Day 30: Remember the Time... I Am Not A Dude?

I always hated my name growing up. (For the record, I love it now that I'm an adult.) Besides the fact that it's spelled with a "k" instead of the more common "c" - forever keeping me from finding personalized key chains or magnets inscribed with the correct spelling of my name - there's no natural nickname. My brother Calvin goes by Cal, my sister Brittany's known by Britt and me - I've always been plain 'ol Erika.


Shortening my name naturally would spell Erik and I was watching a TV show once where the character named Erika went by Rikki. However, when adding either of those names to my middle and former last names of Jo and Ray would lead anyone to believe I was a dude. So up until about eighth grade, I just went by Erika.


That was the year the boys in my class decided to form a club called the "Yo Yogi Club" (don't ask me why 'cause I have no idea). As part of this club, they gave each other nicknames that essentially were the letters TR in front of their regular names plus or minus a letter or two for ease of pronunciation (again, no idea why). So Brian became Trin and Ray became Tray, etc.


The boys then began spreading the nickname formula to the girls in the class. Since Trerika was a mouthful, they somehow shortened it to Trigga and the name stuck with a few of my family members. Brittany and my cousin Gillian rarely refer to me as "Erika" and instead have taken to calling me "Trig."


Eh, it may not be a natural nickname, but it IS a nickname nonetheless. And since it's stuck around for all these years, it seems to fit.

Day 29: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... Items at the Dollar Store Would Actually Cost $1

I personally don't mind having loose change in my pocket or wallet. It's convenient at the store when the total comes to a few cents over the nearest dollar, at turnpike tolls or when the vending machine calls my name at work.

However, it's a huge pain when facing any of those situations and not having any change, which leads to a heavier wallet, longer lines for the live toll booth person on the turnpike, and a quest to find which of my colleagues has change for the useless crumpled dollar that the vending machine doesn't take (which, by the way, would never happen in Lichtenstein because vending machines would be far smarter and accept all bills, regardless of the age or crumpled-ness, and would give correct change.)

Plus, I know it seems like an item is cheaper if it's priced at $0.99 or $29,999 (you're not kidding me - I know that really means $1.00 and $30,000) but it seems like a cheap (pun intended) way to make merchandise seem more attractive. If the item is worth buying, those subconscious thoughts that the item is less expensive than it truly is shouldn't be the deciding factor. Plus, when you factor in tax, the item is actually more expensive than advertised.

Therefore, everything in Lichtenstein would cost an even dollar amount - with a low tax included. If you see something on the shelf for $15, you'll end up paying $15. No worries that you won't have enough money after tax or correct change. Plus, that would deter bums from coming into Lichtenstein, as there would be no change to beg for.

Day 28: What Did Batman Say To Robin About Breaking All The Rules When They Get Together

Holy breaking all the rules Batman!

Although yes, it is a cliche, today's topic has to do with rules that are made to be broken. You know - the arbitrary "rules" governing kids not leaving the table until they've cleared their plates, a teenager's curfew, and sick days at work.

If rules are made to be broken, my partner in crime asks: What are the exceptions to the following rules?

Never talk to strangers... unless talking to them about whatever it is they're promoting lands you a cool T-shirt or free samples of food.

Don't run with scissors... unless they're the dull, rounded-edge plastic ones found in kindergarten classrooms that can't cut paper much less break through skin. The paper is actually more deadly.

Look both ways before crossing the street... unless you live in New York City in which case no one looks anywhere even though there are cab drivers barreling down the streets, weaving in and out of traffic at 97 miles an hour.

No running near the pool... unless you want to get wet and/or slip and fall right in front of that hot chick in a bikini you've been eyeing.

Do not enter. This is especially true if you're near the tiger or bear exhibit at the zoo. But the exception is if it leads somewhere cool like backstage at a concert or into another theater at the movies.

Don't go swimming right after you eat... unless you want to puke in the vicinity of that same bikini girl, fully ensuring that you have absolutely no chance with her, and making all other swimmers screech "ewwwww" while paddling away from you as fast as they would had they seen a turd on the bottom of the pool.

What goes up, must come down. Yes, whenever a pigeon flies up, poop rains down. There are no exceptions - especially when you're rushing to a job interview.

My partner in crime's response: While all of these are fine instances on when to break these rules, I may have a few more exceptions:

Never Talk To Strangers – unless you want to meet anyone ever. How in the world are we supposed to make friends?!?

Don’t Run With Scissors – unless someone has broken into your house. Then, by all means, run with scissors... towards the intruder... and even throw them at him if you so desire.

Look Both Ways Before Crossing The Street – unless you’re cross-eyed and can see both directions anyway and/or have phenomenal peripheral vision. Also unless you're blind. If you're blind, though, you're not really looking anywhere.

No Running Near The Pool – unless you have diarrhea...and just ate a taco. Then please, please run.

Do Not Enter – unless you are escaping from above intruder because you have just thrown your only weapon at him and missed. They by all means, enter. Enter now.

What Goes Up, Must Come Down – one word: Clouds. Two more words. Charlie Sheen.

 

So what did Batman say to Robin about breaking all the rules? That rule-breaking apparently often includes feces in some way or another.

Day 27: Never Have I Ever... Appreciated Overcoming A Childhood Fear

I was 5 years old and uncontrollably bawling. I didn’t know it then, but this was to be one of those scarred-for-life moments. At the time, I just couldn’t understand why the blue-jean-overalls-wearing roller coaster operator didn’t notice that I was crying and stop the kiddie ride from going around in a circle yet a fourth time. As the ride dipped and rose, I kept wishing it was my mom’s arm around me, and not my little brother, four or five cars ahead of me.

Just before I graduated the eighth grade, my class took a one-last-grade-school-hurrah field trip to Cedar Point – America’s Roller Coast (and that it is). I waited in the longer-than-a-lifespan lines with my friends, walked toward each coaster’s cars, and then kept going right on through so that when the ride was over, I’d be on the other side to join my friends as they disembarked from the steel thrillers. I was simply terrified of roller coasters from my childhood traumatic experience, and was not about to repeat it on America’s fastest or tallest or even pitiful-excuse-for-a-thrill-ride roller coaster.

I probably went a handful of times between that eighth-grade trip and a trip I took my junior year of high school with my friends Erin, Jessica, and then-boyfriend Jimmy. I had been doing my typical go-to-Cedar-Point-for-the-line-waiting routine until we got in line for the then-newest roller coaster – Millennium Force – which at the time was the world’s tallest and fastest roller coaster. It was then that Jimmy informed me that I’d be riding this ride.

Erin, Jessica, and I at Cedar Point junior year of high school.

“Yeah. Right,” I said, to his resistance of my dismissive attitude.

“You’re going and you’ll like it. I promise,” he said, making my stomach do flip-flops, and not so much in the good way, but the I’m-going-to-throw-up-and-I’m-not-even-on-the-coaster way. I’ve definitely grown out of having men walk all over me, but at the time I felt this unreasonable urge to please my boyfriends – very much to a fault.

So I begrudgingly got on the ride, somehow snapped the belt buckle with shaking hands, pulled the puny padded restraint to my waist, and immediately wished I hadn’t been so agreeable.

The coast to the top took hours (it actually does take an exceptionally long time to reach the top of that first hill) and although that first drop was terrifying (it’s so steep the track actually disappears for a few seconds), I hesitantly found myself getting caught up in the fun and excitement of Jimmy’s yelling “yeah… YEAH!” in my ear.

And after the ride was over, I found that the fear made it all the more thrilling and yeah… it was fun. Never have I ever appreciated someone forcibly coercing me to do something  before or since, and I can say that this breakthrough of overcoming my childhood fear was one of the only good things that came out of this particular relationship.

This moment ended up paving the way for two of my favorite assignments while a staff writer at The Blade newspaper: coverage of Cedar Point’s new rides Maverick and Skyhawk. (Ignore how terrified I look in both photos. I swear it was fun!) It’s also led to much more fun times at Cedar Point – where the only time I’m on the other side of a roller coaster’s line is after I’ve had a blast riding it.

Day 26: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... On Unpredictability

Free verse is a form of poetry that refrains from any consistent pattern. The topic can be about anything, and it can look and sound however the writer envisions.

When I write poetry, it's typically when I'm upset and need to vent. Therefore, I typically write free verse poetry because I don't want to be held back by form or rhyme. Although I like trying other forms of poetry, free verse is my favorite.


Predictably unpredictable

My emotions,
my mind,
my life.
A chaotic jungle of disarray
with no relief,
even in my dreams
that are frequently nightmares.
Without my permission
or even my control
Unpredictable emotions
are my predictable self.

Day 25: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words, Especially if it Includes a Hilarious Yellow Rain Jacket

No worries - Chloe got plenty of dog treats for posing in this ridiculous outfit to depict this week's cliche:

Last week's cliche: By Hook or By Crook

Day 24: Stop. Focus. Click...

Nothing says "friendly trustworthy pediatrician you should bring your child to" like a ferocious jungle cat with its jaws locked onto a baby animal's neck.

Day 23: Remember the Time... That I Could Get Lost Inside a Phone Booth?

Years of frustration have taught me that whenever I come out of an unfamiliar or even semi-familiar subway station, drive to a seldom-visited location, or walk around my new one-floor office building, all I have to do is go the opposite way that I think I should go and it will probably turn out to be the right call.

I hate to admit that I fall into this typical female stereotype, but I have exactly zero sense of direction. It has always amazed me that my sister only needs to go somewhere once - like a hours-far-away outlet mall - to remember exactly where it is, even if we need to travel down a bunch of winding back roads to get there.

Me? I could get lost inside a phone booth. And I get truly scared when I don't know where I am and am surrounded by unfamiliar territory. I think it stemmed from a horrible childhood memory in which my sister wandered off as a toddler at the Lucas County fair. While she was only lost for a few minutes before we heard her name announced over the loudspeaker, it was the one and only time in my childhood I saw my easygoing mom in a panicked terror. So I find it ironic that I can get myself lost so easily.

Remember the time I had no idea how to get where I was going?

While there are an endless number of times I could write about here, here is my all-time most lost list:

Before there were cell phones and GPS and iPads, there were good 'ol fashioned paper maps - of which I didn't have any on my drive back from a basketball game in a neighboring city when I was 16 years old. Good 'ol Bonnie my Pontiac Bonneville had great gas milage as I was driving aimlessly and crying for TWO HOURS because I was too scared and felt too stupid to ask for directions near my own hometown. While it was completely true, it was a pretty poor excuse for being 90 minutes late for work.

The next year, I drove after high school one day to visit my then-boyfriend in Gross Pointe Woods, a suburb of Detroit. I stayed as late as I thought I should on a school night, then headed home in the dark, which was nearly a straight shot on the expressway. I must have missed a turn or headed the wrong way because the next thing I know, I'm sobbing on the phone telling my boyfriend that I somehow wound up in downtown Detroit. After dark. By myself. While he was less than helpful at getting me back to the expressway, he was a good distraction - just like the trains that go around and between the buildings a few stories up, which stopped my tears for a few seconds as I marveled.

The first time I drove out of the safety of southeast Michigan and northwest Ohio, it was for a freelance work retreat in Illinois. I left in early afternoon with a plan to get to my destination in mid-Illinois around dinnertime. After an epic unplanned detour - in which I accidentally stole a map from a gas station because I was so flustered and the time change - which I forgot about - I arrived at my destination more than two hours after I was supposed to get there and was so upset and frustrated, I passed on drinks with my colleagues to just go to bed.

And my most recent episode happened today, unfortunately.  I actually got lost on foot two blocks north and five blocks east of the building where I work in downtown Chicago. I saw a farmers’ market on my way back and somehow got turned around, accidentally walking more than half a mile in the wrong direction, tacking on an extra 30 minutes to my lunch break.

I was not born with an internal sense of direction, which is why I always carry a city map in my purse. Right next to my iPhone, iPad, and GPS.

Day 22: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... Dirty Jobs Would Pay Bank

Something I've never understood is the absolutely disproportionate salary structure of the world we live in. Sports stars make millions of dollars a year for playing games for a few hours a week, and doctors make a modest living even though their job is to save lives and work 80 hours a week 48-hour shifts at a time.

In Lichtenstein, I'd be the one setting the starting salary structure for every job in my country. Actors and sports stars would be at the very bottom of my salary scale. Actors get to pretend to be someone else for a few weeks, and sports stars play the games they love for paychecks - both with six digits ahead of the decimal in today's world. Their jobs are pure fun, so paying them the most money to do something fun for a living makes zero sense, and is simply just not fair.

Police officers, firefighters, and those who serve in the military would make the millions. Their lives are literally on the line every single time they go to work to keep us safe. Doctors and EMTs would be a close second, as they go to school for decades to learn how to keep us healthy and help us in dire times of need.

The blue-collar workers and those who perform the mundane jobs that need to be done to make the world work would be making six figures. Without them, our garbage would pile up, we'd have no cars to drive, no one to cook our food, and our children would be uneducated. These are the jobs that people should be well-compensated for doing.

In Lichtenstein, we celebrate the unsung heroes where it counts for so many - their paychecks for an important job well done. And those who play games for a living will get the pleasure of playing games for a living - the way it should be.

Day 21: What Did Batman Say to Robin... On Numbers That Have Nothing to do With the Bible Chapter

Holy reversal order of numbers Batman!

What did Batman say to Robin about why the numbers on a calculator and a phone are reversed? My partner in crime gives his take on it:

Partner in Crime: Some of life’s most complicated questions have the simplest answers. Take the question, “Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?” The answer is the chicken, which is why he needed to cross the road. He was looking for an escape route. Clearly staying on the same street as the crime would get him caught in a matter of seconds. Who sticks around at the scene of the crime unless you're a serial killer or arsonist? It's Criminology 101.

Another seemingly complex question is, "Why are the numbers on a calculator and a phone reversed?" The answer is simple. Confusion.

When the telephone keypad first came out, it was a marvel of technology. No longer did anyone have to sit an extra 20 seconds for the rotor on a traditional phone. And forget about dialing out of area. What used to take a full minute to dial could now be done in less than 8 seconds; 10 if you didn’t have the phone number memorized.

Another technological breakthrough was advent of the calculator which replaced the abacus. No one had to deal with that annoying rattling sound or confuse their math instruments with strange Arabian sex toys or Inuit back massagers. Now people simply had to type in numbers and this the equals signs.

Because people were far, far stupider back then, they would simply get confused as to which instrument is which. Sometimes they would pick up a calculator and try to make a phone call. They would of course not get any response. That would not stop them, however, from sending an angry letter to the phone company asking why their phone is out of service. They would, in turn, receive a reply 2-3 weeks later saying that their phone lines were indeed working. I mean, we’re talking about people who thought deodorant shouldn’t be invented yet, and streets don't need to be paved even though it's easier to dribble a basketball on hard ground and wood is clearly a better medium for tooth replacement than veneer.

Since the one phone company was getting inundated with mail, they decided to strike a deal with the calculator council known as C.O.C.K at the time (Council of Calculators Kentucky). Calculators were now to have their number reversed from telephones. This would end the confusion. In exchange, the phone companies would not include a “Tip Calculator” on their future cellular phones until at least the year 2000. Consequently, this also ended the feud between the Hetfields and the Mccoys because both families were too confused about using either to fight anymore. Calculators and phones – technologies of peace.

My response: My PICs response is a completely logical one - people are stupid. They were stupid back then to confuse a telephone with a calculator and they're stupid now to confuse venomous snakes with the harmless variety or botox with actual human facial expressions.

But the real reason the numbers were switched is as follows: The telephone was invented first, so Alexander Graham Bell had first dibs on how he wanted the numbers placed. Naturally, he chose to put the numbers left to right - the way we read - beginning with the number 1. He was smart enough to invent the telephone; and obviously was smart enough to know where the numbers should logically be placed.

The inventor of the calculator, however, was practically the polar opposite of the older, wiser Bell. He was a dorky kid fresh out of MIT whose life experience is contained within the confines of the pages of mathematics textbooks. This kid seriously needed a chick in his life - and for much more than her having to point out to him that it is extremely juvenile to put the numbers of the calculator in reverse because when one types "55378008" and reverses the direction of the calculator (i.e. turns it upside down) the numbers spell "boobless."

So why are the numbers on a phone and calculator reversed? Because the phone companies want to deal with as few idiots as possible and because some immature dork was seriously in need of a good lay.

Day 20: Never Have I Ever... Said Such Ridiculous Things That Were 100 Percent Work-Related

A former colleague of mine and I used to talk quite a bit at lunchtime at one of my past jobs. It was an unnecessarily stressful and quite un-enjoyable job, so we used to take advantage of the full 13 minutes we were allotted to eat lunch to attempt to have a bit of fun before our slave-driving boss started making snide comments that since we were done eating and talking about nothing of particular importance, we'd be more useful if we went back to work.

Not many of our conversations made any sort of semblance of sense - much to the chagrin of another colleague who used to eat lunch with us. We'd talk about how a quarter was the same as a dime (it's not), how much of a blow fish you'd be able to eat before you'd die (not much), and who was stupider - someone who stared into a bright light for a full minute because it would make the night seem darker or the person who believed it was true and convinced the other to do it. (The first person is totally stupider. And yes, we used words such as "stupider" and "funner".) It made the long hours at this particular job much more bearable.

At my current job, dare I say my conversations with colleagues are even more ridiculous, yet these conversations allow me to do what they're paying me for.

My boss and I were sitting down completely seriously discussing my current project today, and every other sentence sent my two neighboring cube mates into fits of giggles, even though they both were familiar with my current project of creating fun games for children. And what game for children isn't fun without personified ketchup bottles and a mariachi mouse playing a song for a hamster in a diaper?

Another colleague who was not familiar with my games actually stopped in her tracks as she was cruising past my cube to give us a "WTF?" look and a "What. The. Hell. are you guys talking about?" sentence to match.

I can understand her confusion. It's like the lame game always played at bridal parties after the bride-to-be has finished opening her gifts (where the "best maid" reads off sentences the bride has said while opening gifts that she'll supposedly say on her wedding day about her groom, such as "what a surprise!" and "I never knew it was so big," etc.).

Or, better yet, it's like a game I made up with a friend called "Awkward Something" where you wait until that moment where someone is just within earshot and you say something completely awkward to your friend as if the two of you were actually immersed in a conversation surrounding retrieving panties from the top of a Christmas tree.

Therefore, never have I ever said absolutely ridiculous sentences that were 100 percent work-related. A sampling of sentences I jotted down after the two conversations I had with my boss today (yes, these are just from today):

"Oh! So this must be how hot dogs have sex."

"With the frog, I'm leaving out its arms and the legs but keeping the tongue cause it's so cute."

"It's totally a smart snake because it's wearing glasses. So do we want to decapitate the smart snake's head for the game? And if we do, where would he be going?"

"Hey Heather? If you were a cow, where would you be going? You wouldn't be going to milk because you give milk, right? Or are you a male cow and want to taste the milk... wait this seems to be going somewhere not kid-friendly."

"Why is the mariachi mouse going to a piece of cherry pie? Seriously - do mice like cherries?"

"Is the alien going to be flying from his planet to planet Earth or is he going to visit his friend on another planet?"

"We can't do a kiss because the monsters' faces don't have lips."

"How can those monsters be in love? They're not even the same species. One has one eye and has a horn - or is that a party hat? - and the other is a dinosaur with stars on it. Wait, is he also wearing a party hat? Are they going to a party? Should they have presents?"

"Don't look up 'hamburger guy', look up 'hamburger man' so we can find the hot dog man a friend."

"Should we photoshop out the mustard line so we can have the ketchup send the hot dog to the mustard for a yellow squirt? Oops - again probably not kid-friendly. Why is my mind in the gutter today?"

"Why is the mouse wearing scuba gear to get drunk?"

"Grandma is just going to have to be white because this website doesn't favor the ethnic elderly."

I love my job.

Day 19: Shakespeare's High School Poetry... I Love This Game

This week we're going to celebrate a type of poem I remember writing a bunch of in early elementary school - the acrostic poem. It's a simple poem where the first letter, syllable, or word of each line spells out a word or message - typically what you're writing about.

Maybe Shakespeare actually studied the acrostic in school, as it's popularly used as a mnemonic device. I know I had a bunch of these types of acrostic poems, the most memorable one being in third grade to remember the order of the planets, starting with the one closest to the sun:

My (Mercury)
Very (Venus)
Eager (Earth)
Mother (Mars)
Just (Jupiter)
Served (Saturn)
Us (Uranus)
Nine (Neptune)
Pickles (Pluto - yes when I was in third grade, Pluto was still a planet. Nowadays, apparently my mother is not serving me nine of anything.)

So this week, I'm using this simple yet fun form of poetry to celebrate one of my great loves, where I get one of my favorite quotes from, which is applicable to both the game, and life in general: "You'll always miss 100 percent of the shots you don't take."

I Love This Game

Before I had a team, I had a ball.
A black-and-yellow
Striped ball that I
Kept near the chain-netted hoop cemented into concrete.
Ever since that first dribble,
That first sound of a swish, and
Banking that first lay-up,
All I've wanted to do is play. I
Love this game and I
Love this feeling.

Day 18: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words...

Hmmmm... what to do, what to do?

Last week's cliche: Pot calling the kettle black. 

Day 17: Stop. Focus. Click... On Perspective

When you gaze at the world from this perspective, problems just don't seem as daunting.

Day 16: Remember the Time... I Lost My Innocence

I grew up in a newsroom. Not literally, as I was 22 when I started working at The Blade newspaper in Toledo, Ohio, first as a two-year apprentice and then as a full-fledged staff writer whose beat was the east side of Toledo and anything in the surrounding communities.


What I mean is, I actually became an adult in the newsroom. Because I was there, I could no longer be blissfully sheltered against the real world in my tiny community of Lambertville, Michigan. In the real world, people kill each other. Rapes occur. People abuse the elderly and the young. They lie, steal, and cheat.


And some are even on their cell phones with their lawyer literally minutes after hitting a child, only concerned with themselves instead of the child they fatally injured.


Ironically, I think it took a kindergarten student to strip away the rest of my innocence and open my eyes to the real world.

Remember the time I lost my childhood and was forced to grow up?


Dameatrius McCreary. Even after seven years, I still know how to spell his name, and can visualize the exact shade of his white-yellow hair and his trying-too-hard smile, even though I never actually saw him alive.


Both times I saw him, he was dead. The first time I saw him, he was under a sheet near a yellow-taped-off area wearing white socks and just one shoe. The car that killed him had hit him so hard it literally knocked the shoe off his left foot. The photographer who had accompanied me to the scene had to explain this fact to me, as I never knew the phrase "knock your socks off" had some sort of truth to it.


I was at the scene because the accident that blared across the police scanner near the end of my shift occurred in Oregon, an eastern suburb of Toledo, so I was responsible for the story: A woman who was distracted by her cell phone somehow missed the flashing red lights of the school bus and hit the boy as he was crossing the street to get home the day of Easter break.


After the ambulance left, I was shakily interviewing Dameatrius’ uncle when he got the call that he was dead. I wish I had looked away as the news sank in and hadn’t had to see his face shake as hard as his voice did as he screamed “oh my God” and exploded into inconsolable sobs.


Though it wasn’t over an actual loss, I too cried the entire drive back to the office, but composed myself enough to walk into the newsroom and update the editors on the story. That composure was short-lived, as I went right back to crying as I was transcribing my notes from a passer-by who saw the accident and described the gruesome way the small-for-his-age kindergartner bounced off the hood of the car after he was hit.


My colleagues were concerned, but understood that it was my first first-hand experience with the real world. I only later learned that it was an especially harsh way to be introduced to the real world’s cruelty, as many of my colleagues who were parents said they would have had to refuse to cover the story, as it would have been too hard for them. And this was coming from newspapermen with decades of experience covering the real world.


The nightmares about that day only intensified after attending Dameatrius’ funeral. Those who know me are well aware that I am not good at funerals, and never have been, as I just don’t know how to handle death.


Yet for my job, I was told I’d be attending a funeral for a five year old.


It was an open casket funeral. For a child.


Nothing could have prepared me for the child-sized casket filled with stuffed animals, including an oversized Spongebob Squarepants right near a small child’s too-white face.


I spent the funeral in the very last pew of the church, clinging to the photographer who was assigned to the story muffling my sobs into his plaid shirt during a photo montage. Afterward, before we drove back to the office, we went back to sit in his truck. Neither of us wanted to be alone in that moment, yet neither of us had anything to say, so we sat in silence lost in a loss that wasn’t really ours, yet felt like it was.


I was still at a loss when I finally made it back to the office, and, for the first and only time in my career, admitted to my editor that I literally was at a loss for words. I had a notebook filled with quotes and observations, yet just couldn’t find a way to begin or formulate a story about a five-year-old’s funeral. Five-year-olds are supposed to be outside getting dirty and fighting imaginary bad guys, not inside a coffin near people fighting grief.


He gently suggested trying to paint a picture of who Dameatrius was, which I couldn’t answer myself, but found later while struggling with this story that I could do through his loved ones’ remarks about his love for his family and strawberry milkshakes.


Dameatrius was only a child when he was killed, and ironically, it took this tragedy to force me to grow up and realize that the loss I was feeling on that day was the complete loss of my innocence.

Day 15: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... I'd Be Able to Pee Whenever I Wanted or Needed to Go

An actual thought I had today at work:

And done! Now, is there anything else I have to start or have done in the next two minutes, or can I finally go pee? Wait... have I actually taken on so much and are being pulled in so many directions that I have to figure out how to squeeze in time to answer the call of nature? OK, time to reevaluate. If only I had time to reevaluate.


If I ruled Lichtenstein, there would be 30 hours in every day. First of all, who came up with the idea that one day is 24 hours? Not a number that makes sense, like 20 or 25, but 24. Really? Yet, the dynamics of a single day could stay the same - eight hours of work (but this eight hours would include a person's commute, so if your commute is an hour, you'd only have to work for seven hours), eight hours of sleep, and 14 hours of whatever else you wanted to do.

After you take care of all the blah things like chores and errands, with that extra six hours in the day you could focus on catching up on the TV episodes from two months ago taking over your TiVo space, take a class to do something you love or have always wanted to learn how to do, play more games and sports, enjoy time with friends, or spend actual quality time with the family at home.

There's more to life than work. I need to either learn this or find out how to actually implement this rule. But I don't have time to ponder this now - I gotta log off 'cause I really have to pee.

Day 14: What Did Batman say to Robin... About Walking Against the Law

Holy illegal crossing Batman!

What did Batman say to Robin about the deep-rooted societal problem of walking across the street without being at the safety of a corner with a white “WALK” sign, otherwise known as j-walking? Why is it called j-walking?

My response: J-walking is illegal, yet you wouldn’t know it living in New York or Chicago. It doesn’t even feel slightly dangerous when I do it anymore, because no one thinks twice about dashing across a however-many-lanes highway on a mad dash to work or to pick up the kids or in an attempt to juggle all the impossible tasks we thrust upon ourselves on a moment-to-moment basis.

Yet when I do it, I am still breaking the rules of both the law and of common sense. Why do I think it’s a good idea to play Frogger with garbage trucks, semis, and sports cars just to get to where I’m going just a few minutes earlier?

Therefore, j-walking is named after the Blue jay. Blue jays are birds that defy the laws of nature. First of all, they’re blue. What other animal is blue other than some cartoon characters? Also, they are known to attack cats when the felines get too near their nests. Yeah, that’s right: The birds attack the cats. This freak of nature doesn’t follow the rules, so, naturally when someone saw the bird walk across the street – instead of fly, of course – they huffed and thought, “Typical. That strange blue bird is refusing to fly and instead is walking across the street. It’s Blue jay walking.” And of course the phrase “blue jay walking” was shortened to just j-walking through history like virtually all sentences or phrases during the game Telephone.

My Partner In Crime's Response: This is a solid argument my Partner In Crime has posed. However, let me know lay down some knowledge on your ass. J-walking as we know it is when someone crosses the street either outside of the crosswalks or when s/he does not yet have the right of way.

That said, J-walking is usually done by idiotic people. They can be white, black, brown. It doesn't matter. Idiocy does not discriminate. These people are usually on the phone not realizing they do not yet have the right of way, are black and walk too slow, old and walk too slow, are a child and walk too slow with an irresponsible adult who is either black and/or on the phone. They can be a business man/woman trying to get to work 47 seconds earlier. A tourist who is simply a moron and does not understand what the colors of red, yellow and green mean. It simply does not matter.

For this reason J-Walking is derived from "Jarboni Walking" as in, "Ayo! Look at that jabroni walking across the street that just almost got hit by a car and doesn't realize it!" or "God damn that jabroni walking across the street just got hit by a car."

Origins of this term are murky, but trust me, dear reader, I have researched this topic for almost 4 minutes. Dating back to 1775 "Jabroni Walking" stems from Paul Revere's famous midnight ride. When the British started crossing the streets, without use of crosswalks mind you, Paul Revere rode his horse and exclaimed, "Jarbonis are walking! Jabronis are walking!"

A bucket wench responded, "Oy, whaut in the bloody 'ell are you tawlkin abote" (Apparently she was lower class British and Canadian). Not having enough time to explain, Revere tweaked his statement. "The British are coming! The British are coming!" Everyone then came up in arms, and that, as they say, is history.

So why is it called j-walking? After the bird who defies nature and Paul Revere.

Day 13: Never Have I Ever... Just Listened

I get bored easily, so I’ve become a master multi-tasker.

I don’t just watch TV. I watch TV while paying bills, organizing a drawer, knitting, or playing cards. At the very least, I’ll have a magazine on my lap to read during the commercials. 

My train ride to work is 35 minutes long, so my work bag is always stocked with a magazine, novel, and book of games so when I get bored with one, I have two others at my disposal.

The commute from work today was no different except I missed the express train so I was stuck with the 55-minute ride. But I sat in my usual seat on the second level among the long row of seats facing the center of the train. From this seat, you usually don’t sit directly next to someone, but you face a row of people on the opposite side of the train.

After settling down in my seat, I reached down to pull out the riveting novel Half Broke Horses by one of my favorite authors, Jeannette Walls, which was punctuated with a loud burst of laughter. It was then that I looked up to see the most random group of five teenage girls sitting directly across from me talking about what they learned at the Body Worlds Exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry. I start to turn my head toward my book, but find that my eyes don’t leave the group of girls chattering away.

Had they not been sitting together yakking away, I would have thought they were just five strangers who happened to be sitting next to each other. 



Jessica, Sarah, and "Chicago"

Sarah is the most boisterous of the group of recent high school graduates. Had she not been wearing bright pink sweatpants with her black T-shirt, I would have continued thinking she was a teenage boy with her super short ‘do, androgynous face, and lower-pitched voice. She’s much heavier than all the other girls, which doesn’t seem to bother her as she continues sipping from her McDonald’s soda and ensuring there is a continuous flow of conversation. She tends to overcompensate for her lack of conventional beauty by continually working to keep the dialogue interesting, even without any natural segues. She also tries to make each one of her friends feel special individually as she’s giving an impromptu slide show of photos on her phone, pointing out those that would interest each particular girl individually.

She points to a photo she snapped of her injured leg when she found out she was allergic to latex and Dramamine to Lindsay, who briefly looks up from her phone turned sideways to peer at the photo and sympathize about how terrible Sarah must have felt then. Lindsay’s the tomboy of the group, with fashion sense that’s about a decade late, wearing threads one might find in a cowboy’s closet – jeans, a plaid shirt, hemp necklace, and dusty tan sandals with two buckles. Her concentration on the game she’s playing isn’t even interrupted when she throws out one-line sarcastic comments that often begin with “dude” or “man” and focus on throwing keggers once she has her own place in college. Her seemingly lack of focus could easily be mistaken for indifference or callousness if you don’t listen and hear that she’s quick to respond to what her friends are discussing. 

She answers mostly to “Chicago,” who’s excited to be on her own at her new job at Six Flags this summer. Chicago, donning jeans and a Chicago Bears sweatshirt, is self-conscious and is constantly looking for other people’s approval. She tries hard to disguise the fact that her teeth would make an orthodontist rich, and nearly all of her statements are followed by questions wondering what her friends think about what she said. But since she mentions that her favorite pop is Diet Dr. Pepper, she’s definitely cool in my book.

“Chic” is also one who tends to ask a lot of questions, but only because she’s truly inquisitive. Shy as she is, she hides behind thick black-rimmed glasses and long thick bangs. While she often shies away from making many comments, she frequently, yet quietly, asks questions to learn about whether she’d like espresso or which roller coasters she might like to ride best.

"Chic," Lindsay, and Jessica

Jessica is the one who often answers Chic’s questions, and she’s as smart as her glasses may lead one to believe. She speaks as intelligently about espresso as an experienced barista such as myself would, and answers questions about over-the-counter drugs for allergies as if she has had experience. She cares more about her studies than she does about her fashion sense, as her plaid pants, white t-shirt, and army jacket doesn’t exactly scream trendy. She’s also a fantastic storyteller, her stories about her ambulance-driving friend who was called to a home with a full closet of sex toys punctuated with her infectious staccato laugh.

Even though I still have my book in my hand with my finger nestled between pages 122 and 123, I find myself riveted with this smorgasbord clique. The conversation moves seamlessly between bottle-feeding a kitten, visiting the local aquarium, the best tore to find a clear backpack, their preliminary thoughts about what college is going to be like next year, holding wine-tasting parties with cheap wine they can afford, trying absinthe, what they’re allergic to, eating at Jimmy John’s, and the fact that Sarah was a gay pirate in a past life.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if you could track your past lives?” Sarah asked her buds as I reluctantly walked off the train at my stop after considering staying on past it after realizing that I sat for nearly an hour doing nothing but listening. Never have I ever just listened for an extended period of time, and I loved every second of it.

It made me wonder what else I was missing out on by actively participating in a conversation, so I tried to focus this past week on listening. I went to lunch with a colleague, and finished my sandwich before she had taken two bites of hers because I asked her to tell me about being adopted, her thoughts on finding her birth mother, and what it was like to grow up Asian with white parents. I’ve read stories about people being adopted, but never heard the story directly from someone’s mouth, and it was absolutely captivating. I learned about the extra measures Jimmy Johns employees had to take on $1 sub customer appreciation day and more about the one-child rule in China from someone who’s parents adopted a baby from that country.

Learning to listen was vital to my job as a reporter, but since then I’ve let those skills slip a bit, and want to cement them in place. How else am I going to discover if I was a gay pirate in a past life?

Day 12: Shakespeare's High School Poetry on Organisming.

With 154 sonnets under his belt, Shakespeare was well-versed in how to write the last two lines of each poem which is, in fact, a couplet. A couplet is simply two lines of a poem in which the ending words rhyme.

Therefore,  a couplet poem is an entire poem where the last two words in each two-lined stanza rhyme. This poetic form can be as simple as two lines or a series of couplets. Regardless, there's always an even number of lines all about the same subject or topic. Couplets are often humorous, and are generally light.

My parents visited me in Chicago this weekend, so I was originally going to write about them, but in light of the form of poetry chosen for this week, I thought it'd be more fun to write a poem about an embarassing moment of mine that seemed to be the end of the world at the time, but now is just a funny story from high school.

Organisming

Don't be nervous; it's going to be fine.

Take a deep breath and your speech line by line.

Geez there's a lot of people out there

And all of them giving me the stare.

First part done with no prob

Even in front of this mob.

High school students are quite unforgiving

Differences won't elect you queen or king.

I’m almost done and haven’t faltered

Maybe they won’t think I’m such a nerd.

Whew! I know the ending is near

One more line and I’m in the clear.

“That’s how you get an orgasm” I hear myself say.

For Dolly the cloned sheep is what I was to portray.

‘Organism’ is what was meant to come out.

This is gonna be bad—without a doubt.

A second of dead silence turns into a huge roar

Of laughter, making me want to crawl into the floor.

Face burning, I head toward my seat with a frown.

There’s no way I’m ever gonna live this one down.

I feel like such a fool.

High school can be so cruel.

Day 11: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words Yo

It may not be the most p.c. depiction in the world, but come on, it's pretty obvious what this composite is depicting.

Last week's cliche: Born with a silver spoon in your mouth.

Day 10: Stop. Focus. Click. On New York Magic

Although I love the Chicago area, there will always be a part of me that wishes I were still part of the magic of New York City.

Day 9: Remember The Time... I Hooted Like an Owl and Found a Good Friend

When I moved to New York City in December, 2007, I knew exactly one person out of a city of 8.2 million. And since that one person - Brent - worked ungodly hours and I had yet to get a job, I needed to find some friends.

But when you're not in college with dorms and classrooms full of your peers, how do you go about meeting people. I hadn't yet gotten desperate enough to walk up to a friendly looking stranger and say something along the lines of, "Hi, I'm Erika and I just moved here. Will you be my friend?" but I was missing having chill time with girlfriends.

I filled my first weeks in New York with a job search, errands, household chores, and occasionally going to the gym. Since I hate going to the gym, I would often go to attend a class, as I needed the motivation to keep moving. At first I stuck with the classes I was familiar with, such as strength training or yoga. But one day I decided I was tired of the same old, same old, and wanted to try something new, so I went to the gym in time for a new class they were offering called Nia. Nia, like yoga, is done without shoes or socks, and anything that allows me to work out without shoes on usually works for me just fine.

During our light warm-up, I was able to survey the room and realized that other than another girl who looked to be about my age, the rest of the class was made up of probably 40-somethings, and was taught by a very pregnant woman. She was able to teach the class despite being pregnant because Nia (also referred to as Non-Impact Aerobics) is a light aerobic exercise program with a premise that movement is a pathway for self-discovery and personal transformation. Had I known that, I most likely wouldn't have attended the class, as I'm not big on the whole "mind, body, spirit" stuff.

And had I known that we would be running zigzag patterns around the room pretending to catch fireflies out of the air while hooting like owls, I really would have come up with a darn good excuse to skip the gym that day. The girl my age seemed normal and sane enough to probably also think this class was ridiculous, so I found myself shooting her "What the heck are we doing?" looks throughout the class, which she didn’t hesitate to return.

After the class (thankfully) ended, I went to grab my shoes, which happened to be tossed carelessly right next to that other girl’s flip flops. As we both stepped into our shoes, I (also thankfully) decided to strike up a conversation, so I said the first thing that came to my mind: “So that was… uh… different” which made her laugh and agree, and then led to a conversation about our favorite “normal” workout classes offered at the gym.

Janine was an easy person to talk to – extremely friendly with a smile of perfectly aligned teeth, a genuine laugh, a light blanket of freckles over her nose, and pale blue eyes that were gorgeous on their own, but especially stunning when juxtaposed with her long brown hair. To be blunt, she was not only adorable, but also warm and friendly.

I had wanted to try out the Rebounding class that the gym offered – where everyone gets their own trampoline for the workout – as well as make friends, so I thought I’d try to do both at the same time, even though complete friend rejection was a very real possibility – one that I experienced first-hand my very first day at a new high school.

So I tentatively mentioned that I wanted to try the Rebounding class, and tried to sound casual when I asked Janine if she wanted to try it out with me. To my relief, she said she’d love to try it out with me so we planned on meeting there for the class a few days later, and exchanged phone numbers.

After we found that we loved Rebounding class, we planned to meet for the class regularly, and always had a chance to chat before and after class where we got to know each other. Gradually, that led to hanging out after the gym and then hanging out without the gym at all (worst workout buddies ever!) and I now consider Janine to be one of my dearest friends. She’s not only adorable and friendly, but is 100 percent genuine, caring, and truly one of the best people I’ve ever known.

And we always have a good story to tell when people ask us how we know each other. “From the gym” never seems to quite cut it, so we take turns telling the story about how our shared discomfort for a bizarre class began what I consider to be a cherished friendship.

Day 8: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... Eye For An Eye Would Rule

I have the solution that will undoubtedly curb crime if not eradicate it all together. And it's so simple: An eye for an eye.

The way it works is if you commit and are convicted of a crime, that same crime would be turned around and committed to you. For example, if you are convicted of attempted murder because you stabbed someone three times, you, in turn, would be stabbed three times in the same places so you can truly feel the pain you caused someone else.

If you're convicted of stealing something from someone, your punishment would be someone would come into your house and take whatever he/she wanted so you could in turn know what it's like to be a victim whose privacy was invaded and understand first-hand.

Besides, victims don't ask to be victims nor do they choose to be. Those who commit crimes would, in effect, have that luxury of deciding whether or not they want to become victims, which is more than they gave the person they wronged.

And if you were to be convicted of murder, your punishment would be to die in the same way. Although some may rush to point fingers to the whole "cruel and unusual punishment" notion, every resident of Lichtenstein would be well aware of the rules, so there would be no excuses. And probably no crime because who would commit a heinous murder knowing that if they get caught and convicted they'd be killed in the same way? Lichtenstein would quickly become the safest place on earth if both peace, and I, reigned.

Day 7: What did Batman say to Robin? Na na na na na na na na BAT-MAN!... I mean LEAD-ER!

Holy bad but awesome joke Batman!

What did Batman say to Robin before they got into the batmobile to fight crime?

"Hey Robin! Get in the car."

Sometimes it takes a simple dumb joke to get me out of a funk. A friend told me this joke when I was upset one day. After hearing the punchline, I couldn't help the smile that creeped up on me which, for a moment, allowed me to forget everything else if only for a short time.

Besides, anything is better than the worst joke I've ever heard from a guy who permanently cemented the notion of "dumb jock" in my head in high school. During a long break during class, a football player started telling a joke with multiple players and several storylines. And after about 15 minutes of build-up, he started winding down to the punchline with, "... and then the monkey wearing a tuxedo on the bicycle said... umm... wait... oh crap! I forgot what the monkey said!" Yeah. He forgot the punchline.

I think this incident might have been one of the main reasons I asked my friends at the high school radio station if I could tell my absolute favorite joke on the air. (For those of you who know me, you have undoubtedly heard my favorite knock knock joke... probably more than once.) And I was allowed to tell four more jokes that week (also known as my favorite joke with a different barnyard animal substituted in) in a segment they created on the spot called "Erika Ray With The Joke Of The Day" because that joke is so hilarious (or because "Ray" and "day" rhyme and their prank-call segment was getting old. Who knows the real reason?) However it happened, I enjoyed thinking that my jokes may have brightened someone's day a little.

So while the Batman and Robin joke is a little ridiculous and, some may argue, not even a real joke, sometimes I just feel the need to let go of my adulthood with all of its bills and chores and responsibility and embrace the ridiculousness of simplicity.

This is the reason for Tuesday's theme: What did Batman say to Robin? Each week I'll either pose and then refute a random question from a friend, or answer and get a response from a random question. The more out of the box the topic, the better to take a break from all the monotony of being an adult on a Tuesday. Even if only for a short time.

Today's question: Why do superheroes wear underwear on the outside of their clothes?

My partner in crime's response: Before we start, we must take note of the operative word "superhero" which is the male counterpart to a super-heroin. Super-heroins only wear underwear because 1. They have nicer legs. 2. They shave their nicer legs and 3. woman look much better in skimpies. Imagine a man in a bikini bottom. I know I have. I have not, but I meant you other people. Totally. You other people.

Now, onto the pressing question. This question can be answered in one word. A rich cocktail of homosexual tendencies mixed avid bike riding. Ever notice how the uber-flamboyant homosexuals (which will now be referred to as UFH) consciously or unconsciously attract attention to themselves through their style or choice of clothes?

I.e., someone who was not me saw what I thought was a lanky, stylish female from behind. I somehow Someone who was not me saw the exact same outfit in Urban Outfitters on a female mannequin and therefore thought it was a woman. Someone who was not me found myself walking closer and then bam! Person turned around. Guess what? Not so much a girl. Someone who was not me said to myself, "You know? You're very much a dude. There is definitely way too much penis in that outfit for that person to be a woman."

This is relative I swear.

Moving on, inside every superhero is a gay man too scared to come out of the closet. The similarities are uncanny (like the X-Men. Get it? The popular comic "The Uncanny X-Men"):

1 - Why else would Batman hang around a teenage boy so much? In their underwear no less! "Fighting crime is a simply way to get the adrenaline pumping and the sweat pouring over a glistening forehead. Sweat drips down the face, a hand reaches over with a cool cloth, electricity, the love-making regions of their bodies smile."

2 - Wearing their underwear on the outside is like a mating peacock in heat. It's a mentality of "Hey look at me! Look at me!" UFH's like the one above can show off their trendy yet undeniably female fashion sense. Superheroes share in this similar sense of recognition. Hey, that person is wearing their underwear on the outside. He must be a superhero! Also, ever notice how the colors are ALWAYS well coordinated?

Plus it brings attention to their crotch. In the famous words of my own personal hero (perhaps you can guess), when attention was called to his crotch, "Don't act like you're not impressed." Which is why I, myself, do not wear my underwear on the outside. Besides having no practical superpowers, the attention to my crotchle region would be rather unimpressive. I've been told. I used a potato once. Somehow, though, I think I should've had it in the front. I'm still pondering.

3 - Avid bike riding. What real biker wears baggy clothes, jeans, or even loose shorts. I don't know any. The attire is always very tight. Also Superheroes need to stay in shape. It's simple convenience. I'm already wearing the right outfit. I need to stay in shape. Here's a bike! Perfect! I don't need to change now! I also believe that is the most amount of exclamation points I have ever used in a single paragraph.

My response: It sucks that underwear is almost always so freaking adorable, yet very few people actually get to see it on someone else as opposed to in the drawers at Victoria's Secret. Underwear comes in every color and pattern with plenty of styles and fabrics, and you never have to worry about matching your underwear with your outfit (you really only have to make sure you're wearing the right style for your outfit, and the color only matters if you're wearing white pants).

I may look professional at work on the outside, but I'm the only one who knows I'm wearing underwear with The Simpsons characters on it (yes, I do have a pair). And while wearing my Simpsons, red plaid, or lime green underwear over my work clothes would definitely land me in the hot seat with Human Resources, who would have the gall to tell superheroes what an "appropriate" outfit is to fight crime and/or save lives? If they're using their power for good, then who cares whether they're wearing their underwear on the outside of their clothes, boots in the summertime, or a wig and a fake plastic mustache?

It's the bad guys who just look ridiculous. I mean how can you take someone trying to destroy or take over the world seriously when they're wearing red underwear on the outside of their clothes? You are about to launch seven rockets to obliterate every single continent at the same time and thus destroying the world? Sure you are. Probably right after you pick that wedgie I see that you have in those tighty-whities.

So why do superheroes wear underwear on the outside of their clothes? Because they're badass enough to pull it off and want to draw attention to their crotch as much as possible.

Day 6: Never Have I Ever...Lived On My Own

I'm a big fan of the bucket list. While I don't have a formal list created, I find myself adding to a mental tally when I see or hear about something I'd like to do, and then keeping my eye out for opportunities to do it.

Monday's theme of Never Have I Ever resembles the popular game in that each week I'll either blog about something that I had never done before - up until that week, that is - or will tell the story of something that I once did that I had never done before.

And since I'll be taking a huge leap away from my comfort zone each week - whether it be in recalling something new I did in the past or telling the tale of something new as it's happening - I'm hoping to surprise even myself.

So Never Have I Ever... lived on my own until I was 21 years old. And I think it was because I lived on my own that my 21st year on this earth was one of the top two best times in my life (the other, if you're wondering, was October, 1999 to January, 2000 when I was single during my senior year of high school).

I signed the lease at 2040 East Orchard Lakes Place, Apt. 11, in Toledo, Ohio, in June of 2004 after landing my first "real" job out of high school at The Blade newspaper. Nothing made me feel as adult as waking up in my own place, getting ready for work in my own bathroom, and making myself breakfast in my own kitchen.
But the day I closed the door after my parents on my very first night sleeping completely alone, the thought was like a lightning bolt through my chest - I was scared shitless. So scared, in fact, that not only did I purposely choose a second-floor apartment so no one could climb in the windows, but I also had a wedge alarm that I set under the front door religiously that would make the loudest and most heinous sound I have ever heard if anyone were to open the door unbeknown to me. And if that weren't enough, I slept with a baseball bat and a knife beside and underneath my bed, and went through a self-defense class at the University of Toledo.

After I got over the initial terror, I grew to absolutely love living on my own. My apartment - with the hefty rent payment, at the time anyway, of $625 a month - became my freedom. I could be whoever I wanted in my apartment, wear whatever I wanted, do whatever I wanted, and say whatever I wanted and it was OK. For that reason, I put a sock - a single white sock - smack in the middle of my coffee-table-free living room. Just because I could. Who was going to tell me to pick it up? It became a conversation piece, as I was, and still am, a hyper-organized person.

I loved opening the freezer door and seeing the pizza rolls or ice cream I had bought the week before - no one had eaten it because I was the only one that could. I could read under the light until I fell asleep or rage with a pen on an innocent yellow legal pad at any time and it was OK. I even loved seeing the dirty dishes or laundry pile up because I didn't feel like doing it and who was going to tell me it needed to be done?

My balcony overlooked a pond with a fountain that housed a gaggle of geese and ducks, which I threw bread down to often so they'd stay and I could name them and call them my pets that I didn't have to take care of, save a few pieces of crusty bread when I had it. One of those simple moments in life was me sitting by myself on my balcony in my crazy comfortable lawn chair sipping a drink and drinking in the happiness I felt at that time in my life.

It was a fleeting time of freedom, but one that I still look back fondly on and will cherish as a once-in-a-lifetime period where I could be completely myself. And that was OK.

Day 5: Shakespeare's High School Poetry About A Woman

All writers and poets have jotted down something they find many years later and think, “I can’t believe I actually wrote this crap” as they’re locked inside the bathroom burning the inferior work in the bathtub.

Shakespeare probably was the exception to this phenomenon, as he was unbelievably brilliant, but maybe he began with mediocre work when he was younger. It makes me think there just might be hope for some greatness in my future writing career.

So every week I’ll be exploring a different type of poetry by writing a poem in a different style to enrich my own work, which I can only hope somewhat resembles the kind of stuff Shakespeare would have written in high school.

I'll be starting off simple - with a haiku. This three-lined Japanese style of poetry is typically about simple, everyday events with themes that range from nature to feelings and experiences. This compact poem's first and third lines contain five syllables and the second line contains seven, and it doesn't rhyme.

This poem is about a man in my life who I never thought would, or even could, say the following four words to me in a degrading, sexist way during a conversation about gender roles in a relationship: "'cause you're a woman."

He said this to a woman who owned and proudly wore a T-shirt in high school which read "Yeah! I run like a girl, I punch like a girl, and I throw like a girl 'cause girls kick butt!" So after I heard those four words, I heard nothing else other than my own voice screaming something along the lines of "Wait, wait, wait and RE.WIND. What did you just say?" before defending my gender until my voice was hoarse. This was a fight I will always refuse to back down from.

So I could stew about this or I could take the phrase "'cause you're a woman" and flip it around to be a positive. Sure, I am a woman who could be wearing makeup from a compact or grease from an oil can. I could be donning a skimpy dress or oversized coveralls. And could be found either fixing dinner or fixing a leaky faucet.

I am a woman. And I am damn proud of it.


Hear Me Roar

Cook, clean, and do chores
Working at home after work
'Cause I'm a woman

Day 4: A Picture Is Worth 1,000 Words Chickadee

If a picture truly is worth 1,000 words, then it shouldn't be too hard to guess which popular overused phrase - otherwise known as a... grr... cliche - I'll be depicting every Saturday with just one photo. Here's today's:

(I'll let you know the answer to this week's cliched photo when I post the new one next week.)


Random Fact #1: I hate cliches. I refuse to use any in my writing unless I'm disproving them or flipping them in some clever way. Example: If children are so resilient, then why do they howl like teething newborns when you're peeling off a Band-aid?


Although, I have to admit that sometimes a cliche or two will sneak into my writing. However, if I notice it or another person points it out to me, I'll do what I do with any other bad writing.


Hit delete as quickly as a bat out of hell.

Day 3: Stop. Focus. Click. On home.

Stop. Focus. Click. is a reminder at the end of every work week that sometimes we need to slow down and appreciate life's small moments. The ones that you may not remember very clearly as time goes by, but are oh so appreciated while you're in the moment. These are the moments that this theme will capture every Friday. Like the one where you're looking out at your dog lying in the sun on the two acres stretching out behind the house you grew up in, smelling the fresh-cut grass, and listening to the wind lightly brush against the budding tree branches and feeling a true sense of contentment.

Regardless of where I live or which address is printed underneath my name on bills, magazines, and junk mail, to me, this will always be home.

Day 2: Remember The Time... that I unfortunately didn't keep Victoria a Secret.

During my time in New York, I always kept an eye on MediaBistro’s writing and publishing job boards so whenever something interesting became available, I could jump on it.

Sometimes, I’d see a posting for an entry-level editorial department position at a company I was not familiar with, so I’d click on it to read the “About the Company” section. But without fail, if the description mentioned the words “fashion,” “beauty,” or “trends,” I’d immediately lose interest and close the window.
I have never been interested in fashion. My after-school wardrobe in grade school consisted of holey sweatpants and a T-shirt (when I was going through my I-refuse-to-wear-jeans-and-tank-tops phase) sometimes out of my brother’s closet. I wore an oversized green-and-gray striped Adidas T-shirt and jeans for my first day of high school (which made for a great first impression – geez, talk about committing social suicide) and would be that girl wearing her pajamas to my 8 a.m. class in college.

Clothes to me do not make a statement. While I love her music and the way she embraces her uniqueness, I don’t ever “get” Lady Gaga’s fashion sense. Her outrageous clothes are entertaining, sure, but never anything I’d be caught dead in (get it – meat dress? Dead? Too much of a stretch?).

Clothes don’t tell me how rich you are. I have no idea if that Louis Vuitton handbag costs $2,000 from an actual Louis Vuitton store or $20 from an actual Chinatown secret back room. (And yes, I did have to Google how to spell “Louis Vuitton” – and I studied French for four years. Et pour que?)

Clothes are just an annoying thing that causes angst because I no longer have my sister or cousins Gillian and Alexis around to dress me and tell me “you can’t wear those shoes with that outfit” or “that combination doesn’t match” or “wait, you actually wear that?” Plus, I see no reason to spend any great deal of money on objects that, on me, will get torn, food splattered on them, or worse, will cause an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction that, to me, rivals Janet Jackson’s.

But buying cheap clothes and shoes have a way of screwing you over more than your wallet. Remember the time that ever since I started my new job, I’ve become a walking wardrobe malfunction? Granted, none of these instances were as bad as the time I conducted half an interview with the Northwood, Ohio, police chief wondering why he never made eye contact and stared everywhere but at me before lamely excusing himself to grab some paperwork, which is when I finally noticed that my button-down blouse had come open right in the middle of my chest, completely exposing my bright pink bra. But still, they’re completely embarrassing.

And now, from the least embarrassing to the most embarrassing, here are the highlights:

Thankfully noticing that my pants had split before I went to work last week.
Forgetting to wear longer boy shorts underneath my skirt on a mile-long chafing walk on the hottest day of the year to work yesterday.
Not noticing that the long sweater I keep at my desk at work still had the “don’t steal me” tag on the bottom it even after wearing it several times when I got cold. Over the course of two weeks.

And yet my favorite incident happened yesterday – the day I chose to wear a skirt and heels for a big meeting with my boss, my boss’s boss, and several other real office colleagues.

I walked to the train station, walked a mile to work, and walked around the office all morning. It wasn’t until about 30 minutes before the meeting that one of my shoes breaks in half. As in I walked out of the bottom part of my platform shoe. As in, crap I don’t have an extra pair of shoes at my desk and don’t have time to get this fixed or get new shoes. After failing to find super glue, I spied some clear tape, grabbed about two feet of it, and wrapped it around the entire shoe twice so the top part would stay on the bottom, then put my foot on top of the tape.

As if having to tape my shoe together wasn’t bad enough, it made a loud, distinct, tape-y crunching noise when I walked, so my gait sounded something like, “clomp, CRUNCH, clomp, CRUNCH.” And this is how I walked into the meeting, and how I walked out and then back in during the middle of the meeting to grab some research I did that would be helpful. Luckily, if anyone noticed, they were nice enough to make me think that maybe they actually didn’t. Doubtful, but hopeful.

All I have to do is cross my fingers that that incident will continue to be the most embarrassing one – especially because in two weeks I’m planning on wearing an outfit for a project launch solely for people to notice what I’m wearing. I can already feel the foreshadowing. Stay tuned.