It's All Fun and Games 'Till Someone Gets Pregnant.

I fainted at Jazzercise last night.

My friend Nicole came with me after way less convincing than I’d expected. I wasn’t even half way through my sales pitch before it was booked on her calendar.  Within five minutes of the class commencing she’d memorized and mastered ALL the moves. I’ve been going for weeks and still end up just spinning in circles most of the time 'cause I find the routine’s too tricky.  “Ten years of dance class really pays off!!!” she shouted excitedly in between her hop-skip double chasse. Her spirit fingers intimidated me. The instructor later called to tell her she had a promising future in Jazzercise and would she consider becoming an instructor. Bitch.

When I blacked out Nicole put her career calling on hold for a minute and came running to my rescue: “Erin, are you pregnant??? Oh my god I think you are. You totally are.  You’re for sure pregnant!”

I put my head back: “Fuck.”

Not because I’m not ready, but because …I’m not ready.

There's lots of thing about being a parent I don't have figured out yet. My primary concern:  I only listen to murder rap and Mariah Carey; that’s not healthy for anyone. Also, I don’t do laundry, I can’t cook, and I’m super lazy. And I’m not going to stop swearing. EVER!!
I can’t, I like it too much. There haven’t been any other words invented yet that even come close to being an appropriate substitute. What word better describes your stingy aunt on the wealthy side who gives you slipper socks every Christmas then Cunt? None. It’s too good, and I won’t let it go to waste. Think how rewarding it will be when your kid tells their teacher to “fuck off, I’m not done with nap time yet.” My feeling of pride will far outweigh my willingness to discipline.

Plus I was planning on remaining unpregnant for least a little while longer for the simple reason that everyone I know is literally pooping out babies. Who jacked off in the city water and knocked up the entire metro area? Good thing I only drink Vodka.

Which led me to my next thought: If I was pregnant, then I better get a blood transfusion in the next three minutes because I’d been boozing a lot this past week. A LOT.  I told god if he got me out of this jazzercise nightmare alive I would start a 90 day detox immediately.

I opened my eyes to four fussing, gray haired bitties shoving glucose tablets and tootsie pops in my mouth. “Oh geeeeeeez, goodness gracious, you really have pushed it too hard. Look at her Betty, her face is grey!” 

I watched as a 99 year old traded up for heavier hand weights. 

I put a cold cloth on my head, closed my eyes and tried to remember what Sex Ed had taught me about my eggs dropping...fallopian tubes...boners...menstrual cycles....math.
I stopped there. I'm bad at math. I'm bad a a lot of things. Which also reminded me - I'm short, really short. So if I am, in fact with child, I am going to look like a pregnant toddler. This is all happening too soon!! I’d been holding out for my final growth spurt.
They're all gonna call me Garry Coleman.
I felt dizzy again. 

That's another thing, I screamed to myself as I put my head between my legs, I’m still not black! It’s all I’ve ever wanted!! Thanks for nothing god, I take back my previous detox promise. And fuck Jazzercise.  

Later that night Sandy, the instructor, called. I had just finished eating an entire pizza and was feeling better, and a lot less short.

“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t embarrassed about what happened, because I’d love to have you back in class.”

“Oh it takes a lot more than that for me to get embarrassed. I threw up inside someone’s mouth once,” I said.

“You know, that’s exactly what your friend Nicole also said.”

Don't Act Like You're Not Impressed.

I was asked recently if, before I got married, I’d ever dated an actual American. Or did I always find my boyfriends at my local ESL night class. I felt it my responsibility to have an Equal Opportunity approach. My best friend Beth couldn't keep them straight, my sister made fun of me: “HA HA you love terrorists, you’re gonna be kidnapped one day”, and Planned Parenthood refused service: “Erin the morning after pill should not be your primary method of contraception”.

One of the earliest contenders for biggest mistakes I'd ever made was the well behaved, well groomed East Indian whose grandma made me wear the traditional dot every time I came to the house and got mad when I called it a dot. Things went from terrible to awesome when his parents began negotiating my dowry. I tried repeatedly to break up with him, to no avail. “You realize I’m cheating on you right? Like, A LOT." I had shamed his family; he disappeared for a decade and now works for the Secret Service.

My first Asian American won me over with his frosted tips and over-sized blaze orange t-shirts and whose main appeal - which I remember shouting in my brag voice when I knew large groups of people were listening - was his uncanny resemblance to my favorite Backstreet Boy, in a kung pao kinda way. He wasn't a complete waste of time though; I credit him for my very refined, very precise Asian accent. 
The really racist one. 

There’s the chubby charmer whose family had me over for dinner every evening and whose nephews I babysat, who later stole all my money, fled the country and left me stranded in arguably the most dangerous city in all of Western Europe.

The ethnically ambiguous frat boy who worked at the Cheese Cake factory and kept a saber sword in his backseat who, when I finally asked where he was from replied: 
The Fertile Crescent."Um. So....... Iraq. So awesome."

A family favorite: the pot smoking, hacky sack tossing, film directing, virgin who I drove cross country with during easily the worst four days of my life. Half way through Alabama in his two door Pontiac Sunfire, filled floor to ceiling with only boxes of Macaroni and Cheese - so much so that I had to leave one of my bags at home for lack of space- he confessed his devout Lutheran upbringing, that he had a genuine concern for my soul and that I needed to denounce my pagan (Buddhist) religion.  "Fuck Lutheran's" I said. He slammed on his brakes sending me and the entire contents of his car crashing into the windshield.  "Watch the Mac N Cheese” I shouted and snort laughed. When I refused to bow my head and pray over my Arby’s curly fries it was clear we'd been sorely mismatched. “Hi, I'm Erin, Have we met before?"  

I was on the next flight home, arranged swiftly by his mother.

One special gem, after a long night of ruckus sex making rolled over to say he hoped I wasn’t expecting him to take me out to dinner. Or to call. Or to come over again. Oh and by the way not to tell anyone we'd been tampering with each other, cause that would hurt his chances with that other girl he really liked . Fuck me right?

A personal favorite: the middle-aged environmentalist ten years my senior; we were obviously doomed from the get go being that I hate the planet and that he washed and re-used his toilet paper. But he let me live at his house for a month and occasionally let me shower with the  rain water he'd collected. Out to dinner with his parents and nine brothers and sisters they asked if I was officially his girlfriend. Before I could finish my affirmative head nod and congratulatory high five with his dad, he quickly yelled 
“NO!! No, no, definitely not!!” all the way across the bar where he had belled up.   
 I drank excessive amounts that night and woke up the next morning  in his parent’s water bed. Alone.

The Mexican, Canadian named Jesus who'd fly to Minnesota so we could make out at his friend's uncle's house; The Swiss Guard who saved my life when I fainted in the Sistine Chapel; The barber shop owning gangster who made a living bribing government officials, immigration, and local law enforcement; the bulging body builder who made infomercials in his basement and canceled dates with me to get his back waxed.

The staunch conservative who kicked me out of his car after I made, what I thought was a very compelling comparison between President Bush and.. ..  my bush. 

The Sugar Daddy who was rollin' in way too many dolla' bills at 23, even within my predominantly privileged, upper class cast of college assholes. He would ‘run errands’ at two in the morning, while I stayed back at his place watching Weird Science, eating leftovers, and counting his cars. He was later arrested as the key suspect in the largest STING operation to have been execute in the state of  Minnesota. Meanwhile, that half a mill he’d raked in and so generously shared: Seized. 
You really fucked me on that one MNPD.

To all those other lunatics out there, we could have had a promising future. But lucky for you, I found someone who tolerates me just slightly more than you likely would have.

Don't Ask Don't Tell Next Time

My dog got her period today.

And so did I actually. The difference is I don't drip drop mine across the ceramic kitchen floor leaving it for every one else in the house to slip on.
Well most of the time I don't.

I called my dad: "Can Nipples come stay with you for 4-6 weeks?"
"Hm. I take it she's in her menstrual cycle."
"Yes and dad don't say menstrual. It gives me heartburn."

Every summer's the same. She gets her period, I in turn get pissed and try and give her away. Why haven't I just gotten her stitched up? Cause if I have to suffer through it then that little bitch does too. But with every season I worry I'll have little asshole puppies to take care of too cause she's promiscuous and is just itching to be date raped.

I see the way that saucy minx struts around the neighborhood giving her come to bed eyes, willing to throw away her pure bred status for any dog trash on the block. But frankly, their owners are worse. I don't care for any of my neighbors at all- they park their very clean cars right in front of my house, mow their lawns every other damn day and tend to their beautiful window boxes. That shit makes me look bad. I see the way they look at me as I sit on the porch in my pajamas, picking my nose, reading The Enquirer, giving them the finger. 

But Nipples doesn't share the same opinion as I do. And in fact comes VERY close to getting knocked up every single time I take her for a walk; I'm constantly breaking up humpsex which is both gross and offensive.  And is hugely inconvenient since I usually get some residual hump rubbed off on me. If she gets pregnant I'm sending her away to one of those awful places far far away in Iowa where no one knows you and single mothers can give birth shame free in a dark, windowless room. The really good Catholics have been doing it for centuries; I'll call in a favor and hopefully score one of their preferred customer coupons.

I took one last attempt in convincing my dad to take her by pointing out that all he and my brother do all day is sit in the house and Facebook each other from across the dining room.  Surely, for the remaining time she's on the rag, they could just supervise from the kitchen windown.

"You know, your brother and his friends are so penis obsessed lately, I just don't think he'd have time."
"God WHAT. Nooooo thank you ...for that."

I heard my dad on the other end of the phone sifting through papers and doing some light cleaning - going about his business like he'd just cooly repeated the weather forecast. I decided it was best that he and I took a little break from talking that day. Nips and I would be just fine and actually, the thought of her and I mutually menstruating was refreshing in comparison to this little gem I'd walked into. 

"But can I just clarify quickly - did you mean they are obsessed with
their own pe....Nope. I'm just gonna leave it there. Bye."

My Kind of Perfect

This weekend marked my two year anniversary with Exchange Student. And frankly, not a lot has changed since we first met. He is literally the best husband ever invented and I continue to be a less than desirable life partner.

Early Sunday morning I woke up to the sound of the front door slamming. After working six day weeks for the last month he snuck out early to get me the eleven, very well thought-out gifts he'd been planning on for the last year. I however laid in bed sleeping off my bad choices and the previous day’s 14 hour drinking session.

Lying face down in my pillow, I couldn't even gather the strength to turn my head to the side for a breath. I felt, and more importantly, smelled like a dead person. I laid there for a minute trying to figure out if I'd peed the bed. Unable to decide, I fell back to sleep.

I woke up to him pouring coffee in my mouth. He propped me up, fed me breakfast in bed and handed me, one-by-one, all the presents he’d picked out. I kissed him with my butt hole breath and then watched as he sat there..wantingly... Where were his presents? Surely I had them hidden in the closet or in my trunk since I hadn't bothered to get my ass out of bed this morning. 

Well that's a funny story, I told him and explained the jam packed schedule I had the previous day and that I'd had every intention of getting his gifts but events beyond my control prohibited me from doing so, namely 19 bottomless mason jars of Jeremiah Weed ice tea lemonades.   

"Not even a card? You don't even have a card for me". 

"Cards are for taints and besides what did you want me to do? 
Drink and drive!!!!!??"
"Just pull yourself together and meet me in the car." 

I slid out of bed, swished some toothpaste around in my mouth and threw on a tank top. I wiped the crusted mascara from my cheek, belched up some liquid heart burn and flew out the door. On my way to the car I debated how mad - on a scale of one to ten – he’d be if we pit stopped for a pitcher of Blood Mary's on the way to the movie theater. His people INVENTED hair of the dog and I needed one badly. Upon reaching the car door and seeing his I'm-annoyed-but-don't-want-to-ruin-this-day-so-I’m-smiling-instead-face I decided to put my boozy requests on the back burner. Ten. Ten for sure. 

Oh but good. Now I had to sit in the car for 40 damn minutes while he drove the whole three miles to our neighborhood theater. Good thing we're in no hurry. For anything. For the rest of time. 

But because CLEARLY I was in no position to say anything, I instead pointed out how lucky I was to be married to such a safe, overly attentive to the speed limit, prudent driver. For the rest of the road trip, I calculated how much faster I'd arrive at our destination if I’d just decided to Rollerblade. But realizing I would have to first borrow a pair from the gayest person I knew, and that my sister was out of town - I scratched that idea.

"We're here. Get out" 

Lots of people were out celebrating our anniversary ‘cause the movie theater was packed with a crowd gathering around the corner. It was in line with these fellow movie go-ers that he turned around to face me and noticed the two GIANT black arrows drawn with permanent marker across my chest pointing directly to my fun bags.

"Oh Jesus Christ God for FUCKS sake ERIN. This isn't funny, you're such a hooker. What in the FUCK happened last night?"

I looked down and immediately regretted my choice in tops. I was in the middle of explaining exactly what these mapping coordinates were all about when he told me to just go get a seat while he got the tickets and to quit laughing cause I wasn't funny. I headed inside and through the door I heard:

"And no one here thinks you're funny either!!!!!!!" Shouting after me. 

The crowd that had gathered quickly looked up at the ceiling and/or checked their idle cell phones.

During the movie I leaned over and whispered:

"I love you sugar balls"

"I love you too. Very much. Now stop being a cunt and watch the movie. "

In Treatment.

According to my therapist, I am just fine. But I completely disagree and work very hard convincing him otherwise.

"I don't know why you keep coming back, we really don't have much to talk about."

“You haven't met my mother. Trust me, I'm fucked."

Each session starts out the same: he asks me how my week has been, and I tell him I have a HUGE dilemma on my hands. The most recent: my bitch neighbor and how she judges me for my overweight dog. Corgis have portion control problems. So do I; we enable each other. In return for my nosy neighbor’s cunty behavior, I've spread the rumor that she's a serial killer and could the neighborhood watch group please patrol her side of the block more diligently.

"Is it normal that I feel this amount of anger towards her?"

"I'm not here to tell you what's normal and what's not normal."

"Well what the fuck good are you then!!!?"

He proceeds with some psycho babble bullshit as I lay on his couch popping skittles. He is very jolly, with thinning blond hair and always smells a little bit like a burrito. He falls out of character often; throwing his head back in laughter as he holds his belly. He has, I am certain, some of the best laughs of his life -buckled over, writhing in hysterics at my sad expense. I then watch as he attempts to collect himself and put his listening face back together.

During one of our first meetings we were obligated to have one of those conversations I'm sure psychologists role-play in Grad School when we realized we'd attended the same university, frequent the same dive bars, and have a few friends in common.

"I think we should talk about what would happen if we ever ran into one another outside of our sessions; I will take queues from you and respect your confidentiality first and foremost"

"Oh I can't wait for you to meet my friends!!!!"

He puts up with me but has asked politely that I stop Facebook friend requesting him. He has recommended countless other professionals that he's sure I would like, but I keep insisting I just couldn't bare having to start all over with someone new, that I'd miss him desperately and why are you trying to get rid of me you know I have abandonment issues. I get great satisfaction from the very obvious inequality in our likeness for one another: I adore him. He, professionally loathes me. I fantasize about the after-session unwinding he does while he struggles to document our session notes: She refuses to listen and I believe has a strong inclination towards delusions of grandeur.Her stories are very unsettling. She has beautiful hair.

He’ll be really excited next week when share that I’m in love with him. I have my outfit all picked out. The sweat will spill from his round little face and I will get to watch as he adjusts and re-adjusts in his doctor chair trying to quickly pull from his mental health archives how to deal with this crazy bitch. All while keeping a face of non-judgment.

I ran this little idea past Beth, my best friend and social worker.

"Erin, please don't do that. It's a really bad idea, and borders on unethical."

I laughed a lot. She did not.

I sit up to refill on skittles: "What did you and your wife do this weekend?"

"Erin you know these questions make me uncomfortable, let’s talk about you instead. Tell me about your weekend."

"Well, I had another dream about you..."

For As Long As We Both Shall Live.

There was a story featured on the news last week about an Oregon woman’s recent trip to the oral surgeon. She went in for a standard procedure, received general anesthesia and woke up with a very heavy, very foreign Scottish accent.

Her husband was quoted saying he’s having a hard time understanding his wife of thirty years, and that the last few weeks have been “very difficult”.

I pressed pause, shouted to Exchange Student that there was an emergency and could he please come right away; rewound and played the segment back for him.

“What a load of COCK!” he shouted. Only he was referring to the husband’s inability to understand his wife’s accent, NOT that this woman went to sleep sounding like an American and woke up sounding like Shrek.

I know exactly what that husband is going through. I can’t understand a damn word Exchange Student says. Never have. We’ve been married two years and it’s only getting worse.

"Don’t be ridiculous Erin, you can understand me just fine, stop exploiting me!”

“Come again?”

With a foreigner for a husband and no translator in house, you have a recipe for lots of misunderstandings: Directions, voicemails, marriage proposals….

How about when he orders out for Chinese? These are LITERALLY the greatest moments of my life. He is in a pure state of frustration, close to tears, as he attempts over and over to order General Tso chicken and some dumplings. I put it on speaker phone so I can laugh hands-free. Only after three tried and failed attempts will I put him.. and Dong, out of their mutual misery.

Never mind eating in, dinners out are an extra treat:

“Can you behave yourself tonight, ‘cause I’m not in the mood for that shit you pull.”

“What?”

Obligatory eye roll. Which I love. And it’s a good thing, ‘cause I get it a lot. He then buckles down for a long night of what he assumes will consist primarily of me forcing him to do all sorts of things he doesn’t want to. He’s bracing himself... annoyed IN ADVANCE. “Calm down Paddy, I’m not feeling that annoying tonight anyway.”

Strike one: I’m talking to the table next to me. He quickly realizes I've made instant besties with my fellow food snobs and he will now be required to participate otherwise risk looking like a mail order husband. Begrudgingly, he joins the conversation giving me the "I fucking knew it" look.

Don’t feel bad for him. He knew exactly what he was getting into. His cold, dark Irish charm is only endearing until about date #3. From there it loses out big time to obnoxious, louder, funnier, super slut Yank.

While I'm now eating off my new friend’s plate, he has in a matter of moments, become the most popular patron in the restaurant. Our new friends are planning the next couples sleep over and the restaurant owner is giving him a handy while spoon feeding him mashed potatoes. And for the rest of the evening I watch from the corner as the crowd, sitting cross-legged at his feet, listens to Exchange Student a he sips Guinness and tells tales from the old country.

I've lived in Minnesota almost my entire life; I have four and half friends. The half includes my financial adviser who gets paid to talk to me.

“This is horseshit! I’ll be at the strip club."

Just sayin.....

Let’s get this part over with – The Royal Wedding was fine. Just fine. Nothing more and nothing less. Kate, I think you're probably pretty great, but you’re definitely not spicy enough for me.

Pippa seems more likely to take body shots. But you and your thinning prince will make a lovely couple and have babies hanging out of you in no time. That’s really all the time I want to spend on it. You're beautiful and well behaved; therefore you give me nothing to talk about. Done.

While the rest of the world was wondering what the fuck Princess Beatrice was wearing on her head, Donald Trump was taking a nap. As he should be. Being a moron is exhausting.

Donny, it's so cute to watch you play dress up and compete for a presidential nomination.And you know what? Every other badly qualified candidate is very grateful. Thanks for making at least one choice in our upcoming campaign season super duper easy.

Also, are you mad that Osama took your spot light? Will you be demanding to see his birth certificate? I hope so. Do it, come on! It's so fun.

How many news anchors this week do you think mistaken Obama for Osama?I'm guessing a lot. Pay attention people!!! They're both dark so I know it gets confusing.

With all the pics of Osama flooding the airwaves lately, I had to wonder what this man did for his skin? It was perfect, flawless! He was also in really incredible shape, so lean. Pilates must have kept him fit. That and murder.

In other news: Minnesota has received national attention twice this week. America's Next Best Restaurant’s winner Soul Daddy is now open in the Mall of America. Sort of uneventful. And since I haven't been to the mall since 2009, it doesn't matter to me.

But the most noteworthy appearance was that of local musician Tim Mahoney on The Voice, as one my readers accurately predicted last week.

Tim your face is so much rounder than I remember. Is that from the prescribed penicillin you're taking? For the.. ..oh, this embarrassing... for the herpes you've Napalm-ed all over the Twin Cities? I can't say that? Cause he's a hometown hero? Welp.

I remember you were hotpants in college. Who DIDN'T spend their exam week at Spring Jam drinking their way to the Sally’s stage? Every skank in waiting did. Any chance to catch the eye of Tim. Oh sad Mid-westerners, with our made up rock stars. What did I think? I'd seduce him with my irresistible tuna hotdish?

mm. I'll let you sit with that one for a sec...

Last thoughts.

Cameron Diaz. Could you stop being famous for twenty minutes? Thanks. Your such a shitty actress it actually hurts my feelings.

She was quoted in the British Independent this week stating she does not believe in the institution of marriage. I wish single people could come up with a better excuse for bringing their landlord to Red Carpet events.

And finally, freebie of the day:

Angelina Jolie is rumored to be producing a new movie about the life of Winston Churchill in which she will: Play. Winston. Herself. Okay GOOD! The sooner you can end your career and get back home the better. You have ninety kids who've never met you before.