Good cook, bad cook

We are in a crowded riverside diner, one with a reputation for mediocre food and legendary drinking. We are weary from holiday shopping and visiting. Traffic has been impossible. This is not our first choice for lunch, but we are here, there was a good parking space and we are all ravenous.

"So," I say to the greasy waiter, "how's the food here?"

"That depends," he says. "If you get the good cook, it's pretty good."

"Yeah?" I say.

"And if you get the bad cook," he says with a lopsided toothy grin, "it's not so good."

There are a dozen questions I want to ask regarding the Good Cook and the Bad Cook. Is it a matter of their respective dispositions? Does Good wear a white hat? Does Bad don a black cloak? Does he have a hook instead of a right hand? A peg leg? Do the teeth of Good sparkle beneath the orange heat lamps? Does he become powerless when faced with Kryptonite?

Fortunately for everyone involved, I ask none of these things and say simply, "That's fair enough. I'll take my chances with the steak sandwich." My betrothed orders a ham omelet, my kid a grilled cheese sandwich.

Of course, I am unable to leave the Good Cook Bad Cook topic completely alone. "If we get the good cook," I say, handing the waiter my menu, "tell him that we've heard he's a good cook, that his reputation proceeds him. Tell him we're honored to have him preparing our meal."

"And what if you get the bad cook?" asks the waiter, a challenge.

"Tell him the same thing."

Oh Christmas Tree

Having been banished to the gymnasium for exercise during the brutal Northeast Ohio winter, I have missed not only my endless outdoor walks, but also stumbling upon those infrequent weird objects that I so love to recount in this blog.

The Christmas tree inside the gym, however, evoked my interest.

The object on the left is a box of band-aids, also visible on the left is a golf ball nestled in the tree.

The golf club more or less speaks for itself.

The shiny string around the golf club is a jump rope. Also in the tree, but not visible in the photo is an empty Aquafina bottle.

The tree has remained exactly as shown throughout the month of December.

Happy holidays everyone.

Three wise reviewers

How could I possibly pick just one?

I couldn't. So I picked three.

And I picked the three that tried most consistently and copiously to garner my attention. I have complete faith that the blogging world will get thorough, competent reviews of my novel Harvey & Eck from the following:

1) garrett, blogstpot: Let Freedom Ring with Silver Bells

2) Psychic Dumb-Dumb, blogspot: Psychic Dumb-Dumb

3) bon, blogspot: The Mama.

Here is how they did it:

From the esteemed garrett:

"In my upcoming review of the free autographed copy of your novel, provided providence proves my prognistication prudent, I will likely extract one or two sentences from the book and draw conclusions about what your book has to say about the human condition by contrasting my interpretation of those sentences with the Truth as I know it today. It is Truth that I am after, and to the extent your book is honest, you can expect accolades from me.

Oh, and one other thing I can shamelessly promise you: if you select me, I will name my blog after you and/or your book in some marginally memorable manner for at least a fortnight while I read and review it."

Is he cocky? Yes. But, hey, name your blog after me? I've practically got my pants off. In addition, garrett has referenced and linked me again and again. He also posted this entry, in which he asserts that the people really want to see Erin O'Brien naked in opposed to either Jessica Alba or Geena Davis (at least if you interpret it the way I did).

And at that, I did take my pants off. I even had my husband take a picture of me without said pants, but you already know that. So book #1 goes to garrett.

Next up is Psychic Dumb-Dumb (PDD), who also references me frequently in her pages (see this post). That in conjunction with her sheer persistence won my favor.

On November 23 PDD wrote:

"I will take a sabbatical in order to write a review of your book. While reading your book, I will include notes to ensure I have covered everything before writing the first draft of the review. I believe that I would be the best candidate. Being a screenwriter, I have read several screenplays, most of which I have written coverage on. I understand this is not a screenplay, but please, allow me the opportunity to crossover." And, "Also, I was going to make somewhat of a switch with my blog; writing film reviews and book reviews, along with the miscellaneous tales this world has to offer. I wish I had posted reviews on my blog, but I don't have any at the moment. Let yours be the first." And, "Additionally, I should be the chosen one since I responded first. If this does not suffice, can you at least deem me as the Canadian Reviewer? If none of these reasons penetrate, is there at least a consolation prize for responding first and/or trying??" (I like the word, "penetrate.")

Then on November 24, she added, "I read your most recent review along with everything else pertaining to Harvey & Eck; it does pique my curiosity and interest."

And then on December 21, perhaps what tipped me over for good, was this post, "Listen Erin, I want the review goddamnit! I'll give you another fabulous reason why you should choose me. Sunday I got so drunk I hit on my cousin. It was a joke of course, but I still don't know if my family understands that. They don't understand me in the least. I am the biggest mystery they created. Now I have to attend Christmas with pretty much the very same people that were there on Sunday. There will be a computer there to check your announcement of the selected reviewer. I've got all this on my mind and I still want to write a review of your book."

Okay! Okay already! Okay! I'm sending it, girl!

Then there is bon, who listed qualification after qualification and did it in a post in which she not only references me, but my Amazon page as well.

Purr, purr, purr.

To all the others, I'm sorry. Each of you was compelling and wonderful and left me with a goofy smile on my face. I wish I could send everyone a book, but I simply cannot.

I can do this much:

Send me $20 and I will sign a book for you and send it off. This is about twice the price over at Amazon, but I've got to purchase every single book and pay shipping as well. If you want to purchase the book at Amazon and send it to me, send me $5 to handle shipping and handling and I will sign your copy of Harvey & Eck and send it back to you. If you are in Northeast Ohio, check my webpage often and see if I am reading or appearing near you. Or email me and perhaps we can arrange something.

Here is the contact info:

Erin O'Brien
P. O. Box 470167
Broadview Hts. OH 44147

eobnow@yahoo.com

Make sure you include shipping information and how you would like the book signed.

I have the best time with all of you. I love blogging and I will continue to blog, blog, blog as long and I can.

Stay tuned. The best is yet to come.

Odds and ends

You have until midnight tonight to tell me why I should send you a signed copy of my book.

Thanks to everyone who voted on this blog. The Owner's Manual was #3 when I posted this.

Due to an overwhelming response to Erin O'Brien Naked, click here to view the runner-up photo.

Two-wheeled object

For years, I believed that the two-wheeled object in this photograph was designed to aid in the movement of heavy objects, such as washing machines and file cabinets. I had thought it was endearingly called a dolly.

Silly me.

Although not quite as mystifying as this discovery, my husband has left just enough evidence to indicate that the two-wheeled object is actually an impromptu clothes rack*.

*Not shown in photograph is a more traditional clothes rack, complete with dozens of empty hangers, not ten feet away from the two-wheeled object.

Sunday Morning Share Time #7

A reference document for my dear readers:
Ten good reasons to watch your ass, particularly those of us who are in possession of (ahem) pornography* (see Sixth Court of Hell).

* Hop on over here and visit the website listed. Whether or not this can be called pornography, I couldn't say. I can tell you that the Eryn depicted in the link and the Erin who reveals herself within these pages (er, me) are not relations. Whether the erroneous link drums up a book sale or two remains to be seen.

Erin O'Brien Naked

photo by D. Beloved.
Click to enlarge.

Chat with me

On Thursday, Dec. 15 at 9 p.m., I will be chatting with Romance at Heart Magazine. Drop in by clicking here.

I will answer any and all questions and I hope to see some of my blog friends live online.

Flagrant solicitation

For those who don't already know, writers are a notoriously needy lot.

Which (of course) brings me to me. So great is my need for constant validation that I have been known to sit here before my glowing screen at an hour when everyone I know is sleeping peacefully and clicking the "get mail" button again and again and again. And, although this blog is a constant and idiotic distraction, you people have no idea how snoopy-dance happy I get when you comment and let me know that someone out there is receiving my transmission.

Fact: the only thing lower than my beleaguered self-esteem is W's approval ratings. Hence, I am putting forth one self-centered reminder and a flat-out solicitation for compliments:

(and now for an irritating note*)

(In my regular life, my writing [I do a great deal of local political reporting] and editorial efforts are public--just like this blog--and I have been advised by readers from every walk that I am a hack** and that my subject content is unsuitable and that I would be better off abandoning my silly efforts at this keyboard and spending more time looking after my husband. So as you pour over the following requests, know that I can also take the criticisms and flat out insults*** with a brave smile on my face.)

Solicitation: I invite all of you to hop over here and tell the people what you think of this blog. (No, I did not rate myself.) For those with a BlogExplosion account, go on over here and leave your rants about the Owner's Manual.

Reminder: anyone wanting to review my book has until Dec. 20 to persuade me that they are The One Who Should Receive A Free Signed Copy along with a delightful surprise or two (I have been collecting said surprises and, believe me, they are delighful).

Humor me people. Dear sweet Jesus, humor me.

* Thank you, faithful readers, for tolerating my parenthetical notes as well as these equally annoying and poorly mapped footnotes.

**I also have a few people that tell me they like my writing and political reporting, but the few that scathe are always the most indelible.

*** A smattering of the real life insults Erin O'Brien, girl writer, has fielded: "Too bad you can't report as well as you can walk." Comment yelled at me by a gentleman in passenger seat of 89 Cadillac Seville as he and the driver and other two passengers waited for a red light. I was on one of my endless walks. Judging by the coolers and golf clubs peaking from the bungy-corded trunk, they were on their way to a golf outing. I stopped, smiled and said, "Thank you for your comment," before continuing down the sidewalk.

"I really don't like the cover of your book one bit. It's just awful." Comment from sniffing browser as I sat with a stack of said books in front of me at a book signing event. "Covers are very subjective," was my vapid response, in which I made no reference to the cookie crumb clinging to her lip. She was not, incidentally, the one person to whom I sold a book that day. (What did that miserable broad want me to do? Take out a box of crayons and draft another cover on the spot?)

(This insult is only peripherally related to writing) From a local official upon whom I occasionally report, "My word, Erin, you look just terrific. You really do. Just terrific. And I don't even like you."

Emergency share time

I can't even wait until Sunday.

Fresh from over at nicoleMART, a post I simply loved. And you people know how I love to share the love.

The real life adventures of Erin O'Brien, girl writer, vol. one

Erin sits at the bar sipping a Bud Light, a copy of her novel at her elbow. The establishment is 100 percent biker and she is confident that the cover of her book will garner attention here. Surely, someone in this studded and tattoed mob will be interested in a novel upon which there is a picture of a semi nude woman and a motorcycle. And she intends to invite any and all attention and talk to anyone about anything in hopes of piquing his or her curiosity about herself and her writing.

She has chosen a strategic seat by the end of the bar where people crowd to order drinks. And, much to the irritation of persons behind whomever Erin is speaking to, her ploy works and she has a steady stream of persons approaching her.

They ask about her book and many of them take one of the little cards she has printed with the book's cover and information about her website. She gets a few pick-up offers, which she delicately declines. She meets a number of women motorcyclists. She chats and listens intently and tries to be charming. She accepts the drinks that gentlemen offer to buy her when the offer feels genuine and without strings. She purchases a beer for the deejay, who has plugged her presence several times over the course of the evening.

"And stop by the end of the bar and have a drink with local author Erin O'Brien!"

A handful of people ask Erin if she has copies of her book to sell. But our girl can be a real dipshit and therefore, she has none. She advises people to visit her website and that the book is available on Amazon.

Clearly none of this is worthy of a blog entry. Fortunately, however, we're talking about Erin here and this night is not going to transpire without at least one blog-worthy experience.

Enter Chewy.

"What the fuck is this?" the voice booms from Erin's right. She turns from the two leather-clad with whom she had been discussing exactly what sort of men most benefit from the wearing of chaps and nothing else.

And there, holding her book, is Chewy.

"That you?" he asks Erin, indicating the figure on the cover of the book.

"If you want to be me," says our clever Erin, "than it is me." She extends her hand. "I'm Erin O'Brien."

"Chewy," he says, taking her hand. He is hairy and thick and big and loud. Erin estimates him to be between 48 and 52.

"And, actually, I wrote the book," says Erin.

But Chewy has already set the book down, disinterested. He is not entirely disinterested in Erin, however. "So, where's your old man?" he asks.

"At home."

"And he let you come out? By yourself?"

"Yes, he did," responds Erin. "Are you married?"

"Hell no!" booms Chewy with authority. But then almost immediately, his face and shoulders collapse into an expression of failure. "Just got dumped."

Predictably, this disclosure turns our sappy girl writer into a sympathetic marshmallow . "I'm very sorry to hear that," she says.

At that, Chewy reinflates with passion. "I showered with that woman. I slept naked in the same bed with that woman. I massaged her back and her feet and her hands. We even baked bread together in the buff!" he says. "And not once did we have sex! Not one time! I respected her." He slugs his beer and slams it back upon the bar so forcefully that a splash of beer erupts from the bottle and lands on Erin's book.

In the space of an instant, Erin goes from anger over the defilement of her property to joy at what she realizes will give her personal reading copy more significance--a smattering of wavy-edged beer-stained pages courtesy of a man named Chewy. After she has processed beer+book, there is the matter of business of what the man said. Because although she is not attracted to him, he is certainly randy and masculine and sexual. What sort of woman would pile into a bed with this sort of man without clothing or carnal intent? Who would do that? "Wow," she says. "How long did you date her?"

"TWO FUCKING MONTHS!" responds Chewy. "Dinners, dates. Rode her to Niagara Falls. Fixed her goddamn Honda. And you know what I say?" Breathing heavily, he awaits Erin's response.

"Um," Erin's eyes shift left than right. "No. No I don't," she says.

"It aint worth it! What do I care? SHE CAN HAVE HER GODDAMN PUSSY!"

An uncomfortable beat passes. "Yes she can," says Erin finally.

"You take a look at this," says Chewy, who then grasps either side of his country western style shirt and tears open the pearly snaps to reveal a hirsute barrel chest, upon which snakes a glossy scar. He thumps the scar vigorously. "You have any idea what that is?" he asks, challenging our unlikely heroine.

"Well, although I am not a medical technician," says Erin, "my guess is the scar is associated with some sort of cardio thoracic surgery."

"YOU'RE GODDAMN RIGHT!" says Chewy. "And if you think I'm going to let some goddamn broad and her goddamn pussy break my goddamn heart, there ain't no goddamn way! I already had the son-of-a-bitch cracked open once!" He pauses then adds, "FUCK HER!"

To this Erin has no response and says simply, "I hear you, man."

Chewy drains the rest of his beer. "Barkeep!" he yells across the bar, "Beers all the way around!"

And a long neck Bud is delivered unto Erin and of it she doth drink with grateful lips.

Note to self

Self, do not eff up.

Dearly Beloved

Since he is referenced so often in these pages, it seemed to me that a current photograph of my precious husband would be an appropriate post. Armed with my digital camera, I went searching for him.

As the esteemed reader has probably surmised, I found him in the shower. I did not feel that his ablutions should interfere with my quest. Hence, I positioned my towering five-foot frame in front of the shower stall, reached up, pointed the camera over the frosted glass door and took this photograph. The flash garnered his otherwise sudsy attention.

"What?" was my darling's response. I said nothing, just walked away silently.

He is still in the shower, bellowing, "Hey!" as I download this.

Lather, rinse, repeat

Just stay with me on this.

One of the less fortunate permutations of blogs and the Internet in general is the insufferable lists. "100 Things About Me," or "21 Things I Want To Accomplish Before I Turn 21" (I had done one thing 21 times by the time I reached my 21st birthday) or "25 Reasons I'd Marry Her All Over Again" (Not only is that guy lying before he finished typing number 1, he'd be telling the true story if he titled the list, "25 Excuses I've Told My Wife When I Was Doing the 25 Year Old.")

Who could stand it?

I thought, okay, the list is a bad idea. A tired writing prompt that bored graduate students have been offering to their overeager freshman creative writing students for too long. Could I turn it on it's ear and project it through the Erin lens?

Things started out promisingly enough. "Thirteen things I want to do in my car," would be my title. And so it began:

1. Have sex with Bob Woodruff*

2. Listen to Vincent D'Onofrio* tell me that I have élan and verve and éclat as he looks at me with rapt fascination.

3. Listen to ANYBODY** tell me I have élan and verve and éclat, rapt fascination notwithstanding.

*Woodruff and Donofrio are both short listed.
**Photo compliments of Born to Flock.

Then it occurred to me that the three items would be attractive to me no matter where they occurred and, admittedly, my chances with Bob Woodruff might be zero, but they are a slightly better if we were someplace that features alcohol, flattering light, privacy, vast comfortable spots that accommodate two prone bodies and more alcohol. The reader will note that none of these features are available within the enclaves of a Mini Cooper.

So then, what do I really love to do in the Mini? The predictable vapid answers follow. Drive along snaking roads. Listen to Richard Thompson. Talk to my kid.

What's that I hear? The sound of my readers jumping from bridges? I don't blame you.

So what about the "100 Things About Me" idea?

They would have to be 100 really good things, nothing predictable or mundane. Then my face blooms with illumination and I type:

1. I have never slept with a woman.

I am so pleased with myself over this, I sit up straight and grin from ear to ear. Now that I think, is something to tell about yourself. That reveals something. That is interesting. That is a substantial statement. Get 100 babies that good and they'll be swooning in the aisles.

Unfortunately, as is so often the case, my self-satisfaction is short lived.

What exactly does that statement say about me? There is nothing remarkable about it. I am 40 years old and have been married for 13 of those years. Before that, I happily dated men. My heterosexual history is nothing if not vanilla (well, okay, a lot of vanilla).

I deflate, looking at my sad little number one thing about me. Who cares?

I do.

Therein lies the intrigue. Simply making such an assertion not-so-indirectly implies that the otherwise innocuous word "curious" might justifiably be used in certain descriptions of me.

So what of it? I'm mature. I have confidence in myself. And I have always believed all of us fall somewhere in between 100 percent homosexual and 100 percent heterosexual. There is nothing to be ashamed of. It's not as though I'm different from countless other women who have, wondered.

But still, this is scary territory for me. I have to buffer this realization somehow. Preprocess it.

"Honey," I say. "I have something to tell you."

My darling other half peers at me for a moment over the paper before resubmerging. "Yes?"

"It's sort of an addition to the short list," I say.

"Tell me it's not Gene Shalit," he says.

"It's not Gene Shalit," I say. "It's Ann Curry.

He folds the paper down and peers over at me. "The Today show Ann Curry?"

"The Today show Ann Curry," I say. "I thought about Robin Meade, but I'd be afraid of messing up her make up. Some chicks are very funny about their make up. And believe me, she's one of them. Plus she's too damn perky."

My spouse peers at me silently.

"You get a girl like Curry," I say, "and now you're talking. First off, she's a newscaster. She's intelligent. And, of course, she's network."

"So, what you're telling me is that you want to have sex with Ann Curry."

"No, not exactly."

"This is going to be good," he says.

"I just want to wash her hair."

My dearly beloved clears his throat, calmly folds the paper and sets it on the couch. "You want to wash Ann Curry's hair," he says.

"Right."

"But you complain about washing your own hair," he says.

"My hair is different from Ann Curry's hair."

"And why is that?" he asks.

"For starters," I say, "it's not on my head."

To this, he nods. "And where will this blessed event occur? In a bathtub or shower?"

"That question exposes any number of variables," I say. "At first blush, I want to say shower, but if she's much taller than my willowy five feet, my arms might get tired.

"Furthermore," I say. implication of the short list is that my prospective conquest comes here and wants to have sex. Which is sort of troubling, because there ain't no bathroom on these premises suitable for the washing of Ann Curry's hair.

"However," I continue, "given the choice of a shower in my bathtub or one in your shower stall, the space confinement of the shower stall is certainly interesting."

We fall silent for a handful of beats.

"I've been very tolerant of the short list," he says.

"True."

"And far be it from me to edit the list," he says. "But the addition of a woman is quite a bit of a stretch, even though we're only at the hair washing stage. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Er, yes."

"Hence," he says, "I am ready to accept Ann Curry on the short list provided you wash her hair in the bathtub shower."

"Why?" I ask.

"Back to your space confinement issue," he says. "Because if you're going to wash Ann Curry's hair, I am going to apply the hot oil treatment. And although my shower stall might snugly accommodate you and Ann, there would be no room for me."

I consider this for a moment. "Fair enough," I say, nodding.

Both satisfied, my husband picks the paper back up and I reach for the remote.

If I ever get to number two on the "100 Things About Me" list, dear readers, I'll let you know.

Partidge Family Redux (cum on, get happy)

Dearest reader, I apologize in advance for The World's Stupidest Post, but sometimes, I simply can neither contain nor control myself. And, incidentally, I think I love you.


Sung to the tune of the Partridge Family's "I Think I Love You"

Bah, bah bah ba ba ba ba bah bah
Bah ba ba ba baaaah.

I'm sleeping
and right in the middle of a wet dream
like all at once I wake up
from something that has made me want to cream.
Before I bust my seam
I hold my pillow to my head
and spring up in my bed
screaming out the words I dread:
I think I fucked you. I think I fucked you

This morning, I woke up with this hard-on
I didn't know how to deal with.
And so I just decided to myself
I'd pump it off myself.
And never talk about it.
And didn't I go and spout it
when you walked into my room.
I think I fucked you. I think I fucked you

I think I fucked you!
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid I have contracted
a disease there is no cure for.

I think I fucked you.
Isn't that what sex is made of?
Though it worries me to say
I never came this way.

(Insert Laurie's purposeful and heartfelt harpsichord solo, during which she looks so pretty performing, here.)

I don't what I'm up against.
I don't know what it's all about.
I've got so much to think about.

Hey!

I think I fucked you!
So what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid I have contracted
a disease there is no cure for.

I think I fucked you.
Isn't that what sex is made of?
Though it worries me to say
I never came this way.

Believe me,
you really don't have to fuck me.
I only want to make you climax.
And if you say,
"hey, fuck yourself," I will.
But I think better still
I'd better stay around and fuck you.
Do you think I have a chance?
Can I get into your pants?

Do you think you fucked me?

I think I fucked you!

I think I fucked you!

I think I fucked you!

I think I fucked you!

I think I fucked you!

I think I fucked you!

Pay attention

My brother has been gone for nearly twelve years. I don't remember the last words I said to him. I don't remember our last conversation at all, either the details or the topic.

I could have made the very same statement one day after his death.

Hence, I have learned to take the phrase "pay attention" very seriously.