What Do You Mean You Don’t Own a Plunger!!??!!

Okay ladies, as much as we hate to confess or admit it to our men (even though they obviously know) we all poop. It’s a natural thing- haven’t you read the book, “Everybody Poops?” Well, my boyfriend found out that I too am a human being on Saturday morning. We had been on a 3 day juice cleanse since New Year’s Day consuming only leafy greens, carrots, citrus, and other fruits that can easily be juiced in our juicer that we got on New Year’s Eve as a part of our new toxic free lifestyle. Yes, we watched way too many documentaries one day that caused us to throw away all of our “toxic” cleaning and beauty products and replace them with all natural products from Whole Foods. You only live one life, right? Anyways….after three days of eating, or should I say drinking only fruit or veggie drinks (and not pooping might I add), we went out for Persian food Friday night for our friend Ray’s birthday. It was delicious and I ate my little heart out, filling my belly with pickled cabbage, mahi mahi kabobs, rice and plenty of hummus. I am sure you can see where this is going…

I woke up the next morning at 5:30 am with a familiar feeling in my tummy and tiptoed to the bathroom to do my business without waking up Anthony. Hey- maybe there was a chance that he DIDN’T know that I pooped yet. After I was finished and feeling 100% better, I naturally took the next step and flushed. Except it didn’t flush….the water rose and nothing happened. I immediately began to sweat and began searching through the “plumbing” file in my brain trying to figure out what to do next. I will just grab the plunger and fix it, I have done it in the past- no big deal. And by the silence in the air, I knew Anthony was still asleep-so,  he’ll never know. I knew that he didn’t have a plunger in the bathroom so I figured that maybe he kept it in his closet or under the sink. I tiptoed to the closet to find nothing, then to the kitchen and again found nothing. Oh, shit! My eyes widened a bit and I felt a warm rush fill my body. I searched through the “plumbing” file again and turned to Plan B- let the water go down a bit, flush again and pray that it wouldn’t overflow. And if it did, write a note saying, “nice knowing you,” immediately leave the premises, get in my car and drive as fast as I could back to Maine.

I noticed that the water did go down a bit, so I tried to flush it again, praying to God that it would work. Although it didn’t overflow, it also didn’t go down. As desperate as I was, I wouldn’t be taking any extreme measures like sticking my hand in there or having Anthony deal with this. The next best thing to do was wake him up and as much as I didn’t want to do that, I had reached the end of the “plumbing” file and was short of a solution. I walked out to the bedroom, threw my hands up in the air as if surrendering to a crime and blurted out, “I clogged the damn toilet babe!” I was mortified but hoped that maybe he had a solution. He turned over, looked at me with sleepy eyes, trying to wake up and understand what was happening all at once and said, “huh?” I asked him where his plunger was and he responded that he didn’t have one. “What do you mean, you don’t have a plunger?” I was screwed. I assured him I would take care of the situation and went back into the bathroom, to panic and figure out the best solution to this major problem I had on my hands. I first went downstairs to his lobby, woke up the doorman and asked him if he had a plunger. Mortifying moment number two of the day. He didn’t have one- of course! So, the next best thing? I would just go buy a plunger- duh! I called Ralph’s and prayed that a.) they were open and b.) they carried plungers. To my liking, it was a yes to both and I was out the door at 6:00am on a Saturday morning to go buy a plunger at the grocery store. Not before telling Anthony that if he went into the bathroom I would kill him, of course…in my mind, he would have changed the locks while I was at the store and disconnected his phone if he saw the “situation” in there. It was not my finest moment. After purchasing the LAST plunger in the entire store and a few extra items to make it look like I didn’t just wake up and clog a toilet (even though my pajamas, squinty half-asleep eyes and Russell Brand looking hair wasn’t an obvious giveaway) I was out the door and on my way back to clean this mess up. LITERALLY. 

I got back to his apartment, walked directly into the bathroom and went to work. After about 15 minutes, more nervous sweating that it wouldn’t work because it has never taken this long and an intense arm workout, everything went down. It was the happiest moment of my life. I cleaned everything up, gave a little wink to the toilet, which I had bonded with over the course of the morning, almost thanking him for working with me and went back to bed. All I kept thinking was, thank god my boyfriend still loves me…what a good man!

Welcome to Pukestown, Population: Erin

We have all been there at one time in our life- drank too much on a Friday night to the point where you are absolutely out of commission the next day. And that day was probably either when you were in college or on your twenty-first birthday, right? Well, not for Erin! I still apparently think I can party like its 1999. And party I did on Friday night! Instead of “Who Else But Erin?” I should have been asking myself, “Who do I think I am?”

The night started off simple with dinner at Sugarfish with Anthony, where we had sushi and sake. So far, so good. Next, we met our friends, Ray and Nicole, at El Cholo where my first of many bad decisions that night took place. I thought it was fine to order a skinny margarita and a shot of tequila- apparently I packed my balls in my purse that night as well. Then we went to visit our friend Jeff at Rock’N Fish at LA Live, who was bartending that night. I took a seat, took out my wallet and my balls and ordered a vodka based gingerbread martini. Even drunk that drink sounds disgusting, but I thought-‘tis the season! To sum it up, my gingerbread martini tasted like grandma in a glass. It was as warm as cookies on a snowy day but tasted a little fragrant like perfume….grandma in a glass! As my boyfriend told me the next morning (while he was seeing me at my absolute worst), “you should have stopped there, Erin. You should have stopped there.” Stopped? Stopping is for losers, right? So, I ordered a crazy ass rum drink that was larger than life and is making me gag in my mouth right now thinking about it. Needless to say, I danced my ass off at Ray and Nicole’s house afterwards, gave her a big smooch and don’t remember stumbling home that night.

The next morning, I awoke next to Anthony (thank God, right?) with a splitting headache and no recollection of how I got there. And yes, I am 31 years old. Mom, you can stop shaking your head now- we walked home… I may be an idiot sometimes, but I do follow the rules. When I walked out to the kitchen to get a drink of water, I followed the path of clothes that led from the door to the bed. In Anthony’s house, you have to take your shoes off at the door and we both have a pair of flip flops that we are allowed to wear inside. As I mentioned in prior posts, my boyfriend has a touch of OCD. I was shocked when I saw that his flip flops were still at the door, which means (and it didn’t take Scooby Doo to figure this one out) that he violated his own rules and walked to his bed….BAREFOOT! I then saw one of his socks, a broken shot glass by the fridge (huh?) my jeans (inside out but sitting on the ground neatly like I floated out of them), my ring and my necklace. I at least had the respect to put on my 'inside' shoes (who cares if they were on the wrong feet) and walk to bed last night. I scarfed down four aspirin, chugged some water and went back to bed, feeling like I just got ran over by a reindeer…damn you, grandma!

After having a hilarious, nonsense filled conversation with Anthony about Snoopy’s best friend, Woodstock (Anthony was convinced his name was Tutu) I began to feel a little queasy. My first thought was, maybe I should eat something. So, I drank a glass of almond milk and had a handful of gingerbread men cookies. One would think I would have avoided gingerbread altogether after last night but apparently I wasn’t that smart. A few minutes later, I felt better and as I was telling Anthony that the gingerbread were doing a happy dance in my stomach, they took a left turn at my liver and headed straight up the esophagus. BARRRRFFFF! Well, at least I felt a tad better now. And because I was feeling a TAD better, Anthony thought I needed pozole, a Mexican soup that cures hangovers but doesn’t have tripe in it like menudo. And this amazing pozole was in the Valley- ugg! But because I thought it would help, we got in my car (yes, I drove…again, I must have packed my balls) and started driving.

Just as we were pulling out of the parking garage, I took a bite of my banana, which I thought would be good for my stomach, and just as fast as it went down, it was on its way up. I pulled over quickly and puked outside of Subway sandwich shop. Again, I am 31 years old. Ok, now I was better. To the Valley we go! We finally get there and as we are searching for parking outside the Mexican restaurant, I felt some more churning in my tummy. There was nothing left but bile in there, but apparently it needed to exit my body at that very moment, in the 7-Eleven parking lot. Yup, 31 years old. I should having given up right then and there and chalked it up on the blackboard as Erin 0, Alcohol 1 but I continued to make my way into the Mexican restaurant, order the soup and tried to eat it. It got the best of me though, and I told Anthony to get it to go as I darted outside to my car, sat in the driver’s side, and puked out the door as people on the streets and my boyfriend watched. 31 years old.

After a long, uneasy ride home, I spent the next 8 hours on the couch watching Duck Dynasty in my PJ’s. What did we learn here, kids? Don’t drink! Or if you do drink, leave your balls at home. And if you do happen to bring your balls? Don’t order the gingerbread martini!

Who Else But AISLEY?

For those of you who know me personally, you have probably had the pleasure of meeting my beautiful eight year old niece, Aisley Emaline Snell, or at least have heard various stories about her. Simply put, she is amazing. She is beautiful, smart beyond her years, can hold her own with her three brothers and is the sassiest little girl in Maine. Sassy in good way, of course. I decided to write about her this week after reading #16 on her Christmas list, sparking a raised eyebrow, a giggle and my thought- Who else but Aisley? Before I tell you what that one specific item was, I would like to share a few stories about Aisley that will give you a good idea just how hilarious she is.

When she was younger, she was on a youth soccer team and her coach was a little overweight. One day, she went up to her, put her hand on her coach's belly and asked, "are you pregnant?" When her coach embarrassingly said no, Aisley answered, "are you sure?"

My mom can't swim even though she took all three of us girls to swimming lessons at the YWCA when we were babies and my parents have had a pool since 1989. Usually, she just wades in the shallow end or watches her grandkids swim. One summer, Aisley put swimmies on her arms, made her wear a swim cap, handed her a kick board and an inner tube, pushed her in the deep end and said, "you've got to learn sometime!"

My dad graciously waits for Aisley to get off the bus everyday after school at 3:15 pm sharp. Instead of welcoming her grandfather with a big hug, she throws her backpack at him and says, "do your job!" and makes him carry it up the driveway.

And her Christmas list this year? After scanning through the normal, Operation board game, fortune cookie maker and Nerf disc shooter, I come across #16. Fuzzy black handcuffs. I died. I literally died. I called my sister for an explanation and she said, she had no idea why she wanted them but Aisley told her to make sure they don't hurt her wrists. Who else but Aisley?

Howie Who?

I am usually overly prepared for any celebrity interview I conduct for Starpulse down to the point of studying facts about their life and career and coming up with obscure questions that will make them laugh and remember who I am- a true professional. But every professional screws up sometimes. Here's the story of my little hiccup and how I bounced back like a champ.  

My Starpulse colleague texted me last year around Christmas time asking if I could cover an interview for her. No problem I said, who will I be chatting with? Her response: Howie Day (well at least that is what I read via her text message). Great, I loved Howie Day! He was an amazing singer, liked life on the edge (he supposedly dated Britney Spears after the two met in rehab) and was even from Maine- I would have loads to talk with him about. I told her I would handle it, got the name of his publicist and began my intense research on Howie Day, from here on just referred to as 'Howie.' Howie's publicist called me and said we would be meeting at Starbucks at 5:00 pm that Friday, where I would conduct the interview and even get a few pictures with him. I was getting excited about the interview, had all my questions ready and even had a fantasy that we would meet, connect on the Maine thing and become best friends.

The day of the interview, I drove to the Sherman Oaks Starbucks where we agreed to meet, as giddy as a school girl. (What does that expression even mean, anyways?) I walked in, ordered a latte and sat down as I didn't see Howie inside yet. I waited and waited and still nothing. At about 10 minutes past 5:00, a girl and a guy walked in, both of whom I didn't recognize, so I naturally just looked away and kept waiting. Until the two came up to me and asked if I was Erin. I was confused but confirmed my identity with the strangers. The girl apologized for being late and introduced me to 'Howie', standing by her side. Howie? Howie who? The girl then asked if it was okay to do the interview out on the deck where we had a little more privacy. I had no idea who this elusive Howie character was but followed the two outside. My mind was racing at this point! Who was this guy and what the hell was I going to ask him? I had all my questions prepared for Howie Day and unless he lost 15 lbs, shrunk a few inches and had major reconstructive surgery, this was not him. I was going to have to pull something out of my butt and handle this interview smoothly. Maybe I can start out with a few generic questions about who his influences are, what his Christmas plans were and what's up next for him and I would figure out by then who he was.

As we sat down, I looked at him closely and did recognize him a bit, but from where? Was this Howie Day? I thought I would throw a Maine reference out there right away, to see if he caught it, or batted it away. I think I said something like, "it's a bit chilly outside, but not as chilly as Maine!" Wait for it, wait for it.....his response: "That's true, it gets a bit chilly in Florida too, where I am from." Dammit, plan failed. Now what? Generic question #1 failed as well and just when I started to feel a sweat bead roll down my forehead, he threw me the biggest puzzle piece ever, and I solved the mystery with two words. Backstreet Boys. Ding, ding, ding- light bulb...it was Howie D. from the Backstreet Boys. Although I felt like the biggest idiot, I finished the very successful interview, got my picture with the former boy-bander and drove away with a great story to tell. And sweat stains the size of Russia.

Blast From the Past- ‘Essie the Scort’

Anytime I get frustrated with my car (often), like when she decides to take 10 minutes to start in the morning when it’s cold, or when an interior light magically stops working, I think back to the days of my first car and it all seems okay. When I was 16, I bought a black Ford Escort with $500 cash that I called ‘Essie the Scort’ or John (after John Travolta, whose picture was taped to the dash…by choice). It was my first car so I absolutely loved it. I loved the freedom, I loved the independence and now, I love looking back at my experience with Essie aka John.

First of all, my Escort was a stick shift, which was fine considering I learned to drive on one and every car I have owned since then has been a stick, but I have to admit, the first few months driving a stick are really hard, especially in an old car. I remember running through countless yellow lights because I didn’t want to stop, or rolling through practically every stop sign so I didn’t have to use that dreaded clutch. The worst was when I actually did get stuck at a red light, on a hill. I remember sweating buckets and praying no one would pull up behind me so I wouldn’t roll back and nail them once the light turned green.

Secondly, as time went by, my 1987 Ford seemed to shed some of its features that were necessities in a vehicle. For instance, one day the radio just stopped working. No worries, I had a solution for this. I loaded my boom box up with those massive D batteries and stuck it in the back seat. Now I had a CD player, a radio and a tape deck. I would just have to reach back and change the music or ask my friend who needed a ride that day to be the backseat DJ. Then my automatic seat belts stop working. Remember those things? When you opened the door, the seat belt would slide from the front of the door to the back to secure you in? Well mine just stayed in the unsecured position and made it a tad uncomfortable to drive. Next up to fail? The actual driver’s side door. It just didn’t want to open, so I had to crawl over the center console and into my passenger seat to get out of the car. Lovely! Speaking of center console, the best was when both of my window cranks fell off and needed to be stored in the center console until either myself of my passenger got hot and needed to roll down the window. “Hey, can you pass me a window crank so I can get some air up in here? Thanks!”

My favorite part about good ol’ Essie the Scort was the day I decided to get rid of her. My dad suggested that I bring it down to the junk yard to see if I could sell her for parts. Maybe the parts that were kept in the center console! I drove her down to the sad looking junk yard, the death ground for old cars, not wanting to say goodbye but also excited because I had a sweet Plymouth Laser waiting for me at home and spoke to the man in charge. He looked her over, spoke with my dad a bit, then turned to me and said, “I’ll give you $40 bucks….” I looked and my dad, then at my sad, little Escort and replied, “You’ve got yourself a deal!”

Big Fat Fatty

For the most part, I am a very healthy girl who tries to maintain a ‘Schmegan’ lifestyle (vegan most days but I am not opposed to meat either- strange, I know) and works out at least five days a week. But I love food and enjoy eating and have daily fights with my inner fat kid. Like, I see a bowl of peanut M&Ms and my skinny side looks the other way, while my fatty bo-batty side grabs my hair and jams my hand into the bowl in into my mouth. I usually lose against my inner fat kid, hence working out at least five days a week. But even though I am in shape, I have always had a knack for eating and some may even call it a talent. My best friend, Alicia used to tell me that I should enter eating contests and she would bet money on me and clean up because people wouldn’t expect me to pack it in. I have been known to eat a foot long Subway, a family size bag of chips (from the grocery store, not the dinky ones at Subway…I don’t mess around, kids!) a few cookies and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Completely turned on, aren’t you fellas? When I go home for the holidays, my family calls me either the garbage disposal or the endless pit as I binge until I pass out, like I have never seen food in my life. Ever since I was a kid, I have been known to love all kinds of food (I think I was four when I had my first Whopper at Burger King- and finished it) and my mom even used to give me giant pickles to eat when I was a baby.

But I think I may have met my match and have bitten off more than I can chew, literally. A few blocks away from my work, there’s a sandwich shop owned by actor Jerry Ferrara called Fat Sal’s. They have a sandwich (actual picture above) that is available to order for their food challenge only for a mere price of $49.95. It consists of cheesesteak, cheese burgers, pastrami, chicken fingers, bacon, mozzarella sticks, fried eggs, jalapeno poppers, fries, onion rings, chili and marinara sauce on a 27 inch garlic hero. If you can finish the burger in 40 minutes or less, the sandwich is free and you get to name your own “fat sandwich.”  Mine would obviously be called “Dumps like a truck” and be 100% Schmegan. So, last year I told my co-workers I could do it (before I saw the picture and only if I could throw it up afterwards) and now it is on the company calendar for December 7^th. I am either going to put in my two weeks now, or change my identity- pronto!

The Homeless Whisperer

I am sure you have heard of the ‘Horse Whisperer’ and the ‘Dog Whisperer’, but ‘Homeless Whisperer?’ Yup, only Erin. It is always weird in LA when you see someone you know in an obscure place (it has happened to me countless of times) solidifying the saying, “it is such a small world.” But when you have seen more than a handful of homeless people in different parts of the cities, a few years apart in some cases, you start to wonder what the heck is going on.

About five years ago, I worked at Peet’s Coffee on Sunset Blvd in Hollywood and a homeless man by the name of Michael used to come in all the time for some water and an occasional cup of coffee. He was very nice and always talked to the staff, so I never forgot him. Cut to 2012, and I find myself working in Westwood near UCLA. For those non-LA’ers, it’s not very close to Hollywood (especially if you are pushing a shopping cart). One day, I see Michael in the village walking around with his cart, whistling away. I felt like I saw an old buddy and I think I waved. He looked at me like I was crazy, and that says a lot coming from a homeless person.

Earlier this year, there was a homeless person that used to hang out near the library next to my office building toting around more luggage than even a regular person has belongings. Seriously- this lady had about twenty five rolling suit cases lined up along Glendon Ave. It looked like a Samsonite convention! I would see her every day when I drove to work; sometimes she would be in a trash bag dress, other times in a bright pink sweat suit. But I was never surprised to see her plentiful outfits considering how much baggage she had. One day, out of the blue, her and all her stuff were gone. Odd. Very odd. Did she move during the night? Did someone abduct her? Was she a figment of my imagination? I was worried for about a week and then I moved on with my life. A few months later I was walking on Pico Blvd (about 3 miles from where she used to reside) when I saw her on the sidewalk waiting for the bus! I smiled (knowing she wasn’t abducted) then went on to ponder how the hell she moved all her stuff!

My last repeat sighting just occurred this week. A few days before Halloween, I saw this guy wearing a SpongeBob Square pants outfit on Wilshire Blvd close to my office building and I assumed it was a Halloween costume. I think I even beeped and gave him a “thumbs up.” It was rather hilarious. It was hilarious that is until I saw the same exact guy in the same exact SpongeBob Square pants outfit in Culver City a few days after Halloween, sitting on the sidewalk looking very homeless. Should I have my own show on TLC? Move over Long Island Medium, here comes Los Angeles Homeless Whisperer.