Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Copyright Encounters

Insider info on Erin: probably 80% of what I say is not original material. I'm a serial quoter. It's the truth. Whether it's The Office, What About Bob?,  Waiting for Guffman, Friends, the internet or one of the thousands of people I've met who are more eloquent than myself, I love using a good quote.

Here's the issue: I am not in the habit of attributing my quotes to their origins. I'm a walking plagiarist and I'm turning myself in to the authorities. (That's you. You're the authority.  It's clear that if you are somehow still subscribed to this blog then you are either impressively loyal or astoundingly bored and lacking reading material. Either way, today you get to be an authority.)

Before you sentence me to copycat prison, I must attempt to defend myself.

Here are the main reasons I don't attribute my perpetual stolen phrases:

- I want to look cool and seem funny. Just trying to be honest. I took an oath before starting this trial/post.

- People don't get or catch the reference.
   Person (usually a teen): I'm a girl.
   Me: I know... Sorry, it's from a movie. It was a joke.
   Person: Oh, what movie?
   Me: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
   Person: Oh, the one with Johnny Depp? That was a weird movie
   Me (inner monologue): Why? Why did I try to explain? What was I thinking? How in the world has she never heard that quote before? Why do today's youth have no culture? When will this stream of inner questioning end?
   Person (inner monologue): ooooooooookkkkkkkkk. Yikes. (walks away)

- I've said them so frequently that I actually mentally attribute them to myself. There's that honesty again.

- It's a secret test of friendship. If someone catches the quote and either 1) smiles/laughs acknowledging the reference or 2) continues on with the next line as if it were playing out in real life, I know I have found a friend. Possibly a forever friend. How can you fight when you never say anything original? Just quote happy stuff all the time and you're set for life. Eternal friendship bliss? Check.

I clearly have realistic and healthy relationship standards.

So, there you go. I'm just putting myself out there and saying: Here world, this is my blood. It's red like yours. So love me.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Update encounters

Ok, so once again I fail at blogging.

Here's a post get you updated on my life (since I know you care):

- went to my high school reunion. Can't believe I'm old enough to have one of those. Had a great time and saw some wonderful people.
- unlike many of my classmates, I'm not pregnant. (I know someone was wondering. Everyone in coffee hour does.)
- survived VBS, PLC and countless other crazy activities.
- went to camp. Got awesome tan lines, little sleep, friendship bracelets and a marshmallow gun. (That's means everything was pretty much perfect)
- started caring about gardening. Maybe it actually is in the family genes.
- replaced a shower head all by myself.

God is good and life is busy!

Oh, and Mom and Sitti had a garage sale in which Sitti (who could sell you your right arm for a pretty penny)  tried to sell self tanning lotion to an African American woman.

Those are the most noteworthy things I can think of right now. Consider yourself updated.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Switch Encounters

The light switches in our laundry room are out of sync and it's driving me crazy.

There are two of them: one by the door to the garage and one by the door that leads to the hallway. Currently the lights are off and one switch is up and the other is down. I can't get them to both be down when the lights are off.

Before you go judging me for the insignificant things that bug the begeezes out of me, let me attempt a list of explanations:

1. Everyone knows when a light switch is flipped up the lights are supposed to be on. That's not the case in our laundry room. Sometimes both switches are up and the lights are on, but that glory is short lived. Once you've transferred your colored clothes to the dryer and loaded up the whites, the switch imbalance returns.

2. They didn't used to be out of synch. I swear. They used to be perfect and normal.

3. Since I know they used to be normal, I feel like there's a riddle living in my house. It taunts me daily. "Figure it out, already!" it screams. "How did this happen?" "I bet a third grader would have this solved in a jiff." Riddle taunts are unbearable.

4. Every attempt to remedy the situation has failed. I have flipped the lights on and off a million times.

The only other thing I can think to try would be having another person join in the madness and try to flip the lights at the exact same time. This person will have to be someone other than my husband. I can already hear the 20 minute science lecture I would get if I tried to present my strategy. A lecture followed by laughter, mind you.

5. Yes, it's possible I have a number of psychological ailments. Thanks for asking.

6. Yes, I know there are real problems and struggles that deserve my attention and thought, but who wants to read a blog about those?

I will keep you posted, reader. If I am able to solve this puzzle, I will probably buy myself a gold star sticker or something else equally awesome and accomplishy.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

P@$$word Encounters

I'm not an internet hater. I love how accessible and easy the interweb makes life. I sometimes hate the drama it causes, but that a fifty page post for another day. But just like with anything wonderful, there has to be a catch. My catch?


How am I supposed to remember all my passwords?


Everything requires a password these days. And if you follow the password rules, you aren't supposed to use the same ones for everything, or even anything. If you have online banking, facebook, twitter, instagram, all your bills, netflix, credit cards, amazon, ebay, paypal, various memberships (like the jelly of the month club), every app or game on your phone and ipad, email, your other email, and your other email, you have your work cut out for you. It basically means you need a different password for about 50 different sites/accounts. AND some of those sites make you change them all the time!

I'm sure there's an app that can organize them all, but you probably need a password for that, too.

You can't use your pets' names, your birthday, anniversary, address or any other things that are readily available. Instead, you have to think of unique and obscure passwords for each account.

One of my best friends from high school whom I also roomed with for two years in college had the most unexpected email password ever. She was (and is) one of the most lovely people you will ever meet. Very kind, sweet, innocent (in a good way), and generally wonderful. I can't remember exactly why, but one day, for whatever reason, she told me her email password. It was "sexypanties." I was floored. Totally didn't see that coming and never would have expected it. It was the perfect password.  (I really hope it's not still her password because now Andi can go hack her account.)

I probably should start taking plays from my friend's password playbook. My next set of passwords will probably be all about how much I love cilantro, sci-fi movies and reading.

Crap. Now I've told you my secrets.

Go ahead, h@( k @w@y.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Nosey Encounters

This post is a little more personal than I usually like to get, but I can't help it. There is something that's really bugging me and I need to vent about it - so naturally I've chosen a group of people I might know.

You see, I have a zit in my nose.


This. Is. Happening.

And you know what? It hurts like the dickens, hades and any other crazy word or cliche phrase you've ever heard. It's right at the tip of my nose. It's on the inside, but you can see the redness from the outside (read: I look like Rudolph). And it's the kind of pain that brings tears to your eyes automatically. We are talking all kinds of ugly here, people.

It hurts to flare my nostrils, which I apparently do much more than I previously realized. It hurts to sneeze. It even hurts to kiss my husband (Arab nose problems). And it really hurts to tend to my allergy induced snot stream every 5 minutes.

I'm having a great week.

On the more philosophical side of serious, I'm thinking of using my condition as an object lesson. Something along the lines of, "The problem is on the inside, but you can see it rearing it's ugly head on the outside."

You go ahead and let that sink in.

I'll be back when I'm done crying. Or when I master the art of concealer on my nose.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Statistical Encounters

It seems as though there is an abundance of data out there. People study and record data on just about everything these days. You can look up studies on people, frequency of freak accidents, likelihood of yada yada yada AND so on and so forth. Chances are, if you've wonder about it, someone has studied it and conveniently cataloged their maybe-accurate findings and posted them on the internet.

Here's what I want to know: which stall do people choose when they use a public restroom and why?

This is a serious question. I checked the interwebs, and I'm not the first to inquire about such things. But most people merely polled their friends and posted their findings. They quote people like Vicki who say, "I choose the stall farthest from the door because it's usually the cleanest."

Interesting thought, Vicki.

I have this theory that personality type plays a significant role in the stall selection process.

Do type-A people usually make similar choices? "Second stall from the left. Every time."

What about only children? "Whichever one I want."

Or type-A people who go to the bathroom 7 times a morning? Do they always go to the same stall? What if it's taken? What then? The horror!

I don't know Vicki, so I have no idea how she fits in this picture, but I might know you.

So, you, what do you do?

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Fly Encounters


The church was a polling place yesterday. This means nothing to me (since I don't vote here), except that it meant the church doors near my office were wide open all day. Why does that matter?

There are currently five flies in my office.

Did you hear me?


I can't handle it*.

*"It" may be defined as:
The swooping.
The diving.
The buzzing.
The puke they supposedly distribute with each landing.
The contaminated snacks.
The taunting glares they give me with their million eyes.
The way they swiftly wiggle their front legs.

I am not in the habit of asking "why" questions, but this is forcing me to make an exception.

Why, God? Why did you make these insects? What do they do for the earth? Why did you send them to my office?

If God were to answer via email, I think it may have a heading like this:

To: erin
Subject: Re: That patience you prayed about


p.s. clearly God would use aol as his email provider. He's had email since the dial-up days. The only other option would be the Yahoo variant "Yahweh," as illustrated in Bruce Almighty.

p.p.s. If your office is infested with flies, you may think about putting strips of sticky-side-up masking tape all over your desk and computer to trap the pests. This is a crafty thought, but it will not work and the flies will laugh at you as they dance on your snares.