Category: Humor

But Was It a Radioactive, Genetically-Engineered Spider?

So, I was in Maui last week. It was lovely. A bad week in Maui could trump a good week most other places, I think. I did find Maui to be a little bitey, though.

Radioactive genetically engineered spider bite

I didn’t see the biter, but it looks like an odd bite to me. So I told Steve I thought there was a decent chance he was about to married to a super hero. He asked if my spidey-sense was tingling, but after locating my spidey-sense, I still couldn’t decide whether it was tingling or not. Then again, what if it wasn’t a spider? Maybe it was a radioactive, genetically-engineered mosquito and I’m checking the wrong sense for tingles. Although, despite hating spiders, I do think I would prefer to be a spider-based super hero than a mosquito one. Or, God forbid, a bed bug.

This post got weird fast. Anyway, I think there’s a chance I could be one of the Avengers in a few months. Like one of the freaky-deaky ones – not one of the ones that are just really good at shit. Although I’d settle for being that kind, too.

I’ll leave you with this sexy picture of Maui. Lest you think it’s all about the spiders.

IMG_20141027_113103_638Aloha.

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The Seven Stages of a Lawsuit.

Stage 4 is my favorite.

Lawsuit cartoon

I Will Scare the Crap Out of Your Children For Only $2 Bucks an Hour.

Welcome to “Babysitting 101” with Erin. We’ll start with what not to do (since, as with most things, that’s my strong suit).

When I was 12, I babysat a lot. We lived in a vacation town and what vacationing parents aren’t dying to get away from their children?

One dark and stormy night (or one warm June evening) I went to babysit for a very nice couple (at their vacation cabin in the woods) who had an 8-year-old girl and a 10-year-old boy…and they each had a friend with them. So, do the math…I’ll wait. Yes. That’s four kids. Now – it wasn’t the number of kids so much as the balance of power thing…cause I was only a couple of years older than the boys which didn’t instill me with a tremendous amount of authority.

The evening started out fine…we played with those toys that were big cats that turned into robots Transformer style? (Totally aside the point – but they were awesome.) An hour or so in, things started to unravel and my little monsters realized they did not actually have to listen to me. At all. This realization degraded into the lot of them running out the front door into the woods…forcing me to find a flashlight and pursue the little bastards. Once I finally wrangled them back into the house, I was at my wit’s end…and I was only 12…my wit wasn’t very long to begin with.

So I told them a little story. (*Note: I do not condone this – but it was wildly effective and slightly hilarious in retrospect.) Let me preface this by saying, I am quite the actress…especially when pushed to desperation. I told them that I was a werewolf and had (regrettably) eaten the last children I babysat for. I described it something like this:

Werewolf Babysitter

Now, I know what you’re thinking…no way they’d fall for it, right? You underestimate me, my friend. I cried…actually cried…while telling them the story about how I lost my temper and turned into a werewolf…and awoke in the aftermath, covered in adolescent blood with mutilated corpses in the house. Well, within 5 minutes, I had four exceptionally obedient children in bed, none of them speaking above a whisper. I still remember the boy asking, “how are you feeling now? Do you think you’ll turn?” And me answering, somberly, “no…I’m feeling much calmer. I think it’ll be okay.”

I did come clean to the mom when she was driving me home that night. She was surprised but more amused than angry. And they did ask me to babysit again (unfortunately, after assuring the children that I was not a lycanthrope so that card could only be played once). And so began my lifelong love of terrorizing children.

TBT, FBF, WBW, WTF.

Okay. Think of this as an intervention. Stop the madness, people.

Remember when someone came up with “Throw Back Thursday?” And everyone thought, “How fun! I want to post old pictures, too!” And all the little soldiers fell in line and started posting old pictures every Thursday.

Now this shit is just getting out of hand. Now we have “Flashback Friday” and “Way Back Wednesday,” too. WE GET IT. You like posting old pictures of yourself! I don’t blame you. I was younger, skinnier and apparently having more fun in the past as well, but that doesn’t justify inventing stupid names for every day of the week! (Whoever started “Man Crush Monday,” “Woman Crush Wednesday” and “Selfie Sunday” deserve a public flogging. Also, we should bring back public floggings. And “Selfie Sunday?” Really? I have a 20-year-old daughter. EVERY day is “selfie” day. Which is why I nicknamed my daughter Vanity Smurf.)

Vanity Smurf

Here’s a thought. If you run across an old picture you are certain will delight the Facebook/Twitter/Instagram masses…post it! <GASP!> How can I possibly post an old picture if it isn’t a Wednesday, Thursday or Friday??? Figure it out, Rebel. Time to forge your own way in the world.

Welcome to “This Shit Has To Stop Thursday.”

Home Improvement Blows.

So, we are trying to sell our house. This translates to “let’s do every little home improvement project we wanted to do for the last 10 years but were too lazy to do and continually procrastinated on so that we can turn around and sell our house and never enjoy all the freaking work we just put into it.” Or something like that. It also loosely translates to “the house was in fine shape until we put the damn thing on the market and now everything is falling apart.”

Case in point: paint. So, I may have sort of started painting half the house about eight years ago…and gotten bored part way through and stopped. And then I went to law school and did some other stuff that more legitimately justified my unfinished painting project for eight years running. Okay, so finish it, Stupid. Seems simple enough…but…I can’t remember the names of the paint colors from eight years ago and leftovers are nowhere to be found. So last weekend involved going to Kelly Moore and looking through 10-year-old paint swatches trying to remember if my dining room was Bohemian or Greystone. Because there are 87 goddamn shades of beige. SO fun. I finally remembered the dining room colors, but it wasn’t happening with the master bath so I just repainted that WHOLE thing back to its previous color. Yay!

Then, a few days ago, we awake at 6:30am to hear our daughter freaking out about ants. We go into her room and this is what we find:

Ant Problem

Okay. Well not exactly. Because my daughter is 15 and doesn’t really dress like that. Anyway, point being…we haven’t had a problem with ants in the house in YEARS. Put the son of a bitch on the market and voila – ants. So after 45 minutes with the vacuum and what became the “ant holocaust” – no more ants. You’re going to have to do better than that, House!

Then I’m in the service porch and I notice a missing piece of tile – a corner piece. Not chipped, not cracked, gone. My house is 27 years old! I’m going to go out on a limb and say I’m not gonna be able to find a piece of matching tile! Does ANYONE know what happened to it? Of course not. No idea. Noticed it missing…but didn’t think to mention it. This is a 4″ x 1″ piece of ceramic tile. I firmly believe that if you knocked it off, you would have heard it fall. But noooooo…it was the leprechauns, apparently. Then I counted to 10 so that I wouldn’t grab the good vodka from liquor cabinet and run away from home.

Oh – and for some insane reason, when my 15-year-old was little, we didn’t stop her from sticking stickers on her bedroom door. I can’t explain it. I guess it was cute for a while. Well, she’s added over the last 10 years to the tune of about 500 stickers. you really could barely see the door through them. Yes, it would have been easier to just buy and paint a new door, but I was feeling particularly cheap last weekend so me and my OCD spent 3 hours peeling stickers off her bedroom door. She helped. I would like to thank Hello Kitty for making stickers that come off in one piece and leave no tacky residue behind. I would like to tell Zoo Books to go straight to Hell because their stickers are made with some kind of satanic glue that only a significant amount of paint thinner could cope with.

Sigh. Anyway, this is all still a work in progress. I won’t go into the back-breaking day we spent weeding and covering half the yard in bark. Next weekend I get to go to Home Depot like I’m on some shitty scavenger hunt looking for a single piece of archaic tile. Labor Day – shmaber day. I’m going to be working on the fucking house.

And how many people have come to see our beautiful home that is now looking the best it has in a decade??? TWO. In three weeks. TWO showings. And this, Kids, is why mommy drinks.

The Fairy Tale Law Firm – Disinheritance Bites.

 

the fairy tale law firm

Once upon a time, the king of WhyDidMyKidsTurnOutToBeSuchAssholes (I suck at subtlety) had grown old and ill. He spent his days in his chamber alone, save for his nursemaid and his regular visits from his faithful squire. He knew that his son, Prince ThoughtlessPrick spent his days cavorting through the villages, gambling and seducing young maidens, while his daughter, Princess WorseThanAKardashian pursued her own vain and selfish pastimes.

The king was exceedingly wealthy, possessing more gold than any other king, largely because he had each one of his prized hunting dogs entirely encased in 24 karat gold after their death. (But Erin, you can’t dip a dead dog in gold!! It won’t work! Really? We’re trying to poke logic holes in this story?? Okay, admittedly I only bring this up because I made the mistake of saying to my husband last night, while watching Sharknado 2, “please! How are the sharks still alive if they are out of the water? They can’t breathe!” To which Steve, of course, replied, “are you really trying to poke holes in the plot of Sharknado 2?” Touche, Steve.)

Where was I? Oh, right, dying dad, shithead kids.

Tired of his children’s neglect and disrespect, the king summoned his barrister.

“Lady Barrister, I wish to change my last will and testament. It is my wish that my children receive none of my wealth. Instead, I wish all of my golden dogs to go to my loyal squire, ActuallyGaveTwoShitsAboutMe.”

“My Lord, are you certain that is your wish?” the barrister asked.

“I am. Even as I lie here dying, they care only for themselves. I only see them when they deplete their finances and come merely to insist I give them more coin. They deserve nothing and are unwilling to make their own way in the world. ActuallyGaveTwoShitsAboutMe has been a devoted friend, never asking anything in return.”

Satisfied by the king’s conviction, the barrister amended his last will and testament.

The king passed away within the fortnight (which, I guess, is like two weeks).

Prince ThoughtlessPrick and Princess WorseThanAKardashian immediately went to the castle following their father’s funeral in search of the gold dead dogs but were told by the guards that they had been bequeathed to the squire and that they were to receive nothing.

Enraged, the prince and princess engaged their own barrister to protest the change to their father’s will. And this barrister was a real dick.

On their behalf, Barrister I’mACompleteMoronButDon’tKnowIt wrote to the king’s barrister, threatening to bring the matter before the magistrate, claiming that the king was clearly mad and feeble-minded and only changed his will through the squire’s evil enticement. (i.e. lacked competence to execute the modification to estate documents and the squire exerted undue influence sufficient to overpower the will of the testator by exploiting his close, personal relationship with the king. Such bullshit.)

The king’s barrister responded, informing Barrister I’mACompleteMoronButDon’tKnowIt that the king’s nursemaid, who saw him daily, would attest to his sound mind, as would the knights she asked to be present to witness the king’s execution of the amended will. And that the squire knew nothing of the king’s intent to alter his bequest and was not present when the amendment was created, which Barrister I’mACompleteMoronButDon’tKnowIt should know is needed because to prove undue influence you have to show more than a close personal relationship giving one person influence over another – you have to show that the influence was brought to bear on the actual testamentary act and that the influencer overpowered the free will of the testator, dick! (The king’s barrister of course worded it with dignified professionalism and didn’t call him a dick. In the letter.)

Alas, the king’s awful children and Barrister I’mACompleteMoronButDon’tKnowIt insisted on bringing the entire matter before a magistrate. After much testimony from all subjects in the kingdom having personal knowledge of the matter, the honorable magistrate ruled that the amendment was valid and that the asshole children were entitled to nothing because YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO LEAVE YOUR SHIT TO WHOEVER YOU EFFING WANT WITHOUT DICKHEADS SAYING YOU WERE CRAZY AFTER YOU’RE DEAD IN AN EFFORT TO GET YOUR MONEY!! (Sorry. I’m done.)

Then the magistrate threw the prince and princess in jail for being greedy, money-grubbing, evil bastards and disbarred Barrister I’mACompleteMoronButDon’tKnowIt for being a moron (because this is my damn fairy tale and I say that’s how it ends).

THE END

Lessons From Comic-Con.

I went to San Diego last weekend for Comic-Con International (Nerd-Fest 2014). Here are my take-aways.

Comic-Con 2014

  1. Dressing up is totally worth it. It’s a weird combination of public humiliation and your 15 minutes of fame. We posed for dozens of pictures and Archer fans treated us like we were part of a secret club.
  2. Walking around a convention in 5-inch heels for four hours requires taking precautions to avoid injury causing you to limp around like an asshole for the five days following the convention.
    Buffy Lana and Archer at Comic-Con

    Buffy, Lana and Archer go to Comic-Con.

  3. I did not take appropriate precautions.
  4. As my friend pointed out (I don’t have permission to use her name on my blog so we’ll just call her Cameron Diaz), “looking that hot kinda makes the pain worth it, though.”
  5. Cameron went as Buffy but never had her stake in her hand so she apparently just passed for your average, I-wear-leather-pants-in-the-middle-of-summer-in-San-Diego convention-goer.
  6. Dress your dog in a matching Superman costume and you are a rockstar.
  7. It is possible to get sick of hearing people call out “danger zone!” when you walk by.
  8. Like Halloween, some women seem to use these conventions as an excuse to wear as little as humanly possible.
  9. They do not serve alcohol in the convention center.
  10. They should serve alcohol in the convention center.
Me and Bumble Bee

Me and Bumble Bee.

 

The Fairy Tale Law Firm (or The Not Even Remotely True Stories of How I Spent My Day).

the fairy tale law firm

So my dentist asked me yesterday to tell him about some cases I was working on…just whatever I could say without giving away too much. It was trickier than I thought because I’ve become so sickeningly cautious. My solution? I’m going to make shit up. Here is my very first installment of “The Fairy Tale Law Firm.” (Don’t steal that. Seriously. I’ll find you.)

Once upon a time, there was a glorious Kingdom called Can’tWeAllJustGetAlong. The beloved queen who ruled the land arose early one morning to the sound of birds singing. She went down to the courtyard and greeted her subjects. Then she climbed onto her gleaming white horse to go for a ride along the countryside. The drawbridge was lowered and the queen rode across it.

Once outside of the castle, the queen was approached by the king of the neighboring kingdom, We’reAllAssholes. The queen sighed. She dreaded interactions with the nasty little king, but she smiled kindly anyway.

“Queen EvenNicerThanJenniferAniston! Every time thouest lower thy drawbridge, it rests upon part of my kingdom! If thouest persist in opening thy drawbridge onto my land, I shall have my squires hack it to pieces!”

The queen was quite distraught and called for her barrister. “Lady Barrister, King MyMotherDidn’tHugMeEnough hast threatened to destroy our drawbridge, claiming that it lowers onto his kingdom. Why would he say such a thing?”

“Because he is a dick, Milady. But have no fear. We shall summon a squire who is wise in matters of land boundaries (and actually understands all that metes and bounds bullshit in property descriptions).”

The wise squire appeared and, after much investigation, reported to the queen that her drawbridge did not encroach on King MyMotherDidn’tHugMeEnough’s kingdom, but that his drawbridge actually lowered onto land within the boundary of Can’tWeAllJustGetAlong. (Karma’s a bitch, right?)

Queen EvenNicerThanJenniferAniston informed the king of the squire’s findings.

After much shouting, tantrum-throwing and name-calling, King MyMotherDidn’tHugMeEnough said, “it matters naught! My drawbridge has lowered onto that spot for 100 years! No one can make me move it!”

“But I would be within my rights to remove any portion which encroaches upon my kingdom, is that not true, Lady Barrister?”

“Aye, Milady.” (Note: this is a fairy tale. Generally all forms of self-help are discouraged by law enforcement and courts of law. Consult an attorney before cutting up your neighbor’s drawbridge.)

The queen then said to the king, “however, Milord, I have no intention of stooping to such measures and, if you and your subjects can try to stop being such assholes, I will consent to your drawbridge encroaching on our land.”
The king’s face turned red, he stomped his feet and said, “never! We’ll never stop being assholes!”

The queen sighed, smiled and said, “don’t piss me off or I’ll sue your ass.”

THE END

How I Lost My Street Cred.

Just kidding. I never had any. I am 100% suburban white bread who is urban-impaired. This was a gift from one of my best friends a few years ago:

Slang Flashcards

Which was funny, yes. Useful, no. Cause I know the words, but they sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth. But I do it anyway because it’s entertaining to my black, Mexican, middle-eastern and *native American friends who laugh **with me, not at me, when I say anything remotely “street.” And, yes, I felt ridiculous just saying “street.” I’ve got no game, I’m lacking in mad skills, and I straight fail on playin’ cool.

I can, however, quote The Family Guy with the best of them. That earns me no street cred, but my nerds feel what I’m puttin’ down. ***Word to your motha.

 

* Whatever. She’s blonde-haired and blue-eyed and thinks that her 25% Native American gives her more street cred than me. Dream on, Cupcake.

** I suspect at times they keep me around for comic relief…to laugh *with* me. My ass.

*** Apparently since “word” came about in the ’80’s and I am an 80’s child, I am allowed to use that one without repercussions.

Happy Birthday…And the Power of Christ Compels You.

This is a list of some of the gifts I received this weekend from my darling friends:

  • One bottle of wine
  • One bottle of champagne
  • TWO bottles of rye whiskey
  • One set of mason jar shot glasses
  • One “Do It Yourself Exorcism Kit”…since one of my friends who housesat for me has reported back that my house is definitely haunted

Do It Yourself Exorcism Kit

  • And this…because it’s weird and prickly like me and I was assured that the girly color was a reflection of the giver and not the receiver

Strange, Prickly and Pink

My husband bought me a book and some superhero undies.

So, based on the gifts from those that know me best, I’m apparently a weird, nerdy, drunk with really funny friends (who, let’s be real, are basically a bunch of nerdy drunks, themselves).