Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Baby's Arms

You may have seen this already, as it is a few months old...dreamy Kurt Vile video, shot by Todd Cole, on a Windows phone....




Technology.

Finally.....Ask Erin!

Ok, I am finally sitting down to answer some Ask Erin! questions. Thank you for your patience! 








I am trapped. My bf and I broke up last month and we shared the same group of friends. Now, I feel like I have no one. I just can't bear to hear about him or hang out with people who remind me. Suggestions?






Dear Trapped,

It is quite common to be feeling this way after a breakup. If you've been with someone for a considerable length of time, then you're bound to have a bit of an identity crisis afterwards, particularly in the realm of mutual friendships. 

Here's the thing- it won't feel like this forever. Don't throw your friends away, but focus on the ones you are closest to, and let them know that you don't want to hear about your ex, what he's up to, etc. Any decent friend will understand and accept that. 

Also, it's time to do the things that you didn't do when you were in the relationship. Take a ballet class, learn another language, make a new friend, train for a marathon, start a book club, do something you've never done or have neglected doing. It will open up your world in a healthy way and expand your horizons beyond the social group that you shared with the bf. 

Do something nice for yourself every day. 

xo





rarely wrong erin, i hate my job, like really actually detest it. not so much what i do, but the people i work with. every day is a small trip to hell. i had been looking for another job, but i can't find anything that makes sense. either its too far away or the salary is less than what i'm making. help! i am stuck in the mud. is it possible to have a mid life crisis at 30?






Dear Stuck in the Mud,


No, I don't think you are having a mid-life crisis, but you are having a just-entered-my 30s-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life crisis! Ok, so your job is clearly making you miserable. You gotta get out. 


Are these other opportunities really dead ends? Any way to negotiate the salary or commit to the commute for the sake of your sanity? 


Or better yet, visualize exactly what it is you want. Write it down- what your ideal work situation would be...salary, colleagues, proximity to house. Be as specific as possible. Manifest what you want. I fully believe that we can and do accomplish this. 


Let me know how this works for you!


xo



 




Keep the questions coming....and I promise to keep this a regular blog feature. To ask me a question, email me- rarelywrongerin@gmail.com or use the formspring box on your right. Your anonymity will be honored. 






XOXOXO











Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Harvest Moon

Singing moon, Wine Moon, Elk Call Moon....Show us all the things you would like to do.













I won't be hiding, in any trees.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

I wasn't sure I wanted to write this...



        “You can love Jesus and Glitz.” Or, so says the t-shirt of one of the tragically captivating moms on the reality show Toddlers and Tiaras. For the past few days, I have tried to write about the combined feelings of horror and fascination I have for that show, and for that world of Preschool Pageantry. I have mounds of opinion on the subject. It’s fairly easy fodder, yet an invisible wall keeps stopping me. 

Three days time will mark the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. Frankly, a lump in my throat formed while typing that sentence. We were all affected by 9/11, as a nation, and as individuals. But, I have been avoiding any sense of reliving that day, minimizing what the impact was and still is, mitigating my emotions that surround the subject. Thinking that would work, I have gone about my business, ignoring the fact that my old pal insomnia has crept back into my bed, and equally ignoring the incessant anxiety dreams that have plagued what little sleep I have managed to amass. 

Like a slap in the face, I am forced to recognize the date. I have to relive that day, maybe even write about it. It can’t be assuaged by trashy television and humor, at least not right now. The sadness associated with 9/11 is seeping through me and refuses to be silenced. Visceral in nature, I feel it in my bones, in the untethered tears that are just now streaming down my cheeks, in the parts of my brain that I’ve attempted to keep under lock and key. Akin to phantom limb pains, my body remembers. My soul remembers. The wound feels fresh, urgent, potent. It’s still there. 

On the morning of September 11th, 2001, I was awoken by my roommate, Andrew. We had received a call, from a friend in New York, telling us about the first tower being hit. We ran downstairs, turned on the television, and watched awe-struck and impotent, as United Flight 175 crashed into the second tower. In some ways, big and small, the world was collapsing. I became cognizant of the fact that my father was flying to Los Angeles that morning, from Boston, on United. 

I frantically phoned my father, my step-mother, his secretary, his best friend. I couldn’t reach anyone. For nearly 2 hours, I sat, in agony and fear, that my father was on that plane. Finally, in one of the best phone calls of my life, I spoke to my step-mom. My father had, at the very last minute, changed his flight, and boarded an alternate plane the night before. Sobs of relief washed away the adrenaline surge, giving me time to breathe before I absorbed the rest of what was to come. 

Like many, I knew people who died that day, but thankfully, no one in my my immediate circle of friends and family. I cannot begin to imagine the complex affect that would have on me, on my son, on the past decade of my life. Ten years ago, on September 11th, I was in my mid-20s; still struggling, off and on, with a heroin addiction that began when I was 13; going on my first date with a man, who I would later have both a disastrous marriage and a beautiful son with; unclear on what direction my life would take. 

Now, we are here, ten years later. I am in my mid-30s, divorced, following my dreams, and being a mother, to a beautiful 8-year-old boy who forever altered my life, in the best possible way. Try as I might to turn away from that day, from those ghosts, the memory persists for a reason. The phantom limbs of 9/11 linger, and they hurt, but they also remind me of how 
profoundly grateful I am for all that I have.