Day 82: Shakespeare's High School Poetry...On What To Do. Or not.

A list poem is just that: A list. Though simple, the writer is still illustrating something in the poem, which should have a beginning and an end with each item written the same way.

Sometimes being an adult sucks, especially when I feel like I'm not living it on my own terms. Sometimes I just feel like ignoring the piled up laundry or dishes, or live on takeout while reading in bed. Rarely, but just sometimes. I deserve it sometimes, right?

What To Do, What To Do?

Don't sleep in on Saturdays.

Don't read before doing chores.

Don't keep pajamas on in the afternoon.
Don't leave clothes on the floor.
Don't put your hair in a ponytail.
Don't turn on the TV.

Don't leave the lights on.

Don't roll your eyes at me.
Don't burp while you're eating. 
Don't fart while in bed. 
Don't serve dinner a minute late.
Did you hear what I said?

Don't forget to wash the car

do the vacuuming, dust
And sweep.
Don't neglect the grocery shopping
the dishes, the dog,
the laundry heap.
Don't stop the dieting
Or show up in casual clothes
even if they're new.
Don't decide how to live your life.
Or take any breathing room.
I know what's best for you.

Day 81: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words... On Perfection. And rock slinging.

There's gotta be a hot girl's bedroom behind one of those windows on the top floor if he's doing this in the middle of the day. 



Last week's cliche: Time Flies When You're Having Fun

Day 80: Stop. Focus. Click... On Family Fun

I can't argue with Dorothy. There really is no place like home. Last time I was home, my parents decided to see how long it'd take me to notice that they had taken down a decorative painting in the living room and replaced it with my ridiculously giant senior photo.

It took until I was walking back into the living room after singing the peeing song in the bathroom because my brother and sister were quick to help point out who's the favorite child, as there weren't any over-sized photos of either of them. Obviously.

Day 79: Remember the Time... I Have No Freaking Clue

Remember the time that I've known myself for 29 years, 3 months, and nine days and yet at times have no idea who I am or what I want or why I do what I do?

I actually said the sentence, "I don't know why I do what I do" today when a colleague grabbed my arm for the third time and asked me why I don't make sure it's safe to cross a busy street in downtown Chicago before attempting to do so.

I thought back on that moment during my 45-minute commute home (I tend to do a lot of self-reflection on walks and train rides) and felt the same again when I got home when I just found myself restless looking for something constructive to do.

This is a recurring theme with me, but it's just been especially prevalent lately. Sure, people change as they grow and learn, but (as a recent Facebook post of mine illustrated) I just feel like I'm having a midlife crisis or something where I know that I want and need something, yet have no idea what that is and am frustrated that I can't figure it out.

And I'm continuously surprising myself at what I believe to be true only to realize that I'm completely wrong when someone points it out to me. And then it just looks obvious. Like when I say, "My favorite dessert is Pinkberry!" and absolutely believe it to be true, and a friend stops me and says "Uh, no, Erika your favorite dessert is flan" and I then have to respond with, "Oh yeah, I guess it is" because I realize that my friend is right.

I don't really know what I'm trying to say here (pun not even intended). All I know is maybe the shock of life's curveballs is now catching up to me or maybe I'm getting extra tripped up on these weird moments I've been having where it's like I'm watching myself in this life instead of living it.

I don't know what it is, but I hope to figure it out sometime soon. Hopefully before another 29 years, three months, and nine days go by.

Day 78: If I Ruled Lichtenstein... "[Tweet!] Foul! Penalty for the Wronged!"

You are ready to start having children. You want two kids. Your partner only wants one. What's the compromise? Having one kid and a midget?


You get a job in New York City at the same time your partner gets a job in L.A. You want to stay together, so what's the compromise? Live between the two cities in Kansas?


My point is, there is no real compromise. Someone's gonna get what they want, and someone's gonna have to cave and give up what they want.


I've always maintained that every relationship should be between three people so there's always a tie-breaker for these types of life-changing situations. But since that's not exactly the way the world works, communication is key when these rare issues crop up.

But for the day-to-day disagreements, it's going to be a bit easier in Lichtenstein. Every relationship here will have 24/7 access to a referee. A referee will be available via a hotline at all times to listen to both sides of a disagreement and give his or her opinion to quash anyone who's being ridiculous or unreasonable.

The way it works is you'd call the hotline and ask to be connected to an expert on the topic you're having a disagreement on. The referee would give equal time to both parties to plead their case, and would then take a side that's backed with facts and solid evidence. The whistle is optional.


So then there will be no question that yes, he does watch sports way too much, and no, she doesn't spend too much money when she shops. No question.

Day 77: What Did Batman Say To Robin... About Living Inside Pink-Tinted Glasses

Holy "that's hot" Batman!

Yes, being a socialite and/or reality show participant are actual careers in today's world (well how else would the cast of Jersey Shore pay for their hair products if that weren't the case?), and nobody does absolutely nothing better than Paris Hilton.


A Day In The Life Of Paris Hilton


8:16 a.m.: Wake up to an armpit dog wearing a diamond-encrusted collar whining to be taken outside. Yell at personal assistant for not taking care of the pooch before being woken up.


8:17 a.m.: Roll over onto the custom-made, 4,000-thread-count sheets dyed to a custom shade of pink named "Paris pink," pull down the eye mask, and fall back into a dreamless sleep.

11:28 a.m.: Wake up to a crisp breeze blowing in through the bay window that your assistant opened silently while you were snoozing. Ring a tiny bell on the stark-white dresser next to your bed signaling that you're ready for breakfast in bed and your daily bouquet of fresh flowers flown in from remote regions of the world.


12:43 p.m.: Get out of bed and walk over to a nearby bedazzled recliner reupholstered with the fur of the most endangered species in Africa. Sit down with Modern Luxury magazine and repeatedly say "that's hot" while not actually understand why you're doing so. 

12:49 p.m.: Get impatient at how long it's taking for one assistant to dress you in thousands of dollars of gratis clothing, a second to twist your hair into a chic up-do, and a third to go through a suitcase full of makeup in all colors of the rainbow to find the perfect blend.


1:17 p.m.: Complain that you have to move your arm onto the chair's armrest so your manicurist who bends the rules and makes house calls can make sure your French manicure is even.


2:03 p.m.: Walk down a carpeted spiral staircase to a customized pink limo waiting outside to take you to a lunch with whoever you've asked to drop her plans so she can have lunch with you.


3:50 p.m.: Enjoy a second drink with a pink umbrella attached to it and pretend you hate the paparazzi snapping your photo because you're unaware that they're the reason that you're famous.


4:19 p.m.: Pay for lunch with daddy's credit card that to your knowledge has no credit limit.


4:47 p.m.: Start shopping on Rodeo Drive by lazily telling the limo driver to drive you from storefront to storefront, ignoring the fact that they're right next to each other.


7:32 p.m.: Plop down daddy's credit card for tens of thousands of dollars of clothing you don't need and probably won't wear, and tell your assistant - who's been waiting in the limo in anticipation of your shopping trip while you were at lunch - that you expect all the purchases to be dry cleaned and hung up in the bedroom that you've converted into one of your closets before you get home.


8:17 p.m.: Settle back down in bed for a nice nap.


10 p.m.: Grumble about being woken up for a party at an invitation-only club so your assistants have time to prep you again.


11:20 p.m.: Smile while walking down the red carpet into the club. Drink, dance, and be surrounded by admirers.


12:20 a.m.: Collect your paycheck for tens of thousands of dollars for your hour-long appearance.


12:21 a.m. to the rest of your life: Do whatever the hell you want with an unlimited amount of money because someone else worked hard so you don't ever have to.

Day 76: Remember the Time... I Was In A Sorority

"I'm going where and doing what now?" I ask my colleague with disbelief.

"We're going out," she said. "And wearing headbands. We're the Headband Hotties."

I work one day from home and what I get upon my return the next day is apparently acceptance into a sorority. (Unnecessary note: I have never been in a sorority nor ever had the desire to be in an actual sorority.)

My colleague informed me that during the eight hours I was gone, all the women under the age of 30 who work with me decided that we were going to have a girls' night. The only stipulation was that we each had to wear a headband.

The theory was that a headband is a natural ice-breaker for a guy. It's something a guy can comment on while not having to look anywhere but your head and thus strike up a conversation. While I have a hard time believing any straight guy would notice, much less comment, on a girl's headband, I was more than willing to give it a go.

The evening was supposed to begin at the art museum, followed by drinks. So around 4:45, my cube-mates and I started getting ready for the evening. By "getting ready," I mean I put on my headband and then watched the other two put on fiery red lipstick, heels, and shimmer.

"Well I feel under-dressed," I said, eying their adorable skirts, ruffled shirts, and one who topped off her outfit off with a tiara (which she thought better of soon thereafter, and replaced it with a peacock-feathered headband). Though my own white pants and plain gray sleeveless turtleneck sweater paled in comparison, I did have on my zebra-striped headband to "pull it all together." Or so that's what I thought, anyway.

So the five of us headed to the art museum only to find a security guard standing at the entrance to inform us that they were closed. We told him that our group had been really looking forward to spending the evening at the museum, and then I asked whether he noticed anything noteworthy about our particular group.

"Hey! That's a cool scar!" he said, pointing at a burn on one of my colleague's legs.

"Really? That's what you notice?" I asked him, thus debunking my colleague's theory.

Apparently five women wearing headbands is not as noticeable as, say, if we were all wearing pink, which is apparently the theme of our next outing. I had better practice my bend and snap.