aerobics, pee, and karma.

I started teaching aerobics when I was 18. Which as you might guess, was in the not so distant past

Snort...fine you haters, stop rolling your eyes. It was awhile ago.

On with my story: 
One day during class, a woman complained of all the jumping jacks and jump rope exercises. She asked if we could do less, or none at all.
Being a huge fan of jump rope and it's body toning benefits, I couldn't figure out why she didn't like the activity. Maybe she was just having a lazy day. I've had a few of those. I could sympathize.
I asked her if she was having a hard time breathing. She said breathing wasn't the problem. It was peeing.
"Peeing?" I asked, unsure if I heard her correctly.
She nodded and explained that since having her last baby, jumping made her feel as if she might pee her pants.
Not having kids of my own, I couldn't figure out why having a baby would make you feel like you might pee. I told her we were almost finished and it was probably just a sensation thing. She should try to continue with the class. No pain no gain, right?
Apparently I was wrong. A minute later she bolted from the room leaving a puddle in her wake.

I felt like the most awful teacher ever.

Flash forward a few years after I had three kids of my own. 

After teaching a exceptionally challenging workout routine I decided to stop by the store on the way home. I pushed the cart up and down the aisles, as my toddler swung his legs, kicking me in the stomach.
"Henry," I stopped in my tracks beside the frozen foods. "Stop kicking me. It hurts Mommy."
He looked at my face, then at where he was kicking...then he looked a little lower. (Side Note: I sweat A LOT!) 

"Momma!" He squealed. "You peed your pants. You peed, you peed, you peed. Georgie look, Momma peed."
I tried to shush him, but he wouldn't stop. That kid chose that exact moment to holler like he'd never hollered before. "Momma peed!" he yelled until every adult in a three aisle range was made aware of my body sweat issue.

I decided right then that it was karma because I made that poor lady jump till she peed. I guess in life sometimes things come back to bite you in the butt. That's all.

(Side note: Oh, and if you're thinking my sweatiness was more than sweat, I'll deny it till I die.)

worst and most epic photography fail ever.

The title of the post should be enough to clue you in on how utterly embarrassing the following story really is. I only share it because my sensor broke years ago. I'm not disillusioned enough to think that the readers of this blog believe I'm anything short of a train wreck. And that's on a good day.
Today, sadly, wasn't so good.
I was scheduled to shoot a wedding in Salt Lake City at 3:00pm. Because my favorite lens is in the shop, I planned just enough time to stop by Pictureline to pick up a replacement lens. (No I didn't snag a doughnut...what with time being of the essence and all that jazz.) Per my usual crazed schedule, I found myself running ten minutes late. I kissed the kids good bye, hopped in the mini (van...not mini-cooper), and headed to Draper to pick up the lens. I rushed in, grabbed the lens, and continued on my way to SLC. When I pulled into the parking garage I was feeling snazzy because I, the amazing photog that I am, was ten minutes early! I wanted the garage attendant to give me a woot woot, but he wasn't feeling it.

I opened the side door of my van to take out my gear. Right then, the woot woot rushed out of me. And I wanted to cry. I, the not-so-amazing-photog-that-I-am, realized with a sudden sickening gut-twist that I had left my camera at home.
Yes, my freaking camera! As in, the very tool I need to actually be a photographer. As in, my life!
Brilliant, Erin. Way to rock that wedding. And not only had I left my camera at home, but I also left the lens that I use during 90% of wedding day.


So after a minor heart-attack, I realized not all was lost. I had randomly shoved a second camera body in the bottom of my camera bag. Until Karly, my awesome-life-saving-super-fly-assistant, brought my camera and lens, I used the back-up and made due with the lenses I had. In the end, the day turned out to be amazing. And oddly enough, I think that today I snagged some of my most favorite wedding pictures ever! Even it today was also one of my most embarrassing days ever.

wedding day nightmare.

Did your wedding day go off without a hitch? Was it everything you ever dreamed of? Or did something disastrous happen? Because if the latter is the case, believe me, I completely understand...I'm not saying my own wedding day was an absolute debacle, but I've been to enough weddings to tell you that sometimes...a lot of the time...things don't go as planned.

As in this case:
Monday I arrived at the designated location at 3:30 pm to shoot my lovely bride and handsome groom. Because they didn't have a bridal session, we shot their bridal type images before their ceremony which was to start at 4:00 pm.
First, let me say that it usually takes a few minutes to start shooting. The bride needs to be prepped and then placed in the perfect location that will enhance her loveliness. So basically when I say that we didn't start shooting until 3:45, I'm really saying that it's not because I'm slow. I am not slow! (Sorry, personal issues.)
The shoot continued for 10 or so minutes before I realized my lovely bride didn't have her ring on.
I said, "Hey do you want your ring in these shots?"
"Yes," she said.
And off her sister went to fetch the rings.

5 minutes later:

I glanced over my shoulder and saw my lovely bride's sweet sister with a look of pure petrification on her face.
"Um, Matilda (this is a fake name...but totally cool, right?) what's wrong?" I asked.
"If I tell you, you are going to freak," she said, voice shaking as much as her hands.
Um. Like that statement didn't just freak the bejeezus out of me. Sure.
"No worries. I won't freak," I said. Total lie. "What's up?"

INSERT: As I spoke the wind blew through the field tossing around weeds and wild flowers. Yes, we were standing in a field full of tangled weeds. Awesome...but not ideal for that day's shoot. You'll see.

"Well," she began after much coaxing. She pulled the ring pillow out from behind her back. "The rings are gone. They were on the pillow in the car, but after I walked across this field and jumped over that ditch there, they disappeared."
Holy freaking Moly! You've got to be kidding me, right? Right!?! No. It was the truth. My eyes grew to the size of saucers and I immediately rushed to her side, dropped down to my knees and started searching the field. My bride, bless her sweet soul, kept her composure as her fiance helped me dig through weeds. She even stayed calm after I called in the Calvary to help me search. Friends and family members of the bride came down and dug through the field.

45 minutes later:
I found the bride's ring. I wanted to cry, shout, jump for joy...at least be rewarded with some type of Hart's drink (this didn't happen). We kept searching for the grooms ring.

Alas, we never found it.

The wedding went on as planned, aside from the huge bump. But now I think, as I look fondly on that day, how bad can your wedding day really get? I suppose there's a lot more worse things that could happen than losing rings. But for your sake, I hope not.

luv, erin

true story: death threats, racism, and me

I have a disorder.

In short, it is this: sometimes I'm a complete and total loser. I try to say something and it comes out all wrong. Yes, I know. Common mistake, right? Well, for me it happens all the time. Like tonight's utterly foot-in-mouth worthy example.

Tonight I shot bridal portraits for a lovely client that will be getting married in a couple weeks. I've already shot her engagements, and so I feel familiar and comfortable with her, her fiance, and her family. In fact, I feel like we're friends. Buddies. Pretty close to besties. I'm not bragging or anything about having awesome clients that are also friends. I just want to explain my frame of mind when the Disorder occurred. You'll see.

Disorder Incident #1
While shooting Madi, clouds covered the sky and the lighting dimmed. I decided to lower my shutter speed to pull in more ambient light. So to help keep a steady camera hold, I braced my back against a nearby fence. Madi's uncle, Kurt (also a friend of mine...again, not bragging) came to the shoot. I thought he was standing behind me. I thought he was also propped against the fence. I thought he was the one banging the fence over and over and over again.
So when I yelled over my shoulder, "Stop that or I'm going to KILL you!" I didn't expect to turn around to find Madi's lovely mother staring wide-eyed at me in complete shock. Apparently she's never had a photographer threaten her life. I guess there's a first for everything.

Disorder Incident #2
Flustered and completely embarrassed, we left the first location (after I apologized repeatedly) and sought out a spot that was better lit. Upon arriving at the second location, a light rain began hitting us. I wanted to hurry the shoot along so beautiful Madi and her handsome fiance, Cesar (take note of his name now) wouldn't get drenched.

"Madi," I said from across the field, "turn to face the poppies. Oh lovely. That looks awesome. Perfect."
Snap. Snap. I shot a few more pose changes, and then decided it was time for Cesar to jump into the picture.
I looked up to where he stood near the side of the road, waiting to be called into the shoot.
"JORGE!" I yelled. "Jump in."
He looked at me. Madi looked at me. Madi's lovely mom who I threatened just minutes earlier looked at me.
Then Kurt (did I say friend earlier? I meant former friend) turned to me. "You mean, Cesar? Wow, Erin. Just because he's Mexican doesn't mean you can throw any Hispanic name out there. Are you a racist or what?"

In that moment, I wanted to die.

Disorder Incident #3
After apologizing profusely, in between laughing so hard tears were streaming down my face, I recomposed myself. I was determined to finish the shoot without one more moment of complete mortification.

Five minutes later. "Madi, now you and Jorge..."

Son of a flipping mother! I said Jorge again. Apparently I am a racist-death-threat-throwing photographer. Apparently I have a Disorder and it doesn't matter that my clients are like friends...because that probably wont last very long with my record.



"A serious load of crap," I said. "That stinks," he said.

Today I came home
and found not one, not two, not three, or four,
but FIVE piles of Dog doo just beyond the front door.
Poop, I say,
brown logs of non-floating crap,
My living room is the scene of a dog deposit attack.

What's this, you ask.
How can that be?
It can and it was accompanied by pee.
Pee, I say
in the form of ghastly-yellow-green
stain on the carpet beside my Christmas tree.

What beast, you ask, left the foul present for me?
A brute, a bear,
my black dog is guilty
That Damn Dog, I say.
Devil of a Lab,
I scolded him good and threw him out back.

And how did I fix this disaster more atrocious than none?
I realized my sweet hubby
was on his way home.
Poop, I said,
when he walked in the door.
Holy *)@# he said, and walked downstairs and found more.

Moral of the story,
is don't come home for lunch,
when your big black dog
has just crapped out a mountain of junk.

Why 31 is better than 16: Embarrassing Moment # 31

The year HOT BOY (he shall remain nameless in case he reads this blog and then I'm utterly embarassed all over again) was on the basketball team, I thanked God that I was a cheerleader.  Yum, I could watch him play all day long.  That was also the year that I got the card of freedom called a driver's license.  

What I quickly found out is Hot Boy + Driver's License did not mix. 

Robyn, my friend from the cheer squad offered to help me learn to drive The Blue Rocket.  This car was my parent's gift to us Calabio girls.  Really, I think they purchased such a hideous vehicle to keep the boys away.  Boy, did that work well for them. 

Robyn and I cruised around in The Blue Rocket in the church parking lot until I decided I was ready to test my stick driving skills on the main roads.  We started off to a smooth start.  I geared down when I needed and shifted when I sped up.  I was a natural. 

Well, of course, that lasted all of thirty seconds.  We pulled up to one of the only intersections in Pleasant Grove and stopped at the red light.  It was then that Robyn pointed at a car as it stopped on the left of the intersection. 
Oh. My. Word.  HOT BOY was sitting in his car looking at us.  At me!  (Squeal). 
The light turned green.  And my mind went blank.  I couldn't remember what to do first.  After pushing in the clutch and then releasing the gas too fast, the car lurched forward into the middle of the intersection.  In horror I sat dumbfounded.  Robyn was yelling directions too fast and my mind and hands and feet fumbled to follow, but I was a nit-wit wreck.  Embarrassed beyond belief, I wanted to die right then and there. 
So, without giving much thought to my action, I decided the best thing to do would be to hide.  In a split second, I launched myself over the front seat and into the back seat where I crouched down and hid.  (Yes, the car was still sitting in the middle of the intersection.)

After a slur of swear words, Robyn jumped into the front seat and drove me away from that scarring scene.  (Thanks again for saving my butt Robyn) 

Need I say more when I tell you HOT BOY never asked me out. 

So, now as I lament on turning 31 (ugh, middle age) I also would much rather be 31 and not 16, love struck and stuck in the middle of an intersection.

Life as I know it.

1. Showed up late to my aerobics class. *sigh* It's becoming the norm.


2. Ran out halfway through aerobics--I forgot to send boys to gymnastics (in the same building).


3. After aerobics, nursed Ruby in the gym corner. (Screaming babies take precedence over possible uncomfortable on-lookers) For Pete's sake, I had a blanket covering me.


4. Shoved seven squirrely kids into my van and took them to a library party - so much for being quiet.


5. Shoved seven squirrely kids into the van again to go to swim lessons. Then immediately un-shoved because one forgot her shoes somewhere at the library party. (Do you need to take off your shoes everywhere we go?)


6. Re-shoved kids back into van and raced to swim lessons.


7. Late again.


8. Shouted directions at 6 running kids as they broke pool rules and bolted toward their teachers.


9. Relaxed with Ruby in the mom and tot class -- ah, peace.


10. Dried off 6 squirrely kids.


11. Physically restrained myself from beating (my) toddler when he chucked his shoe at Ruby's head.


12. Calmed screaming kids.


13. Searched pool vicinity for 3 missing kids.


14. Shoved all 7 kids back in van and headed peacefully down the road.


15. Yelled at toddler to get back in seat and stop jumping on booster.


16. Choked on diet Pepsi when oldest randomly decided to open van door as we're cruising down the road.


17. Swore in front of 6 kids when I saw a police officer behind me viewing all the mayhem.


18. Finished reading Actor and the Housewife and chucked it across the room.

ASK THE AUDIENCE: How was your day?

STALKING 101

So we dated, like everybody else. Oh, except for the fact that Mark was exceptionally cheap and never paid for a date. So we hung out. Here, there, everywhere. I loved it.

I thought he did too. But after we broke up, and my heart broken, I couldn't figure out what went wrong.
So I stalked him like any normal girl would do. Nothing serious, no running around clad in black with football glare paint on my cheeks, those wild days of mine were over. This time I stuck to the basics: Watching for when he left in the morning, watching for when he returned, 'running into him' at the oddest places...hm, hm, singles ward, and just a few car tailings.

And I thought it was working. We did, after all start dating (and kissing) again. But when he decided he didn't want to date anymore, I decided to pull out the BIG GUNS! (Yes all caps again. Come on. It illustrates my point.)

I reached for the 'casual' approach. The Teal Sweats. I flaunted my hot bod in the teal sweats my mom made for me years before. In them I was (besides warm) confident, yet relaxed, and I didn't care about his waxing and waning flirtations. Whatever. I'd had it.
And then it all came together. Bow on top. He finally proposed and I graciously accepted.

End of Story.

For dating tips and advice, please feel free to email me anytime. I would love to be your 'how to stalk a guy' coach.

Name Dropping

1st Call - 9:44 am. I don't pick up. Why? Ruby's peed out, I'm barely able to crack my eyes open, and I couldn't care less about getting off the couch. I shouldn't have stayed up till almost three revising my first three chapters for the eleventy billionth time.

2nd Call - 9:54 am. I look from the blinking light on my home phone to my cell. Peggy called both phones? Oh crap, the realization hits me that I forgot to pick up the lovely gift she's had waiting for me since Friday. This time I call her back and apologize for my unfriendly friendship.

We talk. She asks what I am doing today? Revising yet again--Of course my book won't be ready until every dag gum word is different. Today, Peggy's taking a break from writing. Instead, she's going out to lunch with her daughter. Fun for her. If I took Ruby out to lunch it would be on me. (snort. I'm laughing at my own joke...Ruby is still nursing.)


3rd Call - 12:55 pm. I don't pick up. I'm Writing.


4th Call - 12:55 1/2 pm. Still Writing.


5th Call - 12:56. Ok Peggy, I get the point. I pick up.

"You're not going to believe who I ran into at P.F. Changs!" Peggy's voice is light, near giddy.

"Who?" (I'm a sucker for a hook, and Peggy knows how to hook me)

"Laura Hickman!"

"SHUT UP!"
(Yes, I know you're not supposed to ever write in all caps, but I did yell. Peggy just ran into one of the greatest Fantasy writers of all time--A woman I so sneakily stalked at the BYU-Writers for Young Reader's Conference just over a month before.)
Peggy recognized Laura and called out her name. Laura turned, and Peggy talked to her. Peggy reminded Laura that she'd met her at the Writer's Conference.

And then Laura Hickman said, "That's right, you were with . . . ERIN!"

(Ok, so she probably didn't yell my name like I just wrote in all caps, but that is how excited I was to hear she said it. Stop being such a critic).

I squeal into the phone. I dance a little jig in my computer seat. I lightly caress the Hickman's book, Mystic Warrior, Book One of The Bronze Canticles that sits on my desk.

Sigh.

Peggy says, "Next time you'll pick up the phone the first time I call."

I laugh. Hopefully she's right.


Above are Tracy and Laura Hickman, the married, fantasy writing duo. I just wanted to do a little name dropping today and let you know They Rock!

STUPID.

Plain. Simple. Stupid.

First off, I fully take credit for waking up at 4 AM and having a panic attack over my mom's stinky-eleven-year-old Retriever--PO. She's seriously gross. And by 'gross' I mean, she has the worst butt breath ever.

I don't know why I was even thinking about her at 4 AM, but I had to know, right then and there, where she was. Because, should she ever go missing, my mom would dis-own me and probably ground me for the rest of my life.

"Mark, where's the dog." He grunted. I poked. He grunted again. I jabbed. He got out of bed. To appease my freaking-out-ness he ran down stairs and "completely searched" every room in the basement. "Are you sure she's not there?" I checked. He rolled his eyes. Apparently at 4 AM he's not ok with me 'double checking.'

"Are you kidding me?" I jumped out of bed, slipped on the resurrected teal sweats and searched the upstairs. Two minutes later, Mark and I came face to face. "She's gone. You have to find her." I begged. I pleaded. I demanded cried.

Mark grabbed the keys, climbed into the truck and took off in search of Po.

That's when I had the inkling to do the double checking myself. I walked down the stairs, opened the boys door, and Lo and Behold--Po, the stink-butt dog was hanging with the boys.

So, thirty minutes later, when grumpy Mark comes home and walks into the bedroom, all I have to say is, "Seriously, that was so Stupid."

Maybe next time he'll be ok with the "double checking".

Long Duck Dong

Do you remember Long Duck Dong from Sixteen Candles? At the BYU writing conference, I shared a poignant experience that I once had with the aforementioned superstar. It is now that I would like to take the time to share it with you (my one faithful reader).

Another delay? Are you kidding me? I really just wanted to get home, as I was sure all the other passengers milling around LAX did also. I pulled out my walkman, slid on the satellite sized earphones and then shoved in my coolest new tape: Lighter Shade of Brown. (Note: If you are unfamiliar with this group that's because they are a one hit wonder...and by one hit, I mean probably only in Utah. I dunno...Goggle them.)

I rocked to the bassy beat as I looked around the terminal. Right across the row from me sat Long Duck Dong. No way.

"Long Duck Dong!" I jumped out of my seat and ripped the fatty-arse-ear phones off my head.

He smiled.

I shivered...and not just because it was cold in the terminal.

"You know, Long Duck Dong is not my real name," he said. Then relaxing back in his chair, he pulled out the LA times.

"Sure, whatever," I replied and then asked him a slew of questions. The flight delay gave us time to talk for nearly an hour more. Glorious. I asked him all the Sixteen Candle questions I could think of, and I even quoted my most favorite lines from the movie. I knew he must have been impressed by my wittiness and clear memory. Oh, wonderful flight delays. When they finally called for boarding, my new BFF and I walked to the gate.

"So," I said, now just standing inches from him. "Do you want to come over for dinner?"

Long Duck Dong tilted head and said, "I am sorry, but, we are not as good of friends as you think we are."

Hmm, How did I read that one wrong? Awkward. "Oh, ok. Maybe some other time." I scurried onto the plane and tried not to bother my Ex-new-BFF for the remaining flight.

Note To Self-- change you name

Day 1 at the BYU Writers for Young Readers Conference (a.k.a. my best hope for ever getting published) pretty much can be summed up in three simple words: Change Your Name.

Peggy and I arrived early enough to snag the two greatest seats (dead center, second row) in the auditorium of the BYU conference center. I sat, a flustered wreck, waiting for the authors, publishers, editors, and agents to file in and take their seats in front of me. When Tracy and Laura Hickman, a husband/wife writing team, walked past, I jumped out of my seat, and squealed with delight . . . Seriously, that's no lie. Tracy turned and waved hi.

Sigh.

Authors mingled and talked about their latest novels while I watched, giddy and keyed up for the start of the rest of my life.

And then it came. Tracey walked over and leaned in. "How are you?"

Gasp. oh, me, he's talking to me. "I'm fine. I am just so excited to be here. I saw you talk at LTUE and I just died over your address on the first sci-fi movie in space. I wish I could take your class on top of Janette Rallison's class, who I also love to death because her books are just so witty." And on, and on, and on, I rambled until Peggy shot me a look.

"So, tell me, do you have a book completed, or are you writing one?" Tracy glanced from Peggy to me.

"Yes, I do," I said stumbling over my words. "I mean, I have completed a novel."

"oh. Tell me about it." He tilted his head to the side and looked me square in the eye.

Nobody Panic. I've heard about this before. This is called a pitch. I can do this.

"My book, is um, about a, um girl." My breathing accelerated and any coherent thought I might have had scurried around my brain like a runaway dog. I was a MESS. "I mean, there is a girl. And um, her grandfather dies. Oh wait. He doesn't die, but she has to live in California with her mom. And she meets a boy." Your rambling. Stop rambling. "Did I say her name was Elliot? Yes well, she meets a boy and they fall in love."

The End.

My chances were gone within a second after opening my mouth. I looked at Peggy and then back to Tracy. My breathing slowed, and I said, "I think I need to work on my pitch, huh?"

"Yes," he agreed. The corners of his eyes lifted with the curve of his smile. If that's how I started the first moment of the rest of my writing life, then what's next in store?

Oh no you didn't...

Right now, as I even write this blog post, I am layed out on the couch finishing the last 2 chapters of my book...(yeah, yeah, yeah, if you're one of my heckling friends I've been saying 'last 2 chapters' for quite sometime. But, seriously, this is it!)

For a little support, I am reading out loud as I write and Mark is helping me capture a more natural tone to the dialog.

Right in the middle of a pivotal scene between Jack and Elliot (my two main characters) I hit a wall. I'm stumped. I can't seem to find the natural balance in their dialog. So I turn to Mark, my handsome, witty, and helpful hubby, and I say,

"Jack, turns to face Elliot and says?"

To that, Mark says nothing. Nada. Silence. He just gives me that quizzical-I-don't-give-a-flip look.

Great, no help from the pep squad, so I continue to write out loud, talking as I type.

And I finally write:

As she inserted the key into the lock, Elliot felt his hand on her shoulder. She turned back around to face him.
“Elliot,” he said

And Mark inserts out loud "Become a Vampire with Me."

Henry and the male body parts

True Story:

Last night George sat at the kitchen bar as he read his reptile book. Flipping through the book he made at school, he read, "Lizards have different types of testicles."

I said, "What? Read that again."

"Lizards have different types of testicles," George harrumphed as he rolled his eyes. Obviously I wasn't listening to him.

"No George," I insisted. "I don't think that is what it really says." I walked around the bar to get a better look at his book. Peering over his shoulder I glanced at the pages of his hand written book. Sure enough, I couldn't decipher what he'd actually written. Phonetically speaking, he could have been right.

Shrugging my shoulders I suggested, "Well, I don't think you meant to write the word testicles . . ." And then I proceeded to explain that the testicles are a part of the male body.

Before I got half way through my explanation, Henry gave me an over-exaggerated eye roll and said, "Mom, I really don't think that's something you should be talking about. Come on. I think we know what the boy balls are."

Speechless. I seriously stared at him in shock, my mouth gaping open.

That pretty much sums up my Sass-a-frass Henry. I love him to death, but sometimes I just gawk at him in disbelief. Today my super say-it-like-it-is kiddo graduated from kindergarten. I am so proud of him and love him even more for his spunky outlandishness.

Embarrassed . . . no MORTIFIED

Really...there aren't a lot of things that embarrass me, as you probably already know (like this post). But, today when my Partner In Crime, my Photography Co-Teacher, the ever witty Tonja Merryweather, called me to tell me there was a full page spread in the Daily Herald about ME, I freaked.

Why? Of course I knew they might run a 'small' article about aerobics in the paper because a lovely reporter came to my classes and asked me a slew of questions. That was not the embarrassing part. In fact, you can come ask me fitness questions any time of the day and I'll spout something off. It may not be coherent or even entirely accurate, but it'll be worth a try.

So why again am I so stinkin' embarrassed? OH YES, I did remember to say to the lovely and quite friendly reporter, 'Please let me know if they want to come and take a picture, that way I can make myself look rockin' hot'. (I'm pretty sure those were my exact words). So the other day, when I didn't feel like going to aerobics at all, I yanked on a grungy Jack Johnson T-shirt, an old pair of shorts and left for the Gym...secretly hoping NO ONE would be there so I could mosey on home again.

To my EMBARRASSMENT not only was the class full, but there was a photographer there too. A male photographer! Agggghhhhh. I expressly mentioned to him to only take shots of me from the neck up and while I was smiling sweetly at the camera...but I think he FORGOT.

So, there you have it. Two, not so flattering shots of me are pasted across the Daily Herald for all to see, oogle, gawk at, laugh at and discuss in not so friendly terms, "What the Heck is she wearing?"

and the White Trash Mother award goes to...

Me. Me. Oh, pick Me!!! I suppose I could more accurately call myself a 'brown' trash mother, but either phrase at this point will suffice.



1. I was busy (on the Internet) so I let Teddy park himself in front of the boob tube, in a convenient toddler size lounge chair and watch t.v for...(ha, I got you there, like I'm really going to admit I let him watch t.v. for 4 hours today)

2. When my little couch potato got restless, I remedied the problem by popping the kid some popcorn. (I want to teach him while he's young that boredom can be squelched with snack food. Learning the valuable lazy lard-butt skills while he's young will save him the hassle of working hard and being a productive adult later in life.)

3. Then when he couldn't take it any longer, I let him run around snot-nosed, begging for candy. Because, really, why not start now the life of a vagrant?

4. And just to make sure I secured my spot as biggest white (or brown) trash mother out there, I let the snot-nosed, sugar-hyped, toddler of mine trike the neighborhood in his UNDIES! (I'm preparing him for his motorcycle riding, wife-beater shirt wearing future.)

Food for Thought

I don't know if this is just a problem of mine, but when I see something edible that is exquisite. Awe-inspiring. Decadently Gorgeous. My Mouth Salivates! If it looks good, then I want to eat it...and not just eat it, but sometimes it talks to me, and forces me into submission.

See's Candy Example:

Me: I'm going to be good, I don't need to buy a piece of Sees candy today (as I walk haltingly past the Black and White Sweet Trap in the Mall)


Frustratingly Fabulous-Looking Caramel: Erin, Ohhhhh Erin...You know you want to eat me. Look how rich and chewy I am. Think how enjoyable it will be to sink your teeth into me.

Me: No, I don't need you. What have you ever done for me besides enlarge the junk in my trunk? Besides, I just walked by here an hour ago and dropped three bucks on four pieces of your pricey friends. I DON'T NEED YOU!

Freakishly-Alluring Sees Candy: Oh, Erin. COME EAT ME! You'll never be happy unless you do. All the cool people are buying some. If you don't you'll never be popular or be asked to the prom...

Me: Oh, the turmoil. What to do? ok, well maybe I'll buy just one. Do you hear me devil candy? Just One! (five minutes later I walk out of Sees, toting a 1/2 pound box of demon delights!) Yesterday, one of the lovely-looking, lasses that so happens to be taking my Photo 101 class, brought me this decadent, delightful, dream of a dessert. (SIDE NOTE: Alliteration...using the same starting sound multiple times in a phrase or a sentence for added emphasis...are you getting my added emphasis?)

I vowed to bring home this beauty and share it with my sweet kid-watching hubby. Although gorgeous, I was sure each tasty morsel was loaded with unwanted CALORIES.

So, did I? Did I share it with my hubby? Of course...



NOT!

That devil delight had me suck it down in two giant chomps. Blasted talking treats.

seriously SICK!

Disclaimer: If you've read my blog before, you know I'm a fan of airing all my 'crap'. This post is no exception. If you're weak of stomach or you can't handle another diarrhea story (that's probably not quite as good as this one), then skip this post for the day.

I am potty training Teddy. No, I am trying to convince Teddy to potty train. No, I am miserably cleaning up endless poopy messes because I am too cheap to buy another diaper...that sounds about right.

Today, is the day, I figured. Teddy hasn't had a BM in two days so it was bound to happen. I worked out my schedule so I wouldn't have to go anywhere, and I sat him down to watch Barney. Half way through the show I heard, "Mommy."

I ran into the front room and found Teddy standing with a lump of Kaka hanging in his underwear. Crap! I missed it. I rushed him into the bathroom where he finished his business.

After I started a load of laundry, I let him watch the rest of the show. 10 minutes later, I heard, "Mommmmmmmmy." What? I jumped up from my desk and ran into the front room.

Oh my freakin' word!!! Holy Crap bucket. Teddy struggled to stand up as he slipped on the giant puddle of diarrhea that had leaked from his once clean pair of dinosaur undies. Poop, like I'd never before seen, smeared his arms and legs, coating my floor like a doodoo frosting.

I grabbed him and put him on the toilet while I tried to wrap my brain around what to do next. Starting, by washing the poop off of my fingers, I proceeded to retrace his poop steps and wipe up the floor, throw him in the tub, wash down the toilet and then SCRUB the carpet.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Don't feed your potty training toddler strawberries and burritos for 2 days straight.

Apparently I STINK!

I read your shower-loving comments and I admit it, I'm a little on the STANK side of life right now. But come on? What about conserving water? Maybe I have put off showering because I am concerned about global welfare.

On a related note: Ruby, my sweet darling baby GIRL (you can never be too excited about having a girl) woke up too many times to count. So, as I lay utterly exhausted in bed, Mark, my helpful kid-waking hubby, woke the boys up for school.

"Mom, Mom" a little hand jabbed at my face, "wake up."

"Wha . . . ? What's going on?" I mumbled, wiping the morning crust from the corner's of my mouth. I rolled over on my side to see who the intruder was.

Henry plopped himself on the bed next to me and declared, "Look, I'm all ready for school."

"Wow Henry!" I was amazed with his assertiveness in readying for school. "You look good. Come give momma a kiss," I said with a huge pucker.

Henry recoiled, a twisted look on his face, "EWWWW you're breath smells stink."

CONCLUSION: Apparently I STINK!

Have I Got A Story For You...THE CONCLUSION!

#1 Rule when approaching an agent, editor or THE PUBLISHER - never, never, NEVER spill your guts about your story unless they ask.

#2 Rule when approaching an agent, editor or THE PUBLISHER - Be interested in them!

"So, I noticed that you also published Fablehaven and James Dashner's 13th Reality," I started, trying to butter up to him by showing my knowledge base of books he's had a major role in publishing.

"Yes, that's right," he nodded a smile creeping to the corners of his mouth. (SCORE, I got him to smile).

"Since I'm such a fan of the books you've published, I was wondering what else you might be working on. Can you tell me what else is coming out besides Mark Forman's novel?" Finishing my loaded question (loaded as in, I hoped it would lead into me suggesting that I send him my novel), I smiled brightly and shifted my weight, trying to look as comfortable as possible.

(Rule #2 worked like magic) His eyes lit up and he dropped his tight folded arms, speaking expressively as he explained that he really wanted to break into the fantasy romance genre. Since Shadow Mountain is clearly a huge contender for YA fantasy, he thought it would be great if they broadened their base.

Nodding as he spoke, I could barely contain my mounting excitement. YA fantasy romance? Why, that's exactly what I write. Believe me when I say I had to strain my muscles to stop my feet from dancing an Irish jig.

He spoke about one manuscript they had in mind, but he was looking for more.

(Insert light bulb flashing above my super cute do' for the day)
"Hm," I said sweetly, "that's interesting you should mention fantasy romance. I just so happen to write fantasy romance, and in fact, my fantasy romance novel is just about done."

"Really?" His eyebrows arched in posed interest.

"Fo' shiznit!" I wanted to exclaim, but I kept it to a simple, "Yes, and I believe it has great promise to it." I spoke a little bit about the super-secret-special writing class I am taking and the writing group I'm a part of. As I spoke, he nodded, seeming to actually listen to me.

After I finished, I gulped back thinking how I could take the final plunge and ask him if I could send him something.

Before I could ask he cut into my thoughts, saying, "That sounds interesting. Would you like to send me something?"
Hello! Would I like to send him something?!?

Flustered I asked, "So, I can send you something?" Agh, did I just ask him if I could send him something after he just asked if I could send him something? Why are things so confusing?

He broke the sudden awkward silence. "Yeah," he said, tilting his head to the side nodding slowly...very slowly, "that would be fine."

I struggled to hear the rest of what he said as I fought the pounding heartbeat that pulsated in my ears. Could this really be happening to me?

After I left with his name and directions of where to send my submission, I walked keeping my composure until I figured I was out of ear shot. When I felt the coast was clear, I jumped nearly 5 feet in the air whooping and hollering, "Are you freakin' kidding me? Seriously? Did I just meet a publisher?" Costco patrons scooted out of my frenzied way, eyeing me curiously. But, I didn't mind. I just made my first leap into the world of publishing.