Erin With an M

I cannot change my heritage, or my suburban, middle-class upbringing. I have no cultural story to tell, and my complexion blends in with that of my peers. The only thing “unique” I have going for me? My name. Nope, not Marian. Mary Ann? Nah, only one word. Mern? What? Mary? I believe I have an “n” at the end of my name. Marie- ERIN WITH AN M. That usually sticks pretty well with people, I have learned. As does the twenty second guess-and-check that lasts longer than it should. Still, I want my future classmates to know me as more than “Erin with an M.” When I pack my U-Haul next autumn with a mini fridge, comforters, towel turbans, and everything else Bed Bath and Beyond has to offer, I will pack with it my personality and the morals my parents have instilled in me. However, I will leave behind eighteen years of history, and what makes me, me. My reputation will wait at the doorstep - whatever it may say. Good student, pianist, tennis player, youngest of four, Friday Night Lights (the show) addict, yearbook Editor, the list goes on an on. All of those things have shaped my personality, but the thousands of other students who arrive with their U-Hauls on move-in-day will not know that. Time to burst the bubble, and well, enter a new one. College represents something that will only roll around a few times within our lifetime: a fresh start. Not that I plan to leave Chagrin with dirty hands, but I believe everyone can appreciate a clean canvas. Not necessarily to recreate yourself, but to become the person you have always envisioned. How do I want others to perceive myself at college? Good question. Honestly, I wish I had an answer. I guess my main concern lies with people viewing me as, well, odd. My stereotypical appearance and honorable social skills can only fool others for so long. Common catchphrases of mine, including “that’s soooo Ashtabula” (so what?), “Oh my gosh, Franks” (Frank who?), and ALLright (said with a subtle squeak) will most likely have potential friends run in the opposite direction. So will my Instagram account that pictures solely my cat, and my food fetish for Greek yogurt. My personality lies at all ends of spectrum, as both the loud extrovert, reserved introvert, and occasional happy medium. No matter how others perceive me, I just look forward to finding myself outside the bubble, and away from the security of my reputation. Time to brace myself for a thrilling, four years of self-discovery and name-pronounciation clarifiers. 

Puhleeeeease.

Dear Ms. "My Boyfriend Wants to Break Up, but I Do Not,"

You have found yourself playing a classic game of relationship hide-and-go-seek. A lack of mutual love will always make for an awkward situation, but I urge you to understand one thing: your boyfriend still loves you. He has just forgotten. The affection you two share has simply disappeared when you turned your back. It lurks somewhere between the first date and the potential break-up, hiding behind forgotten memories, and under the spontaneity you once had. Your job? To find it. To help him find it. Women worldwide have experienced the same heartbreak as you did. However, heartbreak requires a breakup. And you will NOT succumb to a breakup. No. It sounds like you feel very attached to John Doe - why let go? Remember: love does not serve as a one-dimensional emotion. You have a say in this relationship, too. Just because he wants to severe your relationship, you decide you should let him? WEAK. Oh, but of course. You cannot forget that you represent a "strong, independent, woman" blah blah blah. That pro-women, anti-men sentiment has never acted as more than a gimmick. Just a bunch of gibberish. Balderdash, bologna and bananas. Whoever said "a woman does not need a man" has clearly never had one. Trust me, honey. You want your man. So go out and get him. Investing in a steadfast relationship has never proven easy. However, this investment will undoubtedly benefit you, a 21st century woman, in the long run. A relationship simply makes things, well, easier. Double the paycheck, double the jewels, and double the emotional punching bag when you need it. He says he doesn't want to continue your relationship. Clearly he has forgotten all that you had. Take him back to those first dates, when the affection felt new and tender - no more than a bud. When the sparks flew, and the flirtatious banter fired. Don't forget his interests, either. He likes golf, he likes burgers, and he likes tinkering around with his new car. So, get him some golf balls, cook him a cheeseburger, and if you really want him back - buy him a new Chevy. Remind him of his manliness. His impressive testosterone levels. When he can finally bask in his macho-man persona and see a beefcake in the mirror, he will actually begin to like you again. And maybe then, only then, will you have saved your relationship. And any chance you had in this world.

Don't forget the cheeseburger,

Ms. Serensky

P.S. If you believed a word I just said, then you need to seriously reconsider your involvement in a relationship, and mull over some "me time." Just in case you did not sense any morsel of my uncontrollable sarcasm, I suggest you take a good look at yourself in the mirror. Yes, you see a strong, independent woman. And you should find nothing wrong with that. My real advice? Drop the man who questions your relationship. Indulge in a carton of Ben and Jerry's "Phish Food," burn his picture by your bedside, listen to some Joni Mitchell, and watch some romantic comedies. Then, move on. And forget the cheeseburger.

Leyla, get back in your cell. Don't make me get the hose.

I glanced briefly at the prompt sheet in advance last week, and have stressed over this particular blog ever since. When asked for my favorite movie, I usually share a variety of my many, go-to flicks. Now that I must choose one that will forever remain in the blogosphere, I feel an enormous weight on my shoulders. However, after days of painstaking, internal debate, I have finally made a deicision. Based on nostalgia rating, quote-ability and overall viewer experience, the award for "Mairin's favorite movie" goes to "Mrs. Doubtfire." So sit back, relax, and enjoy my blog.

I find that most people have seen, or at least heard of this feature film. However, for reasons I still do not know, I have yet to find someone who shares a similar obsession. The plot revolves around Daniel Hilliard, a recent divorcee, who loses custody of his children to his high-strung ex-wife. In a desperate attempt to spend time with his children, Daniel impersonates an English caretaker known as Mrs. Iphegenia Doubtfire. Possible name of my future daughter. Now, the idea of a middle-aged man disguised as an elderly nanny may not sound like your typical scenario, but I find its obscurity and heart-felt moments unforgettable. "Mrs. Doubtfire" combines drama, family plight and desperation with love, laughter and tear-jerking moments. Often times I find myself showing this movie to my friends, hoping they will love it just as much as I do. I build up anticipation ("Wait for it! The next scene is funnier - I swear!"), but sometimes dissapoint. Nonetheless, I always laugh until my ribs hurt. Every time. Only while watching my favorite scene, however, does my laughter turn into core-working, calorie-burning howls. This scene consists of Daniel impersonating a number of incompetent Nannys on a phone interview with his ex-wife. In order to evoke here paranoia, he verbalizes every mother's nightmare. Nanny impersonation #1 seems to run quite smoothly, until he suddenly shrieks, "Layla, get back in your cell! Don't MAKE me get the hose." Nanny impersonation #2 casually asks the interviewer, "Are your kids well behaved? Or do they need like, a few light slams every now and then?" Just when you thought nothing could surpass "a few light slams," nanny impersonation #3 concludes with "I don't work with the males. 'Cause I used to be one." This moment may just resurface every time I reunite with my sisters - the only people with whom I share a mutual "Mrs. Doubtfire" obsession. Just in case you did not find these excerpts humorous, I attached the link so you could reconsider. Still, I suggest you watch the whole movie. Something about a man, disguised in a latex mask and bodysuit with cankles, makes for the perfect Friday night flick. It gets funnier- I swear.

Kat Luvr

I awake to the prickle of whiskers on my cheek,

and a subtle lick of sandpaper, oh so meek.

A moist, stuffy breath takes over my ear,

the purrs of sweet nothings sounding near.

I smile after hearing a drawn out hiss,

followed by an affection kiss.

A velvety coat rubs on my bare skin like silk,

yet matted down with relics of yesterday’s milk.

A stifled meow resonates above,

no more than my cat, showing some love.

I tackled this poem with the understanding that I would attract two types of readers. Those who sneer at the mere sight of felines, and those who find nothing abnormal with my morning ritual. I decided that, no matter my audience, I could still find a way to evoke the "heebie jeebies" from my peers. My decision to conceal the mystery source of "whiskers on my cheek" (1) until the poem's end undoubtedly prolonged the feeling of discomfort from my readers. Still, with eight more lines to fill before I disclosed the unknown lover, I decided to use diction to arouse feelings of awkwardness. First, the gentle and mild diction of "meek" must have evoked a morsel of unease from my peers. I do not know what makes this word uncomfortable, but something about it demands the reader to cringe. In the next line, I included the word "moist" (3). The most cliché source of discomfort in the dictionary? Yes. Affective? Yes. Next, I allude to "sweet nothings," (4) then proceed to rhyme "hiss" (5) with "kiss" (6). I believe that these references combine to suggest intimacy between myself and the secret admirer, which surely evoked a moment of anxiety. Although most of us can call ourselves adults, I have not forgotten that few of us can completely keep our composure in the presence of slightly sexual references. Lastly, I refer to a silky coat that grazes my "bare" skin (7). I also mentioned that this coat appears knotted with leftover 2% milk. I do not know if this mental image created as much discomfort as it did confusion. Either way, I guarantee it helped me conclude the poem's 30 seconds of pain.

From Barbies to Boy-Girl Parties

Dear 11-year old Mairin,

I get it. You are stuck in a confusing limbo between childhood and adolescence. Not necessarily a kid, but not yet a teenager. You can walk into town after school, and even stay at home alone. Pretty soon, you will ask Mom to drop you off at the corner just before the movie theater. Though cumbersome and a little frightening, embrace this age. Only a few years remain until parents and teachers start harping on about responsibility. So take it in. Until then, I will share with you 10 things that I wish I knew during this transition from Nickelodeon to shaven legs.

1. Do not feel pressured to "find yourself." This coming-of-age obsession, no more than a gimmick, does not apply to girls your age. Do not expect so much of yourself. Stop trying to "be someone," and only then will you find your true self.

2. When Molly and Megan call you "albino" and tell you it means "pretty" in Spanish, do not believe them. I guess a little Vitamin D never hurt anyone.

3. Embrace your awkwardness. You tower over your peers, and will soon earn the nickname "gangles." But trust me, you will learn to love this height some day. And oh, eat. Keep eating. Eat as much as you can. You barely have any meat on those bones of yours, and this 11-year old metabolism will not last forever.

4. Just in case you did not already know, Santa does not exist.

5. When your siblings have secret "get togethers" with lots and lots of "milk," do not tell Mom and Dad when they get home. You will regret it.

6. Find your passion, and explore life outside the bubble. You will come across many apathetic and ignorant people in your lifetime. Do not let this be you. Celebrate your inner nerd.

7.  Forget about popularity. You will lose friends, but in the process, make new ones. And be glad you did.

8. Side bangs do not look good on you.

9. Do not try to rush the road to teenage life. I know that lip smackers and eye glitter seem irresistible, but these last few years of pre-makeup childhood will not last forever. Take advantage of them.

10. My last bit of advice? Remember that you are awesome. Soon enough, middle school will chew you up and spit you out as a different person. The confidence and love you have towards yourself will ultimately determine who this person is.

So there they are, the ten commandments your 11-year old self should know. Good luck. You'll need it.

Sincerely,

You in seven years.

Fourth Child. Second Hand.

I stood at the top of the stairs and watched the chaos spill out in front of me. My family moved frantically from room to room, slamming doors and striking an uncanny resemblance to the McCallister family from Home Alone. Our annual summer vacation to the glamorous state of Minnesota had finally come around, as did the race against our estimated time of departure. As my brother hurriedly packed his toiletries, he took advantage of his authority and sent me to the basement to bring him a Fresca. Ever since my two legs could walk, I became the designated refreshment fetcher. My seven-year old self slavishly obeyed. I was the youngest - a helping hand. The second hand.  

I scurried up the cold and concrete basement stairs with my brother’s soda in hand. Once I entered my room to finish packing, I noticed my luggage appeared more bulky than I had originally left it, full of unfamiliar items. Laying on top of my Scooby Doo pajamas were a bag of Bobbie Brown Cosmetics and a colorful pile of bras. Definitely not mine. Just when my confusion reached its peak, my sister strutted into my room with her hair in a towel. She asked if she could use the extra space in my suitcase. I obliged. I am, after all, the second hand.

Only two hours behind schedule (compared to the usual three), my family finally began our expedition to the Land of 10,000 Lakes. We assembled our suitcases in the luggage carrier, and climbed aboard “Big Red.” My two eldest siblings sat comfortably in the middle seats, while my sister and I habitually made our way to the back row. We mutually agreed to an unspoken seating chart, in which age determined our fate for the next thirteen hours in the Chrysler mini van - which for me included motion sickness and unequal AC distribution. This bad luck pressed on, and before we even made it to the end of the neighborhood, my back seat buddy placed her calloused foot upon my lap. “Foot massage?” I had no choice. I was the second hand. 

The Grocery Bowl

I woke up on Super Bowl Sunday like a kid on Christmas morning. The highly anticipated advertising, great company, and Beyonce halftime show provided some excitement towards an otherwise dreary Sunday in the slums of February. Apart for a bunch of men running around in tight spandex, the Super Bowl would amount to nothing without a choleric buffet of hot wings and chili. Every year, my mom and I add to this selection of food with the simple, yet undeniable, pigs in a blanket. A true crowd pleaser. I set off for Hienen's after church that morning, aware of the hundreds of football fans that would do the same. I drove to the store with incentive. With determination. I turned on the radio to 102.1, tapping my fingers against the wheel to the guitar riff of 'Eye of the Tiger." I knew what awaited me. Extreme grocery shopping. The intensity picked up as I rolled into the parking lot, and a soccer mom in a Honda Odyssey immediately cut me off. I played musical chairs with the other parking-spot hopefuls for about ten minutes, weaving aimlessly through the lot. The Super Bowl shoppers and I exchanged ugly glances and angry honks in a steadfast competition for a spot. Only after entering Hienen's did I realize that parking the car was only half the battle. In the midst of this enormous pre-game crowd, I snagged a shopping cart, set my purse down, and set off for the first item on my list: Pillsbury cresents. I stopped for no one. Not even free samples. My first stop, refrigerated foods, could not seem more far away.  I hesitantly pushed my cart, trying to hide my anxiety and intimidation amongst the chaotic crowd of last minute hor d'oeuvre makers. I notice a middle-aged woman next to me, sporting a perm and a San Francisco 49'ers jersey - the same one who nearly initiated our fender bender in the parking lot. We exchanged a brusque grin after making eye contact, and continued on our way. After awkwardly walking side by side for the next few moments, we internally acknowledged that we shared a mutual goal: the crescents. What began as a leisurely stroll, quickly turned into a relentless race for the blanket of the pigs. By the time passed through produce, the electrifying chorus of "Eye of the Tiger" rang in my head, fueling the intensity. I grabbed the biscuits before she could say 'interference.' Mrs. Mini Van stood in disbelief as I smugly dropped the package in my cart. I won this battle. My extreme grocery shopping excursion did not stop there, however. This victory inspired me to seek out the final item on the list: mini hot dogs. I made my way towards the packaged meat aisle with a newfound confidence, lacking common curtesy by failing to move for other shoppers. I embarked on this journey for two ingredients, and two ingredients only. Upon arrival at the department of Lunchables and Oscar Meyer, I found an overwhelming display of hot dogs. Beads of sweat started to form as I glanced at the selection. Mini Franks, Lil Smokies, and BBQ Wieners. It was simply too much. I had to make a decision. Angry mobs approached the aisle as time ran out. I only had the offensive advantage for a few more moments. How could I choose? Then it hit me. I would buy all three. Touchdown! I quickly grabbed the dogs and threw them in my cart, just barely averting the tackle of determined shoppers. As I escaped the madness and strutted towards the checkout with my flakey rolls and assorted wieners, I swear I could hear Europe's "The Final Countdown" playing overhead. I had just wont the Grocery Bowl.