Category: Humor

iPod Confessional.

The top 5 most embarrassing things on my iPod. Because when I can’t think of anything clever to write, embarrassing usually does the trick.

5. The theme song from “The Greatest American Hero.” And, believe it or not, now you’re singing it in your head. You’re welcome.


4. The Hannah Montana soundtrack. Yes, originally I had little girls and had a valid excuse for having it on my iPod…but that doesn’t really explain why it’s still on there. When my girls are 15 and 20. And would rather clean the refrigerator than listen to it.


3. Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m the only one who ever thought that song was catchy. Just keep telling yourself that.


2. Both Sides Now by Judy Collins. Because I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now, and I really don’t know clouds at all.


1. FIVE songs from that one musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer when Joss Whedon was apparently high and thought having the cast sing made perfect sense. So, yes, feel free to blame Joss (we’re on a first-name basis) for Glee…cause I’m pretty sure it started with Singing Buffy.


It should be noted that friends do not ask to borrow my iPod during parties. And my iPod typically will not win the vote when deciding what to listen to in the car. Oh well. My musical tastes are clearly just too evolved for the main stream.

I Wish My Life Was a “Choose Your Own Adventure” Book. Oh. Wait…


I loved those books as a kid. I had the “Deadwood City” one and “The Sinister Studios of KESP-TV” one. I went through them all. I didn’t have one adventure – I had every adventure.

As adults, we remember loving them, but we don’t realize we’re still living them. Because that’s what life is, right? A “Choose Your Own Adventure” story. What’s missing? The “do-over” when your questionable decision leads you to that inevitable line telling you “you’ve died.”

I’ve chosen wisely and we all know I’ve chosen poorly…a lot. But, given that I can’t flip to the beginning of the book and fix my wrong turns, I guess even the poor choices say something. Because many wrong turns simply mean that you were willing to risk losing for the chance at winning. Or it means that you’re stupid. In my case? Probably some of both. But, bravery or stupidity, I do love turning the page every day.

I Married Clark Kent.

My Clark Kent

Which, based on my unhealthy Superman infatuation, means – I win.

So, Steve saw this photo and said, “Babe…you’re kind of overdoing this whole ‘me being a saint’ thing on your blog.” I said, “whoa, buddy, I never said you were a saint. Where are these delusions of grandeur coming from?” He shook his head at me and walked away.

Moving on. So what does it mean? It means I married the mild-mannered, slightly geeky (yet really hot) guy…who is actually a super hero (if being a super hero involves putting up with 17 years of my bullshit without giving in to the urge to smother me with a pillow). Our 17-year anniversary was yesterday and I went to Tahoe for a bachelorette party. Steve was un-phased. Super hero.  He’s watched all five hours of the Pride and Prejudice mini-series (which is fantastic) with me. More than once. Super hero. He’s even dressing up for Comic Con with me in San Diego this year. (Yes, he’s a geek and totally wants to go to Comic Con…but dressing up with me? That definitely falls into the humoring my shenanigans category.)

And need proof on the ‘slightly geeky’ thing? Yesterday, on Facebook, he posted that after 17 years, I’m “still the droid he was looking for.” Which is nerd gold, in my opinion.   Image

Anyway, this is my post to say “Happy Anniversary” and “thanks for not whining about me ditching you on our anniversary.” And, seriously, get over yourself. Just because I compare you to Superman doesn’t mean you should get an over-inflated sense of self-importance.


Confessions of a Daddy’s Girl.

erin and dad-sonora

Hi. My name is Erin and I’m a Daddy’s Girl. Hi, Erin.

Seriously, though. Look at those pants. He must be cool if he was rocking those striped pants back in the ’70’s (I couldn’t really compete in that Little-House-on-the-Prairie dress they had me in).

Bottom line, that look of delight I’m giving him? The way I’m hanging on his arm? Little has changed in the last 35 years. I’m old enough to know now that no one is perfect, but he does a damn-fine job impersonating it so that I have trouble telling the difference.

My father gave me away twice. The first time is where he earned some of his super-hero status, cause, let’s be real, it was a shit-show. But, he did it anyway because I couldn’t be dissuaded (tragically – See item no. 1).  The second time around? Everyone knew I’d hit the lottery so, sorry Pop, no points for showing up on this day. (Note: there is no photographic evidence from said “shit show” because all photos were mysteriously burned and stuffed into a voodoo doll made into a certain person’s likeness. This pic is from my second wedding…the one that did not take place at The Little White Chapel on the Vegas strip and that was not widely regarded as “some of the stupidest shit you’ve ever pulled.”)

erin's wedding-down the isle

So, what is it that causes this daddy’s-girl-itis? Is it that he turned 70 last year and still races cars? Or that I can call him any time with a loaded question like, “so what should I do if the garage door is doing this?” or “why would the washing machine be making that sound?” and his response is, inevitably, “I’ll be over in 20 minutes”? Or that my favorite fatherly advice from him still is “if you wait until the last minute…it only takes a minute”? Or, is it caused by the fact that whenever I’ve succeeded at anything, throughout my entire life, he was never the least bit surprised? Hm. Probably all of the above.

And, to my mother, I say this: I get it. Rest assured, turnabout is fair play and I am now the mother to a 15-year-old daddy’s girl that gives even me a run for my money. And I am the proverbial chopped liver. I guess it’s my own fault, though. I’m married to the second-best man I’ve ever known and I can’t even blame the kid for worshipping her father. (No matter how annoying it is at times.)

So, to all the cape-wearers, enjoy your Father’s Day and enjoy your hero-worship. Don’t doubt that you’ve earned it in a thousand undefinable ways that will likely never be put into words.

Erin and Pop

Drinking With Mormons.

Well, not “with” them, really.

So, I’m on a family vacation. With the whole damn family (she said, lovingly). Today is my parents’ 50th Wedding Anniversary so we loaded up the vehicles and drove from California to Canada…for fun and celebration. My brother and his wife (the “Mormons” above-referenced) are on this trip as well.

Steve and I drink a lot of wine anyway, but on vacation…yes, it’s daily. And we found some delightful local brews, as well. My brother and his wife and I are all very close (and brutally sarcastic and passive-aggressively judgmental). Long story short, when I’m evaluating whether or not beer is acceptable at 9:30 in the morning, I can see my brother’s eyes glaze over (in the aforementioned passive-aggressive judgment). So, out of respect for the Mormons, I waited until 11 am to drink my (delicious) 650 ml beer. Don’t tell me I’m not a team player.

So this has all been an important lesson in “perspective.” If, on vacation, you drink every day, but never get stupid-drunk, no problem. If you drink every day *with Mormon bystanders*, you might be an alcoholic. Hm. Well, I’m still convinced my problem is my audience and not my intake. Did I mention the beer was delicious? (#MoonUnderWaterBrewery)

A Message From the Tagline Fairy.

Like the Tooth Fairy, but, instead, I’m creeping into your house whilst you sleep and stealing your taglines.

Half the time I click “Follow” just from reading the name of your blog or your tagline. (Says the girl with a blog named “Erin Lyon.” It’s genius! Copyright that shit!) But hopefully my tagline is mildly amusing (which is the phrase that may end up carved into my tombstone). Anyway – here’s my nickel’s worth of free advice: hook them with your name or your tagline. And, if at all possible, be as clever as these people.

The Yam: Eerily similar. Legally distinct.

They are a self-proclaimed rip-off of The Onion. As a lawyer, that made me laugh out loud. And then die a little inside when I gave it a moment of serious legal analysis.

Karen Carpenter Died For Your Sins: I guess I can always go through life sideways.

It was the name of the blog itself that got me on this one. Honestly. Who can find a blog called “Karen Carpenter Died For Your Sins” and not follow? Not this girl.

CupCaketheGreat: Non stick my ass.

Non stick my ass? I didn’t care what she had to say beyond that…I was in.

The Bloggess: Like Mother Teresa, Only Better.

And so began my love affair with Jenny Lawson.

Single Mama’s Guide to CTFD: Lessons in Learning to Let Go.

Hm, not sure you love it? CTFD stands for “calm the fuck down.” How ’bout now? That’s what I thought. Cause once I figured out her mystery acronym stood for calm the fuck down, I nearly sprained my finger hitting the ‘follow’ button. You know my sneaky infatuation with profanity.

Truth Shall Set You Free So Don’t Be a Crybaby: A dash of wit, A sprinkle of snark, A pinch of sarcastic humor all baked in at 450 degrees!

Sarcasm and cooking instructions?

Full-Frontal Nerdity: Adventures in Love and Storytelling.

Full-frontal nerdity. Digest that a moment. Cause it’s awesome. As is her profile pic which lives up to the name.

There are so many more, but I don’t remember all the blogs now that won a hard-earned chuckle from me (“hard-earned” my ass – I laugh at everything). Now, go forth and be funny, my friends.

It Puts the Lotion On Its Skin Or Else It Gets the Hose Again.

Sucker. This post has nothing to do with The Silence of the Lambs. (Well, beyond the fact that that fantastic line popped into my head yesterday and the only way to purge it was apparently to use it for the title of a post.)

I read a lot of blogs. WordPress has replaced Facebook for me as my no. 1 time-sucker. I have this to report back: a lot of people a) apologize for not having posted in a while, and b) say not to worry that they’ll be away…because they promise to post while away.

This is a mystery to me. I feel more inclined to apologize when I do post. And I am going on vacation next week, and I probably will post while away…and I’m sorry for that as well.

Herein lies the mystery. It would never occur to me that anyone, anywhere would actually notice my absence. Here. Not at home (I’d like to think that if I didn’t show up at home for four or five days, my husband would get curious). But here? I write nothing of importance and I’m not even consistently funny. Spoiler alert: neither are you. (Except perhaps the handful of bloggers I listed here.) But, what do I know. Perhaps you do get love-letters from your followers pleading with you to grace them with your literary spoils. Maybe you do get chirped at from the baby birds wanting to be fed. Implausible, but okay.

Most of the time I feel a little whorish posting my links on Facebook in a shameless shameful attempt to get more people to read my crap. And I’m grateful when people give it the time of day. I never feel apologetic for not bombarding you with even more mediocre shit.

There is no actual reason for this post other than the fact that by the time I scanned across the third blogger within an hour with this mysterious sense of self-importance, my huge green rage monster emerged and wanted to write about it. Sometimes, if it wasn’t for being a bitch, I’d have no personality at all.

A Serious Post About F#!*ing Profanity.

Okay, people. We need to talk about this.

Totally kidding. I love profanity. A little too much. When I go skulking about, blog-stalking, it’s a little disturbing how fast I hit the “follow” button when someone uses the “F” word in their intro paragraph. You rebel, you, with your devil-may-care attitude, you just made me smile with your bold irreverence.

Unfortunately (depending on your perspective), I limit myself to the kiddie-table of swear words here. Why? Not entirely sure. Oh wait – my parents would not approve. I think that may be about 92% of it (an overly high percentage for a 41-year-old). And they don’t even read my blog. Sigh.

But, I am (more or less) of the don’t-say-fuck-unless-they-say-fuck-first philosophy. (And, yes, I realize I just said it.) But my parents don’t say the F word, so I don’t say the F word around them. And I don’t say it around my teenagers. And they don’t say it around me. So I talk like a sailor around my husband and friends…and my girls talk like sailors around their friends…and we all live in a penthouse suite in downtown Denial-ville. And we’re happy there.

My parents actually live there, too. My mother is my best reader and absolutely loves my latest novel. It’s first-person and the main girl talks a lot like me (shocking, I know). Well, everyone in the book swears. Top-shelf swear words, too. No kiddie-table crap. However, mom didn’t really have any issue with the swearing unless it was my main girl doing the deed. Really? Yes, really. Denial, party of one, your table is ready.

So, I like using it, but pretend I don’t say it for my parents’ sake, pretend I don’t know it for my daughters’ sake, and thankfully have never accidentally used it in front of the judge. Winning.

I Have Done Nothing to Earn This Memorial Day Beer.

Happy Memorial Day. I occurs to me that I may be the single-most undeserving person of a day off today. I’ve never served in the military. Nor have my siblings. Even my father got passed up for Vietnam through a series of events that clearly meant he was not supposed to go. I’ve never had a single person I know die in service. Or even get injured. I know people who know people…but that starts to feel like playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon – Memorial Day Edition – and I suck at that game.

Point being, I sit here on this Memorial Day completely unscathed by war and military service. But, from the bottom of my unworthy heart, my nebulous and non-specific gratitude is sincere as I send it out into the ether.

I Want To Be My Dog When I Grow Up.


Jack and Sawyer

These are my dogs, Jack and Sawyer (yes, just like in “Lost”). They are the loves of my life (but don’t tell my husband…Steve is holding out hope that it’s him). They are rescue dogs, meaning a little damaged, a little neurotic, and 110% devoted.

But to get to my point. If I ever do, in fact, grow up, I want to be just like them. Because dogs get it right.

Jack and Sawyer have no aspirations. They are utterly and completely satisfied with precisely where they are (unless they hear the leash jiggle…then they are utterly and completely satisfied if they are going for a walk).

Jack and Sawyer have zero ego. They don’t get embarrassed that they’ve put on a few extra pounds, shed incessantly or occasionally lick their behinds. They don’t get their feelings hurt when I tell them they have bad breath or that they need a bath.


Jack making a spectacle of himself.

Jack and Sawyer don’t strive for success. They don’t compare themselves to other dogs and wonder if they are living up to their full canine potential. They don’t run three miles with me only to think to themselves, “we’ll run five next week, for sure.”

Jack and Sawyer live for today. Because dogs have no sense of time. But also because they don’t plan for tomorrow. They don’t let today pass them by because they think tomorrow might be better because I promised to take them in the car. No, they are going sprawl out on the floor like it’s spa day and they have the VIP package. To hell with tomorrow.

ImageJack and Sawyer find joy in the little things. That patch of sunshine on the deck. The sound of me coming through the door after work. A doorbell ringing in a TV show making them feel justified in barking as if a herd of cats and mailmen is trying to break in through the front door. The fact that, while typing this, I’m rubbing Jack’s belly with my foot, making him sigh contentedly.

Jack and Sawyer forgive. When Steve yells at them for getting into the cat’s litter box for an afternoon snack, or if I get annoyed because they tried to cuddle when I was leaving for court in a black suit, they let it go. Sure, it could be because they have a short attention span, but I choose to believe it’s because they just don’t have it in them to stay mad.

Although Sawyer does a decent job of holding a grudge after a bath. Obviously Jack does not.


Sawyer giving me the silent treatment after a bath. Not Jack’s style, though.

So I’m going to not think about whether or not an agent will call me tomorrow…or that stupid ruling the judge made yesterday. I’m not going to wait to be happy till I get published, or make more money or lose 10 pounds. I’m going to enjoy the wine in my glass, the way Jack and Sawyer wag their tails whenever I smile at them, the way Steve winks at me when he catches me looking at him.

Hell with tomorrow.