Well hello again, blog world! It has been long since last we met. More than a year according to my calculations. But we meet again, indeed. I confessed in one of my earlier blog posts that I am a bad blogger. Obviously, this is still true. I also promised that I would try to do better. Obviously, this is still not true. My feeling of blog purposelessness paralyzed me, but I think I may have a solution:
I should let you know that this is still going to be a bit of a catch-all of randomness (as promised in the sub-title). However, I have not so recently become addicted to Piterest. I don't think I have to tell you what Pinterest is, but just in case, here's the link: http://pinterest.com/. I am a pin-hoarder as evidenced by my 6,015 pins. I know I have a problem, but I'd like to think of this blog as the therapy for my Pinterest addiction. Ideally, I would like to post once a week where I explain the results of completing something I have pinned. Because let's face it, it's too much to expect someone who hasn't posted in more than a year to magically start posting everyday. Zombie Apocalypse is more likely (or is it...?).
Now I have a purpose; therefore, I will post every week. That's a syllogism, that is. But as we all know, syllogisms contain the potential for significant logical fallacy. Only time will tell if this is an acceptable conceit.
Happy Pinning,
--Erin
28 January 2013
13 October 2011
Stress: The Natural Hallucinogen
The hippies really could have found better drugs. I'd like to say that grad school is probably the most effective hallucinogen out there. I'll grant that drugs are probably cheaper in the long run, but who needs LSD when you can get totally trippin' dreams the natural way? And for the double bonus: "Grad student" is a more socially acceptable title than "hippie."
Gettin' my kicks the natural way,
Erin
Gettin' my kicks the natural way,
Erin
01 September 2011
25 July 2011
05 July 2011
In Memoriam
Croquet
Beloved Hedgehog and Friend
July 5, 2011
Until We Meet Again...
Until We Meet Again...
Requiescat in Pace
23 June 2011
On the Purpose of Blogs
"Purpose it's that little flame that lights a fire under your ass." --Brian in Avenue Q
In a general sense, I like blogs with a purpose. Some of my favorite blogs to visit have a very narrow content range, and to be perfectly frank, I like that. I like to know that when I check DulceCandy87's blog that she'll be talking about fashion or that Tuesday Morning Sketches will provide me with a new paper crafting sketch every Tuesday morning.
But right now I'm feeling a bit...purpose-less.
What does this blog do? I'm not really sure.
Back in February when I first created this blog, I thought it would be to share "the random funnies that fall out of my brain."
I have since discovered that I'm not very funny. I have a great new sympathy for comedians because being funny is hard. I don't think I'm quite cut out for it.
So what will this blog become? I don't really know. I don't have any fires under my ass, but I'll be sure to fill you in when I do.
--Erin
In a general sense, I like blogs with a purpose. Some of my favorite blogs to visit have a very narrow content range, and to be perfectly frank, I like that. I like to know that when I check DulceCandy87's blog that she'll be talking about fashion or that Tuesday Morning Sketches will provide me with a new paper crafting sketch every Tuesday morning.
But right now I'm feeling a bit...purpose-less.
What does this blog do? I'm not really sure.
Back in February when I first created this blog, I thought it would be to share "the random funnies that fall out of my brain."
I have since discovered that I'm not very funny. I have a great new sympathy for comedians because being funny is hard. I don't think I'm quite cut out for it.
So what will this blog become? I don't really know. I don't have any fires under my ass, but I'll be sure to fill you in when I do.
--Erin
14 June 2011
The One Where She Says Something Shocking...
Some days, I really hate being a woman.
I hate all the "June Cleaver" societal expectations that constantly bombard me. I hate that I have to simultaneously be kind and gentle and ravishingly beautiful because, to be quite honest, I'm none of those things. I hate that being a woman is so inextricably intertwined with being a wife and mother.
Why? The answer is simple.
I hate babies.
Ok, maybe "hate" is a bit of a strong word. But I certainly don't like them. Very much.
"What brings about this strange and strong assertion?" you may ask. Well, I'll tell you.
I don't know if you have noticed, but the whole world seems to have gone baby crazy. The world glorifies large families (just turn on TLC for a couple hours or put a baby in the middle of a group of post-menopausal women to see what I mean), and people who don't like children (like me) are considered "screwed up" by societal standards. Somehow, we're just not right.
Don't get me wrong, I've gone through the whole "I want a baby" stage. I was also five, had no idea what it meant to make let alone raise a child, and I was seeking "unconditional love." Somehow, I was blissfully unaware that I already had this from my own parents and that having children in no way guaranteed that your offspring would actually like you.
What can I say? I was five and ignorant, just as five-year-olds should be regarding such things. This was the time I also said that I wanted to live next door to my parents forever. Let's just say I've grow out of both of those phases.
My love affair with babies ended when I was nine years old and my nephew peed on me. If that isn't enough to disillusion a starry-eyed adolescent, I don't know what is.
At about the age of 13 I decided that I wasn't interested in having children. None of my older female family members supported me. In dulcet tones they would impart their "wisdom" upon me with phrases like, "It's different when they're yours," "Just give it a few years, you'll change your mind," and my personal favorite, "I thought the same thing, once, but just look at me now!" And when I did take a good, hard look at those women, I was horrified. They were once strong, independent women with educational and career goals, but no more. They had to put their dreams on hold to raise their children, and somehow they forgot who they were in the process.
Much like my female family members, I have a vision for my life. I want to get a PhD. I want to travel. I would like to live in Dublin for a few years. The vision that I have of my life doesn't suddenly stop when I turn 25, 30, 35 just so I can have kids. I can't just pack up a family of four on a whim. Let's face it, kids get in the way.
Call me selfish if you like, it's probably true. But that's the beauty of being a woman in 2011. I get to choose. I may be expected to have kids, but in the end, it's my decision. Despite my mother-in-law saying she'll only "give" me five years to produce a grandchild, she doesn't get to choose. I do.
And that is why I really love being a woman.
I hate all the "June Cleaver" societal expectations that constantly bombard me. I hate that I have to simultaneously be kind and gentle and ravishingly beautiful because, to be quite honest, I'm none of those things. I hate that being a woman is so inextricably intertwined with being a wife and mother.
Why? The answer is simple.
I hate babies.
Ok, maybe "hate" is a bit of a strong word. But I certainly don't like them. Very much.
"What brings about this strange and strong assertion?" you may ask. Well, I'll tell you.
I don't know if you have noticed, but the whole world seems to have gone baby crazy. The world glorifies large families (just turn on TLC for a couple hours or put a baby in the middle of a group of post-menopausal women to see what I mean), and people who don't like children (like me) are considered "screwed up" by societal standards. Somehow, we're just not right.
Don't get me wrong, I've gone through the whole "I want a baby" stage. I was also five, had no idea what it meant to make let alone raise a child, and I was seeking "unconditional love." Somehow, I was blissfully unaware that I already had this from my own parents and that having children in no way guaranteed that your offspring would actually like you.
What can I say? I was five and ignorant, just as five-year-olds should be regarding such things. This was the time I also said that I wanted to live next door to my parents forever. Let's just say I've grow out of both of those phases.
My love affair with babies ended when I was nine years old and my nephew peed on me. If that isn't enough to disillusion a starry-eyed adolescent, I don't know what is.
At about the age of 13 I decided that I wasn't interested in having children. None of my older female family members supported me. In dulcet tones they would impart their "wisdom" upon me with phrases like, "It's different when they're yours," "Just give it a few years, you'll change your mind," and my personal favorite, "I thought the same thing, once, but just look at me now!" And when I did take a good, hard look at those women, I was horrified. They were once strong, independent women with educational and career goals, but no more. They had to put their dreams on hold to raise their children, and somehow they forgot who they were in the process.
Much like my female family members, I have a vision for my life. I want to get a PhD. I want to travel. I would like to live in Dublin for a few years. The vision that I have of my life doesn't suddenly stop when I turn 25, 30, 35 just so I can have kids. I can't just pack up a family of four on a whim. Let's face it, kids get in the way.
Call me selfish if you like, it's probably true. But that's the beauty of being a woman in 2011. I get to choose. I may be expected to have kids, but in the end, it's my decision. Despite my mother-in-law saying she'll only "give" me five years to produce a grandchild, she doesn't get to choose. I do.
And that is why I really love being a woman.
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