An exciting week: in numbers

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days Katsumi has been riddled with plague: 10

batches of broth made from scratch: 3

dollars spent on ingredients for homemade Pho: 70**

dishes washed after Great Pho Disaster of Sunday Afternoon: 18

loads of laundry done: 12

hours of television watched: 35

hours devoted to the original Star Trek series: 6

hours spent at East Boston Neighborhood Health Clinic: 4

bottles of cough syrup with codeine procured from the visit: 1

milligrams of codeine drank by ErinirE: 0

In short, whoever said I’m not the best wife ever is a dirty fucking liar.

**who knew oxtails were so expensive?


ND Shoot 5: it was bound to happen sooner or later.

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I wrote that maudlin post yesterday while sitting alone at a wine bar near our hotel, drinking reisling and eating a salmon nicoise salad. I may have been weeping a bit, I don’t really know. I’d spent the previous two hours at the hotel pub with Mr. Solutions, taking advantage of happy hour specials and waiting for Obama’s interview on the O’Reilly Factor. At some point, we both realized that we were plowing through our drinks kind of fast, but rather than doing the sensible thing (stop treating your screwdriver like the bottomless iced tea at TGI Friday’s), I decided to ignore my better judgement (switch to smirnoff-and-pineapple). By the time ol’ Bill lit into our Democratic nominee, I was pretty much shithoused. And also, starving.

Mr. Solutions had made some bizarre resolution about not leaving the hotel, so I set off across the parking lot on a solo mission while he satisfied himself with another Blue Moon and some weird turkey cream soup leftover from happy hour. During the five minute walk to the restaurant, my mood went from giggly-drunk to mud-sunk depression… hence the weird post and possible public weeping. I might have really veered into a grey zone, had I not been on the receiving end of several bizarre texts from our DP, my favorite of which was “Dude, I got cindy McCain ruckus”. Like, what does that even MEAN? So thanks, Mr. S, for pulling me out of the funk before I made a total asshole out of myself.

When I got back to the hotel he was still at the bar, so we had another drink and yelled at the TV for awhile during the closing moments of RNC coverage. Pusser and Buckethead joined us, briefly, and I have a vague recollection of loud verbal transactions involving our call time and/or Bill O’Reilly’s tie.

This morning, I’m happy to report, was the morning I brought my legendary brand of hungover to the Fargo / Moorhead area. And all over Robin’s parking lot.


Welcome to the nineties, erin, seriously.

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The other night, I was faced with a problem. I wanted to watch the new episode of FRONTLINE, but channel 2 doesn’t come in on our television. Since it was Monday and since I am me, I pouted, whined, and banged around for awhile before unexpectedly receiving a revelation from on high.

WHO NEEDS CABLE? I COULD WATCH THAT SHIT ONLINE.

My other goals for the evening were to take a bath, paint my toes, and drink a bottle of wine. I don’t think I need to tell you how awesome it was to simultaneously cross all four items off my list: computer set up next to the tub, pedicure tools within arm’s reach, bottle of pinot balanced on the counter.

I may never use the couch again, thanks to the Miracle of the InterNet. But if this wine thing keeps up, I very well might need a new liver.


I’d call this a spoiler if shit wasn’t already damaged beyond repair

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GREY’S ANATOMY.

Holy bleeding christ, where to start.

Last winter.

Last winter, when my grandparents were dying left and right and i was in the middle of a job transition, I got the Fever Plague from Hell and spent four days at home on the couch. I was too sick to read, too sick to drink (EVEN SCREWDRIVERS, which is insane), and all i could do was watch TV. I spent one day watching Angels in America, and the rest of my sick time watching as much Grey’s Anatomy as I could stuff past my eyelids.

I loved the show instantly – it reminded me of the best of what I once thought working could be: camaraderie, debauchery, constant drama and intellectual stimulation. I identified with all of the characters (although I found Meredith whiny and unpleasant to look at – like a full-grown gollum with hair) and, blame it on my fever, I thought that Christina Yang was the smarter asian twin I never had. The last episode of season two had me sobbing – SOBBING – on the living room floor, wrapped in a blanket with a glass of merlot in my hand. Those three days watching Grey’s on repeat might have been the highlight of the whole winter, as far as I’m concerned.

I spent a long ten months waiting for season three on DVD, and on September 11, the day of its release, I happened to be home sick again. By some stroke of luck, Blockbuster had one disc left on the shelf, and that disc was disc one. I went home, curled up, and hit “play all”.

The first disc was fine. the third disc slid downhill a touch. by the fifth disc, i had doubts about the future of the series, and by disc seven i had surrendered my faith in humankind.

Are we all familiar with the phrase “jump the shark”? It represents a point in a TV series when the plot becomes so ridiculous that it can never recover. It was coined during an episode of Happy Days where whats-his-name with the car donned water skis and literally JUMPED A SHARK. Dumb. Stupid. Over-the-top. Kind of like season 3 episode 2, where a a patient was rushed into the OR with a tree through his chest. The title? “I Am A Tree”. Or, better yet, episode 15, featuring an endless, poorly-constructed CG shot of a ferryboat in flames. The only thing worse than the CG are the drawn-out “Dramatic Reaction Shots” aped by the cast we’ve come to know and love. Episode 17 is essentially one long, lame dream sequence, and by the end of it I was like, jesus, just kill the girl off already. She’s ugly. It’s time. But the true shark-jumping moment came in the opening shots of episode 22: Addison Shepherd in a little red cabrio en route to LA. “Painful” doesn’t BEGIN to describe the experience of watching a show with such promise tank so completely.

Remember “Saved By The Bell: The College Years”? No? BECAUSE NOBODY CARES ABOUT THE HIGH SCHOOL KIDS AFTER GRADUATION. I mean, seriously, by the time “college years” aired, they were all at least 27 and had been in high school for about 12 seasons. It’s not about reality, it’s about staying with your theme. I’ll watch Grey’s season 4, but now that they’re not interns, and now that there’s a mini-meredith, and now that addison is moving and george is all married and moody, seriously. Fuck that. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Like basketweaving.


yes, I’m at work today.

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Is it possible to have a TV hangover? ‘Cause I think I’ve got one. Yesterday I woke up, I went to the store, made french toast, took a bath, then sat my ass in front of the TV for six hours. Katsumi and I watched the entire Pats game, the 2-hour season premiere of 24, then the last half hour of some horrible program called “case closed” or some crap like that, and I still can’t get the end montage song out of my head. It was the Gin Blossoms, by the way.

I think I need a shot of IV caffiene to get me going here this morning. TV is definitely bad. I mean, this malaise probably COULD have SOMETHING to do with the six-pack of beer I drank, but I’m pegging the bulk of it on the commercials.


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