“Dirty Santa. Yankee Swap. Well, I think it sounds like fun!” said Michael Scott.
In offices and families, this gift exchange is becoming one popular affair. This Christmas, I played it with my mom’s family and with my dad’s family. My sister went one step further and played it at work.
Having played it several years, this is a list I have compiled of good and bad gifts to give at YANKEE SWAP!
The Good
1. Beer (this goes over good with just about any in attendance. Make sure its Bud, Coors or Miller, the three biggest names around)
2. Gift Card to a sex shop
3. Alcohol (This would be hard alcohol or imported beer)
4. Gift card to a discount or large retail store
5. Decorative glasses to hold alcohol (the females love this stuff)
The Bad
1. A Christmas CD
2. Anything the weird family members come up with
3. Coffee mugs
4. Christmas Ornaments
5. Cheap alcohol
The Ugly
1. A sock hat
2. Nonalcoholic Beer
3. Stocking hangers
4. Piggy Bank w/ boxers in it
5. Donation to a charity
Watching a good game of Yankee Swap unfold tells a lot about the people in it. For instance, to see a Gift Card to a sex shop change hands several times before it finally ends with your uncle can be a little unnerving when you’re 27-years-old and your uncle is a generation or two older.
When there isn’t a lot of alcohol around, it’s interesting to see the alliances formed so parties can get their alcohol. If the beer doesn’t interest you all that much, that doesn’t mean anything, the alcohol will be a bargaining a chip and maybe you can walk away with a gift to a large retailer like Target or Walmart or even one of those pretty decorated martini glasses.
Likewise, a lot can be said about a person who donates things like a sock hat or a Christmas themed item. This screams, I was too lazy to get a gift or that I got this last year and had absolutely no use for it, so I’m regifting it to you knowing full well you will regift it at some point.
A person who brings nonalcoholic beer…well, they probably do not have a soul.
Now, the person who gives you a certificate bearing a charity donation, they can be one of two things: 1. They are one of those do-gooders who are secretly the devil incarnate; or 2. They are the most Supreme Being. How can they be so good they are evil or positively so head of the curve? Well, if they have no sense of humor, they are probably the devil incarnate. But if they are sarcastic, witty, and have watched many episodes of Seinfeld, this probably isn’t so much a chance to make a statement that somewhere people are starving while we “steal” alcohol and sex whips from each other, this is an attempt at humor that is in a class of its own.
Also, the Supreme Being understands that their “gift” is total shit, and is a mask, a beard if you will, for the truly awesome gift they have hidden for the brave soul ready to take their chance on a seemingly empty box.
Yankee Swap.
Can you name a better game? A more “telling” game?
Also, any suggestions for the lists, any “telling” traits of those gifts, will be appreciated!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
My Murderous Rage and the Stolen Ipod
During my years, I have catalogued several ways that make for a bad morning waking up. One is when my mom is in the kitchen banging and clanging pots and pans around as if she’s Emeril Lagasse. Two is if my mom decides to scream at me – when you’re suddenly brought to consciousness by screaming, you automatically panic and go on the defensive and are quite sure that you have done nothing wrong.
But both of those have nothing on someone, no matter how sweet and fluffy their voice is, slipping into your room and saying, “Erin, the garage has been broken into.”
My brother would probably disagree. He would probably say that someone flying into his room in a near-murderous rage and saying, “Kevin, you got my fucking Ipod stolen (This is the third Ipod stolen compliment of Kevin),” is even worse.
Yes, my Ipod was stolen. Call it women’s intuition, but as soon as I heard the garage was broken into, I knew my beloved Ipod that accompanies me to the gym at least six days a week was gone. I threw on my robe (and managed to pull it close), rushed through the house, and pulled open my car door to find my Ipod…gone. I can’t begin to tell you how pissed I was.
I was/am so pissed, that if I caught the person, I would beat them. Yes, it seems severe, to beat someone for an Ipod, but this I my Ipod that I bought with my money, and I’m nowhere close to being a millionaire, even a thousandaire. I work for a non-profit organization and live with my mother.
Had it been an Ipod from Circuit City or Best Buy that got stolen, hey, that’s a thief’s prerogative, but do not steal from a person who drives a 2001 GOLD Saturn. I may not be the religious type, but you can guarantee that IF YOU STOLE MY IPOD I AM PRAYING FOR THE ETERNAL DAMNATION OF YOUR SOUL!
Anyway, I am FUMING, Kevin is shaking his head apologizing because this is really looking like it was his fault, and Andrea is laughing all this up. She can laugh; all she has is a busted Discman, not an Ipod she paid $272.00 for when it came time to add taxes.
Well, she didn’t laugh for long. Kevin went out and checked his car, then came in and told her that her car was unlocked. It was her chance to now berate Kevin until my mom pointed out that her car was left outside and the garage door open or closed would have had no bearing on it.
She quickly changes to blame Hans, her Danish fiancé who is visiting for a few days, then flies out the front door to check her car. Thankfully she has so much shit it in, that the thieves thought it was a lost cause. You see, when you open Andrea’s door, gossip magazines, random shoes, CD cases (the CDs themselves are not inside of them), and other various items fall out onto the ground.
My mother obviously called the cops and we’re thankful for a little thing called Home Owners Insurance which will hopefully get me a brand-spanking new Ipod touch (which could possibly be the silver-lining). Kevin leaves as we’re making the crime report because no one broke into his car. A few minutes later, we receive a call. Kevin has a missing textbook.
“Who steals a textbook?” I wonder aloud.
We’re pondering this because even when I paid $200-300 for a textbook, I was lucky to get $20-25 back from the bookstore when I turned the book in. Wait! Turned the book in…for money…a plan begins to form in my mind and I am suddenly happy that I can fulfill this rage inside of me and possibly beat the criminal to a bloody pulp. All I have to do is stake out the text rental places. We have enough man-power here that we should be able to cover multiple locations, and that little fucker would have no choice but to hand my Ipod over or let me beat him with whatever weapon is handiest (I bet I can find a beer bottle in Andrea’s car…THAT would be great).
Kevin then tells me that the book is something about racism in the media. My heart falls because sitting on a table in the living room is a book titled Racism, Sexism, and the Media the Rise of Class Communication in Multicultural Areas. I ask him if this is the book, and he’s quiet before he admits that yes, it is the book in question. He brought it in Saturday night in a drunken haze to read to Andrea. Apparently he was so drunk he forgot he brought it in. He even forgot the dog tried to hump him…three times. And there go my perfectly laid plans.
My mom suggests shopping after the officer leaves, and I agree. We get on the road and despite the 9-degree temperature, the sun is brutal and I pull out my Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses. And I flip. I had a pair of Versace glasses in my car. If my Ipod AND my Versace’s are gone SOMEONE is dead. I don’t care if I have to attack the paperboy, someone knows something and I am going to beat someone to get my now $400 worth of merchandise back.
All throughout the mall, the organic pet store, Sam’s, and the best little chocolate store, I am worrying about my sunglasses – the small amount of luxury I can afford to indulge myself with - that someone has now relieved me of. I find it hard to be sympathetic to the unemployed’s plight when I held two and at a time three jobs simultaneously. Yeah, it sucked to work so much, but I did it so I could afford to buy myself an Ipod and Versace and YSL sunglasses and not resort to stealing them from poor unsuspecting people who drive gold Saturns.
That is what really gets me. You can tell from my car that I don’t have a lot of money because what person would choose to drive a gold Saturn if they had the money for something better? And why can’t you just prey on those people with their big gas-guzzling SUVs? If they can afford to pump premium into a car that gets 12 mpg on the highway, they can afford to replace their Ipods and Versace sunglasses.
After we’ve wrapped our shopping, I am anxious to get home and check out my car. Of course, people are driving like a bunch of idiots and I suddenly yell at someone who pulls out in front of my mom and then proceeds to drive his monstrous SUV as if there were 2 feet of snow on the ground.
“I hope someone steals your Ipod!” I yell at him from within the car.
My mom looks at me as if I’m crazy and I explain the mania, the murderous rage that is boiling in marrow of my bones because even if I get a new Ipod, I now have to reload all the songs onto it and then redo all of my playlists. And I need certain music at six in the morning to get me through my workout. Sonsabitches!
With frayed nerves, we arrive home. I move the Dick’s Sporting Goods boxes that were in the floorboard and see the little white case sitting under the boxes saying “Versace.” I open them and they are there. So are the cheap ALDO sunglasses in the Valentino box (A faux pair I bought in Chinatown and then broke three months later).
OH MY GOD! Thank god!
And then I remember my blue jacket chilling in the backseat. I wore it when I went Christmas shopping on Saturday and bought stuff for my Nana. She gave me a $100 bill to repay me. I flip now as I grab the jacket and reach into the pocket I was sure it was in. Only…the pocket is empty. My heart dives into my stomach. That was the money I was going to use to buy Rachelle’s present. MOTHER FUCK! In a fit of desperation, I plunge my hand into the other pocket and pull out a ONE-HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL!
I nearly collapse out of jubilation. They may have ripped off my Ipod, but they apparently thought my gold Saturn was too much of a piece of shit to yield any more treasure. Little did they know that under the boxes and down comforter (which was chilling in the backseat as well) there were designer sunglasses and $100 in cash.
Later that day, Kevin and I were driving somewhere and I once again hurled the Ipod insult. He looked at me like I was crazy until I yelled, “Why don’t you go screw your balls,” long dramatic pause, “ON! Because they’re clearly not attached!”
“Wow,” he said.
I gave him a dirty look. “You don’t understand, but this Ipod gone is an insult to me. My workouts are going to be hell now.”
“Don’t you read when you’re on the treadmill?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“So…you do…three things? Run, read, and listen to music?”
“Yes,” is my reply.
“Wow,” he says.
Wow is right.
But both of those have nothing on someone, no matter how sweet and fluffy their voice is, slipping into your room and saying, “Erin, the garage has been broken into.”
My brother would probably disagree. He would probably say that someone flying into his room in a near-murderous rage and saying, “Kevin, you got my fucking Ipod stolen (This is the third Ipod stolen compliment of Kevin),” is even worse.
Yes, my Ipod was stolen. Call it women’s intuition, but as soon as I heard the garage was broken into, I knew my beloved Ipod that accompanies me to the gym at least six days a week was gone. I threw on my robe (and managed to pull it close), rushed through the house, and pulled open my car door to find my Ipod…gone. I can’t begin to tell you how pissed I was.
I was/am so pissed, that if I caught the person, I would beat them. Yes, it seems severe, to beat someone for an Ipod, but this I my Ipod that I bought with my money, and I’m nowhere close to being a millionaire, even a thousandaire. I work for a non-profit organization and live with my mother.
Had it been an Ipod from Circuit City or Best Buy that got stolen, hey, that’s a thief’s prerogative, but do not steal from a person who drives a 2001 GOLD Saturn. I may not be the religious type, but you can guarantee that IF YOU STOLE MY IPOD I AM PRAYING FOR THE ETERNAL DAMNATION OF YOUR SOUL!
Anyway, I am FUMING, Kevin is shaking his head apologizing because this is really looking like it was his fault, and Andrea is laughing all this up. She can laugh; all she has is a busted Discman, not an Ipod she paid $272.00 for when it came time to add taxes.
Well, she didn’t laugh for long. Kevin went out and checked his car, then came in and told her that her car was unlocked. It was her chance to now berate Kevin until my mom pointed out that her car was left outside and the garage door open or closed would have had no bearing on it.
She quickly changes to blame Hans, her Danish fiancé who is visiting for a few days, then flies out the front door to check her car. Thankfully she has so much shit it in, that the thieves thought it was a lost cause. You see, when you open Andrea’s door, gossip magazines, random shoes, CD cases (the CDs themselves are not inside of them), and other various items fall out onto the ground.
My mother obviously called the cops and we’re thankful for a little thing called Home Owners Insurance which will hopefully get me a brand-spanking new Ipod touch (which could possibly be the silver-lining). Kevin leaves as we’re making the crime report because no one broke into his car. A few minutes later, we receive a call. Kevin has a missing textbook.
“Who steals a textbook?” I wonder aloud.
We’re pondering this because even when I paid $200-300 for a textbook, I was lucky to get $20-25 back from the bookstore when I turned the book in. Wait! Turned the book in…for money…a plan begins to form in my mind and I am suddenly happy that I can fulfill this rage inside of me and possibly beat the criminal to a bloody pulp. All I have to do is stake out the text rental places. We have enough man-power here that we should be able to cover multiple locations, and that little fucker would have no choice but to hand my Ipod over or let me beat him with whatever weapon is handiest (I bet I can find a beer bottle in Andrea’s car…THAT would be great).
Kevin then tells me that the book is something about racism in the media. My heart falls because sitting on a table in the living room is a book titled Racism, Sexism, and the Media the Rise of Class Communication in Multicultural Areas. I ask him if this is the book, and he’s quiet before he admits that yes, it is the book in question. He brought it in Saturday night in a drunken haze to read to Andrea. Apparently he was so drunk he forgot he brought it in. He even forgot the dog tried to hump him…three times. And there go my perfectly laid plans.
My mom suggests shopping after the officer leaves, and I agree. We get on the road and despite the 9-degree temperature, the sun is brutal and I pull out my Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses. And I flip. I had a pair of Versace glasses in my car. If my Ipod AND my Versace’s are gone SOMEONE is dead. I don’t care if I have to attack the paperboy, someone knows something and I am going to beat someone to get my now $400 worth of merchandise back.
All throughout the mall, the organic pet store, Sam’s, and the best little chocolate store, I am worrying about my sunglasses – the small amount of luxury I can afford to indulge myself with - that someone has now relieved me of. I find it hard to be sympathetic to the unemployed’s plight when I held two and at a time three jobs simultaneously. Yeah, it sucked to work so much, but I did it so I could afford to buy myself an Ipod and Versace and YSL sunglasses and not resort to stealing them from poor unsuspecting people who drive gold Saturns.
That is what really gets me. You can tell from my car that I don’t have a lot of money because what person would choose to drive a gold Saturn if they had the money for something better? And why can’t you just prey on those people with their big gas-guzzling SUVs? If they can afford to pump premium into a car that gets 12 mpg on the highway, they can afford to replace their Ipods and Versace sunglasses.
After we’ve wrapped our shopping, I am anxious to get home and check out my car. Of course, people are driving like a bunch of idiots and I suddenly yell at someone who pulls out in front of my mom and then proceeds to drive his monstrous SUV as if there were 2 feet of snow on the ground.
“I hope someone steals your Ipod!” I yell at him from within the car.
My mom looks at me as if I’m crazy and I explain the mania, the murderous rage that is boiling in marrow of my bones because even if I get a new Ipod, I now have to reload all the songs onto it and then redo all of my playlists. And I need certain music at six in the morning to get me through my workout. Sonsabitches!
With frayed nerves, we arrive home. I move the Dick’s Sporting Goods boxes that were in the floorboard and see the little white case sitting under the boxes saying “Versace.” I open them and they are there. So are the cheap ALDO sunglasses in the Valentino box (A faux pair I bought in Chinatown and then broke three months later).
OH MY GOD! Thank god!
And then I remember my blue jacket chilling in the backseat. I wore it when I went Christmas shopping on Saturday and bought stuff for my Nana. She gave me a $100 bill to repay me. I flip now as I grab the jacket and reach into the pocket I was sure it was in. Only…the pocket is empty. My heart dives into my stomach. That was the money I was going to use to buy Rachelle’s present. MOTHER FUCK! In a fit of desperation, I plunge my hand into the other pocket and pull out a ONE-HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL!
I nearly collapse out of jubilation. They may have ripped off my Ipod, but they apparently thought my gold Saturn was too much of a piece of shit to yield any more treasure. Little did they know that under the boxes and down comforter (which was chilling in the backseat as well) there were designer sunglasses and $100 in cash.
Later that day, Kevin and I were driving somewhere and I once again hurled the Ipod insult. He looked at me like I was crazy until I yelled, “Why don’t you go screw your balls,” long dramatic pause, “ON! Because they’re clearly not attached!”
“Wow,” he said.
I gave him a dirty look. “You don’t understand, but this Ipod gone is an insult to me. My workouts are going to be hell now.”
“Don’t you read when you’re on the treadmill?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“So…you do…three things? Run, read, and listen to music?”
“Yes,” is my reply.
“Wow,” he says.
Wow is right.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Pointless Poignancy
Really, there is nothing here to report but complete and utter randomness.
First off, this morning, I had a great idea for Andrea's Christmas. In effort to get maximum enjoyment out of this surprise, I'm not going to spill any of the details, but there will be footage recorded.
So, she goes off to her Christmas party, Kevin goes off to a bachelor party and I stayed home recover from babysitting the monsters over night. We had a Christmas party - watching Home Alone, ELF, The Year Without a Santa Claus, Nestor the Long-Eared Donkey, Rudolph's Shiny New Year, and finally Christmas Vacation. Yeah, long night. And Emily, my 4-year-old cousin...she LOVES Heat Miser and Cold Miser! And I had to sing their songs over and over again that night, then in the morning, and then again when Chris and Melody got home. But anyway, I was recovering and that included watching Charlie's Angels and baking cookies.
So, Andrea comes home and decides she wants to watch Overboard with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell. CLASSIC! And then there's the whole "Roy," quote that conjures up memory of Fancy Pants, one of the opposing pitchers who played softball with Kevin.
Then, Kevin calls to be picked up and dropped off at a local bar that is his favorite Saturday haunt. I go and get, unlock the doors and despite all the shit that I haven't had a chance to clear from my car (including the BRAND NEW book stand I bought to take to the gym to read on treadmills with) he sits down on all the shit. I'm flipping just imagine my new stand getting broke. Thankfully, it didn't.
Anyway, Kevin and I are cutting it up, talking about the Christmas "gift" for Andrea and how we can improve it. He then criticizes my music and tells my CDs are stupid and asks me why I bought some for Andrea. Whatever, Kevin, she'll like them. Anyway, we're driving and there's no place to park in front of the bar, so I'm in the process of driving around the block. Kevin flips because he thinks I'm going to make him walk.
Then he stops bitching. Because we turn the corner and see...a...DELOREAN! I remember I have a camera in my purse, so we drive around the block, go past the bar again, and then stop. Kevin takes the camera out and is photographing the car. It is even complete with a front plate that says "McFly." GREATNESS right there. Anyway, we quote a few "Back to the Future" lines and then pull in front of the bar and drop him off, telling him to look for the driver of the car because how awesome would it be ride in a Delorean at 88 mph before you die?!
So I'm driving home and then I see all of these flashing lights ahead. I'm pretty pissed b/c I'm on the highway and I'm thinking this a sobriety check and wondering how fucking long it is going to take to get through this. It wasn't! Five city police cars and one sheriff were pulled over to the side of the road. A man was bent over the back end of one of the cars w/ a gun to his neck! CRAZINESS! And exciting. Like, we have people in this town who the cops pull guns on. LOVE IT!
First off, this morning, I had a great idea for Andrea's Christmas. In effort to get maximum enjoyment out of this surprise, I'm not going to spill any of the details, but there will be footage recorded.
So, she goes off to her Christmas party, Kevin goes off to a bachelor party and I stayed home recover from babysitting the monsters over night. We had a Christmas party - watching Home Alone, ELF, The Year Without a Santa Claus, Nestor the Long-Eared Donkey, Rudolph's Shiny New Year, and finally Christmas Vacation. Yeah, long night. And Emily, my 4-year-old cousin...she LOVES Heat Miser and Cold Miser! And I had to sing their songs over and over again that night, then in the morning, and then again when Chris and Melody got home. But anyway, I was recovering and that included watching Charlie's Angels and baking cookies.
So, Andrea comes home and decides she wants to watch Overboard with Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell. CLASSIC! And then there's the whole "Roy," quote that conjures up memory of Fancy Pants, one of the opposing pitchers who played softball with Kevin.
Then, Kevin calls to be picked up and dropped off at a local bar that is his favorite Saturday haunt. I go and get, unlock the doors and despite all the shit that I haven't had a chance to clear from my car (including the BRAND NEW book stand I bought to take to the gym to read on treadmills with) he sits down on all the shit. I'm flipping just imagine my new stand getting broke. Thankfully, it didn't.
Anyway, Kevin and I are cutting it up, talking about the Christmas "gift" for Andrea and how we can improve it. He then criticizes my music and tells my CDs are stupid and asks me why I bought some for Andrea. Whatever, Kevin, she'll like them. Anyway, we're driving and there's no place to park in front of the bar, so I'm in the process of driving around the block. Kevin flips because he thinks I'm going to make him walk.
Then he stops bitching. Because we turn the corner and see...a...DELOREAN! I remember I have a camera in my purse, so we drive around the block, go past the bar again, and then stop. Kevin takes the camera out and is photographing the car. It is even complete with a front plate that says "McFly." GREATNESS right there. Anyway, we quote a few "Back to the Future" lines and then pull in front of the bar and drop him off, telling him to look for the driver of the car because how awesome would it be ride in a Delorean at 88 mph before you die?!
So I'm driving home and then I see all of these flashing lights ahead. I'm pretty pissed b/c I'm on the highway and I'm thinking this a sobriety check and wondering how fucking long it is going to take to get through this. It wasn't! Five city police cars and one sheriff were pulled over to the side of the road. A man was bent over the back end of one of the cars w/ a gun to his neck! CRAZINESS! And exciting. Like, we have people in this town who the cops pull guns on. LOVE IT!
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Plans for My Funeral - Not that I Plan on Dying Soon, but I Believe in Being Prepared.
Last night we watched the Two and a Half Men. The episode was about a person’s morality and Charlie fantasized about his funeral and how he would like James Earl Jones to eulogize at the service. Of course, this led to Andrea and me discussing our own funerals. She would like an open bar at hers and for people to be as drunk as possible. No one gets away sober. I should’ve asked if the limo would be taxiing drunk party guests to their residences, but I was multitasking and thinking of my own funeral.
So during the multitasking of listening to my sister and watching TV, I was IMing my friend Henry and lamenting on my desire for a life as mystic, a life that would be lived in a yurt (I am still nursing my middle school crush on Ghengis Khan) in Wyoming under the name of Soleil Borealis. I would live off the grid, and Erin would be a lost number in a sea of social (in)security.
Henry’s comment was to tell me I was insane and to stay away from the peyote.
Anyway, Andrea asked me about my funeral and that’s when I told her about my plans, or what I now come to think of as Plan A, or the rough draft.
Plan A: It will be in a yurt. She will “eugoogalize,” then grab my urn and say “Oh my god, it’s empty!” Of course, people will start whispering then and turning and looking, wonder what in the hell is going on. Andrea will say, “Pysche! (And yes, she will say “psyche’) I scattered the bitch’s ashes this morning,” a pause as she gets mysterious and then says, “Or did I?” More whispering and curious looks from those in attendance and then she says, “I’m just kidding, she’s still in here. We’re nowhere to close to the ocean and I can’t have her estate until I dump her over the Dry Tortugas .”
But then came another glorious idea…an idea that is known as Plan B.
Plan B: We’re still in the yurt. My remains are encased in an unknown urn underneath a red fabric. Andrea starts talking and refers to me only once as Erin. I will from then on be referred to as Soleil Borealis, my inner mystic. She says all the necessary words said during a eulogy, she just calls me Soleil. So, picks up the urn. Now this is where it gets trick, so I’m going to script it.
Andrea: (Pulls the red fabric off revealing a hideously ugly Patriots urn). Oh my god! My sister…in a…Patriots urn! (Andrea in a fit of rage picks up the urn to smash it into piece on the floor of the yurt. She lifts it over her head, then gets a curious look on her face). Oh my god, I don’t think she’s in here. (She shakes it around) She is not in here. Oh my god, where is my sister.
(The crowd begins to murmur).
Andrea calls for the undertaker. A person emerges. This person will be Person A.
Person A: There seems to be a mix-up with your sister’s remains.
Andrea: A mix-up?
Person A: She is at another funeral. The urns…there was a problem.
Andrea: Where is my sister?! (The people in the crowd are quiet, pretending not to hear while secretly trying to hear all)
Person A: We’re not sure.
Andrea: (Pissed off) What!
Person A: We’re looking.
Andrea: Find my sister!
Another person emerges into the yurt. They are holding a different urn, a very tasteful urn, an urn that is looks like it could’ve been designed by Karl Lagerfield himself. People are admiring the pretty urn. Andrea grabs it and clutches the crimson and cream colored urn to her chest.
Person A: (Handing her the urn and laughing) PSYCHE! It was the ‘ole switcheroo, the what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.
Person B: (A random person in the audience) What is a gander?
Person A: A goose that’s had the ‘ole switcheroo pulled on them.
Andrea: (More upset over the current exchange and the fact that she had the “switcheroo” pull on her, her face is flaming and she stomps her foot). PSYCHE! PSYCHE? Seriously? PSYCHE!
Person A: It was all a joke.
Andrea: A joke! This is a joke (Andrea then a pulls a beer bottle out from somewhere and bashes it over the person’s head. Now she can finally die in piece having bashed someone over the head with a beer bottle. With that done, she proceeds to dance a “jig.”)
The funeral then proceeds and at the end, everyone adjourns and goes to the bar which is only serving Stoli’s vodka and extremely strong Long Islands . Everyone will do at least one shot of red-headed slut before heading home and contemplating life as a mystic.
Of course, this is still a work in progress, but it’s the start of a plan, nonetheless! And I really like this theme of “my body not there but it is there because its all a joke.” I mean seriously! THAT is funny! If I was at that funeral, I would LAUGH, laugh, laugh! And then tell all my friends about it! Which is kind of what I’m going for. I mean, if I’m leaving this world, I want people to talk! I want people to see each other in the streets and say “Man, that was some funeral. When can we do that again!”
P.S. I know funerals are not laughing matters, that death is a serious thing, but I would like my final moment on earth to be done as I have lived my life – a very random act that is worthy of retelling.
So during the multitasking of listening to my sister and watching TV, I was IMing my friend Henry and lamenting on my desire for a life as mystic, a life that would be lived in a yurt (I am still nursing my middle school crush on Ghengis Khan) in Wyoming under the name of Soleil Borealis. I would live off the grid, and Erin would be a lost number in a sea of social (in)security.
Henry’s comment was to tell me I was insane and to stay away from the peyote.
Anyway, Andrea asked me about my funeral and that’s when I told her about my plans, or what I now come to think of as Plan A, or the rough draft.
Plan A: It will be in a yurt. She will “eugoogalize,” then grab my urn and say “Oh my god, it’s empty!” Of course, people will start whispering then and turning and looking, wonder what in the hell is going on. Andrea will say, “Pysche! (And yes, she will say “psyche’) I scattered the bitch’s ashes this morning,” a pause as she gets mysterious and then says, “Or did I?” More whispering and curious looks from those in attendance and then she says, “I’m just kidding, she’s still in here. We’re nowhere to close to the ocean and I can’t have her estate until I dump her over the Dry Tortugas .”
But then came another glorious idea…an idea that is known as Plan B.
Plan B: We’re still in the yurt. My remains are encased in an unknown urn underneath a red fabric. Andrea starts talking and refers to me only once as Erin. I will from then on be referred to as Soleil Borealis, my inner mystic. She says all the necessary words said during a eulogy, she just calls me Soleil. So, picks up the urn. Now this is where it gets trick, so I’m going to script it.
Andrea: (Pulls the red fabric off revealing a hideously ugly Patriots urn). Oh my god! My sister…in a…Patriots urn! (Andrea in a fit of rage picks up the urn to smash it into piece on the floor of the yurt. She lifts it over her head, then gets a curious look on her face). Oh my god, I don’t think she’s in here. (She shakes it around) She is not in here. Oh my god, where is my sister.
(The crowd begins to murmur).
Andrea calls for the undertaker. A person emerges. This person will be Person A.
Person A: There seems to be a mix-up with your sister’s remains.
Andrea: A mix-up?
Person A: She is at another funeral. The urns…there was a problem.
Andrea: Where is my sister?! (The people in the crowd are quiet, pretending not to hear while secretly trying to hear all)
Person A: We’re not sure.
Andrea: (Pissed off) What!
Person A: We’re looking.
Andrea: Find my sister!
Another person emerges into the yurt. They are holding a different urn, a very tasteful urn, an urn that is looks like it could’ve been designed by Karl Lagerfield himself. People are admiring the pretty urn. Andrea grabs it and clutches the crimson and cream colored urn to her chest.
Person A: (Handing her the urn and laughing) PSYCHE! It was the ‘ole switcheroo, the what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.
Person B: (A random person in the audience) What is a gander?
Person A: A goose that’s had the ‘ole switcheroo pulled on them.
Andrea: (More upset over the current exchange and the fact that she had the “switcheroo” pull on her, her face is flaming and she stomps her foot). PSYCHE! PSYCHE? Seriously? PSYCHE!
Person A: It was all a joke.
Andrea: A joke! This is a joke (Andrea then a pulls a beer bottle out from somewhere and bashes it over the person’s head. Now she can finally die in piece having bashed someone over the head with a beer bottle. With that done, she proceeds to dance a “jig.”)
The funeral then proceeds and at the end, everyone adjourns and goes to the bar which is only serving Stoli’s vodka and extremely strong Long Islands . Everyone will do at least one shot of red-headed slut before heading home and contemplating life as a mystic.
Of course, this is still a work in progress, but it’s the start of a plan, nonetheless! And I really like this theme of “my body not there but it is there because its all a joke.” I mean seriously! THAT is funny! If I was at that funeral, I would LAUGH, laugh, laugh! And then tell all my friends about it! Which is kind of what I’m going for. I mean, if I’m leaving this world, I want people to talk! I want people to see each other in the streets and say “Man, that was some funeral. When can we do that again!”
P.S. I know funerals are not laughing matters, that death is a serious thing, but I would like my final moment on earth to be done as I have lived my life – a very random act that is worthy of retelling.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Things I Don't Understand Part 2: Super Glueing Your Hands
Now, with that little rant out of the way, I have another situation that is beyond my range of comprehension and it all starts with the weather.
I understand that not even the weatherman truly understand the weather. As much as I’d like to think Jim Cantori is a just a weather-telling machine, I do realize he is wrong every now and then…especially when I see him standing outside on a beach when 80 mph hurricane winds are whipping the Florida coast and suddenly a tree branch barrels into him. Knowing that Super Weather-Forecasting Man Cantori can’t accurately predict or understand the weather makes me completely lose hope in ever predicting the weather for myself. I simply try to prepare.
Take today for example. We were supposed to get a half an inch in ice by noon. Knowing my sister was leaving after me and that the temperature was under freezing, I took the initiative and pulled my sister’s car in the garage. Any ice that had formed or was forming on her windshield then melted before she left for work! Preparation!
I like to be prepared. And if you know me, you’re not surprised because I’m one of those planner-types. I carry 3 different calendars with me for work appointments, personal appointments (family, gymnastics, friends), and one that shows me what I’m doing every day (personal and work). So, being prepared isn’t anything new for me. But let’s get back on track….
I woke up today knowing I had a Holiday recruitment party for work. I had previously made flyers that were distributed at three elementary schools before I took a week long vacation. I knew that today I had to go buy supplies for an activity, a video to watch, and snacks.
I came into the office with this game plan ready and answered emails and phone calls, set in on our weekly Monday meeting and did all that jazz then got my things together and went shopping at Michael’s and Walmart for crafts and food.
I get lunch and then come back and sit at my desk to see what these crafts are all about (Ok, maybe to make one for myself) and break out the brand new tube of super glue I just bought. I use the end to pierce the metal stopper and you would’ve thought I’d have just squeezed a huge, giant-sized pimple because all of a sudden, super glue was everywhere! It even dripped onto the ‘T’ and ‘G’ keys.
There is super glue all over my fingers. Seriously, there is super glue on 100% of my digits! Yes, that’s right. ALL of my fingers! So, I go into the kitchen at work, get the dish scrubby and SCRUB, literal SCRUB the fuck out of my fingers. Most of the glue is gone from my thumbs and my pointer fingers, the digits that really did not do well encrusted with super glue. So, while one person can’t allot me .0012% of his time, I have to dedicate like an entire hour (4.1%) of my time to SCRUBBING and picking, and peeling my fingers, 100% of which are covered in some minute way with super glue. So, as I’m picking and peeling, I get a telephone call.
“Oh, Hello,” I said meanwhile picking at my glue-smothered fingers.
“Hi, this is Mrs. Brown from the elementary.” The school were I am supposed to have my party at tonight.
“Hi, Mrs. Brown,” I say and keep picking. I am pretty much 100% focused on picking the glue off my hands and not paying any attention to what she has to say.
“We are canceling the program for tonight,” she tells me.
Canceling. That’s a very halting word and I suddenly stop picking at my fingers. “No, we haven’t decided to cancel it,” I said thinking that surely I have heard wrong and that I did not just brave Michael’s and Walmart, YES Walmart a mere TEN DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, for a program to be canceled and then get super glue on fingers.
“We’re going to cancel it,” she says.
Some other words are exchanged, but they are pretty much inconsequential to the fact that I went shopping and smeared my hands with super glue for no apparent reason. So, it is now official. I hate my life. Oh! And my ‘T’ and ‘G’ keys are way too disgusting for words.
I understand that not even the weatherman truly understand the weather. As much as I’d like to think Jim Cantori is a just a weather-telling machine, I do realize he is wrong every now and then…especially when I see him standing outside on a beach when 80 mph hurricane winds are whipping the Florida coast and suddenly a tree branch barrels into him. Knowing that Super Weather-Forecasting Man Cantori can’t accurately predict or understand the weather makes me completely lose hope in ever predicting the weather for myself. I simply try to prepare.
Take today for example. We were supposed to get a half an inch in ice by noon. Knowing my sister was leaving after me and that the temperature was under freezing, I took the initiative and pulled my sister’s car in the garage. Any ice that had formed or was forming on her windshield then melted before she left for work! Preparation!
I like to be prepared. And if you know me, you’re not surprised because I’m one of those planner-types. I carry 3 different calendars with me for work appointments, personal appointments (family, gymnastics, friends), and one that shows me what I’m doing every day (personal and work). So, being prepared isn’t anything new for me. But let’s get back on track….
I woke up today knowing I had a Holiday recruitment party for work. I had previously made flyers that were distributed at three elementary schools before I took a week long vacation. I knew that today I had to go buy supplies for an activity, a video to watch, and snacks.
I came into the office with this game plan ready and answered emails and phone calls, set in on our weekly Monday meeting and did all that jazz then got my things together and went shopping at Michael’s and Walmart for crafts and food.
I get lunch and then come back and sit at my desk to see what these crafts are all about (Ok, maybe to make one for myself) and break out the brand new tube of super glue I just bought. I use the end to pierce the metal stopper and you would’ve thought I’d have just squeezed a huge, giant-sized pimple because all of a sudden, super glue was everywhere! It even dripped onto the ‘T’ and ‘G’ keys.
There is super glue all over my fingers. Seriously, there is super glue on 100% of my digits! Yes, that’s right. ALL of my fingers! So, I go into the kitchen at work, get the dish scrubby and SCRUB, literal SCRUB the fuck out of my fingers. Most of the glue is gone from my thumbs and my pointer fingers, the digits that really did not do well encrusted with super glue. So, while one person can’t allot me .0012% of his time, I have to dedicate like an entire hour (4.1%) of my time to SCRUBBING and picking, and peeling my fingers, 100% of which are covered in some minute way with super glue. So, as I’m picking and peeling, I get a telephone call.
“Oh, Hello,” I said meanwhile picking at my glue-smothered fingers.
“Hi, this is Mrs. Brown from the elementary.” The school were I am supposed to have my party at tonight.
“Hi, Mrs. Brown,” I say and keep picking. I am pretty much 100% focused on picking the glue off my hands and not paying any attention to what she has to say.
“We are canceling the program for tonight,” she tells me.
Canceling. That’s a very halting word and I suddenly stop picking at my fingers. “No, we haven’t decided to cancel it,” I said thinking that surely I have heard wrong and that I did not just brave Michael’s and Walmart, YES Walmart a mere TEN DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, for a program to be canceled and then get super glue on fingers.
“We’re going to cancel it,” she says.
Some other words are exchanged, but they are pretty much inconsequential to the fact that I went shopping and smeared my hands with super glue for no apparent reason. So, it is now official. I hate my life. Oh! And my ‘T’ and ‘G’ keys are way too disgusting for words.
Things I Don't Understand: .0012% of Your Time
This Holiday season, I am thankful for things I comprehend. People like my sister. Though her motivations don’t always parallel mine, I can count on her. Christmas deer I comprehend. They are easy for people to display and even easier for me to rearrange. And come on, children are going to learn about the birds and bees somehow, might as well start telling them early so they can be properly prepared and SAFE! Teenage pregnancy is a very selfish thing and I’m not even going to get started on that.
Shopping is easily comprehended. I pick out something for my friends and family (or me), hand over the plastic to the store clerk who scans the card and the credit card company then sends me pieces of paper in the mail that is called a bill. Something I can choose to pay all at once or in increments. Sales are even easier to comprehend and if I think I’m getting a bargain (and moving the decimal one place to the right equals ten percent, then you multiply as need be for twenty, thirty, and forty percent) I will shop the hell out of that sale!
My dogs, nothing is easier for me to understand than my dogs whose number one motivation in life is food. My dog is severely loyal to me until food comes into the picture. Then his loyalty lies with whoever has the food. The one thing about the dog that I cannot understand is his constant obsession with food. He’s never been starved! He eats twice a day, a nice meaty organic dog food that was free from the Chinese tainted dog food crisis, and gets treats, again organic, from whomever he can con at the time. The only other thing to understand is his constant need for attention which can easily be helped by petting, cooing and making sure he understands that he is beautiful, smart, an angel, mommy’s baby, precious, and the best thing that has ever happened to me. Yes, he is high maintenance, but I understand it and I give it to him.
I understand sports. I understand that Chicago will not win the World Series no matter how good their season, that Tony Romo will ultimately choke because of his current girlfriend, that T.O. will run his mouth, that some countries will knowingly cheat to get Olympic gold, that no one can touch Michael Phelps in the butterfly events, that Madonna has a penchant for young athletes, that steroids will never fully be out of sports, that the BCS stands of Bunch of Crap and Shit because no one understands it, that Cubans’ birth certificates are never right, that IU will be terrible this year at both football (same story) and basketball (thanks Sampson), but we can hope that next year the basketball team will start to turn around. I understand this stuff.
I understand that work is not fun. That if it was fun, it would not be called work. I understand that there are some people who will never see things your way no matter how you try to change their minds. It’s called an opinion, and an opinion is like an asshole…everyone is one…I mean, everyone has one.
But what I do not understand are some people!
I consider myself a fairly low-maintenance kind of chick.
Anyway, I’m busy and have been the target of a couple of speeches that have placed me in the position of being way too busy. So, when I start hanging out with people busier than me, I try to cut a little slack. And I don’t ask for 100% of a person’s time. I’d never get any work done, never have any time for me, and probably end up killing them which would lead to life in jail and then the positive of having quite a bit of time for me but the negative of being around either butch women or addicts. What I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to call me everyday, you don’t have to text me every day, or email me everyday, but it would be nice to know that every now and then I’m being thought.
As long as I know I’m being thought about, I’m good. We don’t need to go out on the weekend. You can have fun with your friends; I’ll have fun with my friends. Maybe we’ll mount some deer, maybe we’ll see some movies, maybe we’ll get drunk and pretend we’re reality TV stars with my camera. Who knows! All I ask for is one text message every now and then! And I’ve done the math. If someone spent ten seconds out of the 86,400 seconds in a day sending me a text message asking me how I was that would use up .0012% of their time during the course of a day! That is one-point-two ONE THOUSANDTHS of time during the day! That is what it takes for me to stay happy! I then would know that someone had thought about me because they spent one ONE THOUSANDTH of their day to ask how I was! That it may have been fleetingly, but someone had cared enough to check.
Seriously, I get that a person is busy. I’m busy! I have weeks where I work over 60 hours and still get paid like I’m working 40 hours and I still don’t have health benefits! I work Saturdays, Sundays sometimes, I know about being busy. I know that when I’m swamped and trying to get things out, the last thing I think about doing is getting in touch with one of my friends. However, if friends e-mail my work address, I will get back with them. It’s not that I’m trying to keep out of touch, I’m just busy.
So in someone’s down time, when a person knows my cell, knows my e-mail, and can message me on Facebook, what would hold a person back from saying “Hi, how are you today?” Probably because they think I’m a dork. And they would be correct. But, tell me what it is. Is it my curly hair? Well, that’s the perils of hanging out with me. It’s not like I can hide the fact that my hair is big enough to house a Volkswagon. Is it because I’m a dork? Well, then good riddance! Can I quote too many movies? Sorry, but that’s apart of me and my randomness. But had I known these things, I probably could’ve guessed things weren’t going to work out and just would have let them disintegrate on their own.
Anyway, I’m now done trying to make things work. I don’t care anymore. I’ll be a bitch like everyone else, and say “Screw the World,” while disregarding well-meaning texts from people I deem less than worthy and only reply to those texts that are inside jokes like when Andrea sends me one that says “…Missing,” or when Jada sends one that says “Four for you Glen Cocoa! You go Glen Cocoa!” Only those people will get the replies back.
*Oh yes, Rachie, I’m not forgetting you because I’ll know you’ll have a BF! “A what? A bitch fit!”
*Kevin, you’re also on the list too. Especially if you quote Silence of the Lambs.
Now, can someone please tell me if I’m being unreasonable. Am I unknowingly a high-maintenance person? I’d like to know. Any remarks? Anyone?
Shopping is easily comprehended. I pick out something for my friends and family (or me), hand over the plastic to the store clerk who scans the card and the credit card company then sends me pieces of paper in the mail that is called a bill. Something I can choose to pay all at once or in increments. Sales are even easier to comprehend and if I think I’m getting a bargain (and moving the decimal one place to the right equals ten percent, then you multiply as need be for twenty, thirty, and forty percent) I will shop the hell out of that sale!
My dogs, nothing is easier for me to understand than my dogs whose number one motivation in life is food. My dog is severely loyal to me until food comes into the picture. Then his loyalty lies with whoever has the food. The one thing about the dog that I cannot understand is his constant obsession with food. He’s never been starved! He eats twice a day, a nice meaty organic dog food that was free from the Chinese tainted dog food crisis, and gets treats, again organic, from whomever he can con at the time. The only other thing to understand is his constant need for attention which can easily be helped by petting, cooing and making sure he understands that he is beautiful, smart, an angel, mommy’s baby, precious, and the best thing that has ever happened to me. Yes, he is high maintenance, but I understand it and I give it to him.
I understand sports. I understand that Chicago will not win the World Series no matter how good their season, that Tony Romo will ultimately choke because of his current girlfriend, that T.O. will run his mouth, that some countries will knowingly cheat to get Olympic gold, that no one can touch Michael Phelps in the butterfly events, that Madonna has a penchant for young athletes, that steroids will never fully be out of sports, that the BCS stands of Bunch of Crap and Shit because no one understands it, that Cubans’ birth certificates are never right, that IU will be terrible this year at both football (same story) and basketball (thanks Sampson), but we can hope that next year the basketball team will start to turn around. I understand this stuff.
I understand that work is not fun. That if it was fun, it would not be called work. I understand that there are some people who will never see things your way no matter how you try to change their minds. It’s called an opinion, and an opinion is like an asshole…everyone is one…I mean, everyone has one.
But what I do not understand are some people!
I consider myself a fairly low-maintenance kind of chick.
Anyway, I’m busy and have been the target of a couple of speeches that have placed me in the position of being way too busy. So, when I start hanging out with people busier than me, I try to cut a little slack. And I don’t ask for 100% of a person’s time. I’d never get any work done, never have any time for me, and probably end up killing them which would lead to life in jail and then the positive of having quite a bit of time for me but the negative of being around either butch women or addicts. What I’m trying to say is that you don’t have to call me everyday, you don’t have to text me every day, or email me everyday, but it would be nice to know that every now and then I’m being thought.
As long as I know I’m being thought about, I’m good. We don’t need to go out on the weekend. You can have fun with your friends; I’ll have fun with my friends. Maybe we’ll mount some deer, maybe we’ll see some movies, maybe we’ll get drunk and pretend we’re reality TV stars with my camera. Who knows! All I ask for is one text message every now and then! And I’ve done the math. If someone spent ten seconds out of the 86,400 seconds in a day sending me a text message asking me how I was that would use up .0012% of their time during the course of a day! That is one-point-two ONE THOUSANDTHS of time during the day! That is what it takes for me to stay happy! I then would know that someone had thought about me because they spent one ONE THOUSANDTH of their day to ask how I was! That it may have been fleetingly, but someone had cared enough to check.
Seriously, I get that a person is busy. I’m busy! I have weeks where I work over 60 hours and still get paid like I’m working 40 hours and I still don’t have health benefits! I work Saturdays, Sundays sometimes, I know about being busy. I know that when I’m swamped and trying to get things out, the last thing I think about doing is getting in touch with one of my friends. However, if friends e-mail my work address, I will get back with them. It’s not that I’m trying to keep out of touch, I’m just busy.
So in someone’s down time, when a person knows my cell, knows my e-mail, and can message me on Facebook, what would hold a person back from saying “Hi, how are you today?” Probably because they think I’m a dork. And they would be correct. But, tell me what it is. Is it my curly hair? Well, that’s the perils of hanging out with me. It’s not like I can hide the fact that my hair is big enough to house a Volkswagon. Is it because I’m a dork? Well, then good riddance! Can I quote too many movies? Sorry, but that’s apart of me and my randomness. But had I known these things, I probably could’ve guessed things weren’t going to work out and just would have let them disintegrate on their own.
Anyway, I’m now done trying to make things work. I don’t care anymore. I’ll be a bitch like everyone else, and say “Screw the World,” while disregarding well-meaning texts from people I deem less than worthy and only reply to those texts that are inside jokes like when Andrea sends me one that says “…Missing,” or when Jada sends one that says “Four for you Glen Cocoa! You go Glen Cocoa!” Only those people will get the replies back.
*Oh yes, Rachie, I’m not forgetting you because I’ll know you’ll have a BF! “A what? A bitch fit!”
*Kevin, you’re also on the list too. Especially if you quote Silence of the Lambs.
Now, can someone please tell me if I’m being unreasonable. Am I unknowingly a high-maintenance person? I’d like to know. Any remarks? Anyone?
Monday, December 8, 2008
Great Convos
The Dark Knight Commentary Part 1
Erin: So, guess what we’ll get to watch tomorrow night.
Andrea: Not 90210*
Erin: (Dramatic pause) Wanna see a magic trick?
Andrea: Oh! Dark Knight! Hey, guess what. Cory’s boyfriend is going to Wal-Mart at midnight to get The Dark Knight.
Erin: (Pausing as I think this over) Oh! That’s a good idea! I should do that.
Andrea: (Shocked) So…you’re going to Wal-Mart at midnight to buy The Dark Knight?
Erin: Well, why not. What else am I going to do? I’m on vacation this week, I might as well. That way when someone asks me what I did on my vacation, I can say: I went to Wal-Mart at midnight and bought The Dark Knight.
Andrea: Wow. I thought you were going to laugh about it with me. We would laugh at that.
Erin: That’s a good idea though! You can’t tell me that you won’t stay up to watch it as soon as I get home.
Andrea: Well, okay, yeah I’ll watch it.
10 minutes later
Andrea: I can’t believe you thought that was a good idea. I so thought you would laugh at that and we could make fun of it together.
Erin: I don’t think you wanted to make fun of it. I think deep down, you also thought it was good idea, and that you had to tell me to see what I would say, to see if I would agree with you that it was a good idea so you would know that you weren’t ridiculous.
Andrea: That’s probably true.
1 hour later
Andrea: I’ll go with you tonight. If you want me too.
Erin: That’s fine. It’s not a big deal to me.
Andrea: I’m just saying…that…if I’m still awake…I’ll go with you.
Erin: All right then. That sounds good.
*She’s still bitter because it isn’t new until January
Dark Knight Commentary Part 2 (While watching the end of Sarah Chronicles)
Erin: So, all the terminators that come back, they have a mission, but there is an overriding mission - if they find John Conner or Sarah Conner.
Andrea: They're making a Judgment Series movie, right?
Erin: Yeah. Batman will be John Conner.
Andrea: Christian Bale?
Erin: Yep, he's come a long way since his paper selling days (i.e. The Newsies, for those of you NOT in the know)
Andrea: Papes, Erin. He sold "papes."
Erin: So, guess what we’ll get to watch tomorrow night.
Andrea: Not 90210*
Erin: (Dramatic pause) Wanna see a magic trick?
Andrea: Oh! Dark Knight! Hey, guess what. Cory’s boyfriend is going to Wal-Mart at midnight to get The Dark Knight.
Erin: (Pausing as I think this over) Oh! That’s a good idea! I should do that.
Andrea: (Shocked) So…you’re going to Wal-Mart at midnight to buy The Dark Knight?
Erin: Well, why not. What else am I going to do? I’m on vacation this week, I might as well. That way when someone asks me what I did on my vacation, I can say: I went to Wal-Mart at midnight and bought The Dark Knight.
Andrea: Wow. I thought you were going to laugh about it with me. We would laugh at that.
Erin: That’s a good idea though! You can’t tell me that you won’t stay up to watch it as soon as I get home.
Andrea: Well, okay, yeah I’ll watch it.
10 minutes later
Andrea: I can’t believe you thought that was a good idea. I so thought you would laugh at that and we could make fun of it together.
Erin: I don’t think you wanted to make fun of it. I think deep down, you also thought it was good idea, and that you had to tell me to see what I would say, to see if I would agree with you that it was a good idea so you would know that you weren’t ridiculous.
Andrea: That’s probably true.
1 hour later
Andrea: I’ll go with you tonight. If you want me too.
Erin: That’s fine. It’s not a big deal to me.
Andrea: I’m just saying…that…if I’m still awake…I’ll go with you.
Erin: All right then. That sounds good.
*She’s still bitter because it isn’t new until January
Dark Knight Commentary Part 2 (While watching the end of Sarah Chronicles)
Erin: So, all the terminators that come back, they have a mission, but there is an overriding mission - if they find John Conner or Sarah Conner.
Andrea: They're making a Judgment Series movie, right?
Erin: Yeah. Batman will be John Conner.
Andrea: Christian Bale?
Erin: Yep, he's come a long way since his paper selling days (i.e. The Newsies, for those of you NOT in the know)
Andrea: Papes, Erin. He sold "papes."
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