10 Things That Scare Me

As usual, I start this by apologizing. I think about writing blog entries all the time, but, as my brother and I recently agreed, our family motto ought to be "I'll do it later" ... and so thinking is often as far as I get. Oops.

Also, just lately, as I have been increasingly consumed by responsibilities at work, I get home at night and feel like I might have enough energy - just - to make myself dinner, read for an hour, and then fall into bed. Sometimes I don't even get to the dinner part - I eat a bowl of cereal and call it done. I wonder if life will always be like this. On the whole, I think not - I am still getting used to being single again - but I do lose myself in the day-to-day scramble, like everyone else. Creativity is tough to mine in these conditions.

And so, in thinking what to post next, I thought, "What am I scared of?" Whatever the topic ends up being, it's not as if I have some giant readership - just family and friends, people who roll with the punches as I throw them. I try to write with your entertainment in mind, but this blog is also therapy for me, of a sort. And where else to admit what freaks me out? Yep, that's right - here, with all of you, and hang the consequences. You'll understand - you always do.
 

What Scares Erin (in no particular order):

1. Roller coasters. That breathless feeling you get on the drops? Frightens the pants off of me. My palms are sweating just writing about it. 

2. The thought that I will not be able to quit smoking, ever. I am smoking right now, in fact. Cold turkey, gum, lozenges, cold laser therapy, stop-smoking pills, electronic cigarettes - I've tried it all. And here I am, still puffing. It's ludicrous and stupid and willfully blind.

3. Cockroaches and alligators. Both are scary and prehistoric, and I can't figure out why either of these horrifying creatures has not been wiped out by some evolutionary twist. What do we need either one for? Yech. One is always lurking behind baseboards and under toilets- waiting to surprise you and give you the willies, the other looks like a log, but can actually outrun you on flat land and chomp off your leg when it catches you. Urg.

4. Being forgotten. Whether it's being left out of a party invite or ignored by an absent spouse, what is more terrifying than believing you're not important enough to remember? We're all the stars of our own lives, but I worry, as time marches on, of losing all of the connections that came before. Who have I forgotten, and who has forgotten me?

5. My comfort in my current cat-lady state. I feel like I should be much more anxious to find a partner in life, but boy, is living alone with just the cats a relief'! If I start talking about increasing the cat-count, or begin to mess around with a lot of potted plants and take up knitting clothes for said cats, can someone please come over and make me go out? Thanks.

6. Driving long distances by myself. I am, despite what you may have heard, a VERY good driver, but hours on the road alone? Not freeing, not exciting, not at all. I always imagine scenarios that end with me and an exploded engine and a dead cell phone, on a dark and deserted stretch of highway. Even when I'm driving in daylight ... I know. Completely mental.

7. Speaking French. Yeah, this one's kinda obvious ... I know the words, I know the grammar, but put me in a situation where I need to chat with a native speaker, and the stage fright and shyness that plagued me as a child tie my tongue in knots! I end up talking about the weather, every time. Il fait beau will only take you so far when trying to make friends, believe me.

8. Having kids. Or NOT having kids. Well, both really. It's completely scary, either way.

9. Energy drinks, especially Red Bull. They make me feel like my head is going to start spinning around like in The Exorcist. I am pretty sure that no one needs QUITE that much energy. What is the attraction with these things? They taste like fluoride treatments at the dentist, and make your ears buzz. Ew.

10. Boa constrictors. This one's completely nuts - I will probably never see one in my life, other than at the zoo, but I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was a kid about a boa constrictor eating my grandpa whole. I have no idea what the hell that was about, but a fear of them has pursued me into adulthood. Well, we all have our idiosyncrasies.

Thanks for reading, folks. What scares the pants off of you? I must admit, there are a lot more things that frighten me ... but like when we were children, sometimes the naming of something gives it power, and I don't want to do that. So I name only what is listed above, and I defy the rest.

Erin Confronts Her Mortality

Holy crap, it's happened. The first one this past weekend, and now another today. I can't believe it.

I have found the first grey hairs on my head.

There I was, just minding my business, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror after washing my hands ... and a glint caught my eye. A glint of silver. I tilted my head, thinking that the bathroom light was just playing tricks. My mind stubbornly thought, that can't be ... but it was a grey hair. A long one. Right there on top of my head. Winking at me. My mouth went dry, my heart started to pound. And then I reached up, almost without thinking, and yanked that bugger out. (Took quite a few other strands, too, to be honest. Kind of hurt.) I walked out of the bathroom, determined to forget it.

Only I couldn't - because, today, at work, I found another. Just as long, just as silvery. I suppose I should be thankful it wasn't growing out of my left nostril or my ear - but truthfully, I'm not feeling too thankful here. I'm thirty-five! (Okay, a month shy of 36, but who's counting, really?) Grey hairs are for OLD people! Is this it? Have I just crossed the threshold from "still young" to "getting up there"? Holy cats, when I was 10, I thought that grey hair equaled "old". No ifs, ands, or buts. Shamefully, I don't think I've ever really revised that world view ... but now I have to. Paradigm shift! I am on the ropes here, people! Reeling and punch-drunk, at the mercy of a couple of strands of stuff that are measured using words I don't even know (microns? miniliters? harrities?). It's the stuff of nightmares - wait, should I go to sleep tonight? What if they multiply? WHEN will they multiply?!

I always imagined myself aging "gracefully"; obviously, I was delusional. Will I get used to this? It's bad enough that gravity is slowly dragging my ass earthward  ... now this! It's self-indulgent and wacko to go on like this, I know - it's just so weird. I've never liked my hair, but I don't think I fully appreciated the fact that it was soft and shiny, at least. If these two initial hairs are anything to go by, I will soon have a head full of toilet brush bristles. And, let's face it, men who go gray just look "distinguished" - women don't often have that adjective applied to them. I am envisioning something more along the lines of a mangy zebra. Where are the good adjectives for that? Well, shit.

My conclusion? There's only one answer here, folks: L'Oreal. On my way to the store now, for some preventive maintenance. Wish me luck. Perhaps it's time I found out if blondes really DO have more fun. (Just kidding ... or am I?)

When I am an old woman, I will NOT wear purple ... I will wear a damned hat, and visit my colorist twice a month. So there. Graceful, my ass.

Tiny Apartment, Big Freedom

Faithful blog readers, I’m sorry I have left you alone for so long. I have no idea why on earth I wait so long between posts … I think there’s something in me that holds on to the idea that if I do not procrastinate as long as is humanly possible, then the ultimate, completed task is just not worth it. Or, I could just be tremendously lazy. You pick.

I’ve been reveling, just lately, in my tiny apartment. I moved in at the end of May, and I’m now completely settled in. I don’t know how many square feet it is – before you even ask -, and I’m not sure I would even know how to begin to measure it to find out. The point is, it is delightfully small and cozy, and it is all mine.


Those of you who have lived in a house or apartment all by yourself, I ask you: isn’t it friggin’ marvelous? In the past, I have always had family or roommates (sometimes both!) as a part of my living space, and I didn’t even think of the possibility of living alone. Now that I’ve taken that step, I don’t know how I’ll ever live with another person again. I don’t care if I have to live on pasta and lentils because all my money goes to the rent and the utilities! The ability to vacuum or to cook breakfast while clad in only my underwear is one of the greatest satisfactions I have ever known. I never realized how luxurious it is to leave your bathroom door wide open ALL of the time.


Some days I simply sit on the floor of my tiny living room and smile at the silence and the mine-ness of it all. My cats prowl around ceaselessly, enchanted with the small screened-in porch, and I can hang the paintings and curtains that I choose, with no regard for anybody else’s feelings or wishes. It’s liberating. I can’t believe I made it to 35 years old without ever experiencing this before … it’s like discovering diamonds in the bottom of your sock drawer! A precious treasure hidden under things you have pawed through a million times … this definitely feels like a gift.

After spending so much time last year with someone who needed, for some reason, to make me justify the ways in which I chose to spend my time, it is a beautiful thing to, just now, owe explanations to no one but myself. If that sentiment is selfish, childish, or any other –ish … well, that’s fine and dandy. My tiny apartment and I – we understand each other. I’m finally starting to once again feel at home in my own skin, and to realize that the core of who I am isn’t at all broken, only a little battered. As the magnificent Ms. Gaynor told us, “I will survive”. And I’ll do it in my miniscule apartment, wearing only my undies. So there.

Weird Robot Baby

Someone at work this morning brought up the subject of dreams. She said that she had a “weird” dream last night, which turned out to be a nightmare of sorts that involved an aspect of her job and her supervisor. The adjective “weird” threw me a little, as a “weird” dream for me is something a little different than anxiety about my job translated into dream form.


For instance, one of my own dreams last night concerned a married couple that I know, who for some reason were living in my old high school. (?) The baby (which is not, in real life, due until the autumn) had already been born, and I was visiting them. After I saw the baby (who had no teeth and couldn’t walk but was already speaking in complete sentences like Stewie on The Family Guy), I realized that (gasp!) he was a robot child. I didn’t see any wires or anything, but the kid knew that I knew. At first, I tried to hide this fact from my friends, but as the kid got weirder (and after I discovered his owner’s manual and remote control in a box shoved in a corner of the gym), I tried to warn my friends about him. Understandably, they got mad and told me to leave. As I walked out of my old freshman English classroom, I turned around. My friends’ backs were to me, but the robot kid peeked over one of their shoulders and smiled toothlessly and evilly. I woke up.

I’m sure there are all sorts of psychobabble explanations that could decipher that dream, but I choose to think that I have a tiny, tiny file clerk inside my brain who runs around at night, desperately trying to organize my head files before I wake up. My dreams are just different files getting pulled from one place and re-filed in another. If I tried to interpret every one of the dreams I have, there’d be no room for anything else in my life. (Especially the dream about the room with thousands of pictures of oranges taped to the walls, or the one where I was sitting on a walrus in some kind of circus act … I had a spangly outfit on in that one, with a big headdress. Awesome.)

But … the robot baby example is a completely normal specimen of dream for me. Am I wacko? I was always under the impression that most people’s dreams were like mine – a jumble of things and places and people that are in their heads and get let out of their cages to dance around together while they’re sleeping. My co-worker’s explanation of her own “weird” dream makes me re-think that conclusion!

Does anyone else have the wacky dreams regularly? By this, I mean – without eating spicy foods or being sleep-deprived or taking loopy drugs, do any of you dream vividly and frequently? Outside of my family, I’ve never really asked anyone about this, and I wonder. I don’t often have lingering visual memories of my dreams, but it’s pretty common for a feeling or phrase someone said in it to stay with me until I next go to sleep, or sometimes through several days. I guess I thought that was how it worked for everybody.
Drop me a comment and tell me, do you dream of tiny purple doughnuts and tap-dancing tigers? Of everyday places, people, and things? Or do you simply never remember your dreams?

U.S. versus France, Final Tally

I’ve put off continuing my blog for months and months. Life has brightened up for me considerably since my somewhat ignominious return to the States back in November … enjoying my old job, reconnecting with friends and family, moving into my own place again, and mostly just … healing. My blog was sort of tied up in all of that “over there” stuff. I avoided thinking about it because I wrote it in such hope and with enthusiasm and optimism, and somehow, it all came falling down around my ears. I wasn’t ready to face that.

People have been asking me since I returned, “When are you going to start blogging again?” I was, and am, flattered by the positive responses to my writing – I guess we are all our own worst critics, right? I am surprised that so many of you have enjoyed reading about my travails and travels, and it’s given me food for thought over the past months. But – I still wasn’t ready.

Then, recently, another thought popped into my head. It’s a mean thought, a petty thought, and one might even say a childish thought … but it kept returning to me. It is simply this: my husband hated my blog. He thought that I used it to hide my unhappiness and that it was offensive to French people. (I’m not sure that he fully understands that blogs are about one person’s point of view and opinion, but we’ll let that go. Let’s concentrate on the important thing here.) The point is – he hated it, and I’ve spent all these months feeling powerless, like there was nothing I could do to assert myself because he had already made all the decisions, and, after all, we’re not in contact and I suspect he could care less if I flung myself off of a bridge or paraded naked through a biker bar … but there is something I can do. I can write.

Not about his faults, or my unhappiness, or the flaming conflagration that was our marriage – those things just are there, and a lot of them are private. But I can continue to write about my opinions and my views and my observations on the world around me. I don’t need to feel half-ashamed as I write this, thinking about what he will think of it when he reads it later, because A) he probably won’t ever read this again, and B) even if he did – his opinions and emotions are no longer something upon which my happiness depends. Ah! The freedom!

So, in an attempt to exorcise the demon, so to speak, I’ve prepared for all of you a little list showing the results – in my opinion – of France versus the U.S. in several broad categories (with commentary, of course). Enjoy it and thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for reading. 

U.S Versus France - A Short List

FOOD: It's a draw

France is an eye-opener, in terms of food, for the American eater. If you're adventurous (which I am, in terms of food!) and you love simple, fresh tastes, France satisfies on many levels. I have never had so many kinds of cheese in my life, and the bread is, quite simply, a revelation. The French adhere to the "eat what's in season" mantra, and the result is fruits and veggies that are at their peak, always. Wholesome, uncomplicated tastes - and I had the added benefit of a weekly farmer's market literally on my front stoop. (And seriously, I miss pate ... deeply.)

What the U.S. has going for it is, simply put, variety. In Orlando, I can go out to restaurants in almost every imaginable cuisine, and at my local Publix I can purchase produce from around the world. Do I feel like trying a starfruit? Do I want to make a Mexican fiesta in my own kitchen? Here, I can do that, whenever I want. Is it in season? Who cares! I can almost always find the ingredients I need to make any strange recipe I choose. In France? Couldn't make my salsa there, folks. A sad thing, indeed.

TRANSPORTATION: France wins this one, hands down

I don't care if there are tolls every 30 kilometers - France's road system is a joy to drive on. Once you figure out the road signs, you're golden. Immaculately maintained and dotted with delightful rest stops that promise CLEAN toilets, hot coffee, gas, and a place for you to picnic or let your dog out to poop ... the French have cornered the market on pleasant roadways. And if you don't want to drive? You don't have to! In all but the most remote places, the train station is nearby, and the major cities are connected by the wondrous thing that is high-speed rail. The U.S. could take some notes - we have way too many people driving way too many cars, for serious.

HOSPITALITY: Different, but the same. A winner in both nations

People always seem to fall back on the generalization, "The French - they're so rude!" Pardonnez-moi, but that was not my experience at all. I met many people in France, from different backgrounds and areas, and not only was I welcomed (with my sub-par language skills) by them, but I was invited into their homes and their lives with great grace and friendliness. I will never be done saying "thank you" to several people I met last year, people who made me feel like I wasn't just some ridiculous foreigner. 

In the U.S., most of us are automatically friendly, which can lead other cultures to think us guilty of some level of superficiality. I choose to think, instead, that we were all of us from "somewhere else" not so many generations ago, and our national character is one of inclusion, not exclusion. I know that's idealistic, but we are a pretty welcoming bunch, on the whole. Just remember that, sometime in the future, you may be the odd man out. Act accordingly.

LEISURE: Um, this one goes to my native land
This is kind of an unfair category, because I went from living in a suburban/urban setting here to a rural setting in France. But I have to be who I am, and the leisure activities of the French mystify me. First of all, everyone rides bikes. Like, a lot. (Well, not everyone, probably, but an awful lot do.) It is not my idea of a grand time to bike fifteen miles just "for the fun of it".  And they love the outdoors. So do I, when it comes down to it - but mostly when looking out a window at it, or when sitting on a comfy chaise by the pool. The French want to be out in the air - especially when it's warm - and they look askance at you if you say you'd prefer to sit inside and read this really good book, thanks. I think the U.S. wins this one simply because I'm a city mouse. Perhaps if I'd lived first in, say, Montana, then fun in the French mountains would have been delightful.

I could go on for pages, but I think my first blog after my hiatus has gone on long enough. Leave me a comment, and let me know if you have suggestions for future topics. I'm open to suggestions!