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.