Rain Day Woman, vol. 9

In my column this week, read my Ode to Trans Fat, that miracle grease that doubles as a suppository for your aorta.

And while you're at it, you won't want to miss this letter to the editor and the editor's response (see "Wiki Fit"). This rather stern complaint about Yours Truly was authored by one Mr. Daniel Case about my musings on Wikipedia. Do visit his Wiki page and read up on his feelings about New Coke and The Devil Wears Prada.

If you have something to say about any of it, please email the Free Times. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Squeeze cheese, or mooing in your Big Girl shoes

I love squeeze cheese.

That is a horrible thing to admit, but there you go. And if that's not bad enough, sometimes I take a piece of that plastic cheese in the individual wrapper and fold it into fourths then I take four square crackers (used to be saltines, but now I use Triscuits) and put one quarter piece of plastic cheese on each cracker and eat that mother*. You can maybe nuke it for a few seconds if you want to melt the cheese (I don't, but to each his own).

With the squeeze cheese, you don't need to melt it because it's already gooey. And you get to make the squorrly little designs on account of the slotted tube top on the squeeze cheese can.

On the can it says "Real Kraft Cheese" in excited looking cursive letters. (Although I give them credit for restraining themselves and foregoing an exclamation point!)

To that, I just say no.

No, no, no, no. No.

Okay, I don't mean "no" in the "no" sense. What I mean is that I don't think the stuff in the can has been near anything that says "moo" in a long, long time. So I guess I mean "no moo."

I do not recommend reading the ingredient listing on the back of the can. It's scary. That probably goes for the plastic cheese as well. But if you do read it, you might wonder about the product's proximity to "moo" uttering creatures like I wonder. It does say "milk" on there, but come on already.

Sometimes I wear this cool black velvet top and a corduroy mini skirt and Big Girl shoes and I make the Goat take me out to a snotty place where you get a pot of cheese fondue with bread and steamed veggies and chunks of sausage and that is a real cheese experience that is way closer to "moo" uttering creatures than the plastic and/or canned variety I'm talking about here. I don't mean that there are cows in the snotty restaurant place, but that the stuff in the fondue pot did not come out of a can if you follow my meaning. I never wear mini skirts to barnyards anyway. Or Big Girl Shoes. We usually get a bottle of Chardonnay to go with the fondue.

Moo.

I'm telling you this in hopes that you'll still think I'm sort of cool despite the squeeze cheese admission herein.

I once made the snotty restaurant fondue at home and it kicked ass from Cleveland to Ashtabula (where they still might have a few mooers). But it is expensive to make and sort of a pain in the ass. Also, making the fondue at home eliminates my desire to wear the mini skirt. Who cares? But if you want to try to make that shit, Here's a pretty good recipe.

*Options include adding a small piece of Vlasic Dill Pickle or a dollop of Pace Medium Picante.

Sunday morning share time #27

Good morning effers. Here is a bunch of miscellany.

I switched to the new blogger and that seems to have bungled some of the previous comment sections, eliminating avatars and listing some as anonymous. Sorry about that. I think that it should be okay from now on.

Fellow writer James Winter sent this link about Cleveland accents to me. A bit more investigation revealed that the author of the link is one Christine. She is my new hero. She moved from Cleveland to New York and seems to really miss Cleveland. Most people in her situation would go around dissing my home town. She loves on it instead.

That makes me want to belt out a great big purrr.

Now then, below is my latest effort from my evil writing YouTube blog. Give it a listen and decide for yourself if I have a Cleveland accent. This guy swears I do.

Luvya!

Lunch date

My Dearly Beloved and I are at some silly lunch place called Zoup! We stand in line, moving with bovine-like predictability along with other prospective Zoup! consumers. Eventually, it's our turn. We verbalize our order.

"Name, please?" asks the kid in the hat.

My Dearly Beloved gives his first name. Then we go to the drink machine and take a seat at the window counter.

The kid in the hat calls out "Brenda," who dutifully retrieves her bowl of seafood bisque and chunk of sourdough.

"Jason?" calls the kid in the hat.

"Remind me next time to give the name 'Dildo,' just so he has to yell it across the room," says my Dearly Beloved. I laugh at his quip, then we both stare out at the Cleveland January gray as we sip our ice tea and wait.

"I'm hungry," he says.

"Me too," I say.

The kid in the hat finally says my Dearly Beloved's name.

"You're up, Dildo," I say.

Rainy Day Woman, vol. 8

In my column this week, I assert that Mr. Hefner's girls next door are no more.

If you have something to say about it, please email the Free Times. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Sunday morning share time #26

The good Mr. Greg van Eekhout posted the funniest audio clip I've ever heard. Hop on over there and give it a listen to find out why Barry White can't get enough of your love, babe.

The link is embedded in his "Indeed" post dated January 19.

The write stuff

Ever since I started tapping away at the keyboard, I've fielded harsh criticism and personal attacks as well as sweet sweet praise.

I've been called ugly and old and fat and stupid.

An inflatable lawn ornament earned me accusations of being an egocentric and generally bad mother as well as an ungrateful American.

My lascivious offer to Mike Rowe garnered disapproving sniffs from local literatis as well as kudos from around the world.

I was advised that the graphic associated with this post would likely preclude my acceptance in some elite literary circles. I respect the person who told me this, so I went back and reread the post, which garnered 43 comments. I found it to be more edgy and funny and ironic than I had remembered and I left it alone.

Many people were deeply moved by my recount of a few hours in a morning bar, but some persons associated with the establishment were not. I felt badly about that. I was as honest and sympathetic as I could be in that writing.

I was deluged with praise for my piece on the crossdressing community of northeast Ohio. But the few scathing criticisms I received from inside the community sucked the light from me for days. And it was strange to read people chatting about the work, which they did over here as well.

One man was shocked by my reference to fellatio in this post. I replied to him, "So was my husband."

My years of local political reporting in The BroadView Journal garnered regular complaints from area politicians, who tried mightily to get me fired. Residents loved my unsparing coverage of their antics.

I have been copiously rejected. Even hurtfully so.

Regarding my novel, I've been told the cover is no good and the distribution is no good and the publisher is no good. The thick file I have of handwritten letters and emails from people who loved the book is worth more to me than a million dollars.

I cry a lot.

Now then, to get a good idea of what it's like being me, go to this sappy post, read it and then read the first couple of comments.

I am a writer. This is what I do.

Do it loud

I need your help for an experiment.

You'll need to climax. One human, two humans. Even three or four. Take your pick. Add your big honking phalli and nubby rubber rings, whatever your pleasure. (Don't forget to use plenty of lubricant!) Or maybe do it regular missionary with your spouse. Maybe go it alone with just your miserable digits. Whatever works is fine.

Oh, you're going to have to do it twice, approximately the same way both times. Do it with the same person/people in the same place, same position--you get the drift. This is like serious. This is like for science.

The first time, pretend you are doing it on top the pile of coats at a party in a cheapo house with thin walls and you don't want to get caught. Just like when Elmer is hunting wabbit, be vewy vewy qwiet!

Tee hee!

Next time, I want you to really announce that climax! Grunt and groan and cry out and yell (I do not, however, recommend talking. Figure out a cleaver way to give instructions before you hit the sack. Oh sure, you can say "yes," and "more," and "hard." Directives such as these are often welcome. But don't say, "Please insert your finger three quarters of the way into my vagina whilst using your thumb to stimulate my clitoris," or, "I would enjoy it if you contacted your abdominal muscles right now." Okay? That doesn't get it.) Make big animal noises. Gurgle if you want. Just make it way effing loud.

Now then, which sex was better?

ERIN SAY LOUD!

Free love?

The Cleveland Free Times is looking for entrants for "LOVE IS GRIND: Free Times' Second Annual Valentine's Day Writing Contest."

That's amoré!

Call for entries: If you've concluded that Valentine's Day is nothing more than a fiendish plot by the international greeting-card cartel to cash in on lovers' failure to meet impossible expectations, we're here to help. Or at least to exploit you a little further. Tell us your tale of unrequited — or all too requited — love. Change names if necessary, but otherwise keep it real. If we're moved to tears or laughter (or even better, both), we'll share your pain with other readers in the February 14 issue.

The rules: Essays must be original works written by the entrant, and 1,000 words or less. E-mail entries as an attachment (Word or RTF file) to Frank Lewis. Include the words "Valentine's Day Contest" in the subject line. The body of the email should include your name, age (21 and over please), address and phone number. Deadline: 5 p.m. January 31.

Here is a link to last year's winning entries.

Last year's prize was a romantic package for two at the Cleveland Play House. This year's prize has yet to be announced.

Good luck you lovebirds.

Note: Today's photo is the Goat and me right after the God Guy said, "You may kiss the bride" on Nov. 28, 1992. Erf.

Pickled turnips

My friend Maureen McHugh asked about pickled turnips, so I thought I'd blog the mother effers.

I effing love these things.

I first had them at Nate's Deli on 25th Street here in Cleveland. They give you a little plate with hot peppers and pickled turnips with your lunch. I always ask Jackie the kick-ass waitress for more turnips.

"Can I get extra turnips, please?"

I put 'em on my shish tawook sandwich along with extra garlic mayo. I've tried to pickle my own turnips, but they are never as good as the ones at Nate's. Here's a recipe that I will probably try. I try making my own about once or twice a year and end up eating my pickled turnips and thinking that they are okay but not like Nate's.

One of my goodliest buds in the whole world bought me the jar of pickled turnips pictured here. Amy* and me have eaten plenty of shish tawooks at Nate's. Her office used to be right across the street. They had Pez dispensers there and a cool dog that would lean on me whenever I came in.

"Hey, this dog's leaning on me."

Now she works in the most beautiful place in the world. I am glad for that, but I will miss hijacking her from the PezDog office and dragging her to Nate's.

The jar turnips are good, but not as good as when I'm with the regular Amy at Nate's and we're talking about writing stories and writers and shit. Still, I pile those mothers on about any sandwich you can think of and eat 'em and eat 'em and eat 'em.

I so love you people. I am sorta sad now.

*Click on that link there and you will see one of the best blog entries of all time and you will understand why Amy is one of my goodliest buds.

Vita-mania!

You've really got to see this to believe it. For those who are interested, I bought them at Puritan's Pride.

Rain Day Woman, vol. 7

In my column this week, I invite you to let your fingers do the walking through Wikipedia. It's a snap!

If you have something to say about it, please email the Free Times. Frank Lewis is the editor.

Avatarrific!

Okay, people. I finally got enough complaints about my avatar to do something about it so I've posted a new one. The associated photo was taken on December 14, 2005. The previous avatar was a crop from the photo shown above, which was taken on July 18, 2004 in Pittsburgh. I still think the first avatar is more interesting as the expression on my face accurately depicts my general smirking attitude.

But I'm all for giving the people what they want, so there's good ol' smiley Erin for you.

Thingie

Okay people, what the hell is this thing? These words are engraved on the front:

für Spiritus
for Methylated spirit
à alcool

I cannot read what the black label says. On the back, There is a symbol featuring two crossed swords with the letters G. B. surrounded by this text, "U. T. G. Barthel." On the bottom it says, "Made in Germany."

The cap by the two handles is threaded and there is a bunch of cotton wicking inside. The nipple side doesn't seem to open. There is a pinhole at the tip. It measures 2 3/4" by 2 3/4", not counting the handles.

I'm guessing it's some sort of lamp, but can anybody out there tell me more about it? Click on either image to see a larger resolution.

Sunday morning share time #25

This vid is effing hilarious, particularly if you're from Cleveland, but even if you're not. I love the sequences of that guy who played Dr. Smith on "Lost in Space."

Well, gotta go take off my pants. Actual content coming next week.

Playmate data sheet

Girlie picture book

I have to buy a Playboy. Due in large part to the Internet, no one buys dirty books any more unless you're an weird old guy who doesn't have a computer. But I really need to see the content of Playboy and I don't feel like starting an online account with Hef and the Girls Next Door. So during my endless walk of the earth, I decide to stop at The Only Place Left In The World That Sells Dirty Magazines (they also sell beer and wine and the good beef jerky). I go in and go directly to the dirty book rack and scan the titles. There is one Playboy: June 2006. I don't want June 2006, I want January 2007.

Clearly, I have to interact with the counter guy.

He is ruggedly good looking and looks way familiar, but I can't quite place him. "Do you have the latest Playboy?" I ask.

"No I sure don't," he says. I'm embarrassed, but also hopeful that he would find me intriguing because I am in search of a Playboy, which he advised I might find at the store down the street thereby nixing the title of The Only Place Left In The World That Sells Dirty Magazines. I turn to leave, notice a few Free Times (in which a couple of letters about one of my columns are printed this week) and pick one up. I place it on the counter and open it to my column.

"I'm the Rainy Day Woman," I say coyly.

"Oh, really?" he says, picking up the magazine. I take two extra copies for myself, and say to the ruggedly good looking guy who looks familiar* and is now surely intrigued by me because I'm a Girl Columnist in search of a Playboy, "Happy New Year," then whoosh out the door.

I know the guy who runs the store down the street. He has the Playboy. I buy it. We chat, during which I explain that I'm buying the Playboy because I write a column and intriguing Girl Columnists have to do shit like that. He remarks that he also has the Free Times and that it is a popular publication.

I advise him to inform all patrons that pick up a Free Times that Erin O'Brien the intriguing Girl Columnist buys her Playboys from this very establishment.

"Yeah, man."

I have now walked five miles and have one more to go before I get home. Of course, I see a neighbor and he stops to chat as well. He asks me where I'm working since I gave up my job at the local paper. I tell him the Free Times.

He looks at the two Free Times bundled in my hand (the Playboy is properly hidden within). He is obviously interested and there is an unspoken awkwardness. Why won't I give him a Free Times? I've got two and after all, they're free.

But I don't want Pam Anderson's glory spilling out all over the place (someone should tell that girl that wearing a panty that features a blazing sequined dollar sign over your zorch is demeaning--honest, but demeaning). So I just sort of end the conversation and walk the rest of the way home, where I relish the satisfying sound of the plastic cover crinkling for a moment or two before ripping it open. I do stop to find the hidden bunny on the cover before going directly to the dirty pictures.

Silly little broads.

*It later dawned on me that he looked like the guy who used to teach my kid Tae Kwon Do. I'm not sure if it was him or not.

Things only a human could do vol. 1: construction guys

I love that the human animal poses its construction equipment.

This is one of those cute Bobcat thingies. Look how it's mini front-loader scoop is raised up, sort of like it's shaking it's only fist at the world. Or maybe this is a victory pose.

Doesn't matter. I hear you, brother!


Then we have these guys. They are effing serious! Look at those big arms pounding downward into the earth. You mess with them and that's capitol "T" trouble.

I imagine the bossman ordering some kid around at the end of the day, telling him how to arrange the backhoes, "Hell no, not like that! What do you think this is? Some goddamn junk yard? You gotta get them all lined up military like! Jesus effing christ! Do I have to do everything around here?"

If I ever need anything erected, I am calling these guys based on the merits of their sign alone.