I enjoy being on time to work. I couldn’t care less if I'm not, but I enjoy settling in when I'm supposed to be there. It makes my whole day better.
There's no clear cut easy way to get here from my house though. Even though it is a perpetual cluster fuck, I have found that Central Ave has been the best route thus far. But lately, it is under constant construction. Let me rephrase that: constant obstruction. These men in orange vests take time from their smoking to lay a brick or two, then stand back, exhausted, light up and admire their work.
I was excited that they were mending the brain-jarring potholes that used to knock teeth loose every morning, especially when I rode the shocks-free bus. Such repair is not only necessary, it’s imperative. What I don’t understand, though, is the aesthetic overhaul that they are giving parts of Central Ave. The biggest reason I do not get this is because I thought we were in a recession and times were tough—why is this money being spent? I know my boyfriend and I are a little broke right now, so we prioritized: we fired our landscaper and mowed the lawn ourselves. We had to let Consuelo go and bought a cheap dishwasher. My Boboli pizza had shredded mozz instead of the fresh stuff last night. You know, you make sacrifices. And I think that increasing the overall aesthetic of a dump of a street should not be a priority. I had my heart set on the bonsai maze in my back yard, but it will have to wait.
Fixing the sidewalks is one thing, but is the Hannaford Plaza more enticing with some evenly-spaced brick columns holding up nothing? Columns are supposed to support stuff, right? The only thing these columns will hold up are drunken bums waiting for the 55 bus at 3 a.m. And make sure that turf grass looks nice, otherwise he’s not gonna be comfortable going to the bathroom while he waits! And the brick crossways across random intersections—stunning, just stunning. Was there some big sale on bricks that I was unaware of?
Downtown Albany looks great, but those repairs were done during better times and help out with tourism and downtown businesses. You know, sans the bronze statue of the man on the bench. But Central Avenue? I'm not saying give up on such an important and well- traveled path, but maybe you could start with cleaning up some of the garbage. That seems a little cheaper than useless columns. Then, when we get someone smart in office and the economy is better, you can have your columns and I can have my bonsai maze. Deal?
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Snack Attack
I must be cursed. Maybe this happens to everyone and they just don’t all batshit crazy like I do, but I feel like I constantly find the most disgusting things in my food. So I'm starting a photo log. About a year ago I was reaching into a snack pack sized serving of Lays original potato chips when I touched what felt like a furry little mouse. I screamed bloody murder, threw the bag across the room and did the hibbity jibbity dance for several minutes all while making the most eloquent dry heaving noise. It does not matter that it was probably just some strange oily clump, or whatever the woman on the phone described, I know it felt like a mouse. I know it looked like a fuzzy turd. I know it was not a delicious potato chip. 
Eventually my nightmares subsided. After my post traumatic stress disorder therapy, I was able to enjoy the quality products that Lays© had to offer. Of course, their mea culpa involved coupons for more of their product in the hopes that I would continue to be a reliable customer, sans fuzzy turd.
No sooner am I healed from my salty snack fiasco then I buy myself a jar of Planters Dry Roasted Peanuts. I love these so much a rarely get out of the store without making that delightful popping sound that comes with the breaking of the vacuum packed seal. I believe this to be the jars way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ to the thanks I am giving for the freshness insurance that comes with said popping sound. It’s comforting and soothing and tells me “you will be satisfied with this snack. So you can imagine my dismay when the first serving from the jar presents something that does not feel like a peanut. No sir. It feels like bones and teeth. I know it is not bones and teeth but there was a split second before my hand old my brain to tell my eyes to look and make sure. Until then, I could only assume it was the skeletal remains of the fuzzy chip mouse. It was this.
So yet again, my salted snack craving thwarted by what I'm told is a normal occurrence? “Sometimes the nuts just get cluster and the oil and blahblahblah……” How do I know this???? I'm no snack expert! I'm supposed to believe the word of some 800 number employee reading from a page? There’s no sanctity in my snacks anymore. And my consolation? Coupons for more snack, more risk, more chances to be disappointed and scared to eat this wonderful treats. That is all for now, I'm sure I will have updates as my life goes on, if it does after such a tragedy. Pretzels, don’t let me down.
PS Keep in mind, I found what I believed to be an eagle’s talon in a chicken salad a few years back but was not camera ready. I'm ready now. I hope you all are too.
Eventually my nightmares subsided. After my post traumatic stress disorder therapy, I was able to enjoy the quality products that Lays© had to offer. Of course, their mea culpa involved coupons for more of their product in the hopes that I would continue to be a reliable customer, sans fuzzy turd.
No sooner am I healed from my salty snack fiasco then I buy myself a jar of Planters Dry Roasted Peanuts. I love these so much a rarely get out of the store without making that delightful popping sound that comes with the breaking of the vacuum packed seal. I believe this to be the jars way of saying ‘you’re welcome’ to the thanks I am giving for the freshness insurance that comes with said popping sound. It’s comforting and soothing and tells me “you will be satisfied with this snack. So you can imagine my dismay when the first serving from the jar presents something that does not feel like a peanut. No sir. It feels like bones and teeth. I know it is not bones and teeth but there was a split second before my hand old my brain to tell my eyes to look and make sure. Until then, I could only assume it was the skeletal remains of the fuzzy chip mouse. It was this.
PS Keep in mind, I found what I believed to be an eagle’s talon in a chicken salad a few years back but was not camera ready. I'm ready now. I hope you all are too.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Pot Luck
Pot luck. Odd name for a chancy crap shoot of a feast. I don’t see ‘luck’ being the outcome. I have experienced far too many unidentified smells in this office to trust what a fellow employee made for these gatherings. And since I trust some more than others, I withdraw myself from said gatherings altogether to avoid being rude. “No thanks, I couldn’t possibly eat another bite, otherwise I’d sample your ambrosia that you’re handing to me with that hand of yours riddled with some identified dark substance underneath your nails. However, I have plenty of room for super clean Eileen’s double fudge brownies.”
Now I think my bitterness towards these office parties is no secret. Call me a bitch, that’s fine. I'm sorry that I have work to do and don’t want to pretend that I give a shit about you, nor do I think that it’s an example of caring to stand by you, sing along and have a piece of cake. To be perfectly honest with you, if I had a cake for my birthday/engagement/promotion/wedding/resurrection, etc., I wouldn’t want you pretending to be happy for me whilst you drool over my mom’s angel food cake with chocolate frosting. Odds are I don’t even know your name and you’re probably singing out of key. So when these sort of gatherings are expanded for the more important people, or even for some random displays of appreciation for ourselves, it should be a huge red flag to you that I would rather do work. “Oh, I’d love to come wish Paula well as she leaves for a week for a minor outpatient procedure, but I’d rather monotonously enter data into a spreadsheet for several hours.”
Now, I'm not sure how people cook in the privacy of their homes. I know when you're cooking for yourself you may not take as many precautions as you would if you were cooking for other people. Or is that just me? You know, testing the marinara by licking the spoon and putting it back in. Or worse, your finger! *dry heave* Perhaps you like to smoke when you cook. How do I know that at one point when you were worried about getting cream of mushroom soup on your Kool you let the ash grow to donkey dick proportions and then ‘oops, in the soups’?
“No one will notice.” You thought to yourself. If you even noticed that the ash mysteriously disappeared.
Is everyone familiar with the five second rule? I know I am. I also know I don’t abide by it one bit. I am a bit OCD. I don’t even eat food if it’s fallen off my plate onto the table, much less on the floor, nor do I expect anyone else to. I also keep my kitchen pretty immaculate, which I'm sure you believe you do as well, but your cats have a different idea. Little Fluffy’s back was itching him something fierce and earlier this afternoon he tried to ease his pain by rolling and writhing about on the linoleum in hopes that one tile may be warped enough to peel and scratch that nasty itch. Even if it is clean in your kitchen, Murphy’s Oil Soap residue is not my choice of marinade.
Maybe it’s me--I have been getting more and more germaphobic in the past few years. And I don’t wish to be inundated with whatever food grossness I may have left out. I'm aware that if I had enough time to type them all out, I'm sure you would’ve have enough time to read it. I love it when I share some debilitating hang up with someone only to have them make it worse. “You know, I have to thoroughly wash the vegetables in the supermarket if they aren’t already packaged.” I'll say.
“You know it’s not much better if they’re packaged! You know some filthy immigrant could’ve……(you fill in the blank), ” says some asshole who used to be my friend.
I know nothing is perfect. I know nothing is clean, but I have selective neuroses, and I'm messed up enough as it is without you getting a kick out of making me worse. So I preemptively ruin everyone else’s day. I turned my friend off of canned beer and soda by telling him that some guy at the bodega was resting his bare foot on the top of a 12 pack of cans one day. Right where you put your mouth. I got another friend to stop putting lemon in her water by telling her how the bartenders where I worked used to play catch with the fruit, very poorly. It’s no longer a garnish when you’ve squeezed and dropped it into your drink. Now it’s a floating bacterium. Enjoy! And I’ve worked in enough restaurants to ruining your special occasions for the rest of your lives. Chef’s surprise anyone?
So, I'll leave it at that, no response necessary or encouraged. And you can take your pot luck and shove it up your ass, if you haven’t already.
Homemade? Not till I’ve been in your home.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Rickie Lee Jones, The Egg, April 29th, 2011
“So…..that just happened……..”
That’s the thought that’s going through my head after seeing one of my idols, Rickie Lee Jones, in concert tonight. Imagine the perfect setting… 12 feet away from her in the Egg, one of my all time favorite places to see a show. I trembled just taking my seat at the thought of seeing her so close and hearing her voice so near. The last and only time I saw Rickie was in Northampton, Massachusetts about 8 years ago. I was fighting a pretty serious flu that required me to sit on the aisle and get up several times to use the bathroom. Also, George Bush was in office at the time which made for a very cranky Ms. Jones who intermittently reminded the audience to ‘take {their} country back’. I can understand and sympathize with such irreverence during that time. It was that awkward time for our country where 9/11 was still fresh but the impending war and patriot act was starting to chip away at the unconditional love and patriotism our nation briefly acquired. But I also wanted to hear some fucking music. I know which forums to attend to get my politics, thank you very much.
Considering all the variables as to why the first Rickie Lee Jones concert experience was not the greatest, I didn’t give up on her. I at least decided I would wait for a Democrat to be in office before seeing her live again.
Cut to this evening. For the most part it was a truly magical experience. She opened with “Satellites” which was a nice, friendly welcoming. Almost made me forget that she had pronounced “Albany’ wrong. Several times. I got to hear “Weasel and the White Boys Cool”, another favorite of mine. I realized that though I hadn’t listened to some of her albums in quite some time, the words swept back through me immediately and I mouthed them along. I showed some aural restraint out of respect for the audience and the close proximity of the performer. If only some others had shown such courtesy. During “Chuck E.’s in Love”, her most well known (and yet least favorite of mine) there was a girl sitting next to me that sounded like she was auditioning to be a backup singer. Speaking of the audience, I don’t think there was a single person in it other than my mother and I who did not get up and go to the bathroom. Shocking. But I digress.
The most mind-blowing portion of the night did not come from one of her dark lyrics or her knack for making the live version of the song delightfully unrecognizable. It came during the song “Company”. She berated her guitar player in a manner I can only describe as uncomfortable. Like having dinner at a couple’s house and watching them have a passive aggressive argument; once you sense it’s about to escalate you politely mention that ‘maybe it’s time to get going’. As a musician I’ve barely even spoken to people in my band like this in practice, much less on a stage. During the most dramatic part of the song she adlibbed the line ‘where the fuck are you, Jeffrey?’ Then she basically shooed him off the stage when the song was over.
She moved to the piano and played more of my favorites – “We Belong Together”, “Pirates”, “On Saturday Afternoons in 1963”, “A Stanger’s Car” and “Living it Up”. Before “Living it Up” she referenced the oh-so-current Fatboy Slim, asking the audience to try and provided percussion sounds. Another awkward moment that kind of wrecked what should’ve been one of my favorite songs of the evening. That one was not so delightfully unrecognizable. I was desperately hoping for Coolsville, but to no avail. Then she returned to the guitar and begrudgingly asked for “what’s his name, oh yeah, Jeff” to “come back from purgatory”.
She did a song that I didn’t know. I believe it was off her new album. She prefaced it with ‘so this is about another dead kid’ and rolled her eyes. At that point it seemed as though she had enough of Albany (pronounce Al as in the name and bunny as in the bunny). She seemed almost bored. Then she did “Night Train” and left pretty abruptly. Definitely the only show I’ve seen at the Egg that didn’t have at least ONE encore.
I’m not disappointed. I’m a little confused. She talked about being on some sort of celebrity poker show. I found myself questioning her ‘celebrity’ and chuckling. She’s not as well known as she should be and has more of a cult following in my opinion. After a performance like that I could see that small crowd growing smaller by the day. Certainly not the ‘celebrity’ someone might want for ratings on a poker show unless she can provide that kind of train-wreckage ‘what is she gonna say next’ aspect that these reality shows require, which is a shame when she should be known for the great music she has written and recorded over the years. I think I’ll just stick to listening to those recordings from now on.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Act Of Faith (written March 18, 2010)
I feel like there should be a new show called Celebrity Douchebag Club – like Celebrity Fit Club but instead of pounds of fat there are pounds of narcissism. And there’s always time for them to ‘weigh in’.
This is not shocking. That’s kind of what makes up their respective celebrity. But there seems to be a shift in the trend in the past few years. Instead of asking celebrities about themselves (usually their favorite topic) they are asked to weigh in on other celebrity scandals. My question is this: if I don’t really give a shit about the scandal to begin with, why the hell do I give a shit what Drew Barrymore thinks about it?
Upon learning of Tiger Woods’ affair, I will admit I was shocked. I was also a little entertained. This squeaky clean golf pro all of a sudden grew horns? Sensational. But you know what? I don’t feel bad for his wife. Know why? Because I don’t know who the fuck she is. She’s not a friend of mine, I'm pretty sure we’ve never crossed paths, and I'm near positive I can’t pronounce her last name. So you will not see my name along side of the citizens of the world in their public outcry and overflowing sympathy for Elin Norgebasbyrwsbt. Want to know why else I don’t feel bad for her? What kind of wife doesn’t know her husband is carrying on that many affairs? Bullshit. I’ve never heard her speak publicly, but unless she’s Helen Keller lame, she must’ve known something. Don’t you think?
And now Sandra Bullock’s husband cheats on her. So sad, so devastating! Right on the heels of her Oscar win and all the accoutrement that goes with it. Who would’ve seen it coming???? America’s sweetheart tames a motorcycle riding, beer drinking, tattooed man named Jesse James. They fall in love, get married and life happily ever after. Her career doesn’t take her away from her thrice married husband, no sir. And how cute is it that after being married to a porn star, he’s ready to settle down with goofy, snort-laughing girl next door. And they’ve never been exposed to movies where this same scenario plays out and doesn’t go so well for the leading female. (See Hope Floats)
Get real. Why do you think Keanu Reeves wasn’t in Speed 2? You can’t keep an action hero tied down! But more importantly, if my husband were to cheat on me and I were publicly (more limited than say, Sandra Bullock) humiliated, nothing would make me feel better than to have completely delusional strangers tweeting about it! My heart would fill with joy and all the sadness would go away. I would pick up the pieces and move on with my life. Or move to my hometown, rediscover my roots and fall in love with the ugly duckling turned handsome prince that I shirked off all throughout high school. I would say great tag lines ‘I never believed in second chances’ and he would say ‘well, I believe in you’ as the music swells and the rain pours down and I realize I loved him all along. That’s how it happens, right?
Maybe it’s a little hypocritical of me to go on about how people go on, so I'm gonna stop now. People just need to realize that celebrities are not your friends and family. And when your husband goes to get a little nookie cookie somewhere else because you’re too busy being obsessed with watching the ‘E!’ channel, I'm pretty sure Sandra Bullock is not gonna rally on her facebook page for you.
Now, I have to go. Brad and Angie are having another baby and I have got to get a card.
This is not shocking. That’s kind of what makes up their respective celebrity. But there seems to be a shift in the trend in the past few years. Instead of asking celebrities about themselves (usually their favorite topic) they are asked to weigh in on other celebrity scandals. My question is this: if I don’t really give a shit about the scandal to begin with, why the hell do I give a shit what Drew Barrymore thinks about it?
Upon learning of Tiger Woods’ affair, I will admit I was shocked. I was also a little entertained. This squeaky clean golf pro all of a sudden grew horns? Sensational. But you know what? I don’t feel bad for his wife. Know why? Because I don’t know who the fuck she is. She’s not a friend of mine, I'm pretty sure we’ve never crossed paths, and I'm near positive I can’t pronounce her last name. So you will not see my name along side of the citizens of the world in their public outcry and overflowing sympathy for Elin Norgebasbyrwsbt. Want to know why else I don’t feel bad for her? What kind of wife doesn’t know her husband is carrying on that many affairs? Bullshit. I’ve never heard her speak publicly, but unless she’s Helen Keller lame, she must’ve known something. Don’t you think?
And now Sandra Bullock’s husband cheats on her. So sad, so devastating! Right on the heels of her Oscar win and all the accoutrement that goes with it. Who would’ve seen it coming???? America’s sweetheart tames a motorcycle riding, beer drinking, tattooed man named Jesse James. They fall in love, get married and life happily ever after. Her career doesn’t take her away from her thrice married husband, no sir. And how cute is it that after being married to a porn star, he’s ready to settle down with goofy, snort-laughing girl next door. And they’ve never been exposed to movies where this same scenario plays out and doesn’t go so well for the leading female. (See Hope Floats)
Get real. Why do you think Keanu Reeves wasn’t in Speed 2? You can’t keep an action hero tied down! But more importantly, if my husband were to cheat on me and I were publicly (more limited than say, Sandra Bullock) humiliated, nothing would make me feel better than to have completely delusional strangers tweeting about it! My heart would fill with joy and all the sadness would go away. I would pick up the pieces and move on with my life. Or move to my hometown, rediscover my roots and fall in love with the ugly duckling turned handsome prince that I shirked off all throughout high school. I would say great tag lines ‘I never believed in second chances’ and he would say ‘well, I believe in you’ as the music swells and the rain pours down and I realize I loved him all along. That’s how it happens, right?
Maybe it’s a little hypocritical of me to go on about how people go on, so I'm gonna stop now. People just need to realize that celebrities are not your friends and family. And when your husband goes to get a little nookie cookie somewhere else because you’re too busy being obsessed with watching the ‘E!’ channel, I'm pretty sure Sandra Bullock is not gonna rally on her facebook page for you.
Now, I have to go. Brad and Angie are having another baby and I have got to get a card.
Rubbed the Wrong Way
The work force is a stressful environment, for some more stressful than others. It can cause tension, both inside and out. You may start to grind your teeth at night which causes you to lose sleep. Sitting in that cubicle for hours a day may hurt your back. Propping up the phone with your shoulder so you can multi-task by typing and talking at the same time can have a serious effect on your neck. All of these factors lead to pain and discomfort! When will it end?!?!?!?!
This, however, in no way justifies massaging one another in the office. I repeat, this DOES NOT JUSTIFY OFFICE MASSAGES. First of all if I may be so blunt, some of you are not even pleasant enough to look at much less look at you getting or giving a back massage. Some of you are not pleasant enough to listen to much less listen to you moan or declare how good it feels. It short, it’s just fucking gross.
There was a woman who used to sit behind me who in my opinion wasn’t smart enough to let her job stress her out. Let me explain. I work for Child Protective Services, not the most laid back environment. This woman (we’ll call her Margo) had to type up child abuse reports. She was so stupid that she couldn’t possibly process actual stressful situations. And she would explain this to you in her simpleton vernacular; “You just can’t let it get to you, gnome saying? You just gotta do it and forget it, gnome saying?” But if you used her french vanilla creamer she left in the communal fridge or raised the price of her egg salad sandwich in the lobby deli well look out! Her day was ruined. She would obsess and call everyone she knew. So when someone passes and sees poor ‘Margo’ in despair, they assume that it’s because she just had to type up a disturbing child abuse report. Those poor children, having to read about it day after day….so sad. Poor ‘Margo’. Here, let me help.
“Oooh, that feels good”. Breakfast is ruined. “You should get a job doing this, gnome saying?” Now here goes lunch. And this was only listening.
On the common occasion that you visually witness this, it’s even more disturbing. I can’t even get the gears churning in my head to illustrate my point. My brain is going on strike.
Now one might suggest doing this in a private area like an empty office, or a conference room. But that would be an inappropriate suggestion. I mean, that would be weird to steal away in the middle of the day to give your coworker a back massage, right? But it’s entirely appropriate to do it in front of my fragile eyes and weak stomach.
I’d rather listen to you groan about how much you hate your jobs. Oh wait, I get to hear that too.
This, however, in no way justifies massaging one another in the office. I repeat, this DOES NOT JUSTIFY OFFICE MASSAGES. First of all if I may be so blunt, some of you are not even pleasant enough to look at much less look at you getting or giving a back massage. Some of you are not pleasant enough to listen to much less listen to you moan or declare how good it feels. It short, it’s just fucking gross.
There was a woman who used to sit behind me who in my opinion wasn’t smart enough to let her job stress her out. Let me explain. I work for Child Protective Services, not the most laid back environment. This woman (we’ll call her Margo) had to type up child abuse reports. She was so stupid that she couldn’t possibly process actual stressful situations. And she would explain this to you in her simpleton vernacular; “You just can’t let it get to you, gnome saying? You just gotta do it and forget it, gnome saying?” But if you used her french vanilla creamer she left in the communal fridge or raised the price of her egg salad sandwich in the lobby deli well look out! Her day was ruined. She would obsess and call everyone she knew. So when someone passes and sees poor ‘Margo’ in despair, they assume that it’s because she just had to type up a disturbing child abuse report. Those poor children, having to read about it day after day….so sad. Poor ‘Margo’. Here, let me help.
“Oooh, that feels good”. Breakfast is ruined. “You should get a job doing this, gnome saying?” Now here goes lunch. And this was only listening.
On the common occasion that you visually witness this, it’s even more disturbing. I can’t even get the gears churning in my head to illustrate my point. My brain is going on strike.
Now one might suggest doing this in a private area like an empty office, or a conference room. But that would be an inappropriate suggestion. I mean, that would be weird to steal away in the middle of the day to give your coworker a back massage, right? But it’s entirely appropriate to do it in front of my fragile eyes and weak stomach.
I’d rather listen to you groan about how much you hate your jobs. Oh wait, I get to hear that too.
Fruitless
An open letter to the guy or girl who ate my fruit out of the communal fridge;
Who in the blue fuck do you think you are? Surely you had to know it wasn’t yours and yet I picture the fat, knobby sausage links you call fingers glistening with the juice of honeydew as your hand approached your grinning, thieving mouth and realized you enjoyed it. I picture you leaning back and laughing as you use the back of your polyester sleeve to wipe the excess nectar from your gaping hole. I figured with someone as disgustingly fat as you must mean that my fruit was probably safe. I could see you stealing pork rinds or chocolate muffins, but fruit? No sir.
You probably make a lot more money than me as well, since I make next to the least amount in this company, so you can obviously afford your own fruit. Probably better and more exotic fruit too. Like pomegranates and mango and kiwi.
Or maybe you’re just so anal that you threw it out. Not even checking to make sure if it had reached its expiration. Or maybe it was in the way of your crusty ham sandwich with generic mustard on the heels of stale rye.
Maybe the sight of something so healthy just made you sick. Made you hate your fat self more than you already do, so it had to go. “Get out of my sight, delicious pear” you screamed as your hurled it into the nearest trash can.
Whatever your story is, you’ve ruined my lunch. You’ve ruined my day, and most likely, my life. No longer will I feel safe dropping off a bag of fresh cut strawberries and a handful of grapes. No longer will I bring anything. I will merely waste away in silence. You’ll find me when you begin to notice the smell. If you’re not sure what that smell is, well, it’s pretty close to your ham sandwich.
I hate you. I hope you choke on the pulp of an orange. And I hope it’s my orange.
Love, The Purveyor Of Fruit, Erin Harkes.
Who in the blue fuck do you think you are? Surely you had to know it wasn’t yours and yet I picture the fat, knobby sausage links you call fingers glistening with the juice of honeydew as your hand approached your grinning, thieving mouth and realized you enjoyed it. I picture you leaning back and laughing as you use the back of your polyester sleeve to wipe the excess nectar from your gaping hole. I figured with someone as disgustingly fat as you must mean that my fruit was probably safe. I could see you stealing pork rinds or chocolate muffins, but fruit? No sir.
You probably make a lot more money than me as well, since I make next to the least amount in this company, so you can obviously afford your own fruit. Probably better and more exotic fruit too. Like pomegranates and mango and kiwi.
Or maybe you’re just so anal that you threw it out. Not even checking to make sure if it had reached its expiration. Or maybe it was in the way of your crusty ham sandwich with generic mustard on the heels of stale rye.
Maybe the sight of something so healthy just made you sick. Made you hate your fat self more than you already do, so it had to go. “Get out of my sight, delicious pear” you screamed as your hurled it into the nearest trash can.
Whatever your story is, you’ve ruined my lunch. You’ve ruined my day, and most likely, my life. No longer will I feel safe dropping off a bag of fresh cut strawberries and a handful of grapes. No longer will I bring anything. I will merely waste away in silence. You’ll find me when you begin to notice the smell. If you’re not sure what that smell is, well, it’s pretty close to your ham sandwich.
I hate you. I hope you choke on the pulp of an orange. And I hope it’s my orange.
Love, The Purveyor Of Fruit, Erin Harkes.
30 going on........
I'm having a bad day. My body is aging faster than my mind it seems. I don’t feel like I'm getting any smarter, but I feel like I'm getting older and fast!
You see, the problem is I went to the doctor. I'm what the psychiatric profession would call a hypochondriac. I don’t mean to be, but I justify it by telling myself “if they tell me it’s only cancer, it will be good news compared to what I believed I had.”
I think my biggest problem is that I don’t really acknowledge the varying degrees of severity in medical conditions. There are no stages, no better or worse. In my mind, you either have it or you don’t.
A few years ago my older gentleman plutonic friend John had bursitis. I was called by my friend Debbie to go check on him. When I arrived he was crippled, lying half way off the couch, groaning in agony. It was affecting one whole half of his body. And he hadn’t been off the couch in days, so when I tried to help him move, boy did he ever stink. I ended up calling an ambulance because I couldn’t even move him in my car to get him to the hospital. The ambulance arrived and I followed it to the hospital. He was in there for days; nothing helping his agony except for an occasional pain killer that barely made gave him comfort enough to sleep. When he was able to sleep, it was merely an hour or two till the pain woke him. I can’t not even imagine such pain! And this was no pussy, my friend. He was a tough guy. So the doctor tells me that he has bursitis. It will never go away, but his pain will eventually subside and he is to return to the hospital should it become painful again.
“What causes the pain when you have bursitis, so we can avoid it at all costs?” I asked.
“Movement will aggravate it.” Really? Just movement? So, I suppose it’s back to the couch. Forever.
“What else can we do, doctor?”
“Pray.”
Of course I exaggerate. Slightly. Hypochondria, rear thy ugly head!
So yesterday when the Doctor tells me I have bursitis. My mind immediately reverts back to the sight of my friend John in all his agony. I compare that to my slight limp from pain in my hip. I'm going to die.
“Tendonitis as well? In both my knees? You may as well just euthanize me right here on this table!” I thought.
The only laugh I got was when the doctor asked me if I ever played sports. I just assume everyone knows how pathetic I was in high school, just by looking at me. “You didn’t know?” I would ask through my laughter.
I can laugh about it now, it’s healthy. I was never as good as my MVP all county captain of all major sports older sister. I tried, and always failed miserably. As a child, they called me turtle because I couldn’t keep up when the neighborhood children would run up the hill. As a teen, it went from ‘turtle’ to just plain ‘loser’. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve called them something worse right back, if only I could’ve ever caught my breath.
At least now I'm over it.
So then the lying bitch of a nurse tells me a cortisone shot will ease my pain. “Will it hurt?” I ask.
“Only a little”. She replied in her soulless voice. May she rot in hell.
This part gets a little gross. If you're eating, like my brother was when I told him, you may want to wait to read this. She shoved this needle into my hip. Naturally I was not looking, so I can only assume the needle was roughly the size of a maypole. What started out as a slight ‘ow’ escalated like a siren, growing louder and more piercing, slight subsiding, only to rise again. Tears shot forth from my eyes like the fountains in Vegas. Then it got worse.
Doctor Sadist came in the room and said “wait! Her bursitis sac is rather large, so move it around and make sure to get the cortisone all the way through it.”
Each of them took turns swiveling this needle around like an Atari joystick playing asteroids or pong. “A little to the left, no right, no back to the left, now up, down, you got it!” I pictured them saying while I concentrated on the blue flame displayed on the back of my eyelids. Then for added fun, they said “get up, move around, try to walk on it!”
Hahahahahaha, crafty fucks.
See you again in three months for more Atari. I'll be the one shit faced and reeking of whiskey in the waiting room. Bring it on.
You see, the problem is I went to the doctor. I'm what the psychiatric profession would call a hypochondriac. I don’t mean to be, but I justify it by telling myself “if they tell me it’s only cancer, it will be good news compared to what I believed I had.”
I think my biggest problem is that I don’t really acknowledge the varying degrees of severity in medical conditions. There are no stages, no better or worse. In my mind, you either have it or you don’t.
A few years ago my older gentleman plutonic friend John had bursitis. I was called by my friend Debbie to go check on him. When I arrived he was crippled, lying half way off the couch, groaning in agony. It was affecting one whole half of his body. And he hadn’t been off the couch in days, so when I tried to help him move, boy did he ever stink. I ended up calling an ambulance because I couldn’t even move him in my car to get him to the hospital. The ambulance arrived and I followed it to the hospital. He was in there for days; nothing helping his agony except for an occasional pain killer that barely made gave him comfort enough to sleep. When he was able to sleep, it was merely an hour or two till the pain woke him. I can’t not even imagine such pain! And this was no pussy, my friend. He was a tough guy. So the doctor tells me that he has bursitis. It will never go away, but his pain will eventually subside and he is to return to the hospital should it become painful again.
“What causes the pain when you have bursitis, so we can avoid it at all costs?” I asked.
“Movement will aggravate it.” Really? Just movement? So, I suppose it’s back to the couch. Forever.
“What else can we do, doctor?”
“Pray.”
Of course I exaggerate. Slightly. Hypochondria, rear thy ugly head!
So yesterday when the Doctor tells me I have bursitis. My mind immediately reverts back to the sight of my friend John in all his agony. I compare that to my slight limp from pain in my hip. I'm going to die.
“Tendonitis as well? In both my knees? You may as well just euthanize me right here on this table!” I thought.
The only laugh I got was when the doctor asked me if I ever played sports. I just assume everyone knows how pathetic I was in high school, just by looking at me. “You didn’t know?” I would ask through my laughter.
I can laugh about it now, it’s healthy. I was never as good as my MVP all county captain of all major sports older sister. I tried, and always failed miserably. As a child, they called me turtle because I couldn’t keep up when the neighborhood children would run up the hill. As a teen, it went from ‘turtle’ to just plain ‘loser’. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve called them something worse right back, if only I could’ve ever caught my breath.
At least now I'm over it.
So then the lying bitch of a nurse tells me a cortisone shot will ease my pain. “Will it hurt?” I ask.
“Only a little”. She replied in her soulless voice. May she rot in hell.
This part gets a little gross. If you're eating, like my brother was when I told him, you may want to wait to read this. She shoved this needle into my hip. Naturally I was not looking, so I can only assume the needle was roughly the size of a maypole. What started out as a slight ‘ow’ escalated like a siren, growing louder and more piercing, slight subsiding, only to rise again. Tears shot forth from my eyes like the fountains in Vegas. Then it got worse.
Doctor Sadist came in the room and said “wait! Her bursitis sac is rather large, so move it around and make sure to get the cortisone all the way through it.”
Each of them took turns swiveling this needle around like an Atari joystick playing asteroids or pong. “A little to the left, no right, no back to the left, now up, down, you got it!” I pictured them saying while I concentrated on the blue flame displayed on the back of my eyelids. Then for added fun, they said “get up, move around, try to walk on it!”
Hahahahahaha, crafty fucks.
See you again in three months for more Atari. I'll be the one shit faced and reeking of whiskey in the waiting room. Bring it on.
Having A Hoot!
How I spent my Memorial Day Weekend.
Gas prices be damned. I have the money. I'll spend it how I want. Honestly, I don’t understand what all the hubbub is about.
I filled up my Hummer at some Paki joint around the corner. Then I sped over to the grocery store to stock up on some veal. I bought a ton, if I don’t eat it all of it, oh well. Maybe if I can remember, I can freeze it for later, or just throw it out, no matter. I can always get more. You haven’t lived until you’ve had my barbeque veal. Mmmm, mmm.
So I hit the road. Sometimes, when there’s no one around, I try to see what this baby can do. I got ‘er up to 120 before I saw another car. Man them Adirondacks are pretty, but if you ever get the chance to take you hummer up to a buck twenty five? Do it.
Then I felt like I should’ve taken in the scenery a bit more, after all, I am on vacation. So I turned around, went back, and drove those 75 miles again.
Then I stopped to fill ‘er up. Man is it expensive to fill this thing.
I got a little hungry about an hour later so I pulled through the McDonalds. The drive thru was taking forever, so I figured I’d park and go in. Man was it hot outside. I left her running so when I came back out, she’d be nice and cool. And it was a damn good thing I did too, because inside the restaurant was not much faster.
About a half hour later I get back on the road. Only 3 more hours to go! I found myself cursing out McDonalds. When in the hell did they switch to this flimsy paper packaging? I got mustard all over my camo! What happened to those awesome, sturdy, styrofoam containers? Never had to worry about making a mess with those! Since the outside of the wrapper was as messy as the inside, I had no choice but to throw it out the window. I can’t get that on my leather seats. I just armoralled them. You ever use armorall? Shit’s great. But don’t buy the pump one, it just doesn’t work as well. They have the same brand in an aerosol container, hell, does half the work for you!
Then I pulled over for some gas. Also picked up some petrol for the grill. I can’t grill veal over an open fire. You’re just risking over cooking that meat. I need my veal rare.
So I finally get to my exit off the Northway. Absolutely breathtaking. After I stop off the exit and refuel, I head up the side of the mountain to my campsite. My huntin' buddies have beat me there. They drive WAY fast. The sun was about to come down so we got our fire going. No one brought any newspaper! We searched for something. I found a book called the Grapes of Wrath. Sounds too fancy to me. It worked great and that fire was going in no time.
It weren’t enough to keep me warm, so I got out my Carhartt. This thing is warmer than my granmommy’s lap on an August afternoon. It’s lined with fur. Not that imitation shit neither, no sir, this is the real deal.
The next day we did some hunting, fishing, swimming, you know, man stuff. Junior had a great idea of bobbing for bottles in the river. We found most of ‘em. Hey, you can’t win ‘em all. That Junior, what an smart ol’ coot he is.
Then we gassed up our boat and went out and fished some more. But I remembered we had our veal for dinner that night! And I aint about to sit around some rotting fish till tomorrow, so we threw ‘em back. Couple of them was still able to swim.
That night, we feasted on our veal. Most of it was edible, Junior over cooked some of it. The dogs wouldn’t even eat it!
All in all it was a great weekend. We spent some time making plans for next year. An Alaskan fishing trip. Junior’s got a cousin who works on an oil rig. He says we can drink on the boat if we’re careful, he does all the time. He says those things practically pilot themselves. If we’re lucky, we’ll see some seals! I’ve already got my club picked out. Have a nice summer, y’all!
Gas prices be damned. I have the money. I'll spend it how I want. Honestly, I don’t understand what all the hubbub is about.
I filled up my Hummer at some Paki joint around the corner. Then I sped over to the grocery store to stock up on some veal. I bought a ton, if I don’t eat it all of it, oh well. Maybe if I can remember, I can freeze it for later, or just throw it out, no matter. I can always get more. You haven’t lived until you’ve had my barbeque veal. Mmmm, mmm.
So I hit the road. Sometimes, when there’s no one around, I try to see what this baby can do. I got ‘er up to 120 before I saw another car. Man them Adirondacks are pretty, but if you ever get the chance to take you hummer up to a buck twenty five? Do it.
Then I felt like I should’ve taken in the scenery a bit more, after all, I am on vacation. So I turned around, went back, and drove those 75 miles again.
Then I stopped to fill ‘er up. Man is it expensive to fill this thing.
I got a little hungry about an hour later so I pulled through the McDonalds. The drive thru was taking forever, so I figured I’d park and go in. Man was it hot outside. I left her running so when I came back out, she’d be nice and cool. And it was a damn good thing I did too, because inside the restaurant was not much faster.
About a half hour later I get back on the road. Only 3 more hours to go! I found myself cursing out McDonalds. When in the hell did they switch to this flimsy paper packaging? I got mustard all over my camo! What happened to those awesome, sturdy, styrofoam containers? Never had to worry about making a mess with those! Since the outside of the wrapper was as messy as the inside, I had no choice but to throw it out the window. I can’t get that on my leather seats. I just armoralled them. You ever use armorall? Shit’s great. But don’t buy the pump one, it just doesn’t work as well. They have the same brand in an aerosol container, hell, does half the work for you!
Then I pulled over for some gas. Also picked up some petrol for the grill. I can’t grill veal over an open fire. You’re just risking over cooking that meat. I need my veal rare.
So I finally get to my exit off the Northway. Absolutely breathtaking. After I stop off the exit and refuel, I head up the side of the mountain to my campsite. My huntin' buddies have beat me there. They drive WAY fast. The sun was about to come down so we got our fire going. No one brought any newspaper! We searched for something. I found a book called the Grapes of Wrath. Sounds too fancy to me. It worked great and that fire was going in no time.
It weren’t enough to keep me warm, so I got out my Carhartt. This thing is warmer than my granmommy’s lap on an August afternoon. It’s lined with fur. Not that imitation shit neither, no sir, this is the real deal.
The next day we did some hunting, fishing, swimming, you know, man stuff. Junior had a great idea of bobbing for bottles in the river. We found most of ‘em. Hey, you can’t win ‘em all. That Junior, what an smart ol’ coot he is.
Then we gassed up our boat and went out and fished some more. But I remembered we had our veal for dinner that night! And I aint about to sit around some rotting fish till tomorrow, so we threw ‘em back. Couple of them was still able to swim.
That night, we feasted on our veal. Most of it was edible, Junior over cooked some of it. The dogs wouldn’t even eat it!
All in all it was a great weekend. We spent some time making plans for next year. An Alaskan fishing trip. Junior’s got a cousin who works on an oil rig. He says we can drink on the boat if we’re careful, he does all the time. He says those things practically pilot themselves. If we’re lucky, we’ll see some seals! I’ve already got my club picked out. Have a nice summer, y’all!
Mmm Mmm Good!
Last week it was announced that Campbell Soup was issuing a recall of 15 million pounds of the wildly popular product – SpaghettiOs with meatballs. The news of this immediately prompted my brain to play the delightful jingle that went along with the product. “Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs!” Uh-oh? Seems like a damning promotion. Here’s my theory on why the marketing department would have such a threatening slogan.
True story: Greg Campbell, upon inheriting the Campbell Soup dynasty became infuriated at his late father's last will and testament which declared one stipulation of said inheritance. Greg was not to pursue his homosexual lifestyle. Instead he was to marry Stephanie Lipton who had been bequeathed by her father in hopes of monopolizing the soup industry and amassing the two highly lucrative corporations. Greg decided the only way to save some fortune but get back at his late father was to get the worst marketing firm, McCann, Hertz and Howe, to write a jingle for their most profitable product - the spaghettiO. And given his father's shark like business skills (which Greg also inherited) he was able to sell this to the board of directors, thus birthing the wildly popular, yet horribly damaging ditty. Now Greg's evil plot to take down his father's dynasty has finally come to fruition with the recall of spaghettiO with meatballs! While the company begins its downward spiral towards bankruptcy, Greg has already left Stephanie, moved down to Tijuana to be with his lover Rico, and has no legal culpability because he has been warning the American public for years by simply uttering "Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs."
True story: Greg Campbell, upon inheriting the Campbell Soup dynasty became infuriated at his late father's last will and testament which declared one stipulation of said inheritance. Greg was not to pursue his homosexual lifestyle. Instead he was to marry Stephanie Lipton who had been bequeathed by her father in hopes of monopolizing the soup industry and amassing the two highly lucrative corporations. Greg decided the only way to save some fortune but get back at his late father was to get the worst marketing firm, McCann, Hertz and Howe, to write a jingle for their most profitable product - the spaghettiO. And given his father's shark like business skills (which Greg also inherited) he was able to sell this to the board of directors, thus birthing the wildly popular, yet horribly damaging ditty. Now Greg's evil plot to take down his father's dynasty has finally come to fruition with the recall of spaghettiO with meatballs! While the company begins its downward spiral towards bankruptcy, Greg has already left Stephanie, moved down to Tijuana to be with his lover Rico, and has no legal culpability because he has been warning the American public for years by simply uttering "Uh-oh, SpaghettiOs."
Pillow Talk (from June of 2008)
“There’s my Heather!” He said as I went to join him in bed at 2 o’clock in the morning. He opened his arms to welcome me, only I had stopped in midair, somehow, as if weightless and found the western most point on the bed in which to spoon the seam of the mattress and leave him cold in the east. You see, my name is not Heather.
Our friends spent last weekend with us, one being Patrick. The other being his beautiful wife Heather. Sure, he was sound asleep but am I to find solace in this explanation for the major Freudian slip? “I was only dreaming about her.” If I could’ve found a way to sleep further away from this man at this point, I would’ve been on the floor. I contemplated the couch. But the cough syrup was taking over and I couldn’t negotiate those stairs, so I dug my angry fingers into the seam of that mattress and held on for dear life. Then I tightly closed my furious eyes, flipped through my mental filmstrip of every good looking man I had ever seen, and tried to choose my suitor for dreams.
Brad Pitt? Nah, I pictured a small, black child dangling from his neck. Too much baggage, I thought.
Matt Damon? He was great in Good Will Hunting, till I found out that he and Affleck trained for Boston accents. With them being from Boston I found this odd. They were probably privileged kids from the ‘Nath’ Side, which made their destitute characters less believable, thus negating the entire movie for me and kindly escorting Matt Damon from my dreams. You too, Ben. Out.
Matthew McConaughey. If he were to turn mute. I just want to pat him on his beautiful head and say “Shhh, baby. You don’t need to talk.” I could stare at that man’s body for hours, but honestly, you’d never be able to touch it because he never stops working out. In between crunches, he’s smoking dope and flapping branches around on the beach, trying to take flight. Occasionally he breaks for a naked bongo/bong session with Woody Harrelson. Far too busy and far too stoned for me.
Josh Duhamel. He’s with Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. She Black Eye Peed her pants on stage once. He’s still with her. I need a man with standards.
The boys from Sex and the City. Aiden, sweet, sweet Aiden. He’s a little busy dating his mom, Bo Derek. She’s like a 20 now.
Chris Noth is awesome. Big nose and all, but I'm constantly mad at him. Don’t know why. I'll wait till the movie comes out.
Any of the boys I so totally crushed hard on when I was younger are either gay (Chad Allen), bloated (Corey Haim), or not so cute as a man (Fred Savage). Anthony Michael Hall doesn’t even look like himself anymore. Luke Perry from 90210? He was old enough to be my dad when he was pretending to be my age.
I guess I'll just roll over and spoon Patrick, I mean Tim. I can’t stay mad at him. I just can’t. There are far worse times to call me by the wrong name. And when that day comes, well, I hope they let me blog from prison.
Our friends spent last weekend with us, one being Patrick. The other being his beautiful wife Heather. Sure, he was sound asleep but am I to find solace in this explanation for the major Freudian slip? “I was only dreaming about her.” If I could’ve found a way to sleep further away from this man at this point, I would’ve been on the floor. I contemplated the couch. But the cough syrup was taking over and I couldn’t negotiate those stairs, so I dug my angry fingers into the seam of that mattress and held on for dear life. Then I tightly closed my furious eyes, flipped through my mental filmstrip of every good looking man I had ever seen, and tried to choose my suitor for dreams.
Brad Pitt? Nah, I pictured a small, black child dangling from his neck. Too much baggage, I thought.
Matt Damon? He was great in Good Will Hunting, till I found out that he and Affleck trained for Boston accents. With them being from Boston I found this odd. They were probably privileged kids from the ‘Nath’ Side, which made their destitute characters less believable, thus negating the entire movie for me and kindly escorting Matt Damon from my dreams. You too, Ben. Out.
Matthew McConaughey. If he were to turn mute. I just want to pat him on his beautiful head and say “Shhh, baby. You don’t need to talk.” I could stare at that man’s body for hours, but honestly, you’d never be able to touch it because he never stops working out. In between crunches, he’s smoking dope and flapping branches around on the beach, trying to take flight. Occasionally he breaks for a naked bongo/bong session with Woody Harrelson. Far too busy and far too stoned for me.
Josh Duhamel. He’s with Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas. She Black Eye Peed her pants on stage once. He’s still with her. I need a man with standards.
The boys from Sex and the City. Aiden, sweet, sweet Aiden. He’s a little busy dating his mom, Bo Derek. She’s like a 20 now.
Chris Noth is awesome. Big nose and all, but I'm constantly mad at him. Don’t know why. I'll wait till the movie comes out.
Any of the boys I so totally crushed hard on when I was younger are either gay (Chad Allen), bloated (Corey Haim), or not so cute as a man (Fred Savage). Anthony Michael Hall doesn’t even look like himself anymore. Luke Perry from 90210? He was old enough to be my dad when he was pretending to be my age.
I guess I'll just roll over and spoon Patrick, I mean Tim. I can’t stay mad at him. I just can’t. There are far worse times to call me by the wrong name. And when that day comes, well, I hope they let me blog from prison.
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