I love Journey... there I said it... on the Internet, so it must be true

And Whitesnake, too, for that matter.

I have a lot of "loves" in my life that I'm ashamed to admit.

I love reading Dear Prudence weekly on MSN.
I love Glee.
I love to hit my snooze button a minimum of 3 times per morning.
I love Elton John.
I love Cosmopolitan Magazine.
I love the cookie of the month at Glen's.
I love daydreaming.
I love reading celebrity fashion disasters online.
I love reading only the police/crime/court section of the Midland Daily News.
I love reading only the opinion section of the Gaylord Herald Times online.
I love movies that are stupid and just make me laugh.
I love to read my old journals.
I love 80s rock ballads.
I love the smell of gasoline.
I love to peel glue off my fingers.
I love to down the last bit of cold coffee in my cup like a shot of booze.
I love to stamp random papers with my entered or faxed ink stamp. Repeatedly.
I love to pretend I know what I'm talking about.
I love driving downstate pretending I'm going on a grand adventure.
I love dumping laundry, warm out of the dryer onto my bed then burrowing under it.
I love talking to my animals.
I love when my animals talk back.
I love talking to myself.
I love when myself talks back.
I love giving people nicknames in my head.
I love making things clean.
I love the show Cops.
I love living in my own head sometimes.
I love planning trips to Europe when I'm bored.
I love spying on my neighbors.
I love singing in my livingroom.
I love pretending I have a very busy evening planned when all it consists of is catching up on Hulu but not wanting to be bothered.
I love leaving funny voicemails/texts for my girls to relive funny memories.
I love fried food. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE.
I love having wine after work.
I love accomplishing the most minor of tasks.
I love plucking my eyebrows.
I love going to bed in clean sheets after a shower.
I love the smell of my attic.
I love traveling alone and making up stories about who I am.
I love pretending I know what's going on when I have absolutely no idea.
I love a sincere thank you.
I love a sincere appology.
I love a sincere I love you.

How I Spent a Saturday Night

I found an acordion file in the top of my closet tonight. A file I haven't thought about for years. In it, I found late high school and early college writings. Some formal -- some not. I have to say I had the best time reading through my treasures.

Why?

I was able to go back to a time where I was totally naive and genuine. I honestly believed that all people were good and took them at their word. A time before I became guarded and suspicious. A time where I was so open and honest it's almost embaressing.

It was great.

I was a letter writer in high school. Maybe I would still be a letter writer if e-mail and social networking hadn't already destroyed me {see previous blog}. There is something beautiful about receiving a handwritten letter -- misspellings and all. I knew how I felt about people I loved, and I had no hesitation about telling them so.

I found a copy of a letter that I sent to Charlton Heston {of all people, right?} about a teacher I had. This teacher was a great friend to me, and I wanted to find a special way to thank him for everything he had done. Knowing he practically worshiped the ground Heston walked on, I wrote a letter asking for an autographed picture or some other momento to give him. The letter I wrote was beautiful. I'm not saying that as the author because there were so many mispellings and comma splices I'm horrified to even think about it, but it was a very sincere, heat-felt piece. I never thought twice about writing or sending it.

What happens to that?

I have many beautiful friends. People who are my family, not by DNA, but by choice. Why is it that a decade ago, I felt compelled to put pen to paper and tell people I loved them, but now I just assume they know it? Why is it that I never sit down and eloquently put my thoughts into words so people will know that I love them?

I really don't feel that I'm the only one in this situation. Why is it that as we grow older, we become more synical? If anything, shouldn't we become more intent on telling people what they mean to us as we become more and more mortal in our own minds? At 16 I thought I'd never die. Now that I'm in my mid 20's {I couldn't bring myself to type late 20's... I'm just not ready for that} I realize that life is fleeting and precious yet I take it for granted more than I ever did in my younger years.

Maybe that should be my resolution for 2010: Have the heart I had 10 years ago. Minus the teenage drama, of course.

The Best Opening Line EVER

“Gregor Samsa awoke one morning to find himself a beetle.”

Imagine waking up one morning to find that you’ve transformed, unbeknownst to you, into a beetle. An ugly, hairy, nasty looking beetle. Worse than that, your own family tries to kill you. An apple gets lodged in his back that eventually begins to rot. So, not only did he wake up a creepy crawly, his very own family wants to squish him.

Pretty sure there's not enough therapy in the world for that.

I’d like to think if I woke up a bug one day, my mom would stear me towards the nearest garbage can or compost heap and tell me to eat my heart out. That's of course after she stopped screaming and peeing her pants when a 5'5 beetle showed up on her doorstep. She may be my mother, but that's enough to freak anyone out -- even the woman who has evicted spiders for me for nearly 30 years.

I don’t really fear waking up a bug, however, since I’m fairly convinced that Kafka made the whole thing up. Although, I keep an open mind about what the human body is capible of achieving.

Melancholy makes me post sappy stuff

I thought about calling my dad today. It's been snowing for days, and nobody appreciates a good snow story quite like my dad.

I think about calling him all the time. There are so many things that I think he will find funny. There are so many times I want to call him for advice -- like when my car makes funny noises or my drain makes funny smells. Things only a dad knows how to fix.

I think about him every day. I feel as if so many waking moments of my life are spent thinking about him... about us... about the end. I relive it all. Over. And over. And over again.

Did I do what I should have done? Did I really try my best? Did I really do what was right?

I know in my heart of hearts that I did, however, I doubt myself. It's what I'm good at. I doubt every decision I made.

I'm going to post a piece I wrote for a writing workshop I took with Wade Rouse in November. I hope it's part of a series in a memoir. Not sure how that's going to piece itself together quite yet, but, I'm working on it.

Here it goes...

"Okay Dad, I guess maybe we should have a talk. That's what people do in times like these, right?"

It was a beautiful June day. The sun was shining and the drive was gorgeous from Gaylord. A perfect day for taking Dad's Jeep and rocking a little "Freebird." The sound system in the Jeep was awesome for driving down the highway. "Freebird" blaring was awesome for driving down the highway, too.

"I'm glad we finally have some time alone. We haven't really been able to sit down like this -- just you and me."

I found my great-aunt's cabin -- the one that's been in our family seemingly forever on a dirt road overlooking Lake Geneva. Hence the cabin's name "Lakeview."

It's a place where the children in our family caught their first fish, saw their first elk, and rowed their first boat. My parents even honeymooned at Lakeview. I thought it was real wilderness when I was small. Dirt roads only exist in the middle of nowhere, right?

I sat on the bench overlooking the swimming area I used to play in for hours. I would stay in the water until my teeth would literally chatter and my dad would make me warm up in the sun.

That same beach is where I saw my dad become a hero. A minnow had beached itself on the sand. It flopped frantically until my dad scooped it up and returned it to its watery home. To a five year old, that's Nobel Prize material.

"Here, Dad, sit next to me," I said as I kicked off my shoes. Heals were really not a good option for sand, but, fashion over function.

A school of minnows fed in the shallows. The slight breeze made tiny ripples in the water that sparkled in the sun. A truly gorgeous day.

"Well, here we are just us. Finally. I almost feel selfish for keeping you to myself today, but everything has been so hectic. I brought you here because I know how special Lakeview is to you and us. I want you to know that I love you and I meant what I said the other day. You had to do what was right for you. I understand."

A breeze blew through the leaves of a birch tree growing nearly sideways out over the water. I've always been amazed at how things can grow in such odd spots.

"It's all going to be okay. I know it will be. I'm actually looking forward to things settling down. The past few weeks have been horrible and I'm really going to need your help to get things under control. I'm sorry that it turned out like this, but I love you and understand."

The view became blurry as tears welled in my eyes. I stood up and walked barefoot to the water, stopping beneath the crooked birch tree.

"Good-bye, Daddy. I love you."

I opened the plastic bag containing my dad's ashes and poured them into the lake that meant so much to him -- to me -- to us.

My Shamelessly Stolen Blog Topic

I was perusing various blogs this morning. Hey, it's Saturday, and it's pretty quiet today in the office -- hence my perusal.

Anyway, I came upon a blog about words we love to say. Yes, I am a nerd, since this is the way I choose to spend my coffee time at work.

Words, oh gloriously fun words. I admit that I've ordered pumpernickel toast with my breakfast not because I'm a particularly big fan of pumpernickel bread -- it's just so damn much fun to say. Pumpernickel. Pumpernickel. Pumpernickel! So much better than ordering white.

Quixotic is another good one. I think it's the silent "x" I like the best. It's not an easy one to work into conversation, but I try my best.

What is it about words that make them so wonderful to say -- and repeat -- over and over again? Fabulous is another one that is just fabulous to say.

Of course for every wonderful word there is another that makes me cringe. Beaucoup, prenounced as "boo coo", drives me up the wall. May as well run fingernails on a chalkboard. Maybe it's because that is not even close to the proper pronunciation from French.

Maybe it's just an ugly word.

It makes me wonder if this is just a nerdy reformed English major thing or if everyone else has feelings towards words based soley on how they sound.

I'll go with the nerdy reformed English mojor thing for now...

My Breakfast with James Taylor

One day I had breakfast with James Taylor.

Okay, he wasn’t really James Taylor — I don’t think so, anyway. I suppose he could’ve been, but I didn’t ask.

My father and I were having breakfast in a coney island restaurant in Flint, Michigan when I spied the faux James Taylor sitting across the isle reading The Flint Journal and drinking coffee. I told my dad and he laughed. In retrospect, I’m not sure why he was laughing — because the guy looked like James Taylor or his teenage daughter knew what James Taylor looked like.

I have heard that everybody has a doppelganger (good word to impress your friends) in the world. I don’t know if I like the idea of running into someone who looks just like me. When I was in elementary school, teachers had a hard time telling me apart from a girl named Meghan. We were both scrawny little towheads, but as we grew up we stopped looking alike. Thanks to Facebook, I know we don’t resemble each other much at all anymore.

If these “twins” exist, then why isn’t there more evidence? Another woman looking like me probably wouldn’t draw much attention, but what about someone famous? Wouldn’t another Angelina Jolie or Tom Cruise draw some attention? I would think that people around the world would recognize if their mother/father/sister/brother/friend/neighbor looked exactly like Barack Obama.

I’ve been told I resemble Elizabeth Shue. I take that as a compliment, but I don’t see it. We’re both blond. That’s about it. Maybe everyone thinks that all blonds look alike. That would be okay if all blonds were associated with say, Marilyn Monroe and not Courtney Love.

So, if you think you look like me, let me know. We could seriously mess with people. That could be a seriously good time.

Plain and Simple: Facebook has effectively ruined my life

Yeah, I said it.

Yeah, I meant it.

Sure, through Facebook I’ve reconnected with friends from my past — people I haven’t seen or talked to in a decade or more. However, I’m really not excited for my class reunion next year because, well, I know more about these people’s lives than I know about my own sometimes. I know the names of spouses I’ve never met and children I’ve never seen. Pretty much anyone I wonder about from high school is just a click away. With Facebook on my crackberry, I don't even need a computer.

I find myself toiling over friend requests — both requesting and accepting. "What if I send this and they feel obligated to accept me as a friend even though they don't want to because I'm odd and they don't have the heart to deny me a virtual friendship out of fear of offending me even though they've already established that I'm odd and I'm just annoying them with my status updates and uploaded photos?" Breathe. Okay, so I feel that way because, yes, those random requests have passed through my account. Of course, I've come to realize that it's not exactly the end of the world if I choose not to accept someone. Chances are they'll never even know. But what if that happens to ME?! I can't handle rejection — especially virtual. Forget those people who don't respond to my friend requests within 30 seconds of me sending them. It drives me mad. Not so much that I really had to wait an hour, or, heaven forbid a day, for someone to verify that we're friends — just the fact that this proves how Facebook is out to make me have a nervous breakdown for no apparent reason.

Facebook has ruined my social skills. I no longer have to call people to make plans. It's as easy as posting "I have nothing to do tonight. Who wants to grab a drink?" What happened to the days of actually having to figure out with whom you wished to socialize and inviting them? Poof. Gone. Don't even get me started on what Facebook has done to dating. Not only can you look at someone's profile page to establish their relationship status, but it actually posts a notification on the newsfeed when the status changes. It's like Facebook knows that I'm single BEFORE I do. I'm waiting for it to tell me I have a date on Saturday when I log on and provide me a direct link to his profile to read the blog with the menu for our dinner date.

One of the worse times is when I think of a status update and have no way of updating it. I save it. In my brain. Where really important thoughts should go. Instead, I have "Erin is wishing she could find her crackberry to update her status while she enjoys a potpie" taking up a place that should say "remember to check batteries in smoke alarm." If I die in a fire, you'll know why.

None of this even tackles the HOURS of my life that get sucked into Facebookland. Finding new groups to join, causes to support, people to chat with, GAH! It's ridiculous! Sometimes, I find myself looking at page or photo of people I've never seen/will never see and can't remember how I got there. It's like this one time in college one of my girlfriends got so stoned she forgot how she had gotten to the other side of the living room. No idea how I ended up stalking strangers — but I did.

Facebook is evil. It sucks my time, my life, and, at times, my sanity.

Wait for a moment while I update my status...