Here Comes the Sun

I'm in a really good mood today. It's surprising to me, because it's a Monday and I stayed up late last night, and I'm so sleepy and I have a headache that isn't really going away.

I think it's the weather. I've suspected for a while that I'm greatly affected by the weather, and today is such a beautiful day and it's warm and bright, and suddenly everything feels possible and positive and manageable. I'm looking forward to plans this weekend and even IM'd a friend to make additional plans to get together for brunch and a movie on Sunday.

So yeah. Seasonal affective disorder, anyone?

Heather came over on Saturday and helped me organize my front room. We made a lot of progress, and she's going to come over the next few Saturdays to work with me on the other rooms of my house. I've let things pile up and physical clutter makes me feel cluttered mentally, too. And I'm ready for a change.

I'm even starting to think about an exercise plan, now that the sunnier days will leave me a little more room in my head for other things.

And I want to start writing my novel again, and get my bike fixed and ride around town, and learn how to refinish wood furniture and work on my kitchen table, and make healthy meals every night at home, and ...

I know, I know.

But honestly, it's just nice to feel like doing anything again.

The failure wasn't in their choice of neckwear, but in the tread burn it eventually gave them.

The Boys Are Getting Bigger

I got new pictures of my rats the other day, and here they are! They've grown so much and they're cuter than ever. I'm still thinking of names, and am still open to considering your suggestions, if you have any.

The breeder said they opened their eyes Monday and Tuesday of this week, and now they're running around crazily like little toddlers. I can't wait to get them on Mother's Day weekend.

Your fingers smell like Cheetos!

Ready, set, go!

Brothers don't shake hands, brothers gotta hug!

Would You Like Some Barbecue Sauce With That Crow?

Okay, I hate it when I have to eat my words. But in this case, it's worth it.

I recently wrote a rant about my "dark night of the blogger's soul" (to use my friend Jason's words) and said the following:

I've been thinking about getting a pet rat ... But I don't want this blog to become a daily recitation of what my pet rat did and how funny it was when he fell off the chair, and how cute he is when he stands on his hind legs and sniffs the air. It's fun to hear about my nieces and nephews in those ways, because they're people I love and care about. But no one wants to hear about a rat. Not even me.

But I've had a change of heart. Here's what did it:

I found my little ratties! I found them on Craigslist today and they're already reserved for me. Furthermore, I'll be getting weekly photo updates so I can see how they're growing.

Here's what the breeder said about them:

They were born on April 8th. Right now they look like they're going to be agouti (which is dark brown mixed with black and silver hairs). Both boys are almost identical, except one is slightly bigger. They might change appearance as they grow older. They're both very pretty and healthy-looking. I'm positive they are going to have very friendly personalities. Their mother is an exceptionally friendly and easygoing rat. The boys will make excellent companions.

And here's the interesting thing: I'm surprised by HOW excited I am about getting them. I knew I wanted a rat, and thought it would be fun, but I'm actually sort of embarrassed by how giggly and goofy I get when I think about them. I kept looking at the pictures all afternoon. Here are the other ones:

They're ready for their closeup, Mr. DeMille.

Happiness is a warm butt in your face.
(Which ones are mine? Obviously the most studly ones.)

I haven't named them yet, because I don't want to jinx the whole thing. They're not really mine yet, so I have to consider them still sort of "in the womb," so to speak. But I'm thinking of names now, and welcome suggestions.

So, I'm telling you right now, I have to face up to the fact that this blog just might have an occasional—or even frequent—"it was so cute when..." entry.

And as of this afternoon, I'm completely okay with that.

It's Snowing Outside.

I saw this on Susan's and Heidi's blogs, so I decided to do it too. Here's what you do: Search for a picture on Google (or Yahoo!) Images in each category. Post an image from the first page of results.

Age on my next birthday:


I. Can't. Believe. It.

A place I'd love to visit:

India. One of these days, definitely.

One of my favorite places:

Yellowstone Park. A surreal, alien landscape right in the middle of an incredible forest.

One (really two) of my favorite things:

Laughing. And baby animals. (And baby animals laughing.)

One of my favorite foods:

Burgers. No contest.

My favorite flower:

Passion fruit blossom. I discovered these on a walk around my neighborhood in Venice, California, and couldn't believe how intricate and detailed they were. I loved the feathery purple fringe around the center. Which brings me to the next category...

My favorite color:

Purple. And not just because it was Donny Osmond's favorite, either. (Though that helped.)

The city I live in:

Salt Lake City, Utah.

Name of a past pet:

Poochie. (When I did the search, I hoped Homer Simpson's short-lived Itchy and Scratchy character would show up, and he was the first result!)

A nickname I've had:

Erin the Red Baron.

My first job:

Dry cleaning counter girl at Seville Cleaners in Santee, California. Cathi had it first, then Kristin, then me and Denise Huff. It was like the 5th ward job to have, and it was the first place I got high (from machine fumes). I just thought that unloading the machine was so funny.

My hope for 2008:

Happiness. Vague, I know. I'm still trying to define what would make me happy, so I'll have to get back to you on that.

The Blog in the Mirror

I'm conflicted by this whole blog thing. I've started blogs before, and then let them lapse into stale antiquity from neglect.

Maybe I just need a journal. I don't have a cute kid to blog about, and my life is pretty uneventful so it's not like I need an online forum to keep everyone abreast of my many comings-and-goings-about-town. And I definitely don't need one more place in my life to rant about things that make me crazy.

So then I'm just left with commenting on things that strike me as unusual, or commenting on other people's blog entries that I find entertaining. It becomes a spiral of commentary on someone else's commentary on someone else's commentary and, after a while, gets so diluted there's no point to remembering the original commentary.

I've been thinking about getting a pet rat, mostly because I'm allergic to cats and freaked out by the all-consuming neediness of dogs. And rats actually respond to their owners, and can bond and be affectionate like cats and dogs. But I don't want this blog to become a daily recitation of what my pet rat did and how funny it was when he fell off the chair, and how cute he is when he stands on his hind legs and sniffs the air. It's fun to hear about my nieces and nephews in those ways, because they're people I love and care about. But no one wants to hear about a rat. Not even me.

So this blog...well, I don't know what to do about it. I like being able to communicate with people once in a while, but I probably wouldn't be able to write anything intensely personal or meaningful, and the idea of just having a place to write sardonic commentary on random things doesn't seem that interesting to me lately.

So here's what I'm wondering:
1) Why do you blog?
2) Do you have different blogs for different audiences (i.e., a more personal site vs. a hobby site)
3) Do you think my main problem in blogging is just not having much of a life to talk about?

Thank you in advance for your input.

Food snacks for post-millennials?

I always thought it was strange that some movie theaters in Utah sold dill pickles at the concession stand, but here's something even weirder: pickle-juice popsicles.

Sure, pickle juice isn't new. Throughout history it played a major role in the childhood game of "I Dare You to Drink Whatever I Find in the Fridge and Mix Up in a Cup," from suburban homes of middle America to ramshackle yurts on the windswept plains of outer Mongolia.

But popsicles? For a yummy treat? I don't get it. Okay, okay, I know there're people out there who love pickles and who might even drink pickle juice from time to time. But let's face it, there are people out there who eat paste or dirt—or other non-edibles—but we smack it out of their hands (if they're kids) or treat them for a mental condition instead of capitalizing on their unfortunate predilection with a new line of Paste-a-roonies® or Tastee Mudd (now 98% Pesticide Free!).

I'd write this idea off as going the way of the tequila lollipop with the worm in it—you know, where people buy them as joke gifts or eat them on a dare—but the website says they're marketing pickle-sicles to schools. For kids.

Apparently pickle juice is good for you. And, according to the website, "almost sugar free." Huh.

I guess, now that I'm thinking about it, maybe pickle-juice popsicles aren't that odd. I mean, we live in a nation where Clamato is a real product.

Chuck hoped his fresh new 'do would help him with the ladies.

It didn't.

Feliz Cumpleanos, Glee klee ker Kaburtstag, Gratchu layday mayday hoggen

In my random wandering through blogland, I came upon the coolest entry about childhood birthday cakes. It made me remember some of the highlights and not-so-highlights of birthday celebrations past, which are presented below for your entertainment:

Highlight: The best birthday cake I ever had was my Leslie cake. I think it was my fifth birthday (you know, the party where I got to invite friends), and Leslie Lindgren was my on-again-off-again boytoy. He was a blond Adonis, overly affectionate and unashamed of our love. The cake was a masterpiece, a two-layer pile of frosting emblazoned with a big pink head with blond hair and blue eyes. It was a perfect likeness. Of course he was at the party, and I can't remember his reaction at seeing himself on the cake, but I can't think he minded. I mean, seriously, we used to play "marriage" in front of the house, walking somberly down the sidewalk to the corner where we would exchange vows and, sometimes, a hasty smooch.

Not-so-highlight: The most ghetto cake I ever had was on my 12th or 13th birthday. It was a simple family affair, and I had requested an angel food cake. Because we were going to put strawberry topping on it after it was cut, it was unfrosted and looked a little naked on the plate. We had run out of birthday candles—not surprising with everyone having birthdays willy-nilly around there—so we McGyvered a solution by spearing the cake with a foot-long fireplace match. "Sing fast, everyone, this baby's burnin like a mutha."

Most of my cakes were the typical frosted cake mix in a 9x13 pan. For some unknown reason, my parents were fond of taking the birthday picture at the very peak of the candle blow, so we have many, many photographs of us kids with bulging cheeks and eyes like crazed fanatics at a balloon factory.

Somewhere along the way, I think it was my mom who banned pictures of the candle blow. "Please, Jer, let me have one photo of my child looking normal." It's a wonder we didn't all end up at the Sevick Center.*

* The Sevick Center was a school for children with developmental disabilities. We used to sneak over the fence after hours because they had all the coolest playground equipment on spongy black mats instead of sand.

My eyebrow may say, "No, no, no," but my 'stache is saying, "Yes, yes, yes!"