Isn't This Supposed To Be The Sunshine State?

It is pouring. I should not be surprised, because for our family, "bad weather" and "vacation" are synonymous. I am wearing my swimsuit, but you wouldn't know it, because I have 3 layers over it to keep out the artic chill that our hotel management seems to find favorable. I am also wearing flip-flops, but this may have been a bad move because I stubbed my toe on a wall and it is now gushing blood. At least the lady on the Weather Channel assured me that Minneapolis is 84 degrees and sunny today! :-)

Pineapples & Pirates

I do not like flying. Even the slightest hint of turbulence is enough to make me think that our crashing is immanent. Despite the fact that I have survived dozens of domestic flights and six international flights, my nerves never seem to get any better. On a recent flight, the lady sitting next to me turned and said with concern in her eyes, "It's going to be ok, you know." Don't get me wrong, I love to travel and see new places. I've learned to accept flying as a necessary evil.

Tomorrow morning I'll be on a plane bound for Fort Lauderdale, FL, where we (my family and I) will depart for our Caribbean adventure! I am so excited for beaches, palm trees, water, midnight chocolate buffets, and relaxing by the pool. I won't only be relaxing, I also have some serious goals in mind. These include: 1) Winning the "Cruise Ship Idol" contest, if one indeed should take place, 2) Having a passionate shipboard romance with the guy who comes in your room while you're away and folds your towels into lobsters, and 3) Avoiding burning to a crisp. I think that all these goals are reasonably attainable. I also want to go snorkeling, go on one of those zip-line tours through the tree-tops, and beat my sister in the hoola-hooping contest. (These goals may be more difficult to attain, especially the latter two.) I will be sure to keep you all updated on my progress!

Signing off for a week's vacation in tropical paradise,
Erinn :-)

The Red Shirt Chronicles

It's time. The plans for "The Red Shirt Chronicles and Other Disasters" have been laid for quite a while now. Although I have written much that could easily fall under the heading of "other disasters," I have yet to actually immortalize THE Red Shirt Chronicles. The following stories are absolutely true, and I was absolutely wearing "the" red shirt on each of these occasions. So here they are, appearing in print for the first time ever...

Preamble
The year was 2001. Picture, if you will, a bright-eyed, idealistic, and hopelessly romantic 19-year-old girl whose luck with men up until that point had been, well, nonexistent. Then, one not-extraordinary day in June, everything changed. That same girl chanced to purchase a magical red shirt from someplace like Old Navy. Said shirt was not low-cut, tight, glittery, gold-lined, diamond-studded, scented like chocolate chip cookies, or otherwise spectacular, but for some reason that shirt was IT. This magical shirt transformed this girl from ordinary into a veritable "magnet for the weird" in an astoundingly short time span. Suddenly, she was being invited on dates right and left, albeit with men she would not have chosen for herself...

The Red Shirt Chronicles
The first tale in these chronicles stars a man who has come to be affectionately known as "Nine-oh-five-er-so Ted*" (*names have been changed to protect involved parties). He was a friend of a friend, and to be fair, was not an altogether bad guy. We met whilst having dessert at Cafe Latte one night, and he was the first male to fall victim to the red shirt. He asked my friend for my number and called the next day.

We decided to meet in Uptown for dinner. (Side note: The 19-year-old version of Erinn had no clue how to get to Uptown, nor could she be persuaded to drive there for any reason. So she did what any reasonable young lady would do, which is ask her father to drop her off and then make up some lie about not being able to borrow the car). Everything was going fine. Suddenly, somewhere in the middle of our discussion about techno music, which I was not and still am not at all interested in, Ted suddenly stopped short, and asked, "So, um....how are you going to get home? I mean, I would drive you....if I didn't have to be at home SLEEPING!" At home sleeping? I'm pretty sure it was approximately 7:30 pm. The date kind of went downhill from there, however, Ted didn't seem to notice. After nearly departing from the restaurant without paying the bill (I don't expect guys to pay for me, but he seemingly was not even planning on paying his half!), I had a decided that Ted was not the guy for me. At least he had the decency to walk me out to the car to meet my dad, who I had called in a state of utter embarrassment to come to pick me up.

Ted promised to call again soon. And call he did. Fortunately, I had the good sense not to answer the phone, because he left what was undoubtedly one of the top three most hilarious messages to ever be left on the Danielson family answering machine. (We saved it on the machine for almost a year until my Mom decided to record it into one of those talking picture frames, which I later received as a Christmas present.) The message went something like this, and MUST be read with the worst possible Minnesota sing-song accent you can muster: "Hi Erinn...it's about niiiiiine-oh-fiiiiive-er-so, just called to see what was goin' on, no big deal!!!" That was the last I ever heard from him. At least I can still play his message on my picture frame whenever I need a little pick-me-up.

Not even a month later, the red shirt again worked its magic. I was working as a nanny for my neighbors across the street at the time, and one of the kids I took care of was a huge skateboard enthusiast. Since no aspiring skater boy should ever have to go without his very own quarterpipe ramp to practice on, the proper reinforcements were immediately summoned. Yes, good old Dad had actually hired "Chad" to build a miniature skateboard park in the family's driveway. While I was able to properly identify and comment about all the parts of a skateboard ("Hey, nice trucks! "Oh, is that new grip tape?" "That kid has the ugliest deck I've ever seen!" etc.), I never mastered the ollie, the railgrind, or in fact, even standing up on one of the darn things. I guess my elementary knowledge of terminology must have impressed someone, because before Chad packed up his skateboard-ramp-mobile for the last time, he asked me if I might like to go out for drinks sometime. "Um...how old are you?" I asked, stalling for time a bit. "29," he answered. "Well, I'm 19. And I think that you are a little too old for me." "Oh, I thought you were at least 21." "Nope." "Oh. Oh well." Unfortunately, the professional skateboard ramp builder and I were not to be. It's alright, I'm pretty sure he's dating Avril Lavigne now.

Several weeks passed without further ado. Finally, one afternoon, as I was outside making encouraging comments about the progress of all the neighborhood hooligans' skateboarding skills, one of those overzealous magazine sales-people showed up. I told him that we didn't want any magazines, which was fine with him, but he decided he wanted to stay around for awhile and chat with us. I learned over the course of the next few minutes that his friends called him "Eminem" because coincidentally enough, he was also a rapper from Detroit! He also considered himself to be quite a fantastic skateboarder, and asked if he might try to impress us on the newly-crafted quarterpipe. I told him absolutely not, which he disregarded. He went ahead and "dropped in" from the skateboard ramp--right through my neighbor's wooden fence. As I stood, fuming, wondering what to do about this infuriating magazine salesman who had just broken my neighbor's fence in half, Eminem had the nerve to ask me if I wanted to come "party with him at the Baymont Inn!" I most certainly did not. He was probably happy that I asked for his name and phone number anyway, since I was pretty sure that the parents would want to know who was responsible for the broken fence.

I guess I should have known better by this time than to wear the red shirt out swing dancing, but some people just never learn. I rarely, if ever, can find a male interested in coming out dancing with me, so I usually go with my sister or a friend and just dance with whomever happens to be around. Usually, I end up dancing the night away with 83-year-olds, but I don't really mind, because they are often quite good. On one particular evening, however, I was dancing with "Sayid", a balding man from Bangladesh. (I have nothing against balding men, I only use this detail to point out that he was likely many years older than I was.) He was absolutely fascinated to find out that I was a musician. He told me that he was planning on going back to Bangladesh to start a rock band! Thinking we might actually have something in common, I asked him if he sang or played an instrument. "Oh, no," he said. "Would you like to go out to a dinner?" I may or may not have made up a little white lie at this point. I wasn't sure how aforementioned rock band was going to come into existence without the presence of actual instruments, but I wished him the best of luck. I'm sure he's all over the Bengali version of MTV. To think, I could have gone out to dinner with a future rock star! I don't know what I was thinking.

As I mentioned, some people just never learn, and the following summer I had yet again made the mistake of wearing the red shirt swing dancing. What I am about to describe is probably my favorite incident yet. I was dancing with Roger (ok, that actually was his name) and he was feeling quite chatty. "So," he asked, "what do you do for fun?" "Well, music stuff...playing, singing, dancing, etc," I answered. "How about you?" "Weeeelllllllll....I've always wanted to take up sewing." When I asked him about this interesting choice of hobbies, he informed me that he'd always had a secret dream of making costumes that looked the characters from his favorite video games. I may have been missing out when I turned down his invitation for dinner the next week, but that was a risk I was quite willing to take. I only regret that he wasn't around to whip me up an adorable video-game costume for my Halloween party.

The red shirt has been tabled, or rather, closeted, since that incident. It's still hanging there; I can't quite bring myself to get rid of it. Who knows what luck it could bring me in the future? Will the red shirt chronicles end at episode five? Only time will tell....

TIHL #10 How To Be A Good Shopper

I think that I am genetically hard-wired to love shopping for "free stuff." For as long as I can remember, my family has gotten up at some ridiculous hour on the day after Thanksgiving so that we could madly dash from store to store, obtaining such treasures as FREE 3-inch-tall collectible snow globes and FREE Target bags filled with samples of granola bars, shampoo, and Shout (TM) wipes. It is not that we actually want said items, it's just that we seem to somehow feel accomplished by legitimately receiving items without paying for them.

In recent years, companies have seemingly decided that it is in their best interests to pursue the "post-Thanksgiving spirit" year round, and have started sending people coupons to receive more FREE things during the weeks of their birthdays. Having recently turned 24, I was the lucky recipient of many such offers. This extra mail happily corresponded with the final days of graduate school, and found me with an abundance of extra time to devote to less worthy pursuits such as shopping. Ergo, on Saturday, armed only with coupons, free offers, and visions of grandeur, I set off for Southdale.

The first stop was innocuous enough. I entered the Aveda store in order that I might receive my FREE customized-scented beauty product. After smelling each and every essential oil 14 or more times, I exited with some sort of magic shower gel that apparently smelled like "Earth #12." (I'm surprised I didn't pick something a little more girlie, but that's neither here nor there...) The second stop was where the trouble began. I had Victoria's Secret coupons that promised both $10 off any purchase and a free pair of underwear. (I hate HATE the word "panties" and cannot bring myself to use it, although that is actually what the coupon said.) Although I was not particularly inclined to purchase anything at said store at the moment, I did find a pair of cute pajama pants that were only $24.50. "Perfect," I thought, "for the low price of $14.50 I can have both the pajama pants and the FREE underwear!" Apparently this was not the case. Alas, I had not read the fine print, which clearly stated that neither of these coupons could be combined with any other offer. Slightly frustrated, I told the cashier that I would forgo the free underwear and just take the pants. "Oh no!" she said. "All you need to buy is some gum or something!" I grabbed the closest thing I could reach, which happened to be some wintergreen mints. I ended up exiting the store bearing $17.50 worth of FREE stuff, none of which I actually needed.

Apparently I didn't learn my lesson from Victoria's, because I found myself in a similar situation at Bath and Body works when I went in to purchase a Mother's Day present. Although the "buy 3, get one FREE," did sound like an enticing offer, it was not a particularly good deal if you only needed to buy two items. Hence, I again left the store loaded down with $14.50 worth of FREE stuff, none of which I could really say that I needed.

This pattern went on for at least another stop or two, when I decided that I'd better just quit before I depleted my life-savings by purchasing FREE stuff. As it turned out, these benevolent birthday coupon senders are really just evil marketing geniuses trying to make you just think you got a great deal. I suppose this would be an opportunity where I could philosophically interpret the consumerist nature of our society, but I think I will leave that for another time. For now, I'll just be thrilled with my $76.50 worth of FREE stuff, and try to do better next year. :-)

TIHL #9 How To Operate the VCR

Today was perhaps a momentous occasion in the history of me. Not only did I celebrate the anniversary of my 24th year on Earth, but I also celebrated my last ever day of graduate school!! (Ok, so I still have an internship and a thesis to take care of, but those are just minor details.) My day started off quite well as I woke up to discover that my parents had decided to buy me a chocolate cake doughnut for breakfast, in which they even stuck a candle for good measure. I considered lighting said candle and singing to myself, but I decided that this would be a little over the top, even for a music therapist. The rest of the morning consisted of me giving a makeup final for one of my world music students, which somehow necessitated me running up and down the Ferguson stairs at least 14 times. (I was probably just being properly chastised for eating the chocolate cake doughnut.)

The rest of the day progressed in a normal fashion-I went out to lunch, gave a few presentations, gave back some keys, etc. In fact, the end of graduate school felt fairly anti-climactic. The evening was much more "Birthday-ish." I received one gift in particular that provided quite a bit of entertainment, although not in the way one might expect. One of my best friends gave me a video bearing the title "The Incredible, Automatic, Instant Boyfriend" or something of the like. Well, aforementioned friend, the 'rents and I decided that we had no choice but to watch it promptly. Picture, if you will, 6 remote controls, 3 machines, and 4 completely inept people. We pressed every button in every possible combination for at least 30 minutes, but alas, our efforts were in vain. The Incredible, Automatic, Instant, British, Shirtless Boyfriend was not to be. (We did, however, accidentally manage to attain impeccable reception on Channels 23, 29, and 45, which had hithertofore been mediocre, so I won't complain about wasted time. )

After the unfortunate connundrum regarding the Incredible, Instomatic, Shirtless, Weightlifting, Ironing, British boyfriend, the friends and I departed for Fridays, where I was finally able to partake in my long -awaited celebration of the margerita. I'm not sure if this is weird or not, but throughout the night, we had a total of FOUR different wait-people serve us. I hypothesized that either we were so much fun that everyone wanted a piece, or we were so obnoxious that the servers were drawing straws to see who had to come back to our table. Hmm. That's something to ponder.

So hence I enter my 24th year. Presumably, this will be the year that I will finally make the transition from "student" to "adult with a real job." I've heard from almost everyone that the working world isn't all it's cracked up to be, but I'm optimistic. If I don't get a job as a music therapist, I could always start working on my libretto for that off-Broadway musical. If there is no market for my ridiculous but cleverly rhymed verse, I could travel to Djibouti, where I would research the effects of ice cream sales on shark attacks. Even better yet, I could just learn to operate my VCR.

The Week In Review-"Scary Things I've Done"

I've been quite absent from blogger-land as of late, due to being lost in a black hole otherwise known as "finals week." I still haven't quite emerged (that will come Wednesday at 7:10 pm-not that I've figured it out down to the minute or anything...) but at least I've had the good fortune to be able to stop and take a breather for about 10 minutes! In addition to being a bit stressful, I feel that this week has also afforded a number of opportunities to do things I might best describe as "scary." Here are a couple of them:

1) I have calculated (and sent off to be posted) the final grades for 89 students! It's a little bit nerve-wracking when I stop and think about how much power the U of MN is actually giving me....

2) I got a haircut that took under 5 minutes to complete. I am not kidding. To make matters worse, she nearly combed my nose off whilst drying the less-than-stellar results of her wild snipping. Ugh. Moral of the story: No matter how desperate you have become after reaching the haircut breaking point, it's best just to wait for Angie.

3) I rode in a minivan with my 15-year-old cousin who just got her permit. I can still vividly remember the day she was born. I wanted to sit in the back seat and put on all three seatbelts at once, just like my sister used to do when I first started driving. (As it turned out, she's actually a good driver, and this would have been unnecessary.)

4) I clicked the "print" button for a 23-page paper. I didn't even look at it afterward because I knew I would have been missing a word on page 3, which when added would have necessarily pushed everything after it onto a new page.

5) I swung between treetops on a knotted rope that came out of the sky. (Ok, I actually just had a dream about doing this, but still...) I'm sure this whole episode must be trying to reveal some deeper meaning to me. I'll figure it out once finals are over.

I guess that about sums up my week. I'm not going to lie, I'm in kind of a bad mood today. In fact, I started laughing at myself during choir warm-ups this morning as result of the crabby thoughts I had been thinking. I thought I had sufficiently talked myself out of this little mood, but after church, my mom came up to me and said "You looked kind of owly up there in the choir this morning!" Honestly, isn't a girl allowed to be ornery once in a while? I'm quite certain all of this can be improved with a few good nights' sleep...only 3 more days to go...