Confused

I'm confused. Since when did the "dia de los muertos" become "dia de los slutty costumes galore?" I mean, really. Ladies and gents. Really.

My facebook newsfeed has been streaming loads of Halloween pictures from people I know--people who any other day of the year appear quite unlike the aspiring porn stars they portray in these photos. I'd say a solid 3/4th of the images I've seen fall into this category. People who would never say "hell" and "damn" dressing as Victoria angels and speedo models. Confusing.

All I can say is that when I have children, I'll be spending October 31st with my hands over their innocent little eyes.

Bag lady

My conversation with a co-worker today:

Me: Geez Chris, I need to find a way to get more sleep. Check out the bags under my eyes.

Chris: What bags?

Me: What do you mean what bags?

Chris: Well, you've got that make-up under your eyes.

Me (getting super confused): What are you talking about? What make-up? Is my mascara running?

Chris: You have all that black under your eyes. All that eye shadow.

Me: Um, Chris, those ARE the bags under my eyes.

Chris: Holy crap. Erin, you need to get some sleep. You look like someone gave you two black eyes. I thought it was makeup.

Me: Chris, why would I use make up to look like a complete mess?

Chris: [silence]

Needless to say, full time work, full time grad school and an internship are all catching up to me.

Bad idea of the day:

Eating bluberry yogurt over 2 months after the expiration date. Bad, bad idea.

A dose of perspective

I spent two hours in the hospital yesterday getting a much better perspective on my life. This happens from time to time. Occasionally, I leave the very small place that is my world and get a better idea of what all this is really about.

While just hours earlier I was distressed about my woeful love life or something else equally trivial, I sat there comforting a mother whose 19-year-old son was in very critical condition--in ICU since a July 10th back surgery from his neck to tailbone--and was now having a violent reaction to too much morphine.

Suddenly, I did not have any problems worth mentioning. As I held my arm around her, praying for both this poor kid and his remarkable mother, but I could not help praying that I would never be sitting in her chair, helplessly watching over my child suffer through years of unspeakable pain.

To all those strong enough to be that mom, I salute you.

Most disturbing thing I've heard in a while

I'm certain that these sort of conversations are not overheard at Neiman Marcus, but until the day that I can afford to even touch a catalog from that store, I will continue to experience such gems as this:

I'm standing in line at the Ross Dress For Less today, cart full of towels, a rug, shower curtain and other miscellaneous home stuff that I've managed to go years without owning thanks to very kind roommates and my knack for mooching. The lady in front of me is trying on the reading glasses that are sitting on the counter, temping the geriatric impulse buyers that seem to saturate my state. 

The woman was there with what must have been her daughter. They both shared either an unawareness of their size when getting dressed in their neon spaghetti straps and acid wash booty shorts or a deep desire to show off the square footage of their ample flesh. Whatever the case, the mother stood trying on reading glasses while the daughter was purchasing more of the aforementioned clothing. The piles on the check out counter suggested she thought a nuclear holocaust was impending and she would be prepared to ride out the storm always dressed and ready for a NASCAR event.   

"These 'uns here must be for people who don't see too good up close," the 40-something woman said removing a pair and grabbing for another brightly-colored pair of glasses. As she put those on she turned to her daughter.

"I can't see past the !$%* hood of my car when I drive, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna pay some crook to get some glasses."

The burly security guard waiting at the entrance a few feet away looked over at me. We exchanged frightened glances. 

I was mind boggled as I tried to decide what was more disturbing: the fact that she was basically driving blind or that she thought that glasses she bought at Ross were going to correct her vision issues. Yikes.

Getting Old

Things I've learned on my latest road trip:

1) Contrary to popular belief, I can actually drive long distance without a red bull. Not pretty, but possible.

2) Arizona is hot. I mean, we all know it's hot, but it's sick crazy hot here. Watching the temperature on my dashboard drop 50 degrees en route from Phoenix to Provo was not comforting considering we are only halfway into June.


3) Delvine Jackson is a husband stealer. There were many more things I learned about the people of Kanab, UT from reading what was written on the bathroom stalls of the local service station. However, while the other things were rather informative, this was the only revelation appropriate to make the list.



4) I can no longer finish an entire order of french toast from Magleby's Fresh, let alone get my money's worth from being all-you-can-eat. Sad sad day.


5) I am getting old. I am no longer a crazy college kid. I like going to bed early. I drink herbal tea and never ever drink soda. I am very concious of my fiber intake, I like NPR and have absolutely no idea why girls are wearing headbands like this:

Kickboxing

A few days ago, I was sitting with my dad and two sisters in a theatre at Gilbert Community College waiting for my mom's voice recital to begin. 

I sat reading Slaughterhouse-Five when suddenly I overheard my sisters conversation which was basically a discussion of the value of punching someone in the throat or the face and which one would cause A) the greatest damage and B) the greatest pain. I put Vonnegut down, turned to my sisters and asked them what in hell's name they were talking about.

"Well," explained Vanessa quite factually, "if you punch someone in the throat it hurts waaayyy more. I mean, haven't you ever wanted to punch someone?"

I sat and thought and realized that, in fact, it was just that morning that I had consciously thought how much I wanted to punch the person right in front of me right in the face.

I hit up the yoga and spin classes regularly at my gym, but have wanted to start going to kickboxing. I had always really liked it before, but since moving back to AZ, I hadn't been able to go very often. In fact, the one time I went, it left me sore and whimpering for days. But, not one to be beat, I attended another kickboxing class last Saturday morning.

I walked in and expected to just do my thing, channel my inner Billy Blanks and call it a day. But the teacher was so unbelievingly irritating, I had to use all my strength to keep myself for just walking out of the class during the warm up. 

She was your typical gym bunny: 70 pounds, massive fake bosoms, super tan skin, long blond streaks, and a high squeaky voice that'll make your toes curl. Now, I am not one to judge. I was fully prepared to like her immensely, but the moment she started screaming "HI-YAAAHHH!" as loudly as possibly INTO HER MICROPHONE headset every single time she kicked, I gave myself permission to hate her just as much as I wanted. 

Those who know me know that I am practically deaf. But I kidd you not, there were times in that class I just had to just stop doing whatever we were doing, cover my ears, and find my happy place. It was so annoying.

So class continues and at one point she starts dividing everyone up into pairs for some "sparring." She chose me as a partner. Just my luck. So she started punching at my face and I was supposed to dodge. At this point,  not only was she yelling RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, but she was now yelling and trying to punch my face. I'm still repenting for the violent thought that began racing through my brain at this moment. 

Then it was my turn. I was supposed to try and punch her face while she dodged. Oh, how my luck instantly changed. At that moment in time, there was no one in the world (besides Robert Mugabe, Nadya Suleman, Nancy Grace etc) that I wanted to punch and here she was actually screaming into a microphone and telling me to hit hard and faster. 

Of course I didn't hit her. But I did really want to. And because of that, I've decided that kickboxing makes me an angry person and that I'm just going to stick to yoga and spin classes.