Introducing Leah, a Hypothetical Situation, and the Ultimate, Deliciously-Tacky, Virtual (Fake and Cheap!) Care Package.

I ♥ Leah.

First things first. Leah is, and has been, OOMFP since we met in graduate school in 2006. Leah is a kindred spirit, someone with whom I just cannot spend enough time. Leah is the go-to girl when one is in need of reassurance, excitement, peace, perspective, a verbal ass-kicking (or a physical ass-kicking: she’s an arsenal cleverly disguised as a tiny, tiny woman), wine (bring your own if you want some too), or to try something new (make sure you have health insurance). By simply being herself, Leah infuses the presence of those around her with confidence, inspiration, and an intense (usually indefinable) desire to transform. If you do not currently have a Leah in your life, you must go out and get one. Right Now. You will be so glad you did.

A Hypothetical Situation to illustrate just how cool, diverse, and spontaneous Leah is. Pretend for a moment the FBI local police were to contact me for information concerning the whereabouts of Leah. Pretend for a moment that whatever it is the FBI local police think she did, Leah is innocent. Following a round of uncontrollable laughter and a series of smart-ass-slap-me-in-the-face-worthy comments, I would reluctantly hand over my tattered copy (2008 version) of “Not On Location: A Simple Guide to Forgetting the Usual Questions and Usual Places When Determining Leah’s Location at Any Given Time and How to Navigate the Unknown, the Odd, and the Unusual in an Increasingly Large World when Confronted with the Spontaneous Activity Factor (SAF).”

The following represents one-half (my half) of a recent conversation between myself and an acquaintance trying to find our mutual friend:

“Did you check every bar, club, and saloon beginning in downtown Boise and working your way out of town in every direction (N, S, E, W, NW, SW, NE, SW, etc., etc.) until you hit each coast? Did you check the breweries? The wineries? Check the wineries again. Yeah. Of course I’m serious. Don’t forget all adjacent alleys, yoga studios, gyms, plasma centers, book stores, local craft stores, every coffee shop you see, the strip clubs, and the health food stores? Oh, and don’t forget to check her bed and the soup kitchen. Yes, she volunteers. Hmmm. I guess I don’t know. She mentioned Panama last week. Have you checked there?! Or on campus? Wait – the synagogue. Check the synagogue. I forget she’s Jewish. Yeah, like Cartman on South Park. Whichever kid is Jewish. Doesn’t matter. You have to think like Leah. Come on. You obviously don’t know her like I do.”

However, if the local police were to call right now, they might be in luck. I could tell them with certainty that my dear friend is somewhere near Hood River, Oregon. She is surrounded by snow, snow, and more snow. I could even provide them with evidence:

Leah was here.

The Sad Part. Leah is not where she wants to be (and where she always has been) for the holidays.

This is a BIG DEAL.

Enter the Ultimate, Deliciously-Tacky, Virtual (Fake and Cheap!) Care Package. Nothing says “you rock” like a care package. Especially a fake one. Warning: there is nothing classy about the particular fake (and tacky! and cheap!) care package featured below. The lack of class says far more about the sender than it does the intended recipient.

The Contents…

Bubble Wrap.

Not just for cushioning the breakables: click the pic for the best use of this creepy stuff.

Get Your Fix and Worship At the Same Time with this from Miss Poppy:

Prefer to Smoke While Jesus Aims?

Sexy T-Shirts:

Neil Diamond. Enough Said.

Myself? I prefer Screech.

A button to poke the bubble wrap!

Is there a difference between Hole-y underwear and Holy underwear?!

A care package just isn’t a care package without stale, broken cookies.

How unfortunate are you? Click to find out.

Who couldn’t use a few of these around the house?

Bacon:It cures what's bleeding. The pig might argue.

Something un-tacky. And pretty. Find it here.

Dandelion Pendant by lusterbunny.

And finally, more of the tacky stuff. Like this awesome switchplate:

Fast, Loose, and Lovely.

Freud:

Loved by mothers everywhere.

To all a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a Fabulous Day, a working internet connection, and safe travel.

♥ Erin

The Value of Personal Ads (Not Just for Horny Creeps?)

Warning: This post contains slightly offensive language. Proceed with a little caution and a lot of hesitation.

Every Sunday morning as the righteous are gathering to worship, I prepare for a weekly ritual of my own. Coffee in hand, I sit at the kitchen table and flip through the paper until I find the personal ads. I read each one slowly and deliberately, taking care not to miss any details. I am not seeking companionship. Nor am I looking for a “special someone” with whom to share long walks on the beach or attempt funky circus sex (positions that not even the most agile of circus performers would dare attempt). I read the ads for entertainment and more oft than not I find it (see images below). My obsession is much more than for entertainment purposes only. I am fascinated with the people behind the ads, the authors themselves. Reading the personals has become a (non-scientific) study of human behavior and a (non-scientific) study of writing, particularly the terminology and language people use and do not use when describing themselves to others sight unseen.

I search the words for signs of the “essence” of each person the ads represent – the person that exists beyond his or her chosen description, beyond the words used to entice and lure the selected target audience. For the writer, this cannot be an easy task. Each word must be carefully chosen, lest the wrong (or right?) impression be given. When using the newspaper as a medium to promote yourself, the writer has no ammunition but words.

I am always intrigued, usually entertained, rarely bored, but never have I been repulsed by what I read. People are people. Each ad represents a person, no matter how inaccurate or misrepresented. Who is the person hiding behind the strings of letters that form the acronyms and adjectives? How many of this morning’s ads were written and placed by the men, women, and transvestites that are sitting side by side, sharing church pews and hymnals, raising their voices to heaven, and breaking bread? Would they continue to do so if they knew or would they shudder, recoiling in horror? How many of this morning’s ads were written and paid for by politicians and government officials, who outwardly claim to not support “those people”? Yet, how many will literally be caught with their pants down, outwardly denying the reality of who they are and what they do? Will they be “outed” by a disgruntled former lover, an opponent during the next campaign, or will they be caught having taken a risk in a public place, perhaps an airport bathroom?

The possibilities are endless.

Finally, reading the personals is a challenge not unlike solving a puzzle. The puzzle lies in deciphering the acronyms. Once a simple task (SF iso SM), reading the personals has become nearly as arduous as physical labor and may even require a modicum of skill. The acronyms have become longer. Why? Some blame the liberal media and society’s moral degradation. Perhaps longer acronyms have become the norm as novel and more creative descriptions for age-old habits and tendencies are filling the spaces allotted for romance and seekers of what-have-you.

Can you imagine the following sans acronyms?

TGWMFDFSPBSREALH (Trans-Gendered White Married Formerly Divorced Formerly Straight Possibly Bi-Sexual Recovering Experimental Animal-Loving Hermaphrodite) iso MJAA (Michael Jackson Act-Alike) to read bedtime stories and surf the waves under the full moon while wearing pink pantyhose and singing “Beat It.” Serious inquiries only, please. *

For those in need of an Acronym Decoder, here is a link that will give you a good start.

The following ads are from Oddee: A Blog on the Oddities of Our World

Read lines 1, 3, 5

So close it’s almost tempting. Almost.

Mom says there’s someone for everyone. Liar.

To all of you brave enough to publish what it is you are looking for: May You Find That Which You Seek & May You Still Want It Should You Receive It.

Until Sunday -

SWF iso NM (next meal)

* Please, no inquiries period. Made up for instructional purposes only.

Boundaries, Ultimatums, & Doormats

I cannot count the number of times I have put myself in harm’s way. I have done so not in an outwardly aggressive manner such as placing myself directly in the path of a speeding car with no brakes or by lighting myself on fire, but through more casual and passive methods of self-induced harm: “ho-hum” ways of not taking the proper measures to ensure my safety and overall well-being.

I have failed to take responsibility for my emotional and physical health by allowing others to take advantage of me. I have allowed this in various forms including an over-willingness to help, a tendency to be “too” nice, not saying “no” when this would be in my best interest, an ability to keep a secret (even when detrimental to myself or others), a tendency to stuff my feelings, and particularly – this is the BIG ONE – by allowing others to make the rules up for me. Rules that have directly governed my body and what happens to it. While this has happened without the solicitation of my input, this is not a reason for me to not have given it. The cases in which I have said nothing are bad enough. It is the situations in which I have been disrespected, having clearly stated “no,” that are the worse yet- not only because my boundaries have been disregarded, but mostly because I have failed to follow through on the consequences that I had previously established. Shame on me. I feel ashamed and humiliated, disgusted with myself.

The majority of those who have taken advantage of me certainly do not give a rat’s ass about what I have to say, how I feel, or any boundaries that I may or may not have set. Others certainly care, but are unaware of how I truly feel: they are simply acting on the belief that I am “okay” with the status quo because I have not stated otherwise. This is my fault.

In the 33 years that I have been on this earth, several were spent preaching the importance and value of setting boundaries to teenage girls. I taught them how to set firm boundaries and that by doing so, they were respecting themselves and others. Somehow, I managed to teach the lecture without hearing a word, thinking it did not apply to me. Apparently, I have neither loved nor respected myself enough to believe I had the same rights.

Why would I believe this?

1. A lack of self-worth.

2. Fear.

3. I have not understood the differences between setting a boundary, issuing an ultimatum, and how attempting to control someone else’s actions may be connected or disconnected to my own personal rights. This includes the extreme discomfort and other feelings that may arise when boundaries are not respected or if the recipient of the ultimatum is non-compliant.

I recently had the opportunity to reflect on the definitions and differences between the terms ‘boundary’ and ‘ultimatum.’ Setting a boundary is an act of self-protection, not an act of fear or cowardice. Setting boundaries requires that one NOT BE A PUSSY. It is a way of respecting yourself enough to say to another person that they are doing/saying/acting in a way that is offensive and unacceptable to you. When done with the highest of intent, setting a boundary has nothing to do with control or manipulation. It is simply stating where you draw the line, what your expectations are, and what you intend to do if it happens again (for example if you catch him in bed with another woman, you will promptly remove the parts that he was finding enjoyment in not 5 minutes earlier. Followed by the prompt removal of those body parts. Um, just kidding.) This is stated in an assertive, matter-of-fact tone, sans judgment or anger.

Conversely, an ultimatum is not unlike a direct assault, a poorly veiled attempt to take a person’s freedom and ability to choose away from them. Controlling and manipulative by nature, an ultimatum tells another how to act and often does so by offering the recipient a “choice.” The choices are almost always lose-lose for the recipient and will “force” the recipient to make a decision that is, of course, win-win for the Dictator.  These “choices” tell you what you are to do and/or not do. Or else. The “or else” implies one or more threats and usually includes the ever-elusive “Do this or I will make your life a living hell.”

(Note: While setting a boundary doesn’t involve threats, it does involve consequences if those boundaries are crossed. If the consequences are not adhered to, an inconsistency between word and action is present. This creates a mixed message and once this happens, setting boundaries loses all meaning. After this, best of luck to you.)

Ultimatums are weak attempts made by weak, fearful people to exert (perceived) power over people and situations beyond their control.

This week I was on the receiving end of an ultimatum. The ultimatum came in the form of a clear directive: I was to choose “A” or to choose “B” and the “choice” must be made within a certain time frame. I, like most people, do not respond favorably to ultimatums. What Dictator failed to remember was the “or else” element that must be present when issuing an ultimatum. Dictator also failed to communicate directly with me, instead using a “go-between.” Knowing that this situation had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with what I was told to change, and nothing to do with anything other than Dictator and Dictator’s issues, did not ease the situation or my feelings regarding the situation in the slightest. Instead, my anger turned to rage. And of course, underneath this rage was fear. Not fear of Dictator, but fear of being controlled by someone other than myself, fear of losing control, fear of losing loved ones, fear of feeling the “need” to justify my actions (to others and to myself), and especially the fear that I would not be able to protect myself.

Dictator’s issues became my issues. I allowed this to happen, falling into an age-old pattern of taking on what isn’t mine, carrying someone else’s burden. I suspect that Dictator, too, was engaged in a pattern perhaps familiar to him or her, maybe a pattern involving the use of control and coercion. I do not know.

To the outside world, each of these patterns may appear as different as night and day. I would argue, however, that they are far more similar than they are different. Each relies on the other and needs the other to exist. There cannot be a Dictator without someone willing to be Dictated. And vice versa: there cannot be someone willing to take responsibility for others without someone willing to issue the orders.  Each pattern traps its participants within a vicious cycle, severely limiting the options and alternatives available to each.  There are no winners, only casualties – until someone becomes aware of what is happening and makes a conscious decision to remove him or herself from the cycle. Until then, the players may change but the cycle continues.

As George Santayana so eloquently stated: “Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.“  I, historically, am a repeat offender.  About the time I feel confident that I have broken this pattern and maybe even grown up a bit, I find myself back in the middle of the vicious cycle, angry and fearful. Apparently, it takes constant awareness and lots of practice to avoid repeating history, even on an individual level.

We cannot control anyone other than ourselves. This is a difficult pill for some, including me, to swallow.

No doubt I will be asked told? to pull this post. Perhaps this time I will be a little stronger and a little less like a doormat. Maybe I will be more apt to set a boundary. Firmly, maybe even kindly.

Maybe.

Brice White: Boise’s Best Kept Secret or Just Another Drunk Guy Playing with His Balls?

Warning: Viewer discretion is advised due to strong language.

(Please don’t try this at home. These are trained professionals.)

Beer Pong: Behind the Glamour Part 1 of 2

Beer Pong: Behind the Glamour Part 2 of 2

The Closet: Orgies, Sin, and Restless Skeletons

Shoes and boxes were scattered haphazardly, spilling out of the closet, across the invisible boundary usually guarded by closed doors and into my friend’s bedroom. Were I in the home of nearly everyone else that I know, myself included, this would not have been an unusual sight. But this was different. These were shoes that when not found on the feet of their owner, spent leisure time with soul mates spooning in original boxes stacked with precision and care. One look at the closet and the trail of contents and I knew there was more to the story than my dear friend had chosen to share. Despite her attempts at convincing me and the rest of her world that she was both “fine” and “okay,” her closet revealed that she was neither.

Perpetually neat, this was a closet that represented a woman in control. It was only natural to assume that this control extended itself to the outside world. But the closet’s current state of disarray communicated volumes, filling in gaps in the storyline that I hadn’t even known existed. Her closet could not hide the truth. Furthermore, it was unapologetic and blatantly honest, failing to confirm her story and wasting no time in betraying her.

Her shoes, once considered monogamous, were now separating themselves from the partners they had sworn to share their lives with. They were behaving with reckless abandon. This was an orgy: shoes participating in the most sinful of practices with the wives and husbands of neighbors and friends right there on the floor.

Articles of clothing also indulged themselves in loose behavior. Tops, skirts, and pants once arranged according to color and style were not in their customary places. Pastels mixed with primaries and cottons mingled with polyester blends. Lacking the skill or desire to discipline themselves, the satins and velvets sashayed along, enjoying the swishing sounds made by their movements. They were on a mission, yearning to be touched and no longer willing to wait for a special occasion.

The closet had turned into Sodom and Gomorrah. This looked like my closet, not hers. She was more of a Bethlehem-closet type: fit for a king and clean enough to deliver babies in, should the need arise.

Perhaps the events occurring in and around the closet were a poor attempt to act on the words and advice of George Bernard Shaw: “If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance.” Maybe the skeletons had gotten restless and in their restlessness had not bothered to determine the sometimes blurred distinctions between dancing and sex.

I pried apart the mess that had enjoyed itself a little too much. The last formerly monogamous shoe was finally reunited with its other half and the pair placed in the remaining empty box. My poor reconstruction of Closet Bethlehem was complete.

Letting the skeletons out for some fresh air and a night on the town once in awhile didn’t seem like a bad idea. It seemed almost preventative. But then again, it is often easier to remove items from closets than it is to put them back as though nothing had ever happened.

Action Jackson: OOMFP (One of My Favorite People)

I am fortunate to have a niece and nephew that are intelligent and beautiful. As if this were not enough, they are also sweet and kind. La Reina and A.J. are two of the most incredible people in my life. Granted, I hang with a dangerous crowd of rough and shady characters. I also recognize the possibility that my tendency to favor these kids is likely a combination of genetic influence and flattery: they adore me. This is a fact.

As the source of inspiration for the nickname Rosie Danger and as One of My Favorite People (OOMFP), I have mentioned my niece in previous posts. Another OOMFP that deserves recognition is my nephew A.J. At 7 mos. old, A.J. is on the verge of some major life changes. So are his parents. He is thisclose to cutting his first tooth, crawling, and talking. All at once.

A.J., aka Action Jackson (Superhero Name), is every bit his cousin’s equal. With one major exception: mobility. With mobility comes freedom. A.J. might argue, if he could, that mobility = freedom.

A.J. has been in a state of near-mobility for what seems like a very long time. The best way I can describe this is “mobile-ly immobile.” While he cannot yet crawl, the boy can move. One look at Action Jackson and it is clear that despite the placement of his physical body, he is far across the room (or maybe the world), even if only in his mind.

For now.

-Erin

A glimpse of A.J. prior to his current state of unrest:

http://photosbycristidame.blogspot.com/2008/04/meet-baby-aj.html

Professional photos of A.J. are credited to the very talented Cristi Dame:

See? Jesus and Alcohol Do Mix: Gladys Says So.

A close friend showed me this video last weekend. With her birthday coming up, maybe she’ll get one of these:

Warning: Spoiler Alert

Diebold Accidentally Leaks Results Of 2008 Election Early

The House on Fifth Street

February 15, 1996. I did not begin my adult life until nearly two months following my 21st birthday. In fact, I can state with certainty the precise moment I made the transition from egocentric post-adolescent to unsure, fearful adult. The date was February 15, 1996. It was a Thursday. I was a junior in college. I had four classes that day and exams in all of them. The hour was 5:00 a.m. Mountain Standard Time, 6:00 a.m. Central Standard Time. And the minute I stopped being a kid? It was 10 minutes past 5 a.m. MST, 10 minutes past 6 a.m., CST.

The reason I know this is because the clock that hung cock-eyed on the bathroom wall in the tiny duplex on Fifth Street stopped at the exact moment my small, sheltered world lost a great deal of its flavor.

I hated that duplex at first. M had said wonderful things about the place: how much I would love it, how cute it was, how perfect it was for me. He was right – he had chosen perfectly, but I didn’t know that yet. I was angry with him for other reasons, reasons that could not be stated or shared. What I could share was how much I disliked the wood paneling, the musty smell, the mold on the bathroom ceiling, and the lack of hot water. I was passive-aggressive and immature. I did not hesitate to let M know that I was not impressed. I overlooked his generosity and kindness, ignoring the time and effort he had taken to find and secure a place for me, not for him, to live that fall.

The house on Fifth Street was truly charming. Located in an older neighborhood, the duplex was situated an equal distance between downtown Spearfish and Black Hills State University, offering an easy walk in either direction. Fifth Street was a quiet street, save for Saturday mornings in October. On these mornings, Fifth Street would become unrecognizable. Out of nowhere, the Spearfish High School Marching Band would descend onto the pavement, bringing with them their enthusiasm, instruments, and youth. My home was located along the Parade Route. The air would become filled with the rich, usually dissonant, sounds of instruments that perhaps should not be played at the same time. Horns, cymbals, squeaks, stomping, and giggling ensued. Then as quickly as the band and the clatter they brought with them had appeared, it was gone. Fifth Street would return to normal as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. I found this comforting, even romantic. Years later, I would return to Spearfish and again experience the fortune of living on a street that lived a double life, masquerading as a parade route on Saturday mornings during the month of October.

That February morning, the persistent ringing of the telephone woke me. I forced myself to leave the safety and comfort of the warm bed and against my will, I answered the call. A familiar voice was on the other end. As I listened, I stared at the wood paneling in the living room and the pink, scratchy 1950′s couch. The used coffee table that M and I had bought was covered with textbooks and coffee cups from the night before. I saw him sitting there, smiling, laughing. I could hear his voice and I could smell him. Our brief, yet rich history began to unravel, unwinding backwards through time. All I could think of was how mean I had been, the unkind words I had said to him that I could never take back. The dreadful and untimely ring of that early morning phone call brought with it untimely news that left me and many, many others doubled over with deep regret and loss.

From far across the South Dakota plains, across the Badlands and the Reservations, east of the Missouri River and into the Central Standard Time zone, M’s mother gently told me about the car accident that had occurred earlier that same morning. While she spoke, I walked toward the tiny bathroom. As I entered, my eyes found the clock. I watched as the hour and minute hands slowed. The two hands stopped moving, finding their permanent resting place at the same time that I learned of M’s death.

With peace, love, and forgiveness -

Erin

Confession: I am Infatuated with Large Men and Nearly Had a Freaky Collection of Them.

I have an abnormal infatuation with large men. While this may not seem unusual (at least not among the circles I run with), my infatuation seems to transcend the age-old discussion of whether it’s the size of the wave or the motion of the ocean that is really important. Let’s not kid ourselves: SIZE MATTERS.

Before I get a phone call from my mother wanting to indulge me in her opinion, allow me to clarify: For once, I am not referring to genitalia, balls, quality, quantity, motion, ocean, technique, curvature, lubricants, or any of my other standard conversation starters.

I am referring to this guy and others like him:

Like all good men, these large and bulky guys are found when you aren’t looking and when you least expect it. They are apt to be stationed in obscure, random locations such as the side of the highway, The Midwest, or guarding the remains of what was once a thriving service station in a former life. They are ghosts from the past that refuse to die – and if they did, how would they be disposed of?

It wasn’t until fairly recently that I discovered these huge hunks of hotness have a name: Muffler Men. If you’re hip, which I am, it is perfectly acceptable to refer to them as Muf Men (I swear I did not make this up.) I am not alone in this obsession. It is genetic. One of my sisters has it also, although her “sickness” was far more blatant as a child. [Note: She has been in remission since around the age of eight. I, the Late Bloomer, just hit my stride in my late twenties, early thirties.] I am happy to report that it was not me that was determined to marry a Muf Man. Each time we drove by The Cowboy (name given to protect anonymity) standing in front of the service station on the corner of 10th and Chicago, cocky attitude evident in his sensuous expression, my sister would loudly and proudly proclaim her love as though it were some sort of contest. It was. I have to admit I was jealous.

But, like all fickle lovers, The Cowboy disappeared. And, like the fickle lovers we would one day become, my sister and I didn’t even notice his absence. Then a couple of years ago I found The Cowboy (or a very close substitute) for sale on e-Bay. He was beautiful. He was cheap. He was restored. I visualized giving him to my sister for her birthday. I thought about how nice it would be to have The Cowboy as my date for all those functions I was attending solo. I thought to myself if size really does matter, I should win a prize with this guy on my arm. I considered the benefits of having The Cowboy stand watch at the foot of the driveway. I would use him as a landmark when giving directions instead of drawing attention to my beat up green mailbox that doesn’t close and often fails to sit on its perch. (No one could miss “take a left turn at The Cowboy” and if they did they shouldn’t be driving.) I even debated the merits of installing a video camera where The Cowboy’s belt-buckle should be: the next time my green mailbox was assaulted, The Cowboy Cam would no doubt have a record of the perpetrator(s) in action.

I noticed what a wonderful price the seller was offering. I created an account. As I watched the index finger on my right hand move with intent and a will of its own to press the ‘Enter’ button and confirm my order, my attention suddenly shifted from The Cowboy’s steely, hypnotic gaze to the price of shipping. Whoa, Nelly. My hand paused, shaking, then reluctantly retreated to my lap. My mind went through a barrage of ideas and thoughts, spewing out alternatives and options. I briefly considered a road trip to Tennessee, where The Cowboy was living. Then I remembered I had just been to Tennessee not a month before. As I thought about driving my Honda Accord back to Tennessee, I remembered the size issue. Did I know anyone with a semi truck or something comparable in size who would willingly (and stupidly) allow me to borrow it so that the large, fiberglass man could be returned to its rightful owner? I even considered a fund raising campaign: “Bring The Cowboy Home: Fulfill a Young Girl’s Dream.” After asking myself whether anyone owed me any favors that I could cash in (and recognizing that I owed more than I was owed), I arrived at a conclusion.

What it came down to was this: The realization that when I do something, I really do it. I do not do ‘half-ass.’ Middle ground doesn’t exist for me, and why would there be an exception when it came to Muf Men? If I had one Muffler Man, I would have to have one of each. While bigger may be better and more may be merrier, I simply could not justify hosting an entire collection of paul bunyans, big friends, indians, the inevitable half-wits, and the giant women that would only serve as my competition. The landlord would not be happy either.

I thanked God for my sanity as I reached for the phone to call my sister and discuss the benefits of marrying a Muf Man.

-Erin

But wait – there are photos…