Are you there alcohol, it's me Erin.

Hi. I’m Erin. Or Grace. Or G-race. Or Nugget (only to a very specific few). Basically, I respond to a lot of things (mostly out of anxiety. hi, I’m stress personified.) And yes, that is a tower of BudLight in front of me — that’s me, I’m a builder.

Just kidding, I’m a graphic designer. How did I get to this point? Good question. I’m still working on my answer, but so far this is what I know: it takes a lot of time to tell my story (not for any particularly fun reason, it’s just fucking time consuming). It’s long and meandering, so let’s rip this band aid off quickly. In my tried-and-true speed-dater format, here goes:

I was born on Christmas of 1990, to parents who thought they couldn’t have any more kids. My mom calls me a miracle; I call it a mistake (much to her chagrin). When I was born, my sister was six and a half and already didn’t believe in Santa. Yes, my parents made her fake her belief until I was good and ready to be over Santa, eleven years later.

My first home was Greensboro, NC. I don’t remember much more than our big orange cat Perseus, our green carpet in the kitchen, or the long driveway where my family first discovered my clumsiness (as I fell face-first into the pavement). We moved when I was four, back to my mom’s hometown of Syracuse, NY.

Only one year was spent in Syracuse, so I have very little memory of it. There was a blizzard that year, and I remember asking my mother in May when Christmas was going to be over so I could ride my new bike (from my fifth birthday) -- which, until that point, had been sequestered to the garage.

After the cold of Upstate NY, moving to sunny Orange County, CA was a godsend. Sunshine? And no humidity? My mother was in heaven and I was five, so less understanding of any of this shit. But like beaches? Fuck yeah (minus the sand because I’m a freak and hate dirt).

About here is where I should mention that my father is in education and my mother is in healthcare. I’m often asked if I’m an army brat, but no, we’re just nomads. A lifestyle that I happily have taken with me into my adulthood.

Anyway, in Orange County, my sister and I went to a nice episcopal prep school (thanks, dad) and this is where I learned that some people have too much money. It was here that I started my life of prep schools and wearing uniforms and having to find myself underneath clothing designated by someone else. I’m sure you can imagine it (mid-90s what is up): plaid jumper, white socks with the frills, black shoes -- all topped off with the bang-cut I gave myself and horribly crooked teeth. Pretty dang cute.

If we were crunched for money at this time, my parents did everything in their power to keep that knowledge away from me (also, I was 5-8 years old so my money anxiety hadn’t matured yet). We had a beautiful house on a cul-de-sac with a pool and I had little on my mind other than american girl dolls or challenging my neighbor to a pavement duel (okay, this is one of the more fucked up things I did as a kid: we would stand barefoot on the pavement until one person couldn’t anymore. My feet were tough as leather).

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I’ve officially reached the point at which I’ve talked too much about myself (ah, there is the neurosis) and I’m sure all you people reading, because I know someone has to be reading this (hi, mom!), have heard enough about me. We’ll pick back up on this at some other point.

For now, I’m going to go eat soup because I’ve been sick since Friday. What is it about being an adult that makes being sick so glamorous? Why, yes I did spend all weekend in my bed. Oh, the bags under my eyes are gone! What do you mean we’re out of juice?

Stay tuned for next week when I paint a pumpkin and eat all of the fall snacks. I am living for this season.

Okay, bye loves! Erin

most adult thing done this week: signed up for NYT crosswords, I love crosswords. They make me feel smart and stupid all at the same time.