Oh fellow Brains, it’s that time of year again.

School starts in exactly one week, and for the life of me I cannot seem to drag my ass out of denial and into a place of acceptance of that fact. Yes, I’ve done the necessary footwork (most of it anyway), but the mindset is just not there. It’s been a long and fabulous summer, and I just don’t want to give that freedom up. Whoa is me, etc.

On the topic of school-related footwork, Target is a mad clusterfuck back-to-school war zone. My Target List of the Day included cat litter, Motrin, and notebooks (an obligatory trip through the clothing section also occurred, although this is never on the list, because hello! it goes without saying). I got my cat litter and Motrin just as easy as pie, but oh my god  the notebook section. It was like every mother, father, and child decided that 3:15 on a Wednesday afternoon was exactly the perfect time to flock to the big red bullseye and flail through the aisles without abandon. Needless to say, I did not get my notebooks. I did, however, see a gentleman purchase an entire cart of nothing but coca-cola.

And while we’re on the topic of Weird Fucking People and the Things They Do, what is it with having no awareness of your surroundings? I’m at Ye Olde Bagel Shoppe, which is where I often come to blog, and decided to take a trip to use the facilities before I ordered my delicious tomato-herb-bagel-toasted-with-cream-cheese-and-cucumbers (note to new girl: two tiny cucumbers that cover exactly one quarter of the bagel is not quite what I was looking for, kthx).

So, I’m walking down the little hallway that leads exclusively to the bathrooms, which would indicate that I am probably going, you know, to the bathroom. An older gentlemen with an interesting gait is headed in the opposite direction. As I’m about to pass him, a little lightbulb appears over his head, and he turns around to head back the other way. I walk ever so slowly behind him (because that’s the fastest pace he would allow), only to see him walk straight into the women’s room. Now, these bathrooms are the one stall type deals, and as far as I could tell the men’s room did not seem to be occupied. So why would he, seeing that I am so obviously headed there, choose to enter the one with the little dress icon on the door? You may say, “Erin! Why didn’t you just use the men’s room?” to which I would reply, “because they’re always fucking gross.”  Seriously boys, what is that? Anyway, Interesting Gait Man was only in the restroom for about 23 seconds (Did he forget to wipe? Wash his hands? Blow his nose? Fart? The world may never know!), and looked quite taken aback when he came out and I was waiting there on the other side of the door. I must admit that I have, a time or two, gone into the wrong bathroom. Sometimes nature’s call is far too urgent to be bothered with little things like paying attention. However, I don’t think that was the case in this particular situation. I got the distinct impression that he simply did not give a fuck. Note to Bathroom Guy: giving a fuck is necessary for existing in a public atmosphere.

Also, I just saw a guy pick his nose and eat it. Srsly?

So, kidlets, the moral of my stories is this: the week before back to school can be summed up in one word – bleh. And if you did not get precisely that message from my ramblings, you are obviously not paying close enough attention, and may want to visit your nearest public peepot immediately.

P.S. - If you are as addicted to Project Runway as I am, and have not yet visited this site, your life is incomplete. Click the link immediately.

Dear Sirs,

I am a professional.

I have been at my job for a little over two and a half years, and on most days, really enjoy what I do. My job consists mostly of helping people, which is an incredibly satisfying experience. It also consists of trouble-shooting, multi-tasking, and learning new things on an almost daily basis.

My job also consists of representing my company to our clients a few times a month when my boss is unable to make it to their meetings. Although I often gripe to mr. goo about having to go to these meetings, because they are held in the evenings (when I could be doing better things like watching the same reruns of Friends that I’ve already seen six times /sarcasm), this is actually one of my favorite parts of my job.

Not only do I get to meet a fascinating array of different people at these meetings, but it’s the real-life application side of my job in which I probably learn more about what I do in a few hours than I learn in the rest of the month. It’s challenging and rewarding, with the added bonus of highlighting the fact that I am a real live grown up professional.

What does not add to that challenging and rewarding and grown up experience is when you, Creeper, choose to ignore my experience and competence and ability, and instead spend the entire hour-long meeting doing nothing but staring at my tits.

As it seems that you have missed your lesson in Respect 101, here’s the short version: staring at someones body, when they are not your girlfriend, wife, or a professional stripper, is fucking rude.

Furthermore, not only is it highly offensive, but it completely undermines and dismisses the previously mentioned experience, competence, and ability. I did not get my job because I have a nice rack. My rack did not supply me with the necessary skills to advance in my job to the position I am in today; it will not be the cause of further advancement that will likely happen in the future. And while we are here, I will also mention: My rack is not the reason that people like me. It’s not the reason that I have friends, and that those friends trust and confide in me. I do not have the level of compassion, empathy, and kindness that I do because of my rack. It did not give me my ability to write well, dance well, or swim well. I am not a good student because I have a nice rack. It has nothing to do with my love of animals, or my sense of humor, or the fact that I have an almost perfect driving record. It doesn’t even have anything to do with the relationship I have developed with my boyfriend. My rack, and the rest of my body, are not what make me the person I am, and they have nothing to do with you or anyone else.

As wildly difficult as it may be for you to grasp, the fact is that my experience, competence, and ability stand for themselves, in much the same way that an Olympic athlete is still an Olympic athlete, even if she doesn’t have her breasts out for you to see.

I feel it appropriate to mention also, that sexist comments work in much the same way that your disgusting ogling does. When you, Creeper, tell me that I can stand in for my boss anytime, because I am “much easier on the eyes” (or any similarly narrow-minded comment), it accomplishes the exact same diminishing and degrading end. So let me say it again: My body has nothing to do with you.

I do not care who you are. I do not care if you are young or old, tall or short, fat or thin. I do not care if you’re gorgeous and fit and educated and rich and flash a winning smile. I do not care if you seem like a very nice person, or if you frame your misogyny in such a way that it sounds like a compliment. I do not care if I meet you at work, or on the street, or in a gas station, or at a coffee shop, or at a damn single’s bar. Whoever you are, and whatever setting we are in, I am not up for your review, and I do not exist for your viewing pleasure. Staring at and making comments on my body is inappropriate and extraordinarily unwelcome.

So I will say it again, Creeper.

And again, and again, and again.

I am a professional, and my body is none of your fucking business.

So I have this friend.

Ok, so mr. goo (heretofore known as my boyfriend) has this friend.

We’ll call him… Steve.

Late on Monday night, Steve’s wife called mr. goo , and proceeded to tell him that Steve had lost his mind. Now, I don’t mean in the “she done gone lost her mind” type of losing ones mind, as was the case with my post from a couple of weeks ago. I mean it in the “he thought it was 1986″ type of losing ones mind. He was in the hospital, and nobody knew quite what the heck was going on. (They still don’t, as far as I know, although last I heard they were thinking it may have been a small stroke. I personally wouldn’t consider a stroke that makes you think it’s 1986 as being small, but hey, I’m no medical professional).

I have absolutely no experience, personal or otherwise, with amnesia. Quite frankly, it freaks me the fuck out. I mean, you can’t remember anything. Which is actually an exaggeration, as in Steve’s case he remembered some things, mostly people, one of which happened to be mr. goo. But still. Not remembering anything is just not an option that I would be happy to consider. My family and friends would tell you that I already oftentimes have the memory of a goldfish, and I just don’t need any more help in that area.

Memory is a strange thing anyway. I am slightly embarrassed to admit that I have, in the past, mistaken something I have seen in a movie or read in a book for something that I either a) heard from a friend, or b) actually experienced in real life. And I realize that I am possibly an exception with my sporadically malfunctioning memory, but it’s not like it’s that far from the norm. Plenty of people I know have woken up from dreams and not had any idea as to whether or not they actually happened. So basically, our minds trick themselves, which is a disconcerting thought considering that they are the things that we base our entire reality on. And that just sort of flows right into matrix-theory, which I am sooo not even going to touch. I’ll just leave that little nugget to the conspiracy theorist bloggers.

So right – Steve.

I have it on good faith from the Big Dude that Steve will be just fine, despite this little brain glitch. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have blogged about it. But, I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt if ya’ll would gave a little shout out to Jesus, or Allah, or Mother Nature, or whoever you happen to believe in, for the swift and total return of Steve’s Brain Goo.

Because, seriously, 1986? Nobody wants to be stuck there.

I do believe this speaks for itself.

In the interest of not letting two weeks go by without a post (because I promised myself I wouldn’t do that), I am writing this despite the fact that I am feeling decidedly un-bloggy this week. I do not promise to be coherent, consistent, or witty, but I do promise to try harder next time. Because I read somewhere that lists make people happy in the blogging world, and because it appeals to my current sense of slightly disillusioned apathetic laziness (dillapziness), I present to you:

A List Of Things That Barely Relate To One Another, And Have Nothing To Do With Anything

[Thing #0.5: The fact that, when posted, the title of this list will not all be on one line, is for the crazymaking.]

Thing #1: While on our way up north for some rained-soaked camping a couple of weeks ago, I saw a man playing the harmonica while driving. Playing the harmonica while driving. To his credit, we were in the middle of a stop and go traffic jam, but still. I have seen a lot of people do a lot of strange things while driving, but this one clearly takes the cake.

Thing #2: For lunch the other day, I ordered a delicious bread bowl filled with delicious soup from Panera Bread. Yum. But wait! There’s more! The lovely people at Panera gave me an unsolicited side dish with my bread bowl – an extra chunk of bread. This is enough to make a person’s head asplode. Now, I love bread. Like, a lot. But as you may have noticed, the meal I ordered was already made up almost entirely of bread. I appreciate Panera’s sentiment that, seeing as how I obviously already love bread, I should probably enjoy even MORE bread with my meal, however I feel pretty bad for Extra Chunk. Because Extra Chunk’s final resting place was Trash Can. And that makes me sad for starving Ethiopians everywhere*.

Thing #3: A list inside of a list - Things That I Have a Serious Love/Hate Relationship With: 1) Healthcare, of all types. 2) The Dentist. 3) Red meat [happy on the taste buds, sad on the stomach]. 4) Weather. 5) Whoever it was that decided it would be a good idea to invent those little plastic key-ring thingamabobs for stores that you use religiously but in reality have no idea what you’re actually using them for [please note that it is the inventor of said item that I have the love/hate feelings for, and not necessarily the actual item, although that may be applicable too].

Well. I do believe that those are all the Things you are going to get today, dear readers. This list was originally meant to have 5 Things, not 3.5 Things, but my brain goo has since dried up, and I am no longer synapsing at a sufficient rate. So, until next time, I love you for reading this, and will love you even more if you actually come back next time. Ate mais tarde!

 *As snarky as that sounds, I really do hate wasted food, for that very reason and more.

(Disclaimer: My last couple of posts have been “Ha ha I’m funny” blogs, at least in my own head. This does not follow the same parameters. I am exploring, after all.)

This is my new favorite blog.

I pride myself on being a somewhat socially conscious person. I say “somewhat”, because I try not to trick myself into believing that somehow I’ve got it all figured out. In fact, the more I learn, the more I realize that really, I don’t know a damn thing. But, despite my small pool of knowledge, there are certain issues that I can get fired up about, and stay fired up about for days and weeks on end. Generally, anything having to do with race, sex, gender, sexual-orientation, class, disability, and any other minority status that induces mass discrimination and prejudice really get my goat.

That being said, the idea of Fat Acceptance (FA) and Health At Every Size (HAES) were fairly new concepts to me when I stumbled across Kate Harding’s inspired and hilarious blog. I was instantly hooked. Now, I’m not a fat person. I would describe myself as fairly average, but have been described by others as thin. (To make no mention of some of my weight-obsessed family members, who would describe me as “omg you’re so skinny have you lost weight!?”).

Ok, so I will make mention of them. As a woman raised in the US, I was raised with the same values as every other US raised woman. Among those values, it is clearly stated that “the skinnier the better,” and “if you are not actively losing weight, you are a fat cow”. The older women in my family, raised in the same environment as I, held the same values. Therefore, I was brought up watching these women (and the entire nation) trying everything possible to get their waists down to the all-powerful Size Six. I mean, seriously, the cabbage soup diet?!?  And that’s not even a joke.

As a result of this thin-obsessed culture, it is only natural that, despite my inherently average size, I’ve got issues. I myself have, in the past, dieted to excess, denied my body of precious nutrients, tortured myself with ridiculously un-fun exercise, and on and on. I have done this because it’s what I’ve been taught to do. Femininity and self-worth are intrinsically tied to our body fat percentages and pants sizes, and the only way to undo the damage that has been unapologetically inflicted on us is to get educated and rebel.

And what a sad word that is: rebel. It is a sad word, in this context, because what it means is that in order to love ourselves just the way we are, we must fight, resist, defy, and reject the very society that we are surrounded with at all times. And that, my friends, is not fucking easy.

I like to think that I am, in many ways, moving away from the insane patriarchal idea that skinny=godlike. This is, in part, due to the fact that I really love to eat. Food makes me happy! And since food makes me happy, the idea of restricting and measuring and weighing makes me decidedly unhappy. Most diets do not include ice cream and hoagies and bagel sandwiches and lattes, and these are all things that I am unwilling to give up. But here’s a secret, one that I am ashamed to admit and that I’m not sure I’ve actually spoken aloud before: I feel guilty more often than not, when I “indulge” (please note the sarcasm dripping from that word) in these delicious goodies.

THAT IS TOTALLY AND UTTERLY RIDICULOUS. Here’s the facts: As I have said, I am not a large person. And, quite frankly, even if I was a large person, I still eat a reasonably not-crappy diet most of the time and am fairly active in my day-to-day life. All of these things add up to the fact that if I want to spend my Saturday night eating half a pizza and some Ben and Jerry’s while watching the latest New Release, it’s really not a big deal. And yet, my US Media fed brain tells me that pizza and ice cream = burning in the eternal fire pits of hell.

Unfortunately, I am not alone in this delusion. And fortunately, I am not alone in this delusion. Woman everywhere, in the US and beyond, have to deal with this very same thing. This makes me sad and outraged, and yet, it’s websites like Shapely Prose that give me some serious hope. Here is a group of women who are fat (and average and small), who are actively working toward becoming perfectly okay with whatever shape it is that the Universe saw fit to give them. That’s some serious inspiration right there.

So, despite my insane thought processes surrounding food, I will continue to eat my delicious ice cream, and try to remember, like these amazing women, that the number on the scale does not define me. And, when the subject of the newest lose-thirty-pounds-in-a-day diet plan comes up, I will happily think to myself: “Fuck you, cabbage soup.”

Here on WordPress, there is a button. One click of this magic little button, and it sends you to a randomly chosen blog inside of the WordPressosphere. Seeing as how there are about a bajillion blogs on WordPress, and more added every day, the possibilities of where you could land are endless. This is my New Favorite Thing. Clickity-click-click-click-click.

There are some remarkably fascinating people out there.

One click dropped me smack dab into the world of Fat Man (this is not his real name, nor is it the name of his blog, although he is a self-admittedly fat man. Obese, even). Among other amazingly bizarre things, Fat Man is a ginormous fan of the online world, Second Life (use extreme caution, my gentle reader, in the clicking of this link). A few simple searches later, and I was engrossed in the world of People Who Love Second Life (capitalized as such because they really are a breed unto themselves).

For those of you who don’t know what Second Life is, well, I really can’t help you.

Ok, ok, I’ll try. But really, I don’t think there are enough words in the dictionary to describe this online anomaly. It’s just too… freakish. Second Life is, in a nutshell, a social networking site on crack. It’s the circus side-show second-cousin of the Godzilla of the social network internet world. It’s like Alice in Wonderland meets Carson Kressley throwing a giant virtual masquarade tea party in the middle of the Japanese Times Square and requiring everyone to smoke a big fat peyote blunt right before they arrive, then stealing their wallets when they get there. It’s like… well you get the idea.

The basic premise is this: you sign up, you create your very own super-avatar, and then you get to meeting people. Oh but it doesn’t end there! In order to really make your supertar really cool, you must buy things for it, like clothes and skin and hair and accessories and stuff. And here’s the kicker: in order to buy things for you supertar, you must buy pretend money. As in, you must use your real money to buy pretend money to buy pretend things for your pretend self. I’ll just go ahead and let you chew on that for a minute.

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The thing is, not only are there people out there who are buying these things with their real money, there are people out there who spend all of their free time creating things for people to buy, and actually making real money off of other people’s pretend/real money. Oh lord I think I’m gonna break my italics on this one. And it’s not just clothing and nail colors, it’s so much more. It’s cars and pets and prostitutes and houses and islands for Bob’s sake. Do you have any idea how much a pretend island costs in the world of Second Life?? Yeah well, I don’t either, but I remember reading about it once and almost passing out. It was in the hundreds. Like, real money hundreds. Like, hundreds of real dollars for a pretend island.

Now, I understand gaming to a certain degree. I myself have gotten quite sucked into the worlds of Mario and Myst in days past. It’s fun, it’s something to do, it keeps your brain active, whatever. You spend forty bucks and get hours of entertainment. And, to give credit where credit is due, the graphics on this particular game are pretty darn nifty. The Second Lifers, however, don’t think of this as a game. Oh no no, don’t you dare tell Fat Man that you think it’s a game, or he might need a triple bypass. This is life to a lot of these people. This is, for many of them, their primary source of communication with other human beings. These hundreds (thousands??) of dollars that people are spending in this bizarre little corner of the online universe is, for them, achieving the same basic outcome I get from spending four bucks on a latte a couple nights a week.

Oh boy. Here’s the deal: I’m pretty sure I could just go on and on and on about this amazingly creepy phenomenon (who knows! Maybe there will be a part 2!). But since I know that you, my amazing and very real readers have things to do other than sit in front of your computers all day and night, I will end it with this, a plea to the White Rabbit Carson Party:

Please, please, please sign up for a pottery class.

What people love most at art fairs are things on sticks.

It really doesn’t seem to matter what it is – bug on a stick, sun on a stick, flower on a stick, jupiter on a stick, star on a stick, moon on a stick, butterfly on a stick, strange unidentifiable abstract somethingorother on a stick. And, of course, the sticks can be made out of copper, steel, or al-u-min-ium; they can be painted or unpainted; colorful or dull; six feet tall or teeny tiny. Whatever it is on the stick, people will buy it, and they will carry it around for hours on end, looking at the other art and thinking, “Man, that would look so good if it was on a stick.”

My boyfriend’s theory is that people buy this artonastick because they are nostalgic for days past. Between corndogs, popsicles, and lollipops, we as a people have been raised to believe that thingsonsticks are really the best things of all. I mean, seriously people, handles make life easier. The only downfall to things on sticks that I can think of is where to put the damn stick after you’re finished, if you are unfortunate enough not to have an easy access trash receptacle nearby. In that case, thingsonastick become painsintheass. Art, however, requires no clean up, and is therefore the perfect thingonastick.

One theory I have about the mind-boggling obsession with this particular brand of art is this: people are lazy and have too much shit. Buying something on a stick takes care of both of these issues, with the added bonus of instantly making you a Person Who Buys Things At Art Fairs, which you all know you want to be, even if you claim otherwise. Thingsonsticks are easy to buy, easy to carry, easy to transport, and easy to display. They take away the hassle of having to either a) lug around an awkwardly sized and/or shaped piece of art in the sweltering heat, or b) having to walk aaaaall the way back to your parking spot in the middle of nowhere and aaaaall the way back to the fair, hoping that the one-hundred and seventy-two degree heat inside of your car doesn’t ruin whatever it is that you just spent three-hundred and forty-seven hard earned dollars on. AND, once you get it home, you don’t have to move any art on the walls, or try to squish any more knickknacks onto your table. You simply plop it in the ground outside and you’re good to go! No thinking required – it’s like the Perfect American Solution.

My second theory (because the Lazy Shit theory is so god-awful negative, and I am a ridiculously optimistic person) is this: thingsonsticks are pretty. ’Nuff said. This is why, when I am a grown up person and have my own house and yard and garden, I will buy thingsonsticks and display them proudly, in stratigically subtle yet eye-catching locations. And I will not care about the people who think I am lazy and/or excessive and/or pretentious. Because my yard filled with thingsonsticks will look good.

[Small End Note: A dear friend of mine who also blogs left me a comment on my last post. It read: "You’re third blog entry is the most important one, so I’ll be watching for it!" This is my third blog entry, and in it I have written 514 words about things on sticks. I'm not exactly sure what that says about me, but it sure is interesting.]

And here I am again.

Which is quite the amazing feat, considering how prone I am to starting things and then never actually continuing them (See: scrapbooking, purse-making, yoga, etc.). I did, however, take some steps against that today, by not only posting links on my facespaces, but also by actually sending out a text message to a handful of friends and telling them about it. Accountability, people, it works. Here’s the amazing part: I have 25 hits today.  Here’s the more amazing part: they’re not all me!

Yesterday, when I was reading everything I could about blogging, I learned a couple of tips on how to keep those 25 fabulous hits growing. They include, but are by no means limited to: not writing posts that are too short, not writing posts that are too long, making lists, using bolds and italics and underlines, not using too many bolds and italics and underlines, blogging every day, keeping headlines interesting, keeping it simple, not being be too personal, not being too impersonal, being fantastically unique, and of course, the kicker – having a niche.

I do not have a niche.

The other sixteen-thousand tips I feel ok with. I am reasonably sure that I can either incorporate them into my blog, or else simply ignore them all together. This niche thing, though, has been giving me quite a headache. It speaks right to my ultimate blogging fear, which is: “Oh my god oh my god what the hell am I going to write about??”  There are about a zillion options out there, on which a bajillion people are already writing about, of which about six appeal to me, and none of which I would want to write about every single time I post. Hmm.

So, here’s what I have decided: I am, in my fantastically convoluted mind, going to consider this blog nothing more than practice. I am not actually writing, I am only practicing writing. I am not actually blogging, I am only practicing blogging. I am not actually typing for an audience, I am only practicing typing for an audience.

[At this point, were we in a comic book, Captain Obvious would swoop down and smack me on the head. He would point out that yes I am, in fact, writing and blogging and doing it for an audience, right at this very moment. However, in order to ensure that I don't have a heart attack over something like a blog topic for the love of all that is good and holy, I will continue to call it practice. I beseech you, Captain Obvious, please to not attack.]

So, practice practice practice. Practice makes perfect, and all that jazz. And hey, maybe if I keep practicing, I’ll find myself falling naturally into my niche. Probably not, considering again my convoluted mind and the plethora of thoughts that inhabit it. But hey – anything’s possible.

“I’ve decided you should start blogging.”

The interesting thing about these six words is not that someone said them to me, but when he said them.

I’ve recently become quite addicted to a friend’s fascinating journey and corresponding blog, and was reading with my usual rapt excitement yesterday morning. Somewhere along the line I thought to myself, “Self,” I thought “you should start a blog,” to which I promptly responded, “yeah right.” Not an unusual conversation to have, as I often come up with brilliant ideas only to have them quickly whisked away by that part of myself that is determined not to let me be brilliant. This blogging idea, however, I managed to keep around for a little while. I have absentmindedly considered blogging in the past, but the thought never got very far. Considering my ongoing struggle to let the writer inside of me out (more on this in the future, hopefully), I started thinking yesterday morning that a little practice in the blogosphere just might not hurt. But then, of course, my anti-brilliance got wind of this and left me with the ever-thought-squashing “yeah right.”

Fast forward a few hours. I am waiting for a friend at a coffee shop and reading a book about a woman’s spiritual journey to find herself. All of a sudden, my phone buzzes. I open it to see a text from my boyfriend, and that text says (you guessed it!), “I’ve decided you should start blogging.” Now, I’m a universe-sends-messages kind of girl. And although I often have my head too far up my own ass to actually hear those messages, this one just seemed too obvious to ignore. Here I am, reading a story filled with divine inspiration about the struggle to follow your inner Truth, and receive a message telling me to do the very thing I was mulling over just hours earlier. If that’s not a telegram straight from the cosmos, then I just don’t know what is.

So, like the good type-A girl that I am, I spent the day today reading about blogging. Oh yes, I read everything I could find. I researched how to make your blog the Best Blog Ever, and which blog site is the Best Blog Site Ever, and how to make yourself the Best Blogger Ever. It was, of course, completely fascinating research (mmm hmmm), from which I learned one thing: my anti-brilliance is one cunning little bastard. I could, if I wanted to, probably spend weeks and weeks reading about blogging and tweaking my private little blog site and reading other people’s blogs, until I got so worn out from all the research that I never wanted to have anything to do with blogging again Ever. If I ignore the initial “yeah right,” there is always another way around it. It seems as though in this particular situation, that way is through never-ending spine-tingling internet research.

So, with a big fat slap-in-the-face to that evil little gremlin inside of me, I said to myself, “Self – why don’t you just write something!”

And here I am.