9 Things I Thought of Today

My kids are awesome and it’s all my fault 😉
I need to live at the beach.
Currently there is a man sitting at the playground wearing a very long, white belt that looks to be made of crocodile. I’m concerned.
Sometimes I think maybe I’m an alien sent to Earth as some sort of punishment.
If you are able to complain then you are able to fix it. If you are complaining while you are fixing it I’ll listen. If not, shut yer face. No one wants to hear it.
Every time I see Jamie Foxx I fully expect him to say, “I gotchew”.
It creeps me out to hear someone speak whose voice doesn’t match them. For example, a Fijian man with a lisp and a southern accent or a Chinese man with a British accent. Gotta admit, it throws me a little.
Prevention Magazine: feeding material to hypochondriacs everywhere.

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Pretty Moment

Here’s a “Pretty Moment” for ya:

Last weekend we missed church because my hubs was working and I knew it would be frustrating to get through the Christmas crowd at my mega church with 2 kiddies by myself.

So last night we got everything together, and even set an alarm so we wouldn’t miss today.

We got up, dressed, and out the door in record time.

As we drove down the street our church is on we noticed that there were no other cars on the road.

Then I remembered that I saw an email from our church last week. I thought maybe it’s important?? Yeah, no church.

We looked super pretty for breakfast at Flying Biscuit! And we felt pretty because we started the day in such an intelligent manner.

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Random Shat We All Think

I love being a regular at Starbucks.  Until I want to try something different.  Although, it does mean I get two drinks: the one the barista made me when she saw my car pull in the parking lot and the one I asked for, which they prolly spit in.

If my kids were less cute they’d be better behaved.

{I can’t stay mad at you.}

My dream job is teaching yoga on the beach.  I feel like it’s a thing.

Scratch that.  I’m not serious enough to teach yoga.  I’d just make fun of everyone.

I have an Oscar acceptance speech written in my head.  I practice from time to time.

When I was younger I used to wonder what kind of schedule celebrities keep to need hospitalization for “exhaustion”.  Then I realized that “exhaustion” must be code for “meth”.

Why do people apologize when they obviously aren’t sorry?  “Hi, um, you over charged me.  I’m sorry!”  No, you aren’t.  Why would you be sorry that SHE over charged you?  Are you sorry for pointing it out?  If so, you don’t deserve the money.  Are you sorry for the inconvenience?  You shouldn’t be.  If you hit the clerk in the face, then you should apologize.


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Christmas Expectations

Christmas is a time of magical whimsy.  It’s that special time of year when greediness is praised and expectations are high.

To meet those mile-high expectations, perfectionists, like me, are in full-swing planning and preparing every last detail to show the world what sets us apart from the common folk.

{Loud voices, tears, outbursts, apologies, tears, airborne objects, window repair trucks, tears}

Add in a nice dose of reality and sometimes those expectations come crashing down.  Let’s just say that there are plenty of “At least I’m pretty” moments for me around any important day.

I could crumble into a crying heap of sorrow and label Christmas as a failure {aka the easy thing to do} or I could realize that Jesus wasn’t born so that I could bake a perfect pie and get my daughter a surprise Barbie {the more “adult” thing to do but not as likely…until I’ve cried enough}.

Last year I was working for a consulting firm that allowed me to work from home twice a week.

{That’s a perk that is coveted by many but it really isn’t all that great for an extrovert.}

On the days I was home I tried to pick Bella up from school when I wasn’t busy so that she and I could quote movies spend some time together.

So, beginning in August, at 2:20 I was there waiting on her in the car pool lane.  Sometimes we’d go to Starbucks for an afternoon snack, then we’d come home and I would finish up working for the day while she watched TV and told me stories about why she had to go to the Principal’s office this time.

{Mommy, I didn’t PULL the fire alarm.  I just TOUCHED it!}

As the holiday season grew near the hubs and I steadily made purchases for everyone, especially the kids, and kept the gifts in the guest room with the door locked.

One day, in particular, I was in the guest room wrapping a few gifts for other people, I did a few things around the house, worked on a few client projects, then realized it was time to go get Bella.

I picked her up from school and when we got home I went into the family room and sat down on the couch to do some work.  She sat down right beside me.  After a few minutes she told me she needed to go “potty”.  No big deal.  It’s what kids do.  They “potty”.

One thing about my Bella is that she is JUST like me.  A dreamer and easily distracted.  It is not at all uncommon for my husband to find both of us standing in the middle of a room like we were on our way to do something but got interrupted, staring at the TV completely oblivious to anything else going on around us.

So for her to be gone for more than a few minutes isn’t unusual.

What IS unusual, and was highly unexpected, was for her to come downstairs wearing a Disney Princess book bag, holding a baby doll, carrying books, clothes, and Barbies, with a Hello Kitty sleeping bag draped around her shoulders.

Ladies and Gents, Christmas threw up on my Bella.

She was elated.  She declared, “Mommy!!!!  LOOK WHAT I FOUND!!!!!!!!!!!!” grinning from ear to ear.

Has anyone ever wanted to hit the rewind button in life?  Maybe have a do-over?

Besides my first marriage, this moment was right up there.

I forgot to lock the door to the guest room.  She found the presents.

All.  The.  Presents.

While showing me what she found she was also telling me what was up there for Roman.  The she stopped.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

Yep.  I was in shock.  I couldn’t move.  I wanted to cry at the thought that she might no longer believe in Santa at age 5, laugh at the hilarity of the visual spectacle in front of me, be mad at myself for leaving the door unlocked, and hit the rewind button all at the same time.

I was trying to calmly stop the tears from freely flowing down my face so that she wouldn’t think she’d done something wrong.

So, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick.

{A little Grinch reference for Christmas.  You’re welcome.}

I explained that parents sometimes keep extra presents to help Santa out in case there is an emergency at the North Pole and the Elves can’t finish making all the toys.  I told her that Santa knows that she wants the toys on her list and I was sure he would bring her what she wanted but it may be a different color than what she has in her hand (or on her body).  Those were the “just in case” presents.


As soon as my hubs got home and the kids went to bed I made a lot of exchanges at Target and Toys R Us that night.

Once the shock wore off I realized that this was minor.

Just a month before, I decided I was going to bake my famous Chocolate Meringue Pie to take to my mom’s for Thanksgiving.  The last time I made one I could still fit into my high school cheerleading uniform (because I was still in high school).  But I got this.

Four failed pies later I brought two to my mom’s.  They were HORRIBLE.  Apparently in my baking hiatus I’d forgotten the difference between evaporated milk and sweetened condensed milk.  Oops.

The pies tasted horrible and looked worse.  But I was still pretty.  And that’s all that matters.

I’d never really had a bad holiday experience until seven years ago.  That entire holiday season, from Thanksgiving through Valentine’s Day (yes, Valentine’s Day) put things into perspective for me now.

Here are just a few tid bits from that fateful holiday season:

The week before Thanksgiving, seven months pregnant with my first baby, married to my first husband, stationed in Seattle, 3,000 miles away from my family I was excited to start making traditions with my own little family.

Tradition #1

Husband #1 had been cheating on me since July.  It was now November.  He tells me the week before Thanksgiving.  Awesome.

{Thanks for being honest!  It truly is the best policy.}

Tradition #2

Husband #1 wouldn’t get a Christmas tree so I went to Michael’s with my 8-month pregnant belly and hauled an artificial tree home by myself.  And decorated it by myself.

{A 3rd trimester preggo belly is a great place to prop a tree box.  It is not, apparently, a beacon for others to pause and see if you need help.}

Tradition #3

On our anniversary, the day before New Year’s Eve, he goes on a trip.  Nope.  He’s with his girlfriend.  On our anniversary.  He flew her from Ft. Bragg to Seattle while I was 8 months pregnant at home by myself.  On our anniversary.

{You bet your ass I caught him.}

I didn’t like where these traditions were going.

However, I had nowhere to go but up!

So up I went, well, technically Atlanta is below and over.  I packed myself and my tiny little baby and moved back home to Atlanta.

Each year has been better and better.

So now, when a little nugget finds the Christmas presents or I burn a turkey I remember that it could be worse.

I truly know what it means to struggle.

But, I am grateful for the bad because it made me incredibly appreciative of the good.

I’m grateful for a hubs that loves me and is willing to work things out instead of running off to find a girlfriend.

I’m grateful to be close to my family.

I’m grateful and excited when my hubs wants to get a Christmas tree and decorate it with me (even though this year I excused him because my OCD took over.  Sorry, baby.)

I’m grateful for my sweet little babies.

AND, I’m grateful for being pretty.  You know, the important things.

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Christmas Card Chaos

Each year, I send a cute Christmas card to all 10,000 of my closest friends and family members.

{Yes, I exaggerate.  Maybe I get confused because I spend $10,000 on stamps.}

The first year we sent cards we didn’t have a ton of time or money to find a photographer so our card was a hodgepodge of candid pictures through the year.  Christmas Card 2011

Super cute, inexpensive, got the job done.

Then the hubs we raised the bar.

My hubs is a classic overachiever.  Bachelor’s degree + TWO Master’s degrees = super-smart.  He didn’t get to where he is now by being average.

And I love that he pushes me to rise to his level of over-achievement.  I appreciate this about him very much.

HOWEVER, the reason it takes him pushing is because I know that once that pesky little bar has been raised, it’s hard to shove it back down.  Believe me, I’ve tried.  A lot.

{“Wow, E.  You birthed a 9 lb. baby boy with a head the size of a bowling ball for my birthday!  That’s the best present ever!”  Dam.}

“Hey, E, we need to have family pictures taken.  Like the nice ones we see all over Facebook.  Not the ones that we take ourselves.”

{He has a point.  But I must tread lightly.  One misstep and by the time the kids are in high school I’ll end up with no place to go but the Kardashian Kristmas card.}

Kardashian Kristmas


Yes, we should send all of our enemies friends a 3-D Christmas card!  Should we include the glasses???  No, I’m sure everyone has the 3-D app on their iPhone 10.

Surprisingly, I am a perfectionist.  I want everything I touch, ESPECIALLY our Christmas card, to be perfect.  A beautiful representation of my sweet little family on our best day.

BUT, I realized early on that I didn’t want to die of a heart attack by age 15.

Because I know I can’t control everything and everyone, I step back.

I have to “Let it Go” in order to get anything done.  Otherwise, I’d work on my hair for 3 hours, spend 3 hours ironing my pants, another 8 hours scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush, 10 hours organizing bills and stuff, 5 hours folding laundry perfectly… you get the idea.

So, when I take a picture of my family at home there may be a pile of crap in the background:

Crap in background

In my defense, we were renovating… that’s why the bed’s not made.

My clothes sometimes look like this:


All the wrinkles will keep each other company!

My hair sometimes looks like this:

Gross Haire

Just. Gross.

I’ve learned to let things go for the sake of sanity.  Once I learned how it was like a thousand butterflies lifted the dumb bells off my shoulders and angels embraced me.  Aaaaahhhh.  For my tightly-wound friends I highly recommend trying it.

{Luckily, I don’t live in a town that will put me on the prayer list if someone “calls” on me and my bed isn’t made.  I’m just on the prayer list because I have the mouth of a convict sailor, drink alcohol on occasion, and have tattoos.}

Now, back to Christmas cards (You were wondering, weren’t you?)

{Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for riding Tangent Airways.}

The second year we sent out Christmas cards we used a picture from our first family experience with a professional photographer.  Shameless plug, if you’re in Atlanta, Claire Elise is amazing.

Christmas Card 2012

Bar.  Officially.  Raised.

The third year we used the same photographer (she really is awesome).  This time we were dressed up a little more, all color-coordinated, on location at Piedmont Park.  Our card was breathtaking.  Especially when I MISSPELLED OUR LAST NAME.  Ooops.  Ma bad.  (I snipped the name part out of the card for the post so it’s like it didn’t really happen.  I’m still perfect.)

Christmas Card 201

What I love about this picture is that no one would have any idea that Bella decided it was hilarious to honk my boobs during much of the shoot.

{Bar raised, then lowered by half on account of the spelling mishap.}

So began our descent.

I knew this year the pressure was on.  All I had to do was nail spelling our last name correctly.  I got this.

I made the appointment with Claire in October, carefully taking into account my hubs’ call schedule, kids’ activity calendar, and any miscellaneous events I’ve over-committed to.

Every detail was planned.  Claire was going to meet us at the square and we were going to be all dolled up in our best holiday attire.  Heck, I was feeling so sassy that the cray-cray dogs were even going to be included!

I felt very prepared and accomplished… and then it rained.

Part of me was relieved.

The hubs wanted the opportunity to buy clothes specifically for the occasion and he hadn’t had the chance.  Maybe this would give him the window of time he needed to find the perfect Christmas outfit.

{Isn’t finding the perfect Christmas outfit top of mind for every man???}

Reno 911!


Hi Officers!  Just on my way to have my Christmas pictures taken.  No big deal.(Really I just wanted to reference “Reno 911!”)

 Plus, I found a corduroy blazer for Roman but the store was out of his size at the time I needed it for pictures.  Maybe now I had the chance to put my little guy in an old guy blazer!

{I love to see little boys dressed up like old men.  It’s like watching a Hallmark commercial.}

I also needed a “perfect” bow for Bella’s hair.

AND, I was looking a little pasty.  SPRAY TAN TIME!!!

Only none of those things ended up happening.

Instead of investing in the perfect family Christmas pictures we had to have our hardwood floors replaced because our furnace leaked.

We lived in a hotel for a week while our floors were being fixed.  Sooooo, that chunk of time was out of the question.

And then the kids started karate twice a week which narrowed our opportunities for free time even more.

But, around the middle of November I thought, “No big deal!  Our first Christmas card was totally adorable {“totes adorb” for those under age 25}.  We can revive the candid pic card!”

MM-MM.  Nope.  Not so cute.

We rarely get the chance to take a family picture.

When we do, chances are one of us has a wonky eye or a runny nose, someone {Roman} is crying, a random dog is pooping in the background, or I decide, “Today is the day I choose to not wash my hair.  I’m not doing anything important today.”

Joke’s on you, E.

Today is the day you will take a memorable, candid picture with your family during an impromptu ice skating adventure.  Today is the day everyone is adorably cute and perfectly poised.

And your hair will shine like the Star of David.  Your friends will ask why they just purchased cooking grease from the store when they could have harvested it from your head.

Also, today is the day your face decides to retain all the water you’ve been drinking for the past year.


I’ll take one for the team.

However, as the days ticked by, I thought, “Maybe I don’t have to use the swollen-face-dirty-hair picture.  I’ll dress the kids up in their cute Christmas pj’s and get a beautiful picture of them by the tree!  Who needs a pro??  I GOT THIS.”

Nope.  I attract jokes like a magnet.

I dressed the kids up and positioned them in front of the perfectly lit tree.  I got out my professional DLS Nokia phone.  AAAAAAAAAND our new black lab puppy who weighs 1,000 pounds photo bombs our picture.

What the face, Georgia!  MOOOOOOVE!

Bella, who is terrified of Georgia when she acts like a puppy (which is all the time), freaked out and just about pooped her pants.

Move Georgia

{The look on her face says enough.}

Roman decided it was time to tackle Georgia because all he’s ever wanted to be is a Football Player Boy.

Lola, our Chihuahua, was laid up on the couch with her eye hanging out.

{Different story for a different time.}

Sometimes in life (especially where kids are involved) you just have to say “at least we’re pretty”.  Or “shudda called Claire”.  But then I wouldn’t have this horribly transparent blog post.

So, without further ado, I present our 2014 “Swollen Face-Dirty Hair-Black Lab Bombed-Oops I Crapped My Pants” Christmas card:Christmas Card 2014

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11 Things I Don’t Understand

I don’t understand religions that dictate women not wear pants. Skirts are an invitation so it seems a bit contradictory to me.

Bernie Madoff was sent to prison for taking money from people, promising a return, then paying old investors fake returns with money from new investors. In other news, Social Security and insurance companies deny claims despite claimants having paid into the system for years….

Why is the government allowed to tax income of those paid with tax money? Isn’t that double dipping?

It gives me pause to walk into a women’s restroom and see a pair of feet facing the toilet.

I have a fear of finding a snake in a toilet. Or a shark in a lake, river, or my bath tub.

My 2 favorite snore sounds are “the dog fart” and “the spoon in the garbage disposal”. It’s most enjoyable when the two are combined.

When I walk into the women’s restroom at work and someone already in the stall gets really quiet I want to yell, “I know you’re pooping!”

I want my 6-pack abs back but not so bad that I won’t eat that donut.

Why do people who block intersections refuse to make eye contact with the people they’re blocking? It’s like they think that by not looking at the people they’ve pissed off the angry people don’t exist.

Blue Bell ice cream is the only brand that should exist. Ben & Jerry flavors in Blue Bell ice cream. Mind. Blown.

If you tell me I’m wrong for having a different opinion, you are a hypocrite. If you tell me I’m wrong because I say 5 + 5 = 7, you are correct.

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Why I Love Kids

I LOVE kids.  One of my favorite things about kids is all the comedic material they provide.  I wasn’t really expecting that when I had my first child.  She was really my first experience with babies.  My sister was born when I was four, so I didn’t remember all the baby stuff and I only had one friend who had already started a family when I found out I was pregnant and she lived out of state.  I had NO idea what to do with a baby.

The one thing I expected (from reading the thousands of books) was to hold this fragile little being like she was a brand new Balenciaga handbag.

{You know, the $1 million, platinum-dipped bag that you don’t want to breathe on, much less throw a wallet in}

HOWEVER, as soon as the doctor handed me a tiny, 6 pound baby girl she lifted her head and flared her nostrils.  And I SWEAR she was looking right at me.  That’s when I knew I had to re-evaluate all the books I’d spent the past 9 months reading.

Neither of my children had that floppy-head thing that most newborns have.  And sometimes when they looked at me it was like they had the wisdom of Confucius with the body of Stewie Griffin {who my son channels every night with, “Mom, mommy, momma, mom, mom, mom, mooooom}.

My daughter did everything early.  She was crawling at 5 months, walking well by 10 months.  Naps???  What are those?  I’ve been in a constant state of exhaustion for almost 7 years.

My son came out the size of a linebacker.  His favorite thing to do as a baby was use his head as a weapon against my nose.  {What did my nose ever do to you???}  And he’ll take a nap if you drive him around in the car.  Still not helpful in allowing me time to sleep as well.

My daughter is a ball of spirited energy.  She’s impulsive and dramatic and independent and a born leader.

My son is a sensitive bulldozer.  He is a tank, full-throttle, and physical but let his sister call him a name and he cries for two hours.

Both of my kids are hilarious.  I’m not just saying that because they are my kids and I value hilarity.  They are truly funny.

My daughter, Bella, has zero filter.  Whatever pops into her head comes out of her mouth.  (I hold my breath a LOT).  She also loves performing.  She’s been known to belt out “Let It Go” in the middle of Target for an impromptu concert.

What makes those qualities of hers exponentially awesome is that she frequently mispronounces words and butchers song lyrics.

Simple math (none of that Common Core crap)

Bella + (no impulse control * butchered song lyrics) = Erica (that’s me) pees her pants and almost dies from asphyxiation due to hysterically laughing

Case in point

My top 5 favorite Bella-isms:

  1. Athter = After
  2. Bownero = Bow and arrow
  3. Naybe = Maybe
  4. Billy Wonka = Willy Wonka
  5. Happy Gilmert = Happy Gilmore
  6. BONUS = Any word starting with “HU” is pronounced as a “Q”. Qu-man = Human, Qu-ge = Huge


{Imagine hearing this monologue: Roman, did you know that Billy Wonka made that candy you’re eating?  It’s true!  Mom, did you see that quge queman on Happy Gilmert?  It looks like he naybe has a bownero through his head athter that one part!}

My top 5 Bella-ized song lyrics:

  1. Let it go, let it go, turn around and sit on the floor (from “Let it Go”)
  2. Baby I’m playin’ on you ta-nigh, hunt you down, eat you aligh (from “Animals”)
  3. Feliz la ti da (so sings the daughter of a Spanish major… from “Feliz Navidad”)
  4. And abba ubba bo try to save me, but here’s my numba, so call me naybe (from “Call Me Maybe”)

{Me: Hey, Bella, what do you think “abba ubba bo” means?  Bella: Duh, Mom, it’s for the song.  Me: oh, ok that makes sense.}

  1. All the singalets, all the singalets, all the singalets, all the singalets (from “All the Single Ladies”, obviously.)

My son, Roman, is incredibly head strong.  He hates to be told “no”.  He also likes to take on other personas.  For example, Roman has been known to practice his WWE wrestling moves (declaring himself a “wrestler boy”) on his sister in Target (I feel really bad for others who happen to be in Target when we arrive).

The qualities that mesmerize me most about my Roman are his ability to effectively trash talk at the age of 3 and the expert way he keeps everyone guessing (who is he going to be today???).

I submit as evidence

My 5 favorite cut-downs delivered by Roman:

  1. Mommy, you talk funny and I’m a clown.

{This is possibly the equivalent of calling someone a “mommy fudger” in his world.  If you mock the way he says a word, he falls apart for days.  And he thinks clowns are scary vampires that will strike fear in the Devil himself.}

  1. Mommy, I don’t care if you put me in my cwib. I gonna climb out.  Then I gonna open tha door and spank you.
  2. Bella, I gonna take you in jail.
  3. Me: Roman, I need you to pick up your toys, please.

Roman: No, I need you to do it.

{Redirecting.  I see what you’ve done there.}

  1. Bella, I gonna fart on you.
  2. Me: Roman, please pick up your towel

Roman: Roman, please pick up your towel
Me: Roman, Mommy isn’t joking.  Pick it up.
Roman: Roman, Mommy isn’t joking. Pick it up.
Me: Roman, let’s go talk to Daddy
Roman: No!  I not!  Mommy, I NOT YOU’RE BOYFRIEND.

{Ouch, baby.  Very ouch.}

My 5 favorite alter egos of Roman:

  1. Capit Amewica
  2. Leaf-blower boy (He even has the sound effect down)
  3. Slash
  4. Batmanrobin boy
  5. Adam Levine

I love kids.  When given enough rein to express themselves they are more incredible than incredible and more wonderful than wonderful.  Plus, they provide infinite material for my blog 🙂

(once I stop laughing long enough to get to my computer)


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By day I am THE Senior Manager of Compensation. Most people don’t even know what that means. My husband’s brain explodes when someone asks him what I do. I could try to explain it to you but you really don’t care. You would probably stop reading and never come back. Sometimes I wonder how I got here. Sitting in my office, bored out of my mind, thinking to myself, “listen, I get that you want to hire your girlfriend as your secretary and pay her $200k/year. But I don’t care enough to fudge data for you.” Thinking back, my journey went a little something like this:

Hey! Congratulations on your college degree! That’s awesome. Now, I’m going to need you to find that super, amazing, high-paying job in the next few weeks or you’ll be labeled a failure and embarrass your parents making them regret the financial investment they’ve made for the past 4 years. Thank you!

For those of you who are still in college or even high school, get ready. It’s coming.

Growing up I heard a rumor that in order to be successful in life one HAS to get good grades, go to college, graduate from said college and, if one does that, one will have mounds of gold coins falling from the sky and a money tree will sprout from the backyard of the perfect picket-fenced house that you’re magically issued upon graduation. Rainbows and unicorns will follow you for the rest of your life while feeding you cotton candy, you’ll never gain an ounce of weight, and you’ll have your own pep band follow you everywhere just like Dan did in the old Starbucks commercial.


Ouch, Reality! That freakin’ hurt! GAH! MOOOOOOM! Reality just slapped me in tha fah-aaace!

Only mom didn’t get out her wooden spoon. Or even put reality in a time out. Not. Fair. What everyone forgot to tell me was that I was now expected to put in my time.

{Um, no, you must have missed my degree.  I’m here for the CEO position, not the Administrative Assistant.}

Most of us don’t graduate with a killer resume. The smart ones are really good at lying. Some have rich parents that set up a trust fund. Others have parents who own their own company. I was too dumb to lie, not lucky enough for a trust fund, and my parents probably wouldn’t have hired me even if they did have their own gig. So I had to start from the bottom. With a degree in Romance Languages no less. What tha face, Erica. No one knows what a Romance Languages degree is!!

“OH, you wanna teach?? You should teach!”

NO! I spent all four years of high school plotting my escape! I don’t wanna go BACK!

“Well, then, what are you going to do?”

I wanna be famous I want to end world hunger and adopt all of the orphans and I want to rescue dogs and I want to save dolphins… How am I supposed to know??  I’m 22!

Um… I’ll move to Italy for a bit while I drink a lot of wine, eat too much pasta, and spend some time with lifeguards named Luciano while I ponder the direction of my life. {B.T.Dubs, the answers to ALL of life’s questions are hiding in Italy.}
I spent the next year applying for EVERYTHING. I had no idea what I was doing.

{Project Manager of a construction site? Sure! Although, now that I think about it, hard hats mess up my hair and dirt isn’t really my color, so… I’m going to have to pass on that.}

Finally in April (almost a FULL YEAR after graduating from UGA) I had a job offer. As a flight attendant!!! {Yay!!! I’m going to see the world and be pretty and-}


Ok, Reality, stop. I swear to everything sacred. You touch me again and I’ll punch you in the throat. Seriously. Not even joking.

I was on ready reserve for the first few months. THAT means starting at 4:30 AM schedulers can begin calling you to go wherever they need you to go for up to 3 days. And you have two hours to get to the airport. Remember that thing in a previous post about me not being a morning person? AND you only get paid from wheels up to wheels down. Plus, have you tried being pretty at 4:30 am? Mm-mm. Not gonna happen.

To top it off, I worked for AirTran. So I didn’t get to see the world. I got to see a lot of Bloomington, IL. Sometimes, if I was a really good girl (not very often), I got to see Baltimore. {Hi, I’m in Baltimore.}

I knew it was time to hang up my wings while on a fateful trip that was supposed to make a quick stop in Orlando to pick up passengers then head to Chicago for the night. Simple in and out (Heh, y’all know why I’m giggling right now). As soon as we landed in Orlando we saw the backup. There was an 8 hour flight delay. So I grabbed myself a snack and the crew sat on the plane to wait. That was at 12pm. At 11:30 am the flight was finally cancelled (because the crew timed out) after the passengers had already been lined up 3 times to board the plane. The passengers were so homicidal that security had to escort us off the plane and down stairs through a back passageway so that we wouldn’t get hurt by the passengers who were, at the time, throwing stuff. We had to spend the night in a hotel that was being remediated for mold after a hurricane (super stinky) and we had one of the first flights out in the morning. A mere seven hours after the flight was cancelled. Which meant about 4 hours of sleep. The next morning we were super lucky to get another group of incredibly angry passengers on their way to Buffalo, NY (aka, the land of hospitality). They were so angry, in fact, that the Captain had to threaten that the next person to cuss or throw anything at the crew would be removed from the plane. We finally took off; things were ok, then BAM. One of the flight attendants passed out cold. Once I got home and recovered from that flight I quickly called the boss I had as an intern in college and switched professions to the more stable Human Resources. (Sure there was the time we had to notify a convicted murderer that he wasn’t getting a janitorial job because he was convicted of felony murder, and the time a woman came to the office and threatened us for not hiring her so security had to haul her off but at least I wasn’t stuck in a metal tube 35,000 feet in the air with the crazies).

However, I learned a lot during my short time as a babysitter in the sky:
First of all, be nice to your neighbor. Not all flight attendants should be trusted to get you safely out of an unsafe plane and the person next to you may be your only hope. If you piss them off you’re screwed.

{You know I’m right.}

Please don’t have a chip on your shoulder while flying. The flight attendants didn’t delay your flight or lose your bags. No one is out to get you. In fact, no one wants you, The Douche, on the plane. We want you off the plane ASAP. Better yet, if you could just not board at all that would be stellar.

{Oh, yes, Sir. I’m so sorry that you are mad about being stuck on the tarmac for six hours. Actually, I’ve been stuck for six hours as well and I’m currently missing my dad’s retirement dinner, my mom’s 50th birthday, my grandparents’ 100th wedding anniversary, and the birth of my first child. And I’m not being paid right now as you are cussing me out so… The person you want to address that harshly worded letter to is Mother Nature. She works in our corporate office, although she may be out today. (She travels a lot). If this is an emergency, you are welcome to pop the tail cone, walk across the tarmac, climb that tower over there, and speak to an Air Traffic Controller. Also, I’m going to need you to back up to a distance where I don’t smell your horrible breath or get a facial from showers of your angry spittle. Thanks so much!}

If you act like a douchebag you will be made fun of. And probably someone will spit in your drink.

Life has thrown me a lot of curve balls. A few have pegged me in the arm but none have knocked me out and for that I am grateful. HR was an interesting surprise. Not one I would have picked for myself intentionally but it was a curveball I could hit. Hopefully I can hit the next one, too!

I don’t like it when balls come at me that I can’t hit.
THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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You’re as Smart as Any Boy

Yesterday I read a report that Joe Biden told a group of young female coders that they are as smart as any boy.  Four years ago that would have sent me off in a tirade about how men are stupid dumbasses and women clean up their messes, fix their problems, and hand them their balls.

But, times have changed for me.  I now have an adorable three-year old son and an amazing, supportive husband who are my examples of strong male intellect.  And, I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking that a strong, supportive, smart man doesn’t have a place in her life.

{It’s the insecure, manipulative douchebags that will die if they look at her.}

So, instead of an impulsive, sharp-tongued tirade, I offer you the following ten items as my long-pondered, calmly-typed thoughts on the topic of female intelligence as compared to that of the male population:

  1. Not all men choose to be stupid. Not all women choose to be smart.

{Obligatory exclusion clause.}

  1. The men and women who are not smart should be forced to become asexual because I vote to kick the women out of my lady club and I don’t want dumb men in my daughter’s future dating pool.

{Let’s just ship them all to the mysterious location of the doomed Malaysia Airlines flight 370 and be done with it.}

  1. Joe Biden must see himself as a half black, half Native American transgendered disabled woman. {No brackets needed.}
  2. I haven’t made up my mind about a female president. Not because I don’t think it’s a good idea but I know I would not make a good president of anything, especially the US.  Iran would end up with a baseball bat to the headlights of his nicest car, beaten naked with a shower curtain rod and left crying in the fetal position the first time he lied to me about a nuke program.

{Not kidding.  Try me.}

  1. To all the men who think they are superior to women, there is a highly intelligent woman somewhere manipulating you.

{I shall call him… Pinocchio.}

  1. The day we stop talking about gender equality is the day we are all seen as equal.

{She goes to MIT!  She must be smart.  Or MIT needed more female enrollment numbers… thanks, Affirmative Action!}

  1. Can a woman call herself a Republican without being called ditzy or a heartless beeatch?

{Cuz I don’t want to be in the same club as Nancy Pelosi.  Never mind.  I’ll just be a GDI.}

  1. I wear low-cut shirts not to temp you but to laugh at your weakness and steal your stuff while you are distracted.

{Using what I have to get what I want… that’s not stupid.  That’s resourceful.}

  1. You never hear of a successful woman being toppled by all the men she’s sexually assaulted and silenced with hush money.

{Well, he SAID “no” but his eyes said “YES!”}

  1. Eve is proof that God knew men needed help to get by.

{I personally think Adam ate the fruit and threw Eve under the apple-shaped bus, but whatever.} 


I love strong, supportive, intelligent men and I need them in my life.  My husband has shown me incredible things and compliments me wonderfully.

{And because he is one of the rare amazing ones I don’t make a big deal when he comes home with a TV the size of a train that will also cook us dinner and shake a mean martini.}

Bottom line:

Girls don’t need you telling them that they are as smart as any boy.  They need you to shut up and let them code a virus to crash Joe’s computer.

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