But it really was the time of my life

For three consecutive summers my cousin Denise came and stayed with us. We’d spend the summer occasionally walking to the pool and eating orange slices. I was always totally jealous because she tanned effortlessly while I was reduced to a blistery, peeling mess. We rarely talked about boys, save Jordan Knight, but now in hindsight I realize that I’m able to trace my sexual awakening over the course of these summers.

Each summer was characterized by a specific movie. Denise and I would watch it every day; spend a few hours jumping on my sister’s bed listening to the soundtrack. Then we’d go out into the hot-ass parking lot of our shitty apartment and act out specific scenes from the movie. In the evenings we’d chill with some Pudding Pops and watch the movie again.

The first movie was Grease. This one is a no brainer. All young girls love Grease and I don’t know why. None of the T-Birds were dreamy and even at the tender age of 9; I knew that Rizzo had to be as old as my mom. For me the allure of Rydell High lay with the awesome costumes and the fact that I quickly learned every word to every song on that album. Even "Hopelessly Devoted", which I hated at the time, but now it’s my favorite. It wasn’t until years later that I realized what a filthy movie Grease is. There are references to gangbangs, girls with creamy jeans, and unwed mothers.

Favorite song: Look at me I’m Sandra Dee.
Scene acted out: When Cha-Cha whips off her scarf to start the chickie run.

After Grease we grew up a little and moved on to Footloose. It’s safe to say that in this case I loved the soundtrack more than the movie, but the movie was fucking awesome. I always loved the girl that rode her own scooter out to the mill when they cleaned it up for the party. We were old enough at this point to realize that some of the stuff they were talking about was pretty dirty. Scrawny ol’ Lori Singer said virgin plain as day, but I had to ask my mom what it meant. Still, this one was all about the dancing. We nearly broke the box springs jumping around to this one.

Favorite song: Let’s Hear it for the Boy (natch)
Scene acted out: When Ariel stands up between the cars, followed closely by the tractor chickie-run. Can you see a pattern develop? I’m surprised neither of us ever had a suicide knob on our cars.

Finally we came of age with Dirty Dancing. While there was no chickie-run, this was the first one where the music was hot, but the moves were hotter. There was actual sex! Illicit sex at that, as well as flowy gowns, sparkly dance shoes, and lots of shirtless Swayze. Once my mom sat down to watch it with us and was horrified that we’d been watching it for nigh on three months and she just now realized it was all about a botched abortion.

Favorite song: Be My Baby
Scene acted out: Baby dancing alone on the bridge tied with Johnny kicking that stump thing until it came out of the ground, then busting out the car window with it.

Denise and I never talk about these summers, but I like to think that it was a special kind of summer lovin’ all our own.


Nor do we accept shells

When it comes to the exchange of money for goods and/or services I’m assuming that many of you out there realize that when you want a good and/or service it often costs money. The library is no exception. Yes, the materials we provide are free, but the notion of a library fine is hardly new. Nor can it be weaseled out of by tossing me a stupid look and asking things like “But is there any was I can, like, not pay?” Um…no. Does that work other places? Do I look like a sucker?

Sometimes these geniuses think that if they flatter (re: hit on) me, I’ll find it within myself to clear them of all wrongdoing. Which leads me to another question. What’s the origin of this whole “sexy librarian” myth? Are we just too busy shushing to get fucked? Maybe it's those sexy ladders. Most of the librarians I know are pale women with a weakness for science fiction. None can be seen in the "She blinded me with scicence" video.


Be a model, or just look like one

Today I received my Seventeen magazines from 1990-1994, my high school years. I’ve only flipped through two volumes and I think my heart is about to explode. Cover girl Cammie Diaz says she wants to be a zoologist. Tom Cruise is dating his co-star Nicole Kidman. There’s going to be a new show called Class of Beverly Hills about twins from Minnesota who move to B.H. and try to fit in. L.A. Gear is everywhere and all the clothes seem to be tangerine.

Yes, yes, laughing at the high waisted jeans and ballet flats is all well and good, but the truth is, I took these magazines VERY SERIOUSLY. I was a plain girl who kept her mouth shut. I managed to avoid ridicule and conflict by disappearing into the background. However, much like other tweens, I too longed to have kick ass hot-curled hair and Corin Nemec for a steady. I read my Seventeens until they were smudged and torn. Then I cut the pictures out and make collages. Prom dresses, dreamy boys, lips, that Tampax ad that said “Will I still be a virgin if I use tampons?”

I was convinced that the secrets to all happiness lay between those covers. It was an instruction manual and I followed it to a T. The sad part is, as we all know, it didn’t work. Ryan S. still ignored me and went to the Christmas dance with Katie G. I’m OK with that now because I know he grew up to become Pistol Pete, but it hurt at the time.

Looking at these magazines now makes me long for the intensity of emotion that zinged through me every single day. I love my husband more than words, but I don’t think I’ll ever love anybody as much as I loved Dylan McKay. And that, my friends, is kind of depressing.


Paralyzed by not caring

I haven’t had a damn thing to say to anybody for the last three weeks. I keep trying. I talked to my dad the other day; I had nothin’. He sounded a little disappointed. I know he prides his children on being interesting and inquisitive and stuff and I hate to let the man down. I know that I lead a rich inner life, but I think my dad would rather go back to Cam Rahn Bay before hearing my thoughts on April’s chances at becoming America’s Next Top Model. (Not good)

A lot of stuff happened this weekend. We drank too much rum at Pingry’s house. Julie cut a wart or a cyst or something off Jon’s finger. It was really awesome, although it didn’t bleed nearly as much as we hoped. I read what was quite possibly the most touching and sweet children’s book ever. And, seriously folks, I hope you know me well enough to know that I only ever use those word cruelly, but not this time. No way. What was especially special about it was the fact that this book won the Newbery Medal this year; which has a history of awarding totally suck books with titles like Onion John and The Wheel on the School.

Sunday Emily and I met a stranger at Border’s and knitted and stuff. I was wary because this girl contacted me via Friendster and wanted to so crafty stuff. Now, we all know that Friendster is designed so you can talk shit on your friends and set up a profile for the Golden Driller and stuff. It’s kinda crazy to see it used in its intended manner. She wasn’t a psycho killer, but she did talk about wanting to home school her theoretic kids. I ignored the question and asked Emily what color she was going to make the cobra on her tea towel.

Man, I guess I’m too busy livin’ the dream. And I think I might be hooked on ABC Family Original movies.

Not in my neighborhood

I'm so fucking pissed at Ralph Nader today. Asdtsgoi;engrertjlkg!@!!! Goddamn him. Goddamn him straight to hell.


This is probably wrong

Has anyone but me ever dreamed of de-virginizing an Amish teen? You can tell me.
Who’s good in choir? Who do we admire?

There’s a total, budding teen fag that comes into the library. He’s got all the tell tale signs; he’s doughy and totally femme. He’s always getting books about old Hollywood and Al Hirschfeld. The Hairspray soundtrack is overdue. His email addy is simplymadaboutoz@…Now, he could mean the regular Oz and or he could mean HBOs hard hitting prison drama. Either way=total homo. Bless him and wish him luck.


He ain’t heavy

Last night I drunkenly asked my brother if he was still a virgin. After I promised not to tell mom, he assured me that he was. I’m almost certain he will be de-virginized by a girl whose name ends in I.

I totally told mom.


It only hurts once

The first time I shot a gun I was shooting at catfish heads on a fencepost. The fence surrounded an abandoned strip mine. These mines were also where I learned to drive a car and witnessed Jason Matthew Pixler in a fireworks accident eerily reminiscent of All Quiet on the Western Front.

My first love was Jason Matthew Pixler.

The first time I had sex, his dad was in the other room.

It was not with Jason Matthew Pixler.

The first album I bought with my own money was the Cocktail soundtrack.

I had a dream last night about Billy Dee Williams. That was a first.

My first miscarriage was definitely the worst. I’m pretty sure they’ll get easier from here on out.

Disclaimer: My sister will claim that during the mid-early 80s I was totally crushing on Ricky Schroeder. This is decidedly not true.


Not so fast boys

I won’t be presumptuous enough to assume that I have any internet stalkers, but I like to think that someone out there thinks “Hey, that Erin girl seems pretty fly.” Well, they won’t anymore.
I can’t tell you why exactly, but let’s just say that if you decide to use suggestive text messaging to lure your husband away from bedlam basketball; make sure you don’t get shit-canned before he gets there.


Young America’s Favorite Magazine

Imagine my delight when I discovered that our fair library keeps bound volumes of Seventeen magazine all the way back to 1964. I made a few calls; ok, one, to my pal Becky in Periodicals and had her send me a selection from the late 70s. I am freaking out! I wish I could open up my head and pour the yellowed pages right in. Not only is the photographic quality terrible; but also there are so many ads for engagement rings! This is Seventeen, people. Planning your dream prom should not be in the same issue as planning your honeymoon.

Since this these mags were from the year I was born I had to consult my sister on a few things. First of all, why all the roll-on? While I’m sad that they no longer make Tickle, it looks damn near impossible to get your hands on a solid. Amanda said that round=cutting edge. It can also be seen in those strange round phones and egg chairs. Apparently it has something to do with 2001; a movie I suspect sucks. Secondly, there are so many ads for Simplicity patterns in here. I kinda love the fact that girls used to sew their own clothes, hell, I guess they were working on their bridal trousseau, except the outfits are terrible. So much crochet and denim, weren’t people chapped, like, all the time? Oh, no, they had plenty of moisturizer in their thick, thick make-up. I’m pretty sure Maybelline Fresh Look Make-Up was merely cold crème mixed with grease paint. Fortunately there’s a wide selection of searing astringent available to remove your foundation and provide a low-grade chemical peel while you’re waiting for your Frost ‘n’Tips to kick in.

Once I get through the 70s I plan on getting all the issues from 1990-1994. Then I can totally recreate my Balthazar Getty collage.



I wish I could have indie-rock boy hair. I asked Sarah if it would work and she said I'd just look like a holocaust victim.
Ohhh, baby I love your way

It’s almost Valentine’s Day. I look forward to a delightful dinner with my Dude; probably something involving alfredo sauce. Scratch that; definitely involving alfredo sauce. We’ll get trashed during the course of this meal, natch. I’m really looking forward to it, it’ll be so totally unlike the other times we get trashed and eat alfredo sauce. Sometimes our evenings consist of nothing but a bottle of OE Tiger Eye and some alfredo in a can.

One of the things I love about Brian is his complete disregard all things “romantic”. If he came to me with pink champagne and a carriage ride I’d probably crap my pants. Then we’d proceed to guzzle the champers and giggle like loons at the sheer absurdity of it all. Every year he threatens to get me a diamond heart pendant from Zales or a spinner ring and I threaten to get him a fishing license. I'm sure one of these day’s I’m sure we’ll actually purchase these gifts for one another. Hipsters will slide they’re eyes at my sparkly trinket, jealous because no one rocks ghetto gold better than a white trash girl.


I left my heart in the Thinking Chair

In the hopes of saving my marriage I’ve been forced to hide my love of Justin Timberlake away. I must respect My Dude’s feelings. Honestly, if he came home and suddenly thought that Julia Roberts was hot shit, I’d have to reevaluate my vows. Therefore I’ve taken steps to amp up a crush that’s been on the back burner for a while.

In my line of work I’ve realized a relative lack of dreamy guys associated with Quality Children’s Programming. Sure Anthony from the Wiggles is pretty cute, but he’s not scorching or anything. You know who is scorching though? Steve from Blue’s Clues.
True that, my friends; contrary to popular belief, Steve isn’t dead, he’s hot. I’ve always thought he was pretty cutie but it wasn’t until I read an interview with him in Spin (he’s got an album out which is apparently pretty good. What’s also good is scruffy, indie-rock brand Steve). Here’s where I fell in love:

“One afternoon in 1999, Steve Burns was on his way to a date…when something on the side of the road caught his eye: a mailbox…with a message reading You Just Figured Out Jonathan’s Birthday!
“I gotta do it,” he said.
He met his date, changed clothes, and headed back to the party. “We just showed up with toys and knocked on the door.”

Now, think about how fucking kick ass it would’ve been to have Captain Kangaroo show up at your party? Now what if the Capt. was hot? Even better.

Tonight I’m bringing home some tapes. Is it wrong to get all sexed up to something with the title Blue’s Clues Nursery Rhyme Treasury?


I honestly don't know what to say

My mom just told me that she worries that one of these days she's going to find naked pictures of me on the internet. Sometimes I wonder if she and I have ever met.


Mad skillz

If you’re a regular reader of S&B you’ll know that I tend to spend a lot of time stoned on the couch. Now, my time on the couch is far from wasted. I can roll crazy!fat joints and my knitting skills improve, like, every single day. I’m also a total expert on what’s on TV. For instance, some of you may have seen commercials for a little morsel I like to call "Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen" starring current pop-tart and Hillary Duff antagonist Lindsay Lohan. In that ad there is an oh-so-hilarious shot of Lindsay and her bosom chum running down some hall way and slamming into locked glass doors. You all go ahead and scoff, but the truth is, I did that exact same thing this morning and you know what? It really is that funny.


Please, don’t let this feeling end

I watched Ice Castles last night. Robby Benson has always been a running joke between my sister and I. It probably had something to do with the fact that she had to sing Through the Eyes of Love in eighth-grade choir. She thought he was a tool, so I did too. Never mind that I knew nothing about his body of work, not to mention his squeaky kleen, teen body. Well, no more. Would it have killed somebody to warn me of the totally gratuitous shot of R.B. in his tight, white brand underdrawers? I screamed out loud. Y-fronts on an underdeveloped man-boy have no place in a movie about figure skating. No place at all. I was only able to compose myself when we got to the super slo-mo shot of Skater What’s-her-name slamming into the patio furniture, thus rendering her blind.

I’m frightened to admit that Robby Benson might become my new pet project, much in the same vein as Charlene Tilton. I’m not so sure I can get Brian to sit through Ode to Billy Joe. I’m not so sure I can do it myself.


Second time around

So, it looks like I did nothing again this weekend. This is what happens, or doesn’t happen, when you mix depression and chronic brownies. My wedding quilt funks of smoke and even the cats are beginning to hint that I should get off of the couch. Don’t worry I never listen to them. Anyway, I did learn some valuable lessons this weekend. Here’s a snazzy bulleted list:

! Kid Rock, I hate myself for lovin’ you.

@When I go to Jana’s house for dinner she not only makes wonderful dinner, but she gives me designer perfumes and cosmetics.

^I should not drive home after dinner at Jana’s house.

#My secret love for Justin Timberlake is becoming not so secret anymore.

$Maid in Manhattan is not as good as Two Weeks Notice.

%The literary stylings of Ms. Bertrice Small are truly mind blowing. Some day I can only dream of being forced to act as a sex slave in order to save my presumed dead husband, who, rather than being dead, has actually been taken as a sex slave himself.

& This is my favorite show of all time and this time I really, really mean it.

* I miss Sarah.

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