Last phone cam round-up, 2009

No thanks, I already ate.


This, people, is who I really am. Go to hell, bad guys.


Chilling the beer, Cleveland-style.


Foxy man. I found him here.


Holy Gregory Peck in The Omen, Batman!


That's a nice couch.


The O'Brien takes pictures of the condom display at the discount grocer.


Boil, boil, toil and trouble ... Looks bad, tastes good.

Goodbye 2009. Hello 2010. Happy New Year everyone!

* * *

Mail call

Baker's dozen

It was about this time a couple of years ago, a few weeks before Christmas. My kid asks me if we can make biscuits.

"Sure, kid."

So we make the biscuits, which end up like hockey pucks. I tap mine against the plate, puzzling. It was a pretty standard recipe. Then I think: looks like a leavening failure. I take a look at the baking powder container. It expired seven years ago.

Oh.

A few days later, I'm in the baking supply aisle of the grocery, plucking a tin of baking powder from the shelf when I turn to see one of the dreaded Preschool Moms standing next to me.

My kid attended a co-op preschool, which meant that parents were assigned as "helpers" every day; and I surely did my time alongside the other moms. The Preschool Moms wore sweatshirts with snowmen on them, drove stalwart minivans and pushed monstrous strollers equipped with Juicy Juice boxes, Tupperware containers of Goldfish crackers and Cheerios, loads of BandAids and Bactine, extra socks, etc. They were sexless and vapid, discussing their Disney World vacations for weeks before departure and months after conclusion, complete with plenty of pictures.

I wore a tattered Levi jacket, drove an old Honda coupe (no air bags) and was equipped with a can of Diet Pepsi.

"Want a sip, kid?"

The Preschool Moms and I didn't much cotton* to one another, but that was years ago and I thought I was done with them for good.

Yet here I am, standing next to one of them in the grocery store. We say our reluctant hellos, and shuffle in the aftermath, both of us knowing a short conversation is mandatory. Then she sees my tin of baking powder and asks, "Doing some holiday baking?"

Thinking it funny, I tell the biscuit story and explain this a replacement for the 7-year-old petrified tin in my pantry. As this sinks in, the dreaded Preschool Mom, with her Santa sweatshirt, looks at me as if I am a turd floating in a punch bowl.

She blinks purposefully for a few seconds, lips pursed, before clearing her throat and saying, "I purchase all new baking supplies every single year in October--right before the baking season starts in earnest: vanilla extract, decorative sprinkles, cream of tartar, food coloring, baking soda, and certainly," she pauses to sniff, "baking powder." Yet another pause. "You can't be too careful."

I compliment her on her savvy, halfheartedly adding that I should be so thorough. We thankfully say good by and avoid each other for the rest of the shopping trip.

To be sure, the Preschool Moms always produced perfect baked goods, uniform star-shaped cookies with fluffy frosting and mile-high cupcakes festooned with icing smiles. My shaped cookies either stuck to the pan, got smooshed on one side, or were an uneven brown on one side and an underdone white on the other. I gave up trying with those years ago. As indicated by the accompanying photo, my cakes are always ugly.

So I've learned to keep it simple: peanut butter cookies with the fork cross design and Duncan Hines yellow cake mix; but this year, I tried a new cookie recipe that totally kicks ass. Everyone who bit into one of these babies swooned.

Behold brown sugar cookies.

The recipe calls for baking powder. The can that I purchased that day as the dreaded Preschool Mom sniffed at me was still unopened in my cabinet. I peeked at the bottom: expiration date: Dec. 2009.

I just hope I don't run into that silly little broad again when I go to replace this one.

*apologies to James Carville.

##

UnChristmassy Christmas post

Hi.

I had no idea what to get you, so here's a bunch of my all time favorite songs. This list is silly and sentimental and has tons of oldies because when you're 44 "all time favorite" spans quite a few years. I don't know how cool this list is, but I hope you'll find a smile or two. I put a few YouTubes in here just to mix it up, and if you feel like poking around for more vids and clips, I recommend every one of these tunes with ebullience as well as sincerity. I'd also love to hear about your faves in the comment section. Most importantly, have a great holiday with all your peeps.

Love, Erin

* * *

Torn and Frayed The Rolling Stones

Mrs. Robinson Frank Sinatra

Roadrunner Modern Lovers

Mr. Tambourine Man Bob Dylan



The Man Comes Around Johnny Cash

How Can You Mend a Broken Heart Al Green

I Say a Little Prayer Aretha Franklin

The Girl From Ipanema Getz-Gilberto

Gentle on my Mind Glenn Campbell



Harbor Lights Boz Scaggs

5:15 The Who

Amie Pure Prarie League

Son of a Preacher Man Dusty Springfield



Seven Bridges Road The Eagles.

This Guy's in Love with You Burt Bacharach/Herb Alpert on vocals

Skateaway Dire Straights

Jane Says Jane's Addiction



Miracles Jefferson Starship

Coyote Joni Mitchell

I Played the Fool Southside Johnny

Shambala Three Dog Night

Rebel Rebel Sue Jorge



A Dream Goes on Forever Todd Rundgren

Mysterious Ways U2

I Wanna Roo You Van Morrison

You Wear it Well Rod Stewart

Save it for Later Pete Townshend

Discount Desk & Office Supply, Inc.

The chair featured in this photo is an old Steelcase model (purchased used for $100 about 15 years ago). It died a painful wobbling death over the past couple of weeks. A replacement was in order.

A cheap chair is murder on my back, and a new Steelcase runs $800++, which (just as it was 15 years ago) is not within the budget here at The Offices of Erin O'Brien. Hence, I contacted an architectural associate of mine who specializes in office design and asked her if she knew of any good used office furniture places.

She referred me to Discount Desk & Office Supply.


Discount Desk & Office Supply is an unlikely shopping destination for some people.


There are a lot of used office chairs at Discount Desk & Office Supply.


The displays are at once patriotic and avant-garde.


Security is very tough at Discount Desk & Office Supply.


Terms of payment are clearly posted.


The bustling floral department:


While browsing, I heard a vaguely familiar sound. I investigated and found a ringing telephone. As shown in the following photo, the telecommunication department at Discount Desk & Office Supply has three lines, line #1 of which is in use.


The office supply department:


Self portrait courtesy of a used mirror on display:


The art department:


The maintenance department:


Understandably, Discount Desk & Office Supply has garnered a number of awards.


Here is the chair I purchased today:


It is a gently used Steelcase Sensor model, which retails new for about $850.

I paid $60.

This establishment is pure genius and I advise anyone in Northeast Ohio looking for great used office furniture to travel to Discount Desk & Office Supply at 8123 Carnegie Avenue (216-791-3375) before they go anywhere else.

Owner Steve Marks (shown right with staffers Roy [left] and Judge [center] said that he sometimes sells furniture directly from the parking lot. These Discount Desk & Office Supply convenient Economy Sales feature more experienced furniture.

"Say it's got a little stain or tear," said Marks. "We sell it for ten, maybe twenty bucks."

He also sells new furniture and caters to large clients. Be that as it may, Steve and the guys made me feel like my $60 chair transaction was the most important sale of 2009 and I will purchase every piece of office furniture at Discount Desk & Office Supply for the rest of my life.


People, this is how it's supposed to be.

* * *

A twitillating post

Twhile I twadmit that beginning twords with tw in tworder to mesh twithin the twitterverse is twirritating, I twalso have to concede that I'm digging on Twitter now that I've gotten twused twoo it.

(Relax, I'm not going to keep that up for the entire post.)

I started my Twitter account out of some invisible obligation: you must have one of these to be part of the 21st century. Now I love it. It's like a 24-hour cocktail party with an ever-changing DIY guest list. All I have to do to drop in on the fun is click my mouse and BOOM, the pleasure is all mine. I can check up on buddies, eavesdrop on a crush, listen to my fave news correspondents duking it out over politics, or laugh at one-liners courtesy of someone I know nothing about.

Twitter is more raucous and laid back than Facebook. People aren't particularly prickly about etiquette, although you have to be careful. Once you've tweeted, you've tweeted and although you can delete a tweet, it's probably already been read by the one person you wished hadn't seen it. Also, a mere 140 characters is plenty big enough for libel. Just ask Courtney Love.

I follow all sorts of people using TweetDeck as my organizer. If I've gotten your attention and you think you'd like to jump into the fray, here's a lil' twit list to get you started.

Michelle Belanger: My #1 psychic vampire** Articulate, genuine and always interesting.

Jake Tapper: ABC's White House correspondent. His willingness to show his personal side amazes me.

Phil Plait: Discovery Magazine's top astronomy blogger; plus I just dig him.

Tim Siedell: Funny, funny, funny--and smart.

This list could go on endlessly but I'll leave it at that. Finding great people to follow is part of the fun. I hope everyone will make suggestions in the comment section. In the meantime, do check out my Twitter page. I just did and all I can say is Erin O'Brien is one pixilated chick.

**I wrote about Michelle and the magickal society of House Kheperu here.

# # #

Pint-sized gift exchange

My 12-year-old daughter's gifts for her buddies.

Code Orange News Alert: lip gloss, berry sparkle body spray and duct tape rule the world.

* * *

See. Food. New. Burg.

Dear friends,

As some of you know, the cocksuckers over at Knorr have discontinued their Newburg sauce mix, thereby proving the existence of evil forces. Oh sure, I poked around the Internet looking for a replacement but none was to be found.

This situation had me stewing through long nights, thinking: It cannot be. It cannot be. Eventually, however, I threw off the sweaty sheets, swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat upright, blinking back my denial. The convenient Newburg sauce mix was gone and it was not coming back. If I was going to serve Newburg sauce, I was going to have to make Newburg sauce with a pan and separate ingredients.

It took some doing, but I finally found a recipe that doesn't include any candy-ass items that are normally associated with a real Newburg. There's no goddamn shallots, for instance. There's no clarified butter or egg yolks. Everything here is regular Cleveland-style shit you can understand.

* * *

Melt a half stick of butter and mix in about 4 T flour until you've got a paste (Yes--in a sauce pan on the stove. Where the hell else would you do this?) Don't ask me how high the heat should be. I've got an old gas stove and I eyeball the flame, but don't burn this (although it's probably all right if you burn it a little).

Pour in about a cup and a half of milk real slow, stirring the whole time. You probably ought to be using a whisk for this, which is more of an upgrade than I normally like to recommend, but there you go. Bring this just to a boil then turn the heat down. Should thicken up real nice for you.

Add two squarshy shots of ketchup, a shot of Worcestershire, a shake of paprika, some salt and about a shot of sherry. I use the shitty screw-top sherry you buy from the bottom shelf of the booze section at the discount grocer for about five bucks and that you have for your entire life. No, this is not right. Yes, I wish it was different, but there are some things you just can't wash off no matter how hard you scrub. Kiss my ass.

This slop is your sauce. Taste it and add a little more sherry or other stuff if you want. Add more milk if it's too thick, genius.

If the sherry admission and putting ketchup into "Newburg" sauce isn't bad enough, the following disclosure will do me in for good.


No flaked white fish. No shelled crab legs. No fresh anything. I'm not proud of it and I can't deny it, but I use chopped up fake lobster in my Newburg recipe. It's all cooked and everything. There's no trick. You just buy it on sale, freeze it until you're ready to use it, thaw the package in hot water, chop it into flakes, toss it into the cheap sherry ketchup sauce, heat it through and you're done.

I suppose you could have this over noodles or rice, but I use toast. My kid likes to spoon this over a thick slice of homemade bread. She thinks this dish is pure genius and will eat it morning, noon, and night until it is gone.

You go on and judge me if you want, but I know there's a contingent of readers out there who are reading this, eyes shifting to and fro as they try to remember where they put their 10-year-old bottle of $5 sherry.

* * *

Gassing on

A couple of months ago, I wrote an in-depth feature about natural gas and oil well drilling in Ohio for Cleveland Scene and a companion blog entry. For anyone who's interested in keeping up with the serious side of Erin, I've written a follow up story to "Drill Baby Drill" for today's paper.

This issue is also garnering attention from other sectors of the media. Our local NPR radio station featured Oil and Gas Drilling in Ohio: Not in My Backyard? this morning on "The Sound of Ideas."

My readers come from far and near, but what is happening here in densely populated areas of Ohio is truly stunning. I urge anyone who's interested in drilling or land owner rights to give this story a read.

Sticky fingers

Guilty pleasures vol. two: I am ... I said

I have four Neil Diamond selections in my iTunes library, which admittedly does not include the song referenced in today's post title, "I am ... I said," although that may change before the day is over. Indeed, when I decided to disclose this terrible truth and tell the world that I enjoy Neil Diamond in small doses, I purchased and downloaded "Cherry Cherry" by way of celebration, which I immediately played at full volume while dancing like a pixilated go-go girl has-been in the upstairs hall. My 12-year-old peered out at the spectacle from beneath her blanket of covers, terror flashing in her eyes.

I also have two cover selections from Mr. Diamond. They include his heart-wrenching version of "Mr. Bojangles" and one that showcases middle-aged white-guy angst with unmatched poignancy, "Both Sides Now." To hell with Judy Collins.

But it never, ever gets any better than "Holly Holy," wherein Diamond delivers lines like "Holly whole holy love," with the intensity of a man pulling a wooden stake from the bloodied and ragged flesh of his chest.



How fucking beautiful is that?

* * *

Phone cam round-up

Asphalt patch blob that looks like a cartoon elephant who is refusing something--pure proof that it's time for the country to swing hard left.


Hey buddy? I bet you wouldn't have thrown that ol' french fry out the window of your car if you had dipped it in a vanilla milkshake first.


No thanks, I'll walk. Wait ... on second thought ... you got any ice cold Pabst in the back?


Hi parrot plush toy.


Decorative horns at the mall that look like they have lighted barf dripping off would-be tongues.


Campbell's soup is good food.


Disrespected chicken wing bone.


Terrifying prepackaged Van Holten Hot Mama pickles.


My Little Pony go bye bye.

* * *

A spontaneous award ...

... for a brilliant post title:

Watermelon Is Not Supposed to Look Like Marbled Beef.

* * *

Guilty Pleasures, vol. one: Mark Dacascos

No, I did not watch him on Dancing with the Stars, nor am I familiar with any of his martial arts films. All I know of Mark Dacascos is that he's that hot Asian American "Chairman" guy on Iron Chef America, and every time he takes an orgiastic bite out of a ripe bell pepper, I swoon.

Look at that hair on his chest (!). Plus, he's straight, and he's one year older than me. I need a powder.

Mr. Dacascos, welcome to the short list.

I never tire of the secret ingredient announcement: tofu, honey, buffalo, coconut ... I want it all. Although I have to admit that "beer" was not his best moment.



Wouldn't it be great if one day Dacascos did as he always does and eyes the waiting chefs for a pregnant beat or two, ratcheting up the anticipation for that secret ingredient announcement, then triumphantly unveiled a massive bin of phalli while bellowing "Dildo!" as a prank of sorts.

Imagine the stunned look on Bobby Flay's face or Cat Cora's eyes flattening into slits as her tongue instinctively curls around the corner of her upper lip, visions of impromptu "recipes" filling her naughty mind.

That's how things would roll if I were in charge, people. I am so underutilized.

Bonus mandatory admission: I want to rub Mario Batali's belly: rub rub rub rub rub.

* * *

My twisted Stephen King "Carrie" inspired George Will fantasy

Behold one woman's reverie:

George Will is behaving in his usual self-entitled over-inflated arrogant manner on "This Week with George Stephanopoulos" when a glint of metal appears at the top of the screen--it's some sort of hook being lowered onto the set.

Oblivious, Will continues gassing on, condescending to All Who Might Witness His Word, as the tiny hook centers over his head. The hook lowers slowly ... slowly ... slowly ... until it makes gentle contact with Will's toupee. Being so intoxicated with the sound of his own voice, Will does not detect the precise mechanical grab of the hook upon his rug.

Then, just as slowly as it appeared, the hook ascends, lifting Will's shaggy mop right along with it.

Two outcomes are possible:

1. Will does not notice and we get to watch the rest of the gang gulp down guffaws while their faces turn rainbow colors.

2. Will does notice and we get to gleefully enjoy that moment when confusion gives way to the crushing realization that the crowning roof of his facade is exposed.



How beautiful would this be?

Only trouble is, I think Georgie may have gone and gotten plugs by now.

Shit.

* * *

Dear Abby redux

The following letter appeared in "Dear Abby" in the Cleveland Plain Dealer on 12/2/09. Miss Van Buren, however, gave substandard advice that Miss O'Brien has magnanimously offered to correct.

Dear Abby: Is it rude to label one's leftover food when staying with relatives? My husband, daughter and I visit his family often. When we go out to eat and bring leftovers back to the house, we usually label them if we want to eat them later. It has never seemed out of the ordinary to me. I was raised that way. My mother always said that if I didn't want something eaten by one of my siblings, than I should label it. Recently, my husband's sister (who is 16) asked if she could eat the rest of some pizza we had bought the night before. I politely responded that I planned to have it for lunch. She remarked that she thinks it is funny that we are so protective of our food. It got me thinking--is our behavior odd?
--Taken Aback in Washington

Dear Taken: Now let me get this straight: you, your husband and your snot-nosed kid stay with your in-laws "often;" and as thanks for tolerating your wet towels, stinky feet on the couch, coffee slurping and god-knows-what else, you label your food. Of course, that's only "if we want to eat them later." I guess some leftovers are fair game. No reason to give up your label love in that case, Miss America. Just mark the second rate slop like this: The leftovers contained herein are shitty and we're not going to eat them. Hence please enjoy the true meaning of the words "Doggy Bag" and feel free to enjoy our over-chewed dregs.

I suppose if you had some weird food nut allergy gluten-free dietary health crap going on, there might be an exception, but withholding a lousy piece of leftover pizza from a 16-year-old kid doesn't get it, shitbag.

Is your behavior odd?

Odd doesn't even come close. You are an asshole--an industrial strength asshole. Your assholiness is so grand that other assholes can only collapse in your presence and weep at your feet. Your agonizing proportions defy existing asshole categories. You are singular, unparalleled and rare. I dub you **Wonder Asshole.**

Here's a Code Orange News Alert: your in-laws start snickering and gossiping about how you put your name on your pasta salad containers and half empty Cokes days before you arrive and continue for weeks after you leave. They roll their eyes over what an insufferable tightwad you are and how unfortunate it is that you married into the family. What your in-laws ought to do is hand you your miserable leftover pizza crusts along with directions to the nearest motel and show you the door.

Perhaps someone will recognize this situation (because your in-laws undoubtedly share the hilarity of your antics with everyone they know) and will forward this post to them. Although these are clearly gracious and tolerant people, I hope they have a good laugh and consider preparing the house for your next visit with a few labels of their own:

Not for use and/or consumption by Wonder Asshole.

* * *

Interview

Alanna Klapp interviewed me for The Writing Show. You can download and listen from this link. There's an iTunes button over there as well if you prefer to get the podcast that way.

Many thanks to Alanna and Paula B. for putting this together. I had a great time.

I know you are but what am I?

From last week's "Police Blotter," the Sun Star-Courier:

DISTURBANCE, WHITNEY ROAD:
Several residents called police Sunday because they heard violent screaming and yelling coming from a nearby apartment.
The resident causing the ruckus, who was home alone, told police he had been drinking and was arguing with himself.

* * *

I like him. I like him a lot.

They tried to murder me but I got rich parents

This, people, is why we have the Internet.

Old cemetery

Located at approximately 7001 Broadview Road, Seven Hills, OH. Click on any to enlarge. Full resolutions available here. Please credit and link me if you use them.

Grammarous punctuality

Commas, while useful, can make text, appear choppy, and uneven.

Sometimes it's hard to believe the author is as excited as that exclamation point implies!

The mild-mannered hyphen can turn a string of otherwise well behaved words into a hellish modifier. A pair of come-up-and-see-me-around-midnight stockings can eventually lead to: Don't think you can fool me with that I'm-trying-to-prove-I-haven't-been-fooling-around-so-I-stopped-and-picked-up-a-broasted-chicken-for-dinner offering!

Really?

Really.

Really!

Ampersand is a long word for a small symbol (&). The at symbol (@) gave us all pinpoints in cyberland on the wings of an email addy. The asterisk is an outlaw (****); and the number symbol is deeply misunderstood (#). You're never supposed to use the percent symbol (%) in prose text. You're always supposed to use the word "percent." Why? Did % do something naughty?

Now dig how those aliens above the numbers on the keyboard can transform into their secret alter egos when shin unhappily meets coffee table.

"#@*%!"

It's a sweet sort of show-don't-tell policy, almost quaint.

You want to see something sad? Take the content out of a pair of parentheses.

( )

The apostrophe relaxes everyone. Who would you rather negotiate with?

Don't vs. Do not
You're vs. You are
What's vs. What is

: )

No comment.

: (

When you use all uppercase letters THE READER FEELS LIKE YOU ARE SHOUTING AT THEM.

The most authoritative punctuation mark, however, is the period.

. . .

Guernica redux

Picasso's 1937 Guernica, which depicts the bombing of a small town during the Spanish Civil War, affirms that despite our technological advances, little has changed over the last seven decades.

People eat, sleep, copulate, procreate, defecate, hate, love, create, murder and grieve now just as they did then; but I wonder what Pablo would say about this three dimensional computer generated interpretation of his work: