The V Word

I’ve tried to write about my vagina for a few days now, but can’t seem to do it.

Why am I trying to write about my vagina? Well, because…? Actually, a thing that’s on the internet that I wish wasn’t a thing on the internet but it’s the internet, so you’re going to have to deal with this thing is videos and songs and memes about having your period. I hate these things. Some are marginally humorous and elicit a very small smirk, but in general, I find them wholly unfunny and kind of gross, which is super weird because I love me some blood–just not pouring out of a vagina.

Stop it.

Stop it.

I don’t want to see a cutesy uterus shitting blood. I just don’t. It ooks me out to the Nth degree and again, weird because I can watch the most gory, violent movies ever with body parts flailing and being blown off and blood squirting out of neck stumps and I’m all, “ha ha! Cool!” but this? No. Pass.

I’ve tried to pinpoint why this is and I’ve come up with this logical conclusion: I’m squeamish around vaginas.

I would make a terrible lesbian. Straight women, we’ve all been there: after a particularly bad break up, we say, “I should become a lesbian” just so we don’t have to deal with men’s stupidity and lack of empathy for our emotions and I swear to god, if another man asks me, “what’s wrong? Are you on your period?” one more time, I’m going to fling a used tampon at his dumb head.

But the thought of having to interact with another woman’s…”down there,” I can’t. I can’t do it. I can barely handle my own vagina, let alone be responsible for another one. When I was taking birth control pills and having a rough time doing so due to forgetfulness, my doctor asked if I’d be interested in the Nuva Ring. “What’s that?” I asked naïvely. “Oh, it’s a plastic ring you insert into your vagina every month.” Nope. Stop. You lost me at insert. Next option, please. I refused to use tampons for many, many, many, many, many years, too.

I remember first being introduced to…TAMPONS. I was 13. I was staying with a relative and she had passed child-bearing age, so sanitary napkins or other implements were unavailable to me. I unrolled half the thing of toilet paper and made a makeshift pad. Every woman has done this and every woman knows this is a good MacGuyver fix for like, three minutes until things go horribly awry.

I called my mom in a panic. She called a female cousin and she brought over…TAMPONS. I didn’t realize they were…TAMPONS until I opened the box and stared dumbly down into the cardboard box. I picked one up and unwrapped it, vexed by the cylindrical object in my shaking hand. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I took the handy-dandy pamphlet out of the box and read it. There were pictures depicting the proper insertion of said…TAMPON into the vaginal canal. I might of well have looked at an ancient dialect. I was dumbfounded and embarrassed and I am not sticking anything inside myself. This thing is going to end up in my stomach or I’m going to perforate my lungs or something and I cannot have that. I tried, though, because I wanted to go swimming and didn’t want to reenact a scene from Jaws or attract any bears with my menstruation.

"I heard somewhere that their periods attract bears. The bears can smell the menstruation."

“I heard somewhere that their periods attract bears. The bears can smell the menstruation.”

Needless to say, that was my last attempt at tampons for a good almost 20 years. Yeah, that’s right. It took me that long to get over that traumatic event. All because I’m afraid my labia have wolf fangs and will tear my hand off if I go near it.

If I delve even deeper into this fascinating self discovery, I’d say it goes back to when I was in 5th grade and the day we had to walk from our sheltered parochial school down to The Public School where all the heathen children ran rampant through the halls, sacrificing goats and smearing the blood across their faces and naked upper torsos.

It was just as bad as you imagine it to be. Our small town shared one ancient school nurse between the two schools and she had one of those plastic models showing the cross section of a male and female reproductive system. I don’t remember what was said exactly, but it wasn’t at all what a normal sex ed class should have discussed since half of the class was populated by us christian kids, so it had to be extremely Disney in the discussion.

“This is the penis (giggle) and this is the vagina (more giggles). When a man and a woman love each other, they have sex (giggles galore). Don’t have sex until you’re married or God will send you to hell. Here’s a box that has a travel sized thing of deodorant, a razor, and a feminine napkin. Now get out of here,” she said in her gravely two packs-a-day voice.

And away we went! That was my sex talk. My parents never had the sex talk with me because obviously they figured I’d never be able to land a dick, so why bother? Meanwhile, they bought my brother condoms. I found them in his room one weekend when he was gone. And yes, I thought they were water balloons. Imagine my surprise when I opened one up and it was all gross smelling and slippery and tasted gross and didn’t blow up very well. How natural selection hasn’t bumped me off yet is a mystery.

To me, if you want to joke about having a period, joke about the experience, not the physical element. All women can relate to what I shared. It’s funny. Keep your blood squirting uterus pictures away from me.

To close, I’ll leave you with the epitome of period humor, coincidentally, done by a man. Take it away, Dave…


I want to apologize right off the top here for this post. It’s going to be an odd mix of writing about music and peppering my life into it.

You know what? How is that different from anything else I’ve written? It really isn’t. What I mean is instead of writing about music and then interjecting a snippet of my life into it, I’m going to do the opposite and put the music in it. Make sense? Yeah, I don’t get it either. Just go with it. Humor me.

I’m sure most are painfully aware I’m still searching for a job. Almost six long months of filling out countless interviews, waiting around impatiently for a call to be interviewed, and then getting my soul sucked out during the interview process. Tell me a little about yourself, Erin. What makes you a good fit for this company? Do you work well under pressure and stress? Give me an example of a difficult situation at work and how you handled it. ABO-Job-Interview

Well, I went to college for a semester, screwed off, so I quit, only to be working as a cashier in a retail clothing store at the age of 25 and I had a revelation I should get back into school. I did. I worked for a cardiology practice for five years before I foolishly quit and moved to Texas for a reason I don’t want to discuss. There, I worked for a similar practice, but realized I didn’t want to be this far away from my family, so I moved back, tail tucked between my legs. I’d make a good fit for this company because I need a job. That’s how I fit into your model. I do actually work very well under less than favorable situations. I lived with a childish man-boy for almost 8 years. An example of a difficult situation was during the height of my divorce after my former spouse moved out of our house. I was strapped for cash for rent and I needed cigarettes. I did the right thing and spent the money on cigarettes and was late with the rent. Oh, and I actually did have a job for about a week in August, but I was a giant baby and quit because I didn’t like it, so just a heads up on that.

I didn’t actually say any of those things, but maybe brutal honesty is the key in landing me a job. Or not. If I ever land another interview, I’ll try that approach.

I had an interview for a really good job last week as a technician for a local blood bank. I wanted this job. I’d be like Sy Sperling and the Hair Club for Men: I’m not only an employee, I’m also a client.

Each month, we'll send you a new set of hair. I'm modeling the "David Caruso" weave now. YYEEEEEAAAAHHHHH.

Each month, we’ll send you a new set of hair. I’m modeling the “David Caruso” weave now. YYEEEEEAAAAHHHHH.

I was cautiously optimistic for this job. I wanted it, but knew I’d probably not get it due to my lack of phlebotomy skills and working at a blood donation center, that’s kind of imperative. I had done it before, but that was during my internship for school, and that’s been…oh heck, that’s been almost 7 years ago. Yikes. Hey, on second thought, good call not hiring me, folks.

I got the rejection email yesterday afternoon, announcing their decision. I could feel my self-esteem and ego deflate. They made the funny farty sound like a whoopie cushion. That’s when I started getting depressed. More depressed, if I may be honest. Getting that email was just the shitty icing on the shitty cake. Six months unemployed. Six. Months. That’s many days without a job. It was super great for the first month. I had just moved back, I was enjoying The Good Life, baby! Then month two passed and I was getting a little discouraged, but remembered this is Lincoln, Nebraska, not Austin, Texas. The difference in population also means the job market is a little more competitive here. No sweat, sister. You got this. Month Three, or The Month I Did Get A Job But Quit It After Five Days Because I Didn’t Like It. That’s like being offered a billion dollars and then giving it back because it was just too much money. Month Four: zero prospects. I contemplated seeking unemployment because I was draining my poor mother of her finances. I did apply in the middle of October and was accepted. Hoorah. Now is Month Five. I’ve had interviews, but just can’t get a goll-danged job! LOL!

So, yesterday wasn’t a super great day in my silly little world. I wanted to reach out to my usual means of making myself feel better, and that is music. Oh, sweet, sweet music. You are music to my ears! Ha ha!

I was after something specific. I wanted a feel-good tune to boost my spirits and make me dance and bop around and make me forget my troubles for at least four minutes. I wanted an anthem, goddamn it. I wanted to queue up My Song and blast it far too loudly to be polite and dive head first into the song. Calgon, take me away.

Then, I made a horrific discovery. I have zero feel good pop music. None. The CDs in my car didn’t qualify. I wheeled through my iPod. Nothin’. There are some pop artists on there, but not the kind of music I was looking for. I finally resorted to looking up “Tubthumping” by Chumbawumba on YouTube and had to hold my phone up to my ear  so I could hear the shitty speaker playing a tinny version of the song. And the funniest part is, Someone always teases me that I have a morose taste in music. This Someone will play music for us and he will always inevitably say, “sorry if this is too happy for you.” He’s wonderful.

I just...what if this is it, you know?

I just…what if this is it, you know?

But seriously, I didn’t really realize I had no music whose sole purpose is to cheer me up. I have mostly aggressive rock and alternative and a smattering of classical piano and then just scores of sadness. I even have a lengthy playlist on my iPod devoted to the saddest music I own. It’s sad. I listen to it often.

But I’m not always sad! I’m not! I don’t listen to that stuff with the explicit purpose of sad-sack-ery. It’s genuinely good music! I just happen to like melancholy stuff, I guess.

My challenge to myself is to seek out a happy song that I can play when I feel a little down in the dumpster and will cheer me up. This may be a little difficult. Okay, a lot difficult. But I accept my challenge and will gladly take suggestions, as well.

I’ll also take a job.

But first a happy song to make me not feel bad about not having a job. Baby steps.

Better Man

Hello there. The prodigal daughter returns. I haven’t written an iPod Challenge post in two weeks because I did what I knew I would inevitably end up doing–loving the idea hard, go strong with the concept for a while, then grow bored with it and stop. I’ve lived with myself for thirty-two years. I know how I roll. So, I’ve decided to come back, but on my damn terms! Because I’m an adult and I do what I want!

I just can’t do daily writing that’s based on a structure or plan. If I want to write daily, it’ll be loosey-goosey. This is also why I refuse to take part in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, for those who don’t know what that ridiculous Mork from Ork word is.

Nanu Nanu, bitches!

Nanu Nanu, bitches!

It’s the same idea–daily writing goal of 1500 to 2000 words to make your final monthly goal of 50k words, or in other words, the most poorly schlepped together novel ever. Don’t get me wrong; it’s been done. Shittily, but it’s been done. Look at me criticizing something I’ve never been able to finish! I’m terrible! The farthest I’ve gotten with NaNoShaNaNa is 2 weeks of writing, then I damn the man and give the proverbial middle finger to such ridiculous rules on creativity and stop participating.

Anyway, tangent aside. Music time! Hooray!

I’ve mentioned before I have a pesky habit of ignoring lyrics to songs, or in some cases, misinterpreting them, which in some instances is worse than ignoring because it seems like a bigger form of not paying attention. Kind of the musical equivalent to buying your kids books and all they do is look at the pictures.

I shamefully admit I have taken the lyrics to this song to mean not as intended, but have seen the folly of my ways and now I come here to discuss it with you because that’s what I do best. And in my defense, I realized how dumb I was years ago, and no, by “years” I don’t mean just last week. I really mean years.

The song is…drum roll…”Better Man” by Pearl Jam. Props to PJ for making another appearance in this musical writing series. Your Omaha Steaks gift basket is in the mail. Keep up the fine work, gentlemen.

Okay. Better Man. Here are the lyrics.

Waitin’, watchin’ the clock, it’s four o’clock, it’s got to stop
Tell him, take no more, she practices her speech
As he opens the door, she rolls over…
Pretends to sleep as he looks her over

She lies and says she’s in love with him, can’t find a better man…
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man…
Can’t find a better man
Can’t find a better man

Talkin’ to herself, there’s no one else who needs to know…
She tells herself, oh…
Memories back when she was bold and strong
And waiting for the world to come along…
Swears she knew it, now she swears he’s gone

She lies and says she’s in love with him, can’t find a better man…
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man…
She lies and says she still loves him, can’t find a better man…
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man…
Can’t find a better man
Can’t find a better man

She loved him, yeah… she don’t want to leave this way
She feeds him, yeah… that’s why she’ll be back again

Can’t find a better man
Can’t find a better man
Can’t find a better man
Can’t find a better… man…

I will now reveal to you all that I may have a slight mental retardation that if it wasn’t clear now, my god, it should be. The line “she lies and says she’s in love with him”? Yeah…totally used to think that in context to the previous line of “pretends to sleep…” that instead of the act of fibbing, as in liar, liar, pants on fire, it meant laying in bed because she was pretending to sleep! You guys, come on! Honest  mistake. A stupid, stupid, stupid mistake, but I totally cotton to it. Finally understanding it was the former version of lying and not the latter made me have a Keanu Reeves Moment: Whoa. This isn’t a sweet love song after all. 

No, Erin. No, it isn’t.

The bitch is lying to her man! This isn’t a touching song about a gal realizing the man she’s with is the bees knees! It’s a horrible cunt of a cunt realizing she’s settling in life and she won’t find a better man to put up with her cuntiness! What a cunt!

That'll do, pig, you settling whore.

That’ll do, pig, you settling whore.

Some of you may be scoffing at me, and that’s fine because it’s definitely scoff-able, but I’m going to share  a story that proves I ain’t the only dim bulb out there when it comes to this song.

This past week, I was given an opportunity to see a local Pearl Jam cover band called the Ten Club. Shameless plug for them: they’re pretty awesome and rock fairly hard. Go see them. End promotion. Anyway, I’m at the venue listening to the band and they start playing this song. I’m sitting next to a fairly cute younger couple. They’ve been canoodling all evening and obviously in a good place with their relationship and are in love and holding hands and sneaking kisses and all that. I hope they die in a fire. Wait, what? So, the song is playing and the chorus starts and Little Miss turns to Mister Guy and I know what’s coming and I brace myself for it and simultaneously feel like mocking her and feel so nervous for her for what she’s about to do.

She stares lovingly into her partner’s eyes, puts her hand on his chest, and mouths along: can’t find a better man. 

Oh god, woman. Stop. Stop it. Please. 

You keep using that phrase. I do not think it means what you think it means. And I should know; I'm Mandy Fucking Patinkin.

You keep using that phrase. I do not think it means what you think it means. And I should know; I’m Mandy Fucking Patinkin.

As the women in the South are fond of saying: Bless your heart. Translation: you stupid, stupid sow.

It was seriously hilarious to me and so awkward because I knew exactly where this poor little gal was coming from. She was all “blah blah blah rest of the song, oh wait, here’s my jam!” then sings into her lover’s face about not being able to find a better man. I wanted to stop her, to pull up the meaning of the song on my phone, but decided against it. She needs to learn the hard way like I did.

Until then, keep living a lie, sweetheart. Chances are you are anyway and just don’t know it, which makes you an ironic figure and that’s what schadenfreude is, folks.

That’s all for now, friends. I’ll make an effort to write more about music because I really love doing so. It’s fun for me, and hopefully, you get a charge out of it, as well. Thank you for your time. I can’t find a better audience.

Ohhh! You see what I did there.



“What are you doing?” I am annoyed.

“What? What do you mean ‘what am I doing’? What’s it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re being an inconsiderate patron of this dining establishment and a poor dinner guest by photographing your food so you can add some bullshit sepia filter to it because you are what’s wrong with America. That’s what you’re doing. Lemme guess;  you’re going to post it to all the social networking sites, followed by a slew of ridiculous hashtags. Maybe #YOLO. Tell me, would you like to really find out what it’s like to ‘only live once,’ or are you going to put your fucking phone down and eat so I can quit showing you proper manners you don’t deserve by waiting for you to quit fucking around with your goddamn food?” I said in the most calm way possible, despite being able to feel the vein in my forehead pounding as my blood pressure rises.

“Jesus Christ. Are you having your period? What the fuck is your problem? I just wanted to show my friends how good the pork belly tacos were here. Like you’ve never done it…” she pouts. I hate when she pouts. I want to slap her face, and sit on my hands to keep me from doing so.

“I don’t post pictures of my food. And don’t fucking tag me here, either. I don’t want people knowing where I am.” I pick up my fork and poke at my lukewarm food. My forehead vein pounds again.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I don’t want people knowing I willingly associate with you any more than I have to,” she says, but she’s lying. She slyly picks her phone up, makes a flourish of quick thumb movements and swipes, then puts the phone in her purse.

I stare at her from across the table, dumbfounded. She looks up at me and shoots me The Look. She’s playing with her food, using her fork to push it around the plate.

“What? What’s wrong? Don’t just play with it, eat it.” I scold.

“It’s…cold…” she says. She’s pouting again.

I grab her phone from across the table and drop it in her glass of iced tea. “Facebook this, you stupid cunt!” I yell. The entire restaurant stops like a record scratch and turns to stare at us.


Hang Up The Cape

My shoulder aches something fierce today, signalling an impending change in the weather. I reach up with my gnarled, arthritic hand in a futile effort to massage the pain away, but doing so exacerbates both my shoulder and my finger joints. I inhale sharply at the sudden tinge and reach over for my bottle of over-the-counter pain medicine to help chase the pain away. My hand shakes as I grip the bottle with knotted fingers and twist the cap off. I shake four little blue pills (not those pills; my body may be going to hell, but I don’t have to worry about that, thank the maker) into the palm of my hand and pop them into my mouth. I swallow without taking  a drink of water and feel the slugs slowly creep down my esophagus.

My stomach rumbles. I look at the clock on the wall; 6:00 p.m. It’s past my dinner time. The older you get, the earlier you eat. I brace myself against the arms of my easy chair and gently lift myself up, my knees and hips popping as I do so. Another perk of getting older.

I slowly walk down the hallway and pause at a photo hanging on the wall. It’s of me as a much younger man; I’m maybe 25. It seems like a lifetime ago, and it is. I can see a slight resemblance in the man I am today in the picture. My heart hurts for my youth. Oh, to be that age again. The photo was taken after I had stopped an evil villain by the name of The Madman (real original name, guy) from trying to take over our city with an army of mutated monkeys. Think Wizard of Oz flying monkeys. The Madman also wasn’t very bright. A truckload of bananas from the local supermarket and boom, case closed. Granted, that was one of the more easy plots to foil, but it got me a lot of positive attention from the press, so of course, I milked it for all it was worth.

Oh, I should mention I’m a former superhero. Captain Yellow Hawk is(was) the name. It’s a pleasure to serve you, citizen.

Those were the days, I tell you. Admiration and adoration from everyone around you, celebrity status anywhere you went, VIP treatment, the works. Plus, a pretty cool costume. As Captain Yellow Hawk, I wore a costume similar to Batman’s. That guy…we bickered back and forth for years over whose original design it was–mine or his. I say it was mine, he says his. Okay, Batman, you keep thinking that, fella. Never mind that there’s photographic evidence of me wearing my costume months before he’s shown flitting around the city in his, but that’s irrelevant now, I suppose. He’s ten years in the grave now, may be rest in peace.

I reach up and adjust the frame, even though it’s perfectly straight to begin with, and lightly touch the glass covering the photo. A half-smile comes to my lips as memories of being in the costume overtake my mind.

I then decide I can wait to eat for a while longer and turn to go down the other end of the hallway toward my study. I shuffle down along until I reach the door and enter the password into the keypad. Yes, keypad; being an ex-superhero, you can’t be too careful. I keep all of my old equipment and other paraphernalia in my study. The last thing I need is some stupid, young show-off break into my house and steal my weapons. Like the little bastard would know how to use a sound grenade anyway, but you can’t be too careful these days.

Standing in the corner of the room, in a steel and glass display case is my uniform in all of its dark grey and yellow glory. The lights I had mounted inside illuminate the logo on the chest piece–a hawk, of course. The difference between my and Bruce’s costume was the head wear. He chose the full cowl, I opted for a simple black mask, like Zorro. I never understood why Bruce did that. I tried a cowl once, but I sweat so damn bad in the thing during a particularly harrowing case, I almost blew the whole thing due to sweat trickling into my eyes, so after that, I switched to the mask.

I open the door to the case and run a calloused hand over the hard bullet and knife-proof material. It’s slightly iridescent, like fish scales, which really got the ladies goin’, if you know what I mean. The dames loved that.  I stand in front of the costume and have the wild idea to try it on. It’s been decades since I’ve been inside this thing, might as well give it one more go. Aside from being fifty years older, my physique hasn’t changed that much.

I press a button on the side of the case that causes the costume to come forward on a hidden track at the bottom. It slowly extends until it’s about a foot in front of me and then stops. I reach forward and carefully take it off the stand, grunting a little as I do so; I don’t remember this thing being so heavy, but I manage. I start to take off my clothes, growing impatient at how long it’s taking me to unbutton my shirt. I get stripped down to my skivvies and carefully put the costume on, relishing at the old, familiar way it hugs my body. I put the cape on last, confused at first about why it’s so long and dragging on the ground behind me, but then I remember I’ve shrunk a few inches over the years, thanks to osteoporosis.

Once fully suited up, I strike a pose like I used to: left arm bent at the elbow, held up in front of my chest. Right arm straight beside me. Left leg behind me slightly, right leg extended out to the front. I look like I can conquer anyone or anything, and I have. Oh, the stories I could tell you if given half a chance! You’d be beyond impressed, let me tell you what.

As I stand in my study, hamming it up for my own benefit, my stomach rumbles loudly once more, reminding me, hey dummy, we’re dyin’ in here! so I decide it’s best time to eat. I’m thinking beef stew sounds good tonight. It’s getting chillier outside and a nice can of Dinty Moore will hit the spot nicely.

I walk down the hallway to the kitchen and open the pantry door. Rats. The can of stew isn’t up here and must be in the basement in canning room. I walk over to the basement door and flip the light on. I take each step carefully because I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. I make it down the steps and find my dinner and make my way upstairs, looking up at the open door at the top and thinking the stairs look like I’m about to climb Machu Picchu. I grab the railing on the side and haul my old butt up.

I get halfway up the stairs when my cape gets tangled around my ankles and I loose my footing and fall backwards, hitting my head on every step I’ve climbed up. I hear bones snap and break and know this isn’t going to end well for me.

And it didn’t. I’m laying in a rumpled heap at the bottom of the steps, blood pouring from the gash on the back of my head where I just smacked it against the cold concrete as I land. I try to bring my head up to assess the rest of my damage, but cannot. My spine screams as I try to do so, so I  move my eyes around as best as I can to see. From the corner of my eye, I see my left leg splayed out in an unnatural angle next to me, a bone poking out of my calf muscle. I look at my other side, my vision starting to blur, and see the same with my right arm: ungodly angle, bone jutting out, blood. I feel dizzy and close my eyes to try to focus, but doing so makes me more dizzy, so I try to open them again, and my eyelids flutter in protest.

With any luck, I’ll be dead soon and with even more luck, I won’t be left rotting down here too long. My oldest son comes to visit me every other day, and he’s due tomorrow, so the poor kid will have to see his old man, dead at the bottom of the basement steps. I feel bad for that, but there isn’t much I can do now.

As I die, my last thoughts are of him, his mother, and my life as a superhero.

I couldn’t have wished for a better life. Captain Yellow Hawk, out. Be well, citizens.

How I Wish I Never Had To Look At My Naked Self Ever Again And Why That’s Fucked Up.

I am 5 feet, 11 inches on a good day, meaning when I don’t slouch and stand up straight, with my shoulders back and chin held high. Sorry, Grandma. I weigh 240 pounds. Sorry, joints and organs.

If I–or anyone else, for that matter–never had to see me naked ever again, I’d be perfectly okay with that. I have stretch marks on my abdomen and breasts, and no, I’ve never had children. I just gained weight too quickly for my skin to adjust to the stress of it. When I sit down, the fat around my tummy bunches and rolls and looks like I have a second pair of tits. The only thigh gap I have is when I’m holding a pint of ice cream or can of beer between my knees. I have bat wings, a.k.a. arm flab that makes the leaves on the trees rustle when I wave at someone. My chin–I have two of them.

I am, to many people’s eyes, obese. To my doctor, my BMI of 32 is too damn high. To the fashion industry, my clothing options include this burlap sack or this circus tent, and even then, my immense girth tests the tensile strength of the fabric. Maybe I should just make like Gilbert Grape’s momma and never leave the house again, unless my retarded son gets put into jail for climbing the town water tower again.

Let’s discuss the fashion industry, shall we, and the reason I’m writing this. On my social networking sites, I’ve seen a lot of talk about a “plus-sized model” named Robyn Lawley.



Holy gorgeous, Batman. That is apparently plus-sized to the fuckwits who decide these things. I wish I looked like that. But I don’t. Anyway, Ms. Lawley has gone under the chopping block for many reasons, mostly because she’s considered a behemoth in the size 0 world, and because recently, she’s criticized the “thigh gap” trend. Whuzzat? Well, thigh gap is when you stand up, feet together, and your thighs don’t touch.



It’s a huge thing, sadly. No pun intended. Google “how to get a thigh gap,” and millions of results pop up. It’s kind of fucked up, if I can be honest here. I’m not bashing the naturally petite and thin women of the world who have this gap. I’m mainly attacking the thought that it’s desirable for all women to have The Gap.

You dropped a bomb on me.

You dropped a bomb on me.

And this is when Chubby Erin declares herself perfectly fine as a I am and thus begins a one-woman campaign to make myself feel better about my physique…or lack of one. (It’s like smoking, you guys. Self-denigration is so goddamn hard to quit.)

As I’ve written countless times before, I’m fat, but I’m also healthy. I don’t have any of the ailments associated with being overweight. I’m not diabetic, my blood pressure is normal (119/74 last time it was checked, thank you), my cholesterol is within normal limits. It could be better, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who has ideal cholesterol. I also quit smoking over 3 months ago, so I’ve got that going for me, which is also nice.

So what’s the big effin’ deal? Why does how much I weigh and how I carry it make a difference to anyone?

Good question. Excellent question.

Answer: it doesn’t. But it does. I’ve been ingrained for years and years that “thin is in,” “nothing is as good as skinny feels,” and “eat a carrot, fatty.” I got on this bandwagon two times in the last ten years. Back in the early 2000s, I lost 50 pounds. I didn’t really feel much different, aside from my forever problematic knee felt some much-needed relief. Then, over the course of my marriage, when you’re happy, you get fat, and both me and my former spouse tacked weight back on. We went on a health kick and I lost that 50 pounds again. Then, we got divorced, and guess what? I gained back 30 pounds.

At what point am I going to realize the pattern here and be okay with myself? How many more hundreds, if not thousands of dollars am I going to have to spend to make me finally go, “hey, Erin. You’re fine. Stop with this shit already and just be good with you. Goddamn.”

I’d like to say this last foray into the weight loss thing was my last, but I know it won’t be as long as our society keeps informing me with thigh gaps that I’ll never be good enough, that I’ll never be desirable enough for anyone as long as I’m at my current weight. After all, men barf as I walk by due to my gigantic fattiness as is.

And this is where the “that’s fucked up” part comes in.

I’m fine. I know I’m fine. I even have days when I look at myself in the mirror and go, “well, hey there, pretty lady.” I want to say that to myself every damn day, not just the one out of 40 or so days I have. I want to try on clothes and know I look fine, damn fine, even. I want to be able to walk into a room of strangers and have the confidence to know they aren’t all staring at me and being judgmental and making snarky comments about my weight. They aren’t anyway, I don’t imagine, but in my warped mind, they are.

I just need to regain the confidence I once had. I remember being a kid and not giving two shits about anything. Then you become more self-aware and shit goes downhill quickly after that. I need to find that “don’t give a fuck” attitude again. I need to walk with my head held high and that glint in my eye that makes people suspicion something is up, when in reality, I’m just okay with this, all of this.

I’ll get it back. I know I will. It’s just going to take time and patience. The beer and ice cream will help, too.

The Day Ray Comfort Mentioned Me On Facebook

I fully admit I troll Ray Comfort’s Facebook page. Some of the crap that guy posts is highly laughable and just plain cuckoo. I share the most cringe-worthy posts with my other atheist friends and we all laugh and mock him together.

Pardon me; some might not know who Ray Comfort is. Allow me to enlighten you. Mr. Raymond “Ray” Marshall Comfort was born December 5, 1949 (ooh, a Sagittarius. As a Sag, Ray is under the 9th sign of the zodiac, is ruled by the planet Jupiter, and considered generous, honest, extroverted, proud, and reckless. He is compatible with Aries, Leo, and Libra, and he butts heads with Taurus, Virgo, and Cancer, which is my sign. I guess my fantasy of being with Ray won’t happen since it’s against the stars) in New Zealand (so that’s why he talks so funny!) to a Jewish mother and a Gentile father. Oy vey!

He’s a minister and evangelist and most infamously known for stating the banana–yes: banana–is an atheist’s worst nightmare, and not because if you don’t eat them right away they get horribly overripe but that’s what banana bread is for, but because, and I’m not kidding you here, because even I can’t make this junk up, a banana is our worst nightmare because of the design.

On the outside curve of the banana are three ridges, the inside curve, two. Now, this part is interactive: form your hand like you’re going to give a handjob–go on, do it. Curl your fingers and thumb to make the universal sign for “asshole.” Look at the hole made by your thumb and index finger–GREAT SCOTT. Your index finger joints form three ridges and your thumb forms two. The goddamn banana fits perfectly inside this hole. Slide it back and forth…slowly…yeah, that’s it…oh yeah…oh fuck…faster…faster… Surely this is the act of an intelligent designer, aka God and holy shit! It should be noted the whitebread lookin’ gentleman on the right of Mr. Comfort is none other than Kirk Cameron of the 80s sitcom “Growing Pains” fame. Kirk became a born-again Christian and now hold Ray’s banana.

Shit's bananas, yo.

Shit’s bananas, yo.

Ray hates the theory of evolution. Hates it. He made a cute little movie about how much he hates this wackadoo theory entitled “Evolution Vs. God.” It’s almost 40 minutes of crazy. I’ve watched it. It’s interesting and by “interesting,” I mean the ramblings of a misguided man.

So there’s a little about Ray.

As I mentioned earlier, I follow Ray on Facebook because he gives me much fuel for fodder with his posts, and today was no exception. He wrote a post today that I found especially entertaining because it was about how Hollywood is the pimp for prostitute actors.

Hollywood is nothing but a highly paid pimp, who provides clientele for America—actors who will take off their clothes and prostitute themselves for money.

LOL! What? At first, I was going to just share this with my atheist Facebook group with my usual snarky comment, but I decided to reply to the post, and boy am I glad I did. Here’s what I said:

Ray? What was Kirk Cameron before? I can’t quite think of the word…rhymes with “tractor”…

And that’s when things got fun.

Like white on rice, supporters of Ray and Kirk replied to me to quit picking on Kirk, and to not hold his past against him, he’s found God now and that’s all that matters. Okay, duly noted, but could you please acknowledge that Mr. Cameron was an actor? Could you do that for me without baring your purdy Christian fangs? No? Okay. Didn’t think so.

Then…then I got the notification I have waited my life for: “Ray Comfort mentioned you in a comment.”

Oh my god, you guys. Oh my god. I could barely contain myself.

Erin Elizabeth Hoffmeyer. He’s an actor. His last movie–“Fireproof” brought in $33,000,000 at the box office. Didn’t you know that?

Then, this happened. I feel so special.


Look, Ma! I’m famous because a crazy man made a special Facebook status mentioning me by name! Hot dog!

No, Ray, actually, I didn’t know that because despite paying to go see “This Is The End” in theatres, I tend to avoid shitty movies, and from the synopsis review on IMDb, it seems to be just that. A firefighter, played by Kirk Cameron, and his wife are having marital problems and want to divorce, but Kirk’s father convinces them to try a 40 day (OMG . JUST LIKE JESUS IN THE DESERT, YOU GUYS) “Love Dare.” Hilarity ensues when a series of misunderstandings between Kirk and his wife happen, there’s some dying woman and oh my lord, reading this plot summary was excruciatingly painful, so I’ll skip to the end: the two realize they love each other and end up renewing their wedding vows. It got a 40% on Rotten Tomatoes. That’s actually a pretty generous rating, all things considered. Dang.

But Classic Comfort, let’s make a statement then contradict ourselves with said statement. Again, I know how he operates since I willingly gave up 40 minutes of my life watching his own movie…what? Ray, you stinker!

He lambasted Hollywood and actors and movies and all the homosinuality of Hollywood, but once the fact that Kirk is an actor is brought to him, it’s all, “oh, well, he doesn’t count.” Really? You dumbshit.

Stay the fuck away from me, actor.

Stay the fuck away from me, actor.

The comments are just priceless and adorable and one man condemned me to hell and frankly, I’m surprised it took as long as it did for someone to chase after me with the Christian pitchfork like that. You guys are slipping.

That’s my fifteen minutes of fame. I had hoped it would be for something more worthwhile like, oh I don’t know, anything but being mentioned by Ray Comfort in a status, but beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to help perpetuate Hollywood prostitution and go watch a movie.