me, and our families, than things our guests expect us to do and half of them don't even watch, because, let's face it; people don't dance like they used to, and usually all there is to see is a couple leaning to the music and looking at each other awkwardly because they know the other half of their guests are watching them. Plus, the bar is usually open by that time, and there are rolls on the tables, so there are better things to do.
But for those who like the tradition, I have only this to say. Before you choose your song, please listen to it, and consider whether it is really a song you want representing you on your wedding day. And then pick the shortest song you can find, because your guests are hungry, and the caterers won't serve dinner till you're done.
I was quite surprised to see this story in the news today.
Two men have pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy after being accused of attempting to steal new product samples and marketing plans from Coca-Cola Co. so they could sell them to PepsiCo Inc. A former Coca-Cola secretary is scheduled to stand trial beginning next month for her role in the plot.
I can't help but wonder, are you kidding me?
I'm sure the leaders at both companies have aspirations of world domination, at least insofar as their products go. And of course that means if one comes up with something new and different, the other must respond with a similar product. But what could Coke possibly be cooking up that Pepsi would need to commit industrial theft to know about?
I realize there's something to being the first one out of the gate with a new product or marketing campaign. But these two companies being as huge as they are, I don't think either is in danger of going belly up if the other beats them to the punch.
"I'm sorry," the general public will say. "I've already tried Cheese Coke, so I don't think I'm going to try Pepsi Parmesan." As John Stossel would say, give me a break.
Apparently, someone at Pepsi warned someone at Coke of the impending plot, and it was stopped before anything actually left the accused men's hands. Good for Pepsi, I guess, but I wonder why the men decided to steal the stuff in the first place. Did they have a deal with someone at Pepsi, or did they steal first and sell later? Either way, it's a dumb idea.
In my opinion, if Pepsi really wants to be #1 (a title which currently belongs to Coke), they should focus on the products they have rather than trying to develop new ones, for example, Diet Pepsi. I bet more people would buy it if it didn't taste like crap.
But then I guess there's a lot I don't understand about these things.
Dear People Who Post Spam Comments On My Blog,
I am glad that you think I have a "great blog!!!" and are eager to share the great opportunity for me to make up to $800 a week. But I might be more willing to fall for your spam if you didn't post the exact same message twice in a row on the same post and three times on my blog as a whole. Come up with some new material, please. And make it entertaining so I at least enjoy reading it before I delete it.
Sincerely,
Erika
Today is my birthday. At 10:38 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, I will turn 28.
Whenever my birthday rolls around, I get to thinking not only of the year I've had, but of past birthdays, and this morning it hit me that I have legally been an adult for a whole decade now.
At 10:38 p.m. on October 19th, 1996, I turned 18 at a fraternity house. It was my first semester of college, I wasn't a big partier, and I didn't like the crappy beer they had in the frat houses (Iron City Light -- it's cheap, so it's popular on my old campus, but even when you're underage, you really have to want to get drunk to brave the stuff), so I was stone-cold sober and kind of bored. But since it seemed like a cool college student thing to do, and I hadn't been to any fraternity parties yet, I went, and I got a kick out of legally becoming an adult the same day I reached this rite of passage.
Ten years later, my birthday has again become a significant day in my life, not only as the anniversary of the day I was born, but as a landmark on my journey through adulthood. This is likely the last birthday I will spend with my current last name; by this time next year, I will probably be a Mrs. And since my fiance and I are aiming to buy a house as soon as possible, I may be a homeowner as well. Being married and owning a home will certainly cement my place in the adult world. Add to that paying off my credit card debt, and I'll be a real live grownup!
It's scary, but in a good way. At age 18, I was an adult in name only. I didn't feel like an adult. I wasn't living at home full-time anymore, but I wasn't self-sufficient yet, and even then I knew I still had a lot to learn. Even after I was finished with school and moved out of my parents' house completely, I had years of decision- (and mistake-) making ahead of me.
Today, I have a car that wasn't previously driven by my mom, a balanced checkbook and a kitchen full of gadgets and cookbooks I actually use. I have accomplishments in my past and goals for my future. I have an understanding of who I am and who I want to be.
It's taken 10 years, but I finally feel like an adult.
I love to eat.
I know this comes as no great shock. I write about food on this blog all the time, and I talk about food all the time. I just enjoy food. (I get this from my portly grandfather, who once said he hoped he would eat himself to death). I figure that I have to eat anyway, so I might as well enjoy it.
This past weekend, I flew to Michigan to see my good pal Marla, who appreciates food as much as I do. We routinely e-mail recipes to each other, and for the short time we lived and hung out in the same city, we ate together a lot. We hadn't seen each other for nearly a year, so we had a lot of eating to catch up on.
I've been very careful lately about eating healthy and not over-snacking; I've lost a few pounds and feel great. But it became apparent very early in my trip planning that my diet was in trouble, when people asked me what I'd be doing in Michigan and I listed restaurants. The man next to me on the flight to Detroit had a hearty laugh because all I talked about was food the whole way there. He asked me how I "stay so thin." I've never been particularly fat, but I've always had enough extra fluff that people don't typically describe me as "thin," so this made me feel like a million bucks.
As soon Marla picked me up at the airport, the eating fest began, and it didn't stop until she returned me to the airport on Monday morning. It was like going on a bender, except with food. This is a rundown of my weekend, in food.
After my flight landed around noon on Friday, Marla picked me up and, after a short detour to pick up her friend Sam, we went to lunch at a Middle Eastern place called La Shish. We had bread with hummus and this wonderful garlic stuff that made me glad my fiance was not around to refuse to kiss me. La Shish also makes incredible smoothies, so we had those, and I also ate a chicken shawarma sandwich, which was quite tasty, and I sampled Marla's salad and rice.
After a shopping excursion in Ann Arbor (during which we ate nothing despite allegedly being very close to a fantastic cupcake place -- how strong were we?), Marla and I dropped Sam at home and went to Ikea, where we ate cinnamon rolls. We looked at furniture too, but let's be honest. I wasn't taking any furniture home with me; I was totally there for the food.
I thought I was full, but after some time sitting around Marla's house, we both felt the tummy rumbles again and headed out to Baja Fresh, where I had never been before. I don't remember what I ate, but I sure was full.
On Saturday, we actually skipped breakfast, but it was for no noble reason. We met Marla's mom for the lunch buffet at a casino in Detroit. It was my first time in a casino, so I excitedly put a whopping six dollars on the line in hopes of winning big money. At one point, I was up to $11.50, but I got greedy and lost it, ultimately breaking even. The buffet more than made up for the disappointment, though, particularly the dessert area. I really wanted to be a glutton and take one of everything, but this was the first time I had met Marla's mom, and I didn't want her calling me "that girl who ate everything." (I learned, however, within a few minutes of talking to her, that she would probably come up with something more catchy and with more vulgar words to call me. She was so entertaining; I just want to follow her around for a day sometime and observe her). Anyway, the food was great; I really won big at the buffet.
After an afternoon of ripping the band-aid off (otherwise known as wedding dress shopping), we stopped for an Orange Julius and contemplated an Auntie Anne's pretzel before deciding to have a donut instead. We went to a cider mill and got in the donut line, when I realized I had none of my little pills that make my lactose intolerant tummy not hate me, and with no assurance that there was no milk in the donuts, I passed, leaving me hungry enough for chips and a big burrito at Chipotle. Mmm.
I would like to point out that we spent the evening at the movies and did not get any snack of any kind.
Sunday was a magical food day for me, really and truly. The first food stop was at Bruegger's Bagels, a place I used to frequent when I lived in Pittsburgh. I hadn't been there since those days, and as soon as I walked in, those days of daily bagels and cream cheese came flooding back. It smelled the same, and it tasted the same. It was a very special breakfast.
We spent the afternoon with Marla's grandma, chatting with her at her house (where there was candy) and then visiting her uncle's farm (where there were cookies). We went to Texas Roadhouse for dinner, and that was a life-changing experience. Rolls with cinnamon butter and a steak with two sides for seven bucks. Can't beat it. We also got one of those onion blossom things; by the time I got my steak, I was pretty full, but I didn't want it to feel bad, so I ate it. When we left, I thought I would explode. Luckily, I didn't, but it was a close call.
On Monday, we stopped again at Bruegger's, and I was off to the airport. I flew home, back to healthy food in smaller portions.
All in all, it was a great weekend. Not just for the food, but that certainly was a highlight. I can't wait to go back.
Because after all that talk of food, I sure am hungry.
I am wearing a funky belt today.
It's way funkier than I would ever have chosen for myself; I hardly ever wear belts to begin with. In fact, it might be too funky for the outfit I'm wearing, but I thought, what the heck, I'd give it a try.
This is my first time wearing the practically-new belt, which I brought home on Sunday from a clothing swap at a friend's house. Four of us got together, brought our used-but-still-nice clothing and traded it for each other's used-but-still-nice clothing.
I wouldn't say I'm a totally hopeless case when it comes to fashion (the "What Not To Wear" people haven't knocked on my door yet, but who knows, it could happen), but I am a pretty boring dresser. I go for basics. My closet is full of khakis, sweaters and solid color cotton shirts. I don't often take a chance on patterns, and I cannot accessorize to save my life.
The one thing I can do is color-coordinate. My nail polish always coordinates (notice I didn't say "matches," I'm not that weird about it) with my outfit, and I always make sure that my tops, bottoms and shoes go together. Of course, that's not that hard to do, but at least no one will ever say, "what was Erika thinking wearing that shade of green with that shade of brown."
My color coordinating abilities aside, when I went to the clothing swap, I was determined to bring home some fun new items. The gals who went all seem to have more variety in their wardrobes than I have in mine, and they can accessorize, so I thought the swap would be a good opportunity for me to take a chance on trying something new. Perhaps this would be the dawning of a new day for my closet.
Of course, even with my blah wardrobe, I had some things to offer. I mean, everybody wears khakis sometimes, right? I had several pairs of pants and a skirt or two that just don't look right on me anymore, and a few items I've replaced with things I like better. I think about half of my stuff is now hanging in someone else's closet. (Everything not claimed at the swap was taken en masse to a Goodwill box down the street from the hostess' house).
I ended up with some nice things too. I brought home two skirts, three or four sweaters and a handful of jewelry, as well as the aforementioned funky belt. The belt was actually a last-minute decision. As I said before, I don't wear belts too often, and this was not normally something I would choose for myself, but the girl who brought the belt was talking it up so much that I had to take it.
It's a really nice belt, she told us. She just didn't like that it didn't lie flat. The other two tried it and didn't like it, so I took it. What the heck, I thought, I wanted to try something new, and knowing my inability to accessorize, I knew I'd never trust myself to choose and buy a belt at a store.
It was about then that I grabbed the jewelry, most of which is also way too funky for me, but it was just going to go to the Goodwill box anyway; if it doesn't work for me, I'll take it there later.
We all left satisfied with our bags of loot and happy that our previously loved things had found new homes. We agreed to plan a swap like this twice a year, so we could help revamp our wardrobes every season.
For the past three days I've worn clothing swap merchandise to work. Earrings, a sweater, and now the too-funky-for-me belt, which I've probably made out to be a lot more funky than it actually is. The belt is just black leather; it's the buckle that's different. And that's just two loops that the belt goes through, then you need to turn the end of the belt back to put through one of the loops to make it stay in place.
I think that really brings it home what a boring dresser I am. When I showed the belt to my fiance this morning, he crinkled his eyebrows at me and said "that is pretty funky," in a way that I could tell he really meant, "what happened to your khakis and solid color cotton shirts?" I guess I can understand the confusion. I'm also wearing a sweater with stripes of several different colors, so he probably thinks I've gone completely crazy.
OK, so a striped sweater and a belt probably isn't going to make people take notice; it's not exactly a bold and daring new look. But one small step in fashion is a giant leap for me. Today a belt, tomorrow, who knows? A print instead of solids or stripes? A hat or scarf that was not designed for winter use?
Whatever it is, you can bet it will be funky.
