tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76846930411845507422024-03-04T23:28:04.440-08:00ejs is me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger353125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-85591136633766543722012-03-19T09:00:00.001-07:002012-03-19T17:53:33.137-07:00T.HanksMy friend Erin always said that life goes in circles. Sometimes you’re at the top, sometimes you’re at the bottom.<br /><br />This was right after college, when everyone was at the bottom of their circles. Because, let’s face it, immediately post-college is a black hole of suckiness. Sorry, Hannah. But her point was to look up, because eventually you'll be at the top again. You can’t stay in the Pit Of Despair forever.<br /><br />I’ve just come up from the bottom and I’m sitting at the top of a really big circle. It might be my first authentic Top Of The Circle moment. I’ve got a job that I love which keeps my writing chops honed, I have a boy so amazing that he secretly signed me up for an all-day “Television Puppetry” class taught by a Muppeteer, and I’m living in a city with endless possibilities for entertainment. I have real, actual hobbies that aren’t “hanging out with friends” and “drinking” (although I still enjoy both of those greatly) and I have a cat whose favorite pastime is cuddling…immediately after pooping. Hey, you can’t have everything.<br /><br />I’m sure I won’t be at the top of this circle forever. Call it pessimism or realism, but if the circle theory is correct, eventually you have to dip back down. So while I’m still up here, I want to enjoy it as best as I can. And part of that is going to be letting go of the blog, at least for now. Posts usually take me an hour at best--the good ones much longer--and I want to give over that time to other things, like fostering my relationship with Joe, enjoying the city and the sunlight, and using my writing energy to help my work become a thriving business. <br /><br />So I want to say thank you to everyone who followed along, whether loudly or quietly. This blog is literally why I’m in the good place I’m in now, and you forced me to stay at it. Don’t be surprised to see blog posts pop up now and then, and maybe in full force again one day. For now, I'll just say: see you later.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjHakL88KbSR0fum4DzFqaT3LlfpJVFYTVejSVitvIzB8ifAj_ax_Srh1iYahQ0OtO49qhIxmIBq6aSo-P7NExd1Cs4JbMXt9x2tdG0f_ujrobExyDyJ-bej7gel4cnYzcjQkSmx4SR8i/s1600/t-hanks-cards-lg.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMjHakL88KbSR0fum4DzFqaT3LlfpJVFYTVejSVitvIzB8ifAj_ax_Srh1iYahQ0OtO49qhIxmIBq6aSo-P7NExd1Cs4JbMXt9x2tdG0f_ujrobExyDyJ-bej7gel4cnYzcjQkSmx4SR8i/s400/t-hanks-cards-lg.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721773580935970610" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-21673137227906251672012-03-13T19:06:00.006-07:002012-03-13T19:16:50.207-07:00To Those Who Made Me Feel Worthless:To those who laid me off,<br /><br />To those who threw me under the bus during meetings,<br /><br />To those who ignored second and third emails,<br /><br />To those who underpaid me,<br /><br />To those who insinuated that I don't work hard,<br /><br />To those who wouldn't help when they could have,<br /><br />To those who said I wasn't good enough,<br /><br />To those who couldn't see my value,<br /><br /><br />I kindly invite you to SUCK IT. Because I'm hired full-time for a kick-ass job and it's BETTER THAN YOURS.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.ten23.net/-/macros/dole.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 349px;" src="http://www.ten23.net/-/macros/dole.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-14243190210934851862012-02-28T15:52:00.004-08:002012-02-28T16:16:46.624-08:00Regina Phalange: The Heart Of A ChampionA few weeks ago, I took Regina Phalange to the vet. I should have taken her around last June, but there was this whole thing called Looming & Subsequent Unemployment that kept me from doing it.<br /><br />And since this isn't a blog about my cat (good god) I will skip ahead to tell you that I FINALLY took her this month and she has a mouth disease called Stomatitis which is apparently very painful. Poor little Gee Gee Kittenface Meowington McMeowMix. (Which is basically what I actually call her. It's faster.)<br /><br />She went in for surgery this morning and the vet called to say she survived it, the champ! He took out about half her teeth, but left her ferocious canines so she can still instill fear into all who dare cross her. Technically, they don't know the cause or cure to stomatitis (and yet we put a man on the moon 40 years ago but WHATEVARRR) so the surgery--which was NOT free--may actually have done nothing for her. And she'll have to be on pain medication for the rest of her life.<br /><br />But I believe in Regina. You know why?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZOH4q8gFeqgAe5wDq1aRB4_C5Ybn6wLXW5MbE0V9PcZ4q1vDCLVuou4dC0MqI92MI2BbrvPwp1iCHGf56LuKvaIc0Qg3FaVc9ZZDDj7niJnqXB6CNr2lwD_Yr1vLvE0FFbNwpA1bn7tb/s1600/regina+phalange+american+hat.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZOH4q8gFeqgAe5wDq1aRB4_C5Ybn6wLXW5MbE0V9PcZ4q1vDCLVuou4dC0MqI92MI2BbrvPwp1iCHGf56LuKvaIc0Qg3FaVc9ZZDDj7niJnqXB6CNr2lwD_Yr1vLvE0FFbNwpA1bn7tb/s400/regina+phalange+american+hat.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714341107186495970" /></a><br /><br />That's why.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.ten23.net/-/macros/911.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 31px; height: 15px;" src="http://www.ten23.net/-/macros/911.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-38383509052709123422012-02-27T18:24:00.006-08:002012-02-27T18:45:26.254-08:00Women In PoliticsI have something semi-serious to talk about. Sorry, I assume you came here thinking I'd be talking about Aunt Meryl at the Oscars, but I have an issue I'd like to bring up which I've been thinking about since Saturday. But Meryl would be proud of my seriousness. If it helps, imagine I'm in a sparkling gold dress and wearing turtle shell frames while we discuss.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yPhW0HkVmYmXK9rgqk5mDXeHarJYAA5KCzffNJ5YXChf46loOn3ej5RroayC0Ay0TnnTbm3esbK-aAPUcg0SkVWqwhxg34lOD0x03-kQDk3uDapAYGea8BuI1lN_BEkYfQUk0flYR0gQ/s1600/meryl-streep-named-2012-academy-awards-best-actress-589651.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yPhW0HkVmYmXK9rgqk5mDXeHarJYAA5KCzffNJ5YXChf46loOn3ej5RroayC0Ay0TnnTbm3esbK-aAPUcg0SkVWqwhxg34lOD0x03-kQDk3uDapAYGea8BuI1lN_BEkYfQUk0flYR0gQ/s400/meryl-streep-named-2012-academy-awards-best-actress-589651.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714011623447052034" /></a><br /><br />AHEM.<br /><br />Ladies and their periods--AM I RIGHT?<br /><br />Just kidding. So I want to talk about women in politics. In a VERY general way, because if there are two things I know nothing about, it is politics and the people who care about them.<br /><br />Joe and I just watched<span style="font-style:italic;"> Ides of March</span>. The one with the Clooney/Gosling half face. You know. So the premise of the movie--no spoilers--is that Clooney is a politician trying to become president, there is backstabbing and secrets, and things get real.<br /><br />When the movie was over, I turned to Joe and made this observation:<br /><br />All these characters are men. And they all lie and hurt each other and say all these really abrasively rude things to each other. They sneak around and do whatever it takes to win. But because they're men, it'll all just blow over eventually. They may hate each other inside but in general it's all, "OH WELL! C'est la vie! What are you gunna do? It is what it is. Six of one. Sleeping dogs. Don't count your chickens. ETC." And they'd all probably work with each other again. It's like there's no such thing as a burned bridge.<br /><br />But I don't believe that's how women would work. After all the bad things happened, women would be mortal enemies, sworn to hate each other until the day they die. They couldn't work with each other! They'd barely be able to be in the same room as one another. MAYBE they'd be able to grin and bear it, but it would NEVER be water under the bridge. They would carry those transgressions with them to the GRAVE.<br /><br />Hell, I myself got into a fight with one of my best friends about whether or not she was being passive aggressive, and it completely tore us apart.<br /><br />I'm not saying that either way is right. I'm just making an observation about how the two genders deal with conflict. And with the way that politics works, with its inherent back stabbing, degrading speak, and coercion, maybe the reason there are so few women in politics is because they just don't play that way.<br /><br />What do you guys think?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-45671410186366933102012-02-22T14:36:00.005-08:002012-02-22T16:11:36.860-08:00Meryl On IceI shared this video with Hannah, but once again this is something that the world needs to experience. I don't think you understand JUST how much I love this clip.<br /><br /><object width="512" height="288"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/hYZ16izbKKlr52eTxAo7Jg"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/hYZ16izbKKlr52eTxAo7Jg" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="288" allowFullScreen="true"></embed></object><br /><br />A) Aunt Meryl. Because she literally can do anything.<br /><br />B) <a href="http://gossip.whyfame.com/files/2011/04/jason_sudeikis_mtv_movie_awards.jpg">Jason Sudeikis</a>. I can't. This video has OFFICIALLY put him on the <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2010/10/5-celebrities-id-settle-down-with.html">Famous Men I Would Marry</a> list. In fact, he might replace Ed Helms. Who I love, but I think he's better suited for another person (COUGHMichelleCOUGH).<br /><br />That's all. Just watch and enjoy.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-21020799688909151602012-02-20T07:27:00.001-08:002012-02-20T16:50:13.579-08:00Emily's Oscars Drinking GameOh my God, I am SO SORRY. That was a serious blog break there and trust me, it hurt me more than it hurt you. Work turned into a crazy storm of crazy. So remember how I have a contract-to-hire job through March (and then hopefully for the rest of our lives)? And how it's a mobile app company? Well the app is launching this week and needed to be submitted to the app store last Friday. Which means the last two weeks have been like this:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.anticscomic.com/comics/kermit.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 146px; height: 93px;" src="http://www.anticscomic.com/comics/kermit.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />But now things are hopefully going to move at a SLIGHTLY slower pace and I should be home before bedtime and able to write posts now and again. Since I've been so absent, I literally had to send Joe away on Saturday so I could spend some time "catching up on the internet." Blogs are unread, Tumblr animated gifs are unseen...hell, I barely had time to watch Parks and Rec twice. (Which I did. Because some things are important to me and it's not my real life.)<br /><br />So my first entry back is a fun one. While I've been away, I've been thinking about the upcoming Oscars this Sunday. I'm really quite excited, despite the fact that I haven't seen 99% of the movies. But it's the OSCARS. It's going to be a SPECTACLE. Also, Billy Crystal is back. And I'm pumped, even though I'm sure people will get all pissy and say he's not as good as he was. These are the same people who say, "The Super bowl commercials weren't as good this year." EVERY FREAKING YEAR.<br /><br />YOU SAY THIS EVERY YEAR.<br /><br /><a href="http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lycsv5rMUV1qg64aho1_r1_500.gif">EVERY YEAR.</a><br /><br />Ahem. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it. On to the topic at hand. The Academy Awards. To prove my excitement about the event, I have formulated my own special drinking game. Here we go.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Emily's Oscars Drinking Game</span><br /><br />Drink when someone at home says, "Jeez, what's with all the women wearing [color] this year?"<br /><br />Drink when an actress is wearing crazy jewelry that makes you angry at first but then five minutes later you love it.<br /><br />Drink when Sigourney Weaver is wearing a one-strap dress.<br /><br />Drink when no one mentions that Melissa McCarthy played the unstoppable Sookie St. James and you start feeling very possessive of your Melissa McCarthy. YOU DON'T KNOW HER LIKE I DO.<br /><br />Drink for every man wearing some alternative suit like anyone cares. (bolo ties, maroon jacket, black shirt, etc).<br /><br />Drink when you see Daniel Day Lewis' suit and it makes you question his real life. <br /><br />Drink when Brad Pitt looks terrible because his hair or beard are grown out <br /><br />Drink when you decide that deep down and despite it all, you'd make out with him anyway. <br /><br />Drink when you realize the only dress you can pull off is Helen Mirren's and even then...no. <br /><br />Drink when they do some kind if montage with classic movies and you spend the whole time trying to remember what the song is in the background and it turns out to be the theme to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEzy8_67VmU&feature=related">Dragonheart.</a> (Or possibly <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5TiDe5C0OFc">Last of the Mohicans</a>, but really, it's probably Dragonheart. 1:40. Trust me.)<br /><br />Drink when Billy Crystal comes out and you start weeping for days past, even though you are only in your twenties.<br /><br />Drink when Billy Crystal looks at someone he knows in the audience and smiles <a href="http://www.blogcdn.com/blog.moviefone.com/media/2011/02/crystal.jpg">like a kindly grandfather</a>.<br /><br />Drink when they start off with Supporting Actress and you're all, "Oh so I guess we're just starting this thing right away. No big deal, supporting actresses aren't people, too. They don't need time to collect themselves."<br /><br />Drink whether or not Sookie wins. Either way you're going to need a drink for this moment.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ppSsywKl9RRMTgOKG4OxXNzEHrrFiZ1n14xWqnwzou1Jpb0Gl0NrWhMsRCzCd1Iglr3svVUPqQUT0gOG2gCkxKRX-WL74dVoGqrnGF5vM1v1FEX1WGHizHwgxV5Gb52JfC_wo4y7tnJJ/s1600/sookie+drunk+margarita+gilmore+girls.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ppSsywKl9RRMTgOKG4OxXNzEHrrFiZ1n14xWqnwzou1Jpb0Gl0NrWhMsRCzCd1Iglr3svVUPqQUT0gOG2gCkxKRX-WL74dVoGqrnGF5vM1v1FEX1WGHizHwgxV5Gb52JfC_wo4y7tnJJ/s400/sookie+drunk+margarita+gilmore+girls.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707972912873257410" /></a><br />Drink every time they list a nominee and you say, "Who?" <br /><br />Drink when someone thanks Harvey Weinstein and you say, "Why?"<br /><br />Drink when someone says something abrasively Liberal and you're like UGH but really you technically agree with them.<br /><br />Drink when they do the In Memoriam and you're like, "Wow this is lame this y-- wait, HE died?! Awwwwww! *sniff, sniff* I LOVE the In Memoriam!" <br /><br />Drink when that person is <a href="http://www.usmagazine.com/celebrity-news/news/david-kelly-grandpa-joe-from-charlie-and-the-chocolate-factory-remake-dies-at-82-2012152">Grandpa Joe</a>.<br /><br />Drink when everyone cheers extra for Whitney Houston because they will and fine, I'll let it happen because I can't stop it.<br /><br />Drink when people act surprised that Disney•Pixar won the award.<br /><br />Drink any time you involuntarily <a href="http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lg7qb4V3731qebseoo1_500.gif">roll your eyes</a>.<br /><br />Drink when Sookie cries and so you start crying because you're best friends and you have a bond that shall not be broken.<br /><br />Drink every time Dustin Hoffman is amazing.<br /> <br />Drink when an actor tries to make a joke off the cuff and it fails miserably. <br /><br />Drink when an actor makes a joke and it fails miserably, but at home you're like, "BAH HA HA! Good one, Steve Martin."<br /><br />Drink when an actress comes out from the back and you hold your breath. Not because of her beauty, but because you're terrified that if anyone breathes, she might trip on her train.<br /><br />Drink when someone makes a joke about Tom Hanks and they cut to him and he immediately goes along with the joke and suddenly you're pregnant. <br /><br />Likewise <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ovI1O4K8_Hg&feature=related">Aunt Meryl</a>. <br /><br />Drink when the music cuts in on the second guy and he just wants to thank his wife and kids so you feel bad for him, but also get off the damn stage, there are actors to look at. <br /><br />Drink each time you ponder the fact that if actors are terrible at reading teleprompters, then WHO IS GOOD AT IT.<br /><br />Drink whenever you really want someone to win and then some schmo gets it instead and they're on stage crying happy tears and this is a pivotal moment in their lives and you're sitting at home throwing popcorn at the screen yelling "Oh boo hoo, you no-talent CLOWN."<br /><br />Drink when Billy Crystal comes out and you're like "Oh, right, this show technically has a host. Why is this supposed to be such a hard job again?"<br /><br />Drink when they finally finish off with Best Film but they spent so long on sound design and cinematography that you're worn out and don't remember why you started on this grand adventure in the first place.<br /><br /><br />Any others I missed? Comment with your own! Especially if you've seen the movies this year and know more about how this is going to go down than I do.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-27371540793140885372012-02-09T13:34:00.000-08:002012-02-09T13:35:36.579-08:00Busy Time For EmilySo to make up for it, I'll just remind you that this still exists in your life:<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2Ezfk7s1NyY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />You're welcome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-3244750421336699042012-02-01T12:14:00.000-08:002012-02-01T12:43:22.188-08:00I'm A FraudSo, I haven't checked this blog's stats for a while. I had no reason to believe anything had significantly changed around here. I've been posting moderately, people have been not commenting as per usual. Everything was all good in EJS land.<br /><br />OR WAS IT?<br /><br />Today I did my monthly check-in to see what's been going on in the past month. usually I see a small spike on the days I posted to my personal Facebook wall, even higher for actual good posts. Nothing too crazy. Here is what I saw today:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlHOD8-S05wAxv_zt07Gct2afmgGVacAJdTV5lObv4fx-eVutmB_102N7Fj1_ZVPRGarK0PUQVDGNuuk5jkOaBfizZXeQn6Nu0psmItR6Cf2TVPe8XKQKGo3uq4k3FIvmqRu8IJE4wkxe/s1600/My+blog+stats+for+January.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 351px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMlHOD8-S05wAxv_zt07Gct2afmgGVacAJdTV5lObv4fx-eVutmB_102N7Fj1_ZVPRGarK0PUQVDGNuuk5jkOaBfizZXeQn6Nu0psmItR6Cf2TVPe8XKQKGo3uq4k3FIvmqRu8IJE4wkxe/s400/My+blog+stats+for+January.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704264301994528690" /></a><br /><br />What the WHAT?! How? Why? How and why and where and when and for good measure whom?!<br /><br />Well, I did some sleuthing. Turns out, someone pinned a picture from here to Pinterest and it went Pinterest-level viral. Piral. Problem is, it wasn't an EJS original. In fact, it was flat out stolen by me and uncredited. It was the whale picture <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2011/12/pinterest-hot-chocolate-stitching-and.html">from this post.</a><br /><br />Should I have credited this picture? Absolutely. Why didn't I? I don't know, probably because I assumed all of 5 people would see the damn thing and they'd all be my immediate friends and family. Not an excuse, though. At all. Whoever took that picture absolutely deserves credit. But for the life of me, I can't figure out where the picture came from. I don't remember if someone sent it to me, if I found it on my own, or if it creepily swam up next to me unsuspectingly. I JUST DON'T KNOW. All I know is, I'm getting a HELL of a lot of traffic for something that I did not produce, and I have no idea how to properly credit it.<br /><br />So I'm asking all of you--if you know where the picture came from, or if you're the one who sent it to me, PLEASE tell me so I can credit it to the right place. Not that I mind the extra views, but I'd rather get them for the right reasons. And I vow from now on to give credit to pictures like that. It's not fair of me to steal traffic.<br /><br />I'm going to go hide my head in shame/fear of that picture now.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-9369951133516395162012-01-30T16:06:00.000-08:002012-01-30T23:12:23.682-08:0010 Differences Between San Francisco And Chicago Which I Have Noticed Since Moving Here1. <span style="font-weight:bold;">People are serious about this "Bay Area" business.</span> From what I can tell (aka, what Wikipedia says), The Bay Area--which also includes cities like Oakland, Berkeley, and San Jose--is about 7,000 square miles. The Chicago metro area is about 11,000. But whether you're from Skokie, Hinsdale, or I'd venture to guess Rockland, if you take one step outside of Illinois, where are you from? Chicago. It's just allllllll Chicago. But Christ forbid you say you live in San Francisco if you do NOT. I mean, these other cities have their own SPORTS TEAMS. That is how serious they are about being from the "Bay Area" and not from "San Francisco". I think it has to do with this whole limiting bodies of water thing they've got going on.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-weight:bold;">We live near the ocean.</span> I mean, EVEN NEARER than other people in the Bay Area. Which means, when it's foggy, foghorns keep us awake at night. CORRECTION: foghorns keep ME awake at night, because Joe falls asleep if you so much as say the word "pajamas". The problem is, the foghorns keep me awake because then I start thinking of Angel Marie's foghorn noises on Muppet Treasure Island.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7V6Vx6UriNygLSqNb1nwheQ7t5maks530ckgTGsA-996aEsHAySTXo8FB1twXr27Y4Y6naxE6pmNnz_uk_9jwjkL6SQfTQTAJ6xjJazjaKsGlQXxscoNVqD0fLWWD6XQRHLYC8n36SznJ/s1600/Angel_Marie.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7V6Vx6UriNygLSqNb1nwheQ7t5maks530ckgTGsA-996aEsHAySTXo8FB1twXr27Y4Y6naxE6pmNnz_uk_9jwjkL6SQfTQTAJ6xjJazjaKsGlQXxscoNVqD0fLWWD6XQRHLYC8n36SznJ/s400/Angel_Marie.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703616292047284322" /></a><br />Every time. Also, our windows don't keep out much sound because they are possibly the thinnest windows ever created. They might actually just be tightly stretched Saran Wrap. It makes sense: if there's never an insane winter, why bother spending money on stormproof glass? Because of the foghorns. THAT'S WHY.<br /><br />3. <span style="font-weight:bold;">To rival Luna, I present to you: Sleep Train Mattress Center.</span> Jingle: "Sleep Traaaaain! (*train whistle*) Your ticket to a better night's sleeeeep!" And what image do you see while this jingle is rolling? Why, a VAN, of course. Apparently proximity to Los Angeles does not make for better local ads.<br /><br />4. <span style="font-weight:bold;">San Francisco is some kind of magical Mecca for restaurants.</span> The combination between small-business love, hipsters, transplants from around the country/world, and young people with money creates a cesspool of creative, amazing restaurants. And you will never go to all of them. You just won't. There is always a slightly different experience you haven't had yet, and they all have descriptions to rival <a href="http://youtu.be/VKImAsimszU">Stefon's</a>. It's like that thing, where you sit outside with heating lamps and eat gourmet curry fried chicken while you watch a movie on a giant brick wall?<br /><br />5. <span style="font-weight:bold;">The weather.</span> So listen. I know Chicago winters are eyeball-numbingly cold. I'm not going to stand here and gloat. But San Francisco is not southern California either. Basically, if you wear close-toed shoes, a scarf, and a medium-weight pea coat, you'll be fine almost every day of the year. And I'm okay with it.<br /><br />6. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Some of these buses are HIT.</span> Like, Mickey Rourke-level hit. Graffiti everywhere. They look like how I imagine all of New York looked in the 80's. The double-length accordian buses have seen the worst of it, because the bus driver can't see people back there. It's become so bad, they have a special announcement on the bus that tells you how to report vandalism--in 3 languages, no less. I even witnessed it, too. I did what the announcement said and texted in the bus number, but nothing happened. I really wanted to be there when a squadron of police kicked open the back doors and dragged the guys away (how I imagine cops handle light vandalism). I could even bear witness because I took pictures of them IN THE ACT. But for nothing. Just so I could have pictures of two idiots ruining a bus.<br /><br />7. <span style="font-weight:bold;">On the bus, you don't notice the hills. In a taxi you DO.</span> I guess because the bus is going slower and pulling over every second, and a taxi is careening through time and space. But I really almost forget about the hills until I'm in a taxi.<br /><br />8. <span style="font-weight:bold;">I have never smelled pot so often in my life.</span> I guess it's the mixture of hippies and easily-attainable legal mary jane. But SERIOUSLY. Probably every day.<br /><br />9. <span style="font-weight:bold;">Homeless San Franciscans are on a whole different level than Homeless Chicagoans</span>. See, people in Chicago are homeless because stuff has gone down in their lives. They've seen things. The homeless people of San Francisco have only seen things because the people in their head TELL them so. Sure, there are crazy people in Chicago, too. But more often than not, Chicagoans are just cold and hungry and quietly smelly. The homeless people in San Francisco are of a louder, more rambunctious seed. One guy just stands on the corner blowing raspberries into the air to make himself laugh. They do not claim doorways to hide from the wind. They move freely and with gusto. And it requires a serious ability to ignore those around you, which <a href="http://hannahitsapalindrome.blogspot.com/2012/01/why-walking-past-homeless-people-causes.html">my little sister simply does not have</a>.<br /><br />10. <span style="font-weight:bold;">I do not get tired of Joe.</span>This isn't actually a difference between San Francisco and Chicago, it's just something I've noticed of my San Francisco experience. Before I moved, I was curious--when we moved to a new land with few distractions to keep us apart, could we survive on nothing but each other? The answer, so far, has been yes. I just don't get tired of him. EVEN when he calls laundry, "Laundo Calrissian" (Which he does. Every time.) I mean, maybe talk to me in 50 years when we're yelling at each other in Walgreens because neither of us can see to read the cough syrups any more (or perhaps did we witness that from an old couple last weekend). But for all the time I spend with the guy, and it's a LOT, I don't find myself planning his untimely demise. All in all, it's been pretty smooth sailing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-61092324299163064272012-01-27T09:30:00.000-08:002012-01-27T13:36:29.205-08:00Broadway Nerding Out in 3...2...Look. I love Hugh Jackman with the rest of them. He is the wholesomest wholesome this side of Wholesomeville. I tend to support his decisions without question, and I lament with the rest of them that 3 of his 4 IMDb "Known Fors" are Wolverine-related. Really? No <span style="font-style:italic;">Kate & Leopold</span>? No <span style="font-style:italic;">Someone Like You</span>? IMDb, I thought you were better than that.<br /><br />But Hugh Jackman is slated to be Jean Valjean in the upcoming MUSICAL feature film of <span style="font-style:italic;">Les Miserables</span>. (Liam Neeson, God bless you. I think you and I and Future Husband Colin Firth should drink early morning tea and silently read the newspaper together. But I assume you can't sing your way out of a paper bag. So you weren't about to reprise the role.)<br /><br />I'm suspicious. I'm suspicious of Hugh.<br /><br />Sure. The man can sing. We all know. We've all watched the <span style="font-style:italic;">Oklahoma!</span> clips <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UwaWiC965EY">on YouTube</a>. But THIS is what he is up against. THIS is what he has to aspire to. THIS is the likes of which he needs to be fitting in with:<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gnkx74j7PYw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />And I have my doubts. Despite the abilities to remix, cut, and start over a billion times if need be, I have my doubts about Hugh's chops. Well, his falsetto chops anyway. Not his mutton chops, of course. Because you, me and IMDb knows how well he pulls those off.<br /><br />What do you guys think? Do you believe in Hugh? What do you think about <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1707386/">the rest of the cast</a>?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-50663267226007442492012-01-24T09:30:00.000-08:002012-01-25T10:49:31.990-08:00Fantastic.It has been well-documented that I haven't seen many movies, I've just seen a FEW movies MANY times. Can I repeat every word to Titanic? Of course. But only tape #1. (Tape #2 was the sinking. That would be awkward to have memorized. And yes, I'm old enough to have watched Titanic on VHS. DEAL.) <br /><br />But there are tons of movies that I've just never seen. It took me 5 years to finally watch <span style="font-style:italic;">The Matrix</span>. And if you remember the leather-shrouded feelings people had about The Matrix when it came out, five years is an INTENSE amount of time to not know the difference between the red and blue pills.<br /><br />A lot of movies I missed were 80's and 90's classics that I avoided because I was either too young to see them, or too scared--let's be honest. I never saw Braveheart because I heard they ripped his guts out while he was still alive (Finally saw it, closed my eyes.) I still haven't seen Fargo because of the wood chipper scene. I KNOW, IT'S FARCE. I'll see it! I'll see it! GOD. <br /><br />So when Joe and I started dating, he went through his mental rolodex of movies I haven't seen (And no, I'm NOT old enough to have owned a rolodex, DEAL.) Then we added those movies into Netflix, and dubbed them "boy movies". Because sometimes apparently I'm not very feministic. In the past few years, I've been slowly knocking them down one by one. <span style="font-style:italic;">Field of Dreams</span>. <span style="font-style:italic;">The Godfather</span>. <span style="font-style:italic;">Top Gun</span>. The kinds of movies that, when I admit I haven't seen them, cause people to clutch their pearls in horror. Even boys. ESPECIALLY boys, frankly.<br /><br />When we started our Netflix Crusade, I took notes on the thoughts I had while I watched. But the notes weren't really calling out to me. So I lazily never blogged about them and let them float away from my mind. Now I find it hard to remember which explosions happened in <span style="font-style:italic;">Mission: Impossible</span> and which happened in <span style="font-style:italic;">Speed</span>.<br /><br />But yesterday I was made aware of an amazing, amazing little movie review of <span style="font-style:italic;">You've Got Mail </span>by Anne T. Donahue. You can find it on <a href="http://hellogiggles.com/old-lady-movie-night-youve-got-mail">Hello Giggles</a>. And yes, there are two more reviews. And yes, I believe it will be an ongoing series. YOU'RE WELCOME.<br /><br />What I'm trying to say here is: bitch stole my idea. And what I'm trying to say by that is: this hilarious woman did what I could not. And I'm jealous. And I want to awkwardly hold her hand.<br /><br />Mostly because she made this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTzxu5KWCflrSK7OUIYT3JTrsQxTmTc5tUtQ7C_TV5cd4lJhcR3_mqYfWPVa_gQTY8MsFKlFkPAiHtJvhDqkyT0Vmfqt0iYCKgUvZ4Xo_K-LMuhQ2cxvZgW8VzBs3iJd5CYuH4wlWogsX/s1600/Tom+Hanks+is+Tom+Hanks+in+Tom+Hanks+from+Hello+Giggles.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdTzxu5KWCflrSK7OUIYT3JTrsQxTmTc5tUtQ7C_TV5cd4lJhcR3_mqYfWPVa_gQTY8MsFKlFkPAiHtJvhDqkyT0Vmfqt0iYCKgUvZ4Xo_K-LMuhQ2cxvZgW8VzBs3iJd5CYuH4wlWogsX/s400/Tom+Hanks+is+Tom+Hanks+in+Tom+Hanks+from+Hello+Giggles.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701353556672378930" /></a><br />I MAY have reposted that image onto every media outlet I could get a hold of, including taping it inside printed newspapers.<br /><br />But also, her Pinterest (OH YES MY STALKER LEVEL HAS GONE THERE) has this:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XPpPzlaiAWZIJr-EXpGJsWQJwILkT6c4gJR7uMvB-oqKlMask262YUhN0nVa5L9NbY5tCjoD3047_rFzl2mLqYdJ3i68WrrsKqi1DEkifb3VdHwqnBdjSusbD8ziwRPhBi6kwEtAW2iV/s1600/babes+equals+tom+hanks.tiff"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0XPpPzlaiAWZIJr-EXpGJsWQJwILkT6c4gJR7uMvB-oqKlMask262YUhN0nVa5L9NbY5tCjoD3047_rFzl2mLqYdJ3i68WrrsKqi1DEkifb3VdHwqnBdjSusbD8ziwRPhBi6kwEtAW2iV/s400/babes+equals+tom+hanks.tiff" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701353560772143970" /></a><br />Not only is Tom Hanks the only image in her "Babes" board, but it's the T.Hanks image that I hold so dearly to my heart. <br /><br />I mean, it's not like the girl has a monopoly on humorous movie reviews. I think we all know Gene Siskel still holds the title for those. (I kid. None of us knows who Gene Siskel is. Except my dad, who was DEVASTATED by the loss. ANYWAY.) So I could still write some. But now I feel like they would just be a sad, weepy version of this masterful <span style="font-style:italic;">You've Got Mail</span> one. I feel like a toddler who throws a temper tantrum for having a toy taken away that was never actually hers.<br /><br />Wow. I started writing this to tell you about my original plan of reviewing "boy movies" and it's really just devolved into a love letter to Anne. I'm fine with it. But I'm also going to go (So I can stalk her more, perhaps?? No no no no. .....yes.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-16244343260801472422012-01-19T09:30:00.000-08:002012-01-24T22:51:55.010-08:00The New JobFacts about what I'm doing here:<br /><br />1. I am very superstitious about jinxing things, so I need to clarify that this is technically contract-to-hire, so I don't have a full time job YET. Also, time goes slowly when you are living paycheck to paycheck. Regina's cat's breath is out of control, and I really need to make enough money to get her to the vet.<br /><br />2. It's a start up company that makes a very cool mobile app. That's all I'll say about it, but also you probably have not heard of it--YET. It was started last summer and I am the 11th employee, I think.<br /><br />3. We get free lunch every day. And free snacks. And free beverages. So...basically it's the best place ever. Also, I think I may be addicted to sparkling water now. You guys may need to form an intervention soon. <br /><br />4. OH! I haven't actually told you what I'm doing here! So I'm their writer. Like, their only writer. So I'm in charge of the brand voice, wherever they need it. And hopefully soon, I'll be writing a blog for them, and taking charge of their Facebook and Twitter posts. Which will be fun while it's happening, and when it's over (hopefully not for a long time) I'll have something really concrete on my resume that will make me stand out.<br /><br />5. The company doesn't have a front desk or anyone in an administrative role. My desk is kind of the closest thing to being that front desk, because it faces people walking in. So now I have also become the person who signs for packages and greets people who look scared. I absolutely don't mind it, because distractions are my lifeblood. When I write, I am absolutely the dog from "Up". Except instead of "SQUIRREL!" it's: "FACEBOOK!"<br /><br />6. The hours are a little different here. No one comes in until 10:30, but they stay later. Which means I probably will have to start working out in the morning. I was really excited about the idea until this morning when I actually attempted to do it. And by "attempted" I mean, I turned off the alarm and spent 45 minutes making excuses about why I couldn't POSSIBLY get out of bed, by which time it was too late to go work out. PROBLEM SOLVED.<br /><br />7. SPEAKING of early mornings! This has nothing to do with the job, but last night Joe and I were woken up because a parked pick up truck outside our window was blaring its horn non-stop with no one in it. The fire department showed up after about 4 seconds (They're just down the street. Good to know.) Apparently there was a fire under the truck. They put that out with the hose, then broke into the car, popped the hood, and stopped the horn. Joe and I watched this from our 4th story apartment with intrique and annoyance. Mostly, I was relieved that we didn't die, because we SO COULD HAVE. The way I see it: fire under the car, fire travels to the engine, fire + gasoline= EXPLOSION!!, the pieces fly into our window and smash into us. Piece de resistance: Regina escapes out the smashed window.<br /><br /><br />So, I don't know. Does that cover it? Are there more questions about the job that I haven't answered, or have I told you everything and more?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-55326555628327635192012-01-16T08:19:00.000-08:002012-01-16T15:57:26.696-08:00We'll Have A Brain Fart TimeSo I know I promised I'd still be blogging, and I totally am, but I'm having a bit of a brain fart time of it right now. I keep trying to say something insightful about how things are starting to look up, but it gets RULL boring, RULL quick. Either that, or I become one of the people that I hated only a week ago--the people who are too damn happy for their own good and need to quit making the rest of us Normies feel bad.<br /><br />Side note: I'm SUPER into the non-word "Normies" right now. I'm considering using it until it catches on. It'll be so fetch, just you watch.<br /><br />So anyway...brain farts and all that. I'm not sure what else to write about at the moment, but I promise I'll be around.<br /><br />Also, since the Golden Globes were last night, can we talk about Aunt Meryl for a moment? Well, less of talking about her and more just...let's just acknowledge her existence with a moment of silence. <br /><br />....<br /><br />Also, Colin Firth. As I <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/iheartejs">tweeted</a>, that man is a dapper son of a bitch. We all know he is on <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2010/10/5-celebrities-id-settle-down-with.html">the short list of men I would marry</a>, but despite his growing age and/or jowls, I think he might be climbing to the top of the list, even past Future Husband John Krasinski, who, despite my best efforts, is still married to that damn British chippy.<br /><br />But let's consider both of these things:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4J21M5sBImTSdM4m87AYYyD-2Xwt1TzMaMPNb0FHyKnwtLek_NrgzAl1M39RBhOk59VZl8jFvDI6wKqHXeTe4Mo1PF0-LeDxQSDfmDdHqm99dYvBDk93rNAhQrd83cI1iVAXUYoKu-NJG/s1600/tumblr_llri92dBcF1qb0osvo1_500.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4J21M5sBImTSdM4m87AYYyD-2Xwt1TzMaMPNb0FHyKnwtLek_NrgzAl1M39RBhOk59VZl8jFvDI6wKqHXeTe4Mo1PF0-LeDxQSDfmDdHqm99dYvBDk93rNAhQrd83cI1iVAXUYoKu-NJG/s400/tumblr_llri92dBcF1qb0osvo1_500.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698088485439913842" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClWGpzq1qQHJ6CEVUa4kbuzb6Ifoj5bAlO5hikxWEDu7HxuMr4w3pNzZvGAJykuqOAv8Pw5qjuxfJgHhnl1oklV5p7vMeCK2sCXHdm-re7GFja00CBa51Wk-2_5_ONAM66iy2gL3L63ez/s1600/tumblr_lpczv3QntH1qdpkau.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClWGpzq1qQHJ6CEVUa4kbuzb6Ifoj5bAlO5hikxWEDu7HxuMr4w3pNzZvGAJykuqOAv8Pw5qjuxfJgHhnl1oklV5p7vMeCK2sCXHdm-re7GFja00CBa51Wk-2_5_ONAM66iy2gL3L63ez/s400/tumblr_lpczv3QntH1qdpkau.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698088494603888594" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2fq3_fT6oq7aUG5lGRf4a-z06Vvs9eiDJi0RnSCtr8cxMht08_Hl7vPRRR-ls8K7nqU3Ye3IUxKJD23XAVaHx9x5Z0kG5Fa9uS1r8OOq0SQgtcDgB6HdckubIFLT3S4ZWvmThPWzOnUG/s1600/tumblr_lpczv3QntH1qdpkau-1.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU2fq3_fT6oq7aUG5lGRf4a-z06Vvs9eiDJi0RnSCtr8cxMht08_Hl7vPRRR-ls8K7nqU3Ye3IUxKJD23XAVaHx9x5Z0kG5Fa9uS1r8OOq0SQgtcDgB6HdckubIFLT3S4ZWvmThPWzOnUG/s400/tumblr_lpczv3QntH1qdpkau-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5698088489725892130" /></a><br /><br /><br />I mean...that's just...come on, now.<br /><br />Anyway, this is really all I have for now. Quotes from Colin Firth. Sorry. Maybe an update this week about the job and how it's going? OH! Also, Joe and I just bought tickets to see a screening of The Dark Crystal in February and WHO is going to be there? Oh that's right, <a href="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1236/602292937_f70f0a5dc6.jpg">Dave Goelz</a>--NO BIG DEAL, <span style="font-style:italic;">HANNAH</span>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-11123178384302828462012-01-10T14:04:00.000-08:002012-01-10T14:37:49.804-08:00Twitter: The Results Show<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Xc3lZzoQ3kZjiUo5nb-dFgbIxvfe9MMeUn9zF9y-kzcY1jZHWcZA3VHoerbj81nzOTmqqNqYpLqNkfW31lT6LtWlHPv9FGFVXp7WVtYSC3kJA0YwtvA2TjuYyZooXWbD5LLgvNWl2odA/s1600/0242c403df3f89bac2f5bb7965237bc7.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Xc3lZzoQ3kZjiUo5nb-dFgbIxvfe9MMeUn9zF9y-kzcY1jZHWcZA3VHoerbj81nzOTmqqNqYpLqNkfW31lT6LtWlHPv9FGFVXp7WVtYSC3kJA0YwtvA2TjuYyZooXWbD5LLgvNWl2odA/s400/0242c403df3f89bac2f5bb7965237bc7.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696135220090180098" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Fail Whale? More like WIN Whale, am I right? Ohhhhhhhh, ME.</span><br /><br />So the Twitter Poll results are in! Of those who answered, most are at least ON Twitter. And of those people, it was one part "Yes, let's party it up on the Twitters," one part "I can't keep up with the confounded thing so you do whatever the hell you want and I'll occasionally tweet when I'm stuck in line at the grocery store," and one part "shhh...if I don't answer the poll I can still pretend like I don't read this blog."<br /><br />Word to your mother.<br /><br />Well okay then, how about this? My twitter handle is (unsurprisingly) <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/iheartejs">@iheartejs</a>. Follow me and I'll follow you back. I pretty much follow anyone back, which is how I've gotten into the predicament I'm in. See, I've been on Twitter since early 2009 and have pretty much been following people willy nilly. Which means I follow a bunch of people who I don't really care about (but then also Tom Hanks, as well as nearly the entire cast of Parks and Rec--again, unsurprisingly. Best tweets? Jerry, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.) So, okay, here we go. I'm going to unfollow a whole bunch of people. Watch me.<br /><br />....<br /><br />There we go. I'll call it The Great Purg---nope! Nope, not calling it that. Regardless, I have room now to follow people I actually want to hear from, aka: YOU. So if Tweeting is your thang, let's be Twitter budz. If for no other reason, to make it so Adrienne is not the ONLY person I interact with over there. I mean, I love her like Leslie loves Ann, but I want more. And I promise to cultivate my Tweets and actually read and respond to others, not use it as a dumping ground for my poorly-crafted one liners. Usually. Sometimes. A little.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-6094906659210136962012-01-09T10:51:00.000-08:002012-01-09T11:06:33.397-08:00Back To ItGAH, sorry I've been so absent. I'm the worst blogger ever. I don't even deserve to get paid to write this thing. Which I don't, so that's fitting.<br /><br />But guess what, Y'ALL?! (Oh that's right, I said y'all so you know something big is coming.) I actually AM going to be paid to blog! Because I just got a contract-to-hire job offer for a small start-up, and among other things I would blog for them! I wouldn't get to be as nonsensical there as I am here, which, let's face it, is better for all of us. But I do still get to write in a fun voice that has some 'tude. Oh god, I just said <span style="font-style:italic;">'tude</span> like some kind of teen magazine quiz. I'M A LITTLE OVEREXCITED; NOTHING MAKES SENSE ANYMORE!<br /><br />So. What does this mean for you? I will tell you. It means that I'll still blog around here, and hopefully still semi-regularly as long as my new work gets done and doesn't drain me of wanting to write anything ever again. Doubtful. I have too many opinions about exfoliating face wash left to share. It also means that I'll have some money to go on adventures, which of course means blogging about awkward interactions with strangers and falling down a lot! The possibilities are ENDLESS! <br /><br />In conclusion, things are looking up for you and me both. Stay tuned about the face wash. Am I serious? Only time will tell.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-18045361325953552012-01-03T09:10:00.000-08:002012-01-03T09:45:57.264-08:00Let's Do This.First things first: the ankle is doing much better. There was a Quasimodo limp going on for a bit, but I'm walking normally now. There's pretty xtreme bruising (no E, that's how bruised it is) but I'll be fine. My first day home, Hannah kept calling me Beth, so I wrapped myself in a blanket and told her that the only gift I wanted for Christmas was for the war to end and father to come home.<br /><br />But I'm healing. My time in Chicago has been <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2010/05/vacation-from-my-problems-you-bet-i.html">another </a>great vacation from my problems. I needed some time to just be with people I know, in a place I know, without stressing about working. And now I'm ready to get back to it.<br /><br />It feels like every sentence I utter anymore is: "Once I have a job, I can..." and I'm tired of it. It's been a year since I felt safe enough to spend money and it's wearing me out. I mean, it's not like I want to toss my mink pelt over my shoulder and start ordering people around with my scepter, I just want to buy pure maple syrup without feeling "extravagant". <br /><br />But it's more than money, too. I don't feel like a productive member of society without a job. Sure, I feel better when I get stuff done. I can exercise and write and clean and basically do ANYTHING besides scroll through Pinterest and Tumblr (Oh, Tumblr...your Parks and Rec gifs are so hard to turn away from). And I'll feel like at least there was something to define my day, to prove that I was here and I helped.<br /><br />So I'm ready to go back. I'm actually still in Chicago right now, back in SF late on Wednesday night. At first I imagined myself leaving Chicago kicking and screaming (or at least slightly tearfully) just because I was so happy to be back with everyone and didn't want to leave them again. But now I'm ready. I'm ready to actually get this thing started FOR REALZ. The last few months laid the groundwork. I've made connections, I've interviewed, I've figured out a lot about where I want my next steps to fall. I just need that final leap to an offer. That way I can start the rest--the adventures, the extracurricular classes, the pure maple syrup--that will complete the circle of why I went in the first place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-62479551453526430362011-12-27T12:28:00.000-08:002011-12-27T15:46:39.631-08:00The Ankle Saga: A Story In PicturesSo. Okay. OH MY GOD, I have started this blog post 80 times and deleted it and started it over, because I have no idea what to talk about right now.<br /><br />Do I talk about how I rolled my ankle on the way back to Chicago? Yes, let's go there, shall we? In fact, let's go there with visual aids. Because everyone likes visual aids.<br /><br />On my way to the airport, I walk out the door, down two blocks... <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp8Bf3xkr8MaftEekNjITcL3bSnyrs8CKNXdmjCP9Dkwk1zvrxRK11oDzE_KTNJ8YuxPRwexm6GG4tJvxkRB9ft0L9nz8HrlrIuo5_0S0upBLQeoOhyElOAd0kdDVhlQtY3XRg82xnDGf/s1600/ankle1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 354px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPp8Bf3xkr8MaftEekNjITcL3bSnyrs8CKNXdmjCP9Dkwk1zvrxRK11oDzE_KTNJ8YuxPRwexm6GG4tJvxkRB9ft0L9nz8HrlrIuo5_0S0upBLQeoOhyElOAd0kdDVhlQtY3XRg82xnDGf/s400/ankle1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690943035536947154" /></a><br /><br />...and then as I'm lifting my suitcase over a curb I also step in a small pothole. There was a crunching noise. It was not awesome. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWdcnu3Puy1JCpGqltpSdpkpXrQWcLXOVv3-FUiOLXrSrPiBU1b6dT8ZcArWHQwLdU_uid8kGVVTccexsQ4a1RsVVmkvX4vcN5RJzQnUGfxyJy6bFrbITl9NbaOiU-iKJJ37S53D4Qqcq/s1600/ankle2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 355px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEWdcnu3Puy1JCpGqltpSdpkpXrQWcLXOVv3-FUiOLXrSrPiBU1b6dT8ZcArWHQwLdU_uid8kGVVTccexsQ4a1RsVVmkvX4vcN5RJzQnUGfxyJy6bFrbITl9NbaOiU-iKJJ37S53D4Qqcq/s400/ankle2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942964471309730" /></a><br /><br />After about 5 straight minutes of whispered profanity, the girl at the bus stop asked me if I was okay. I told her yes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYM1a2IhrQfKZ1sKoGxqd857dUmHJ92NgKfYGTbO25CgYE92-8WAb7OtS74NGDKZtTSN-tg_uvsodRq9ciAaNyF1j2orMwOldoUUTfbvZXf_5lGORQz47fds0HBDoGeJK73vjvrtx__VF/s1600/ankle3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 398px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYM1a2IhrQfKZ1sKoGxqd857dUmHJ92NgKfYGTbO25CgYE92-8WAb7OtS74NGDKZtTSN-tg_uvsodRq9ciAaNyF1j2orMwOldoUUTfbvZXf_5lGORQz47fds0HBDoGeJK73vjvrtx__VF/s400/ankle3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942966887599874" /></a><br /><br />When the bus came, I hobbled to the back where I thought I could stretch out. I put my foot up on my suitcase for...blood flow...or whatever reason it is that you elevate a twisted ankle. But then the bus actually filled up, and I kept getting dirty looks from people who assumed I was spreading out on public transportation. I wanted to shout, "NO! <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2011/09/scenes-from-camera-phone.html">I usually mock those people</a>! I am just like you! I AM NOT AN ANIMAL! I AM A HUMAN BEING!" But I couldn't say any of that because I was concentrating so hard on keeping myself from making wounded moaning noises. I refused to be the person at the back of the bus and MOANING.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGnAfAhGDacLJKE43Mw6YtE0UjtPCmcJAJM73TL9no6jHeZmvUxi_xE2jyCYk5xCJ8WlBUvsK8rMXPpNEpgrTQ_rcTkGNkbWx7RmcXhjRPlnCvQXGeGPCLVMOVT8ysLv2T-hQTvVumH8N/s1600/ankle4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 356px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGnAfAhGDacLJKE43Mw6YtE0UjtPCmcJAJM73TL9no6jHeZmvUxi_xE2jyCYk5xCJ8WlBUvsK8rMXPpNEpgrTQ_rcTkGNkbWx7RmcXhjRPlnCvQXGeGPCLVMOVT8ysLv2T-hQTvVumH8N/s400/ankle4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942960790007890" /></a><br /><br />Eventually I got to the airport...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EJYlmPRJPZDUeGJEQpTL0AVyL-wbUKKDnOdz3lXVjcyjavF_OV8wmmfOYoLi_-qZU_omLHhWHyGNZanJrtvpAv4r7XTsTVfW9JifnL3x7DB3MDdaSpsJLHPPKLAwbqE5YPdiLkZKF4oA/s1600/ankle5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9EJYlmPRJPZDUeGJEQpTL0AVyL-wbUKKDnOdz3lXVjcyjavF_OV8wmmfOYoLi_-qZU_omLHhWHyGNZanJrtvpAv4r7XTsTVfW9JifnL3x7DB3MDdaSpsJLHPPKLAwbqE5YPdiLkZKF4oA/s400/ankle5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942954419212674" /></a><br /><br />And then THIS happened.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMAkWpeB9rkEHPFFdOEx1hnhOzIwaEnKoh-wR0ybQXCBP6-g9kLya-XiaVeKkWjBarOoj77S9nNf6jxGmK52diW7HhO4IDBqtQcdWpK2nxzETj7fdxrchhFceKGVMdEjmv1-A5AEcbUWK/s1600/ankle6.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 376px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQMAkWpeB9rkEHPFFdOEx1hnhOzIwaEnKoh-wR0ybQXCBP6-g9kLya-XiaVeKkWjBarOoj77S9nNf6jxGmK52diW7HhO4IDBqtQcdWpK2nxzETj7fdxrchhFceKGVMdEjmv1-A5AEcbUWK/s400/ankle6.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942955967816290" /></a><br /><br />I had to sit down on the ground like a 3 year old to take off my shoes at security.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mtzqGYoX1Ew_CSbYMzD7i6ibrSXDfVBJ-3pCOFCpPQ5uPLLInZXxJlzO5igwhkHzSSKHS6Sd5ztBORndJl3yECeSMzdzwnWqrnlsAXVxmqAtTwrfafgQwRQ88VCdxNGwca9UswoczjhQ/s1600/ankle7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 357px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7mtzqGYoX1Ew_CSbYMzD7i6ibrSXDfVBJ-3pCOFCpPQ5uPLLInZXxJlzO5igwhkHzSSKHS6Sd5ztBORndJl3yECeSMzdzwnWqrnlsAXVxmqAtTwrfafgQwRQ88VCdxNGwca9UswoczjhQ/s400/ankle7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942738472976370" /></a><br /><br />Of COURSE I was at the furthest gate. OF COURSE I was.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxoKpKcykymQrXGfdCyRe1CVSe3TFTy4xtbiUkVRPlMZT5edI5WWxxROjulMiwpfn26MZVY3Qetlz1weL5qNOBCYcVRcgZco9oQhOu9YsMSODVaueuC0W9N7viOvpjOCRxvZV7q98k3SX/s1600/ankle8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 384px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxoKpKcykymQrXGfdCyRe1CVSe3TFTy4xtbiUkVRPlMZT5edI5WWxxROjulMiwpfn26MZVY3Qetlz1weL5qNOBCYcVRcgZco9oQhOu9YsMSODVaueuC0W9N7viOvpjOCRxvZV7q98k3SX/s400/ankle8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942735068554802" /></a><br /><br />In Economy with limited space and an ankle hurting like holy hell, every time I crossed my legs I kept hitting the girl next to me. She was not amused. But for some reason, "Sorry, I twisted my ankle" didn't seem like a valid excuse for why I couldn't stick to my own assigned spot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvjhE1TZDqLu4Bs3o6kXogA5T9IKyAL1qvFf8pflj0AhtAqchwZYRSBngXmCF9NVc4pDRGsDpqOSk2f-RL6wpGC6vPhdIduCbGQtATDk47XarydE3BUnQp6sWBHAKwf2FkuYo0huwjPRb/s1600/ankle9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 363px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvjhE1TZDqLu4Bs3o6kXogA5T9IKyAL1qvFf8pflj0AhtAqchwZYRSBngXmCF9NVc4pDRGsDpqOSk2f-RL6wpGC6vPhdIduCbGQtATDk47XarydE3BUnQp6sWBHAKwf2FkuYo0huwjPRb/s400/ankle9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942733764967170" /></a><br /><br />In the end, I made it and hobbled into the arms of my parents who came to pick me up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnuYnjz3GQbk9ajxiVyBXwwdwjvrWHKmMb9vVKso3ajcAtLrrOWpeBLMRzF1dEIDA84TBzquXNXxbYJ_4c1CKvVK0Fey76dJIIxWq0LRcrsgpdnP9wYA33LdqY1YgpIMajsfw-YNdeOKw8/s1600/ankle10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnuYnjz3GQbk9ajxiVyBXwwdwjvrWHKmMb9vVKso3ajcAtLrrOWpeBLMRzF1dEIDA84TBzquXNXxbYJ_4c1CKvVK0Fey76dJIIxWq0LRcrsgpdnP9wYA33LdqY1YgpIMajsfw-YNdeOKw8/s400/ankle10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942728330128850" /></a><br /><br />Luckily my family has twisted their ankles so often that we were stocked with fancy Ace bandages and ice packs. Apparently my clumsiness is genetic. And at least I had an excuse to sit on the couch and demand other people feed me cookies and milk. Nothing like being surrounded by the people you love in a warm house with plenty of food (and no joke, 5 kinds of butter) to nurse you back to health.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQA8NjpMkEZ1JgDHssZNwXQe0SZd6kE9xAXjapHlhnYPs_8n9nmj0URgl3j3G8kyyZyG90I4dboQSaVmyVukzA4YvlP92a5UaHtb3XwGtqvjeK-Z7NCk0fvJh8rx6c0BYyta-MmjIVXjDs/s1600/ankle11.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQA8NjpMkEZ1JgDHssZNwXQe0SZd6kE9xAXjapHlhnYPs_8n9nmj0URgl3j3G8kyyZyG90I4dboQSaVmyVukzA4YvlP92a5UaHtb3XwGtqvjeK-Z7NCk0fvJh8rx6c0BYyta-MmjIVXjDs/s400/ankle11.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690942722264472322" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">And hey! On a separate note--check out that survey over on the upper right. Let me know what you think. Totally anonymous even to me, so you can answer even if you think you're a stalker for being here. (By the way, you are not. OR ARE YOU?...No, you aren't.) So give it to me straight. Twitter: Y/N/Meh?</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-91798230052849211602011-12-26T13:58:00.000-08:002011-12-26T14:17:59.110-08:00TwitterI'm curious about something, and I'd like your opinion. So I've set up a little anonymous poll over there on the right to get some answers. What do you think??Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-11418892119228083992011-12-22T08:39:00.000-08:002011-12-22T15:48:38.941-08:00My Penultimate BirthdayWelp! Yesterday was my birthday. I'm 27 now. And this year...I'm actually fine with it. I haven't been okay with my new age since I turned 22. But this year? Totally taking it in stride. This is for three reasons:<br />1. I've come to grips with the fact that I'm in my "late twenties", and as far as that goes, 27 seems young and spritely.<br />2. From what everyone says (and what I've seen firsthand), your thirties are when you come into your own and really figure out who you are and what you're doing. And I would like to know both of those things. So I don't mind getting closer to that.<br />3. It's the final year of my, and everyone's lives. Because the world will end on my birthday next year, and there are <a href="http://www.december212012.com/">crappy Web 1.0 websites</a> to prove it.<br /><br />This year has been interesting. It started out mind-numbingly dull. This caused me to hitch up my bootstraps (or whatever) and start adventuring. I took improv classes, comedy writing classes, and then moved across the country. Which, considering my awkward neuroses, basically means it's been a year of self-doubt.<br /><br />Curious about how I felt this time last year, I checked out <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2010/12/my-26th-birthdayof-doom.html">my birthday blog entry for 2010</a>. What I found was a list of goals. Since I wrote that list, I've expanded the goals to a <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2011/07/life-list-first-50.html">Life List</a>, which has grown to 75 since I posted it. But the first list of goals were things I was hoping to do within 2 years. I'm now halfway through those two years, so I thought I'd revisit the list. New comments are in italics.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Emily's List Of Young People Goals:</span><br /><br />Self-Betterment<br />-Learn how to knit <span style="font-style:italic;">(Hmm. I started to crochet again but never counted my stitches and things went downhill from there. But there's a ball of yarn on my dresser, ever reminding me to pick it up again. Verdict: probable.)</span><br />-Take beginner photography classes, then take good photos with a good camera <span style="font-style:italic;">(I'm partway to completing this goal. I bought a Groupon for a class that doesn't expire until May. Problem is: still don't have a camera.)</span><br />-Improv classes <span style="font-style:italic;">(<a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2011/07/improv.html">I did this one!</a> I did this one! And I want to keep doing it!)</span><br />-Sculpting classes <span style="font-style:italic;">(I haven't done this one but I'd still like to. Problem is, I'd rather keep doing improv/comedy related classes. My Ghost fantasies may have to wait a while.)</span><br />-Dance classes <span style="font-style:italic;">(BAH ha ha ha ha ha....oh, ME.)</span><br /><br />Travel<br />-Go to Scotland, find your ancestor's castle. <span style="font-style:italic;">(See, the problem with a lot of stuff on this list is that I didn't know what a precarious position my job was in at the time. I was running on the assumption that I had JUST been hired and there was no way we would lose the account and I would be laid off. Silly Emily. So trusting.)</span><br />-Go to Italy, eat a lot of pasta and cream. <span style="font-style:italic;">(I mean, these things are definitely on the list. But they probably won't be happening as quickly as my adorable little hopeful heart had wanted.)</span><br />-Go to San Francisco--Francisco! That's fun to say. <span style="font-style:italic;">(Well I can certainly check this one off the list with great aplomb.)</span><br /><br />Work<br />-Go on a production shoot outside of Chicago<br />-Get promoted, earn what I think I deserve<br />-Write an ad that everyone loves<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(................................................sigh.)</span><br /><br />Other<br />-Pay off a big student loan chunk <span style="font-style:italic;">(OR defer your loans because you're unemployed. SIMILAR.)</span><br />-Buy a car <span style="font-style:italic;">(kcchhh...pfff...shah....)</span><br />-Become a roller skater <span style="font-style:italic;">(The more I think about this one, the more I fear falling and breaking my arms and knees. Also, now that I'm in San Francisco, the amount of hills makes this one a lot less likely. Sorry, 26-year-old me, I think this one is done-zo.)</span><br />-Be more stylish <span style="font-style:italic;">(I'm still determined that this will happen for me one day. I'll have money and I'll buy clothes from SUPER fancy places, like the Gap and Nordstrom. I'll have an infinity scarf that'll look really cute on me and I'll wear skirts and just generally look more like Zooey Deschanel.)</span><br />-Make more Julia Child recipes <span style="font-style:italic;">(Hmm. I STILL haven't done this yet. I just need to face my fears and channel my inner Julie/Julia.)</span><br />-Find an apartment with a reading nook for weekends--and then read on the weekends.<span style="font-style:italic;"> (Well, I wouldn't say I have a "nook" but I do have bay windows? Which is closer? I don't read on the weekends but that is changing TODAY my friends. TODAY. Or tomorrow, or sometime soon.)</span><br /><br /><br />So all in all, I think I'm generally still on the right track. An actual income will help me accomplish a lot more of these. The question is: what will I accomplish in the next year? You know, before the world ends?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-50543411784459130052011-12-20T10:45:00.000-08:002011-12-20T12:00:56.068-08:00I Want A TattooTattoos and I have an interesting relationship. It's like skydiving: it sounds cool in concept, it seems like the kind of thing that everyone should try once, but if I realistically think about it, there's no way I'm doing that crap.<br /><br />One time in college while I was working at a sandwich shop, a grizzly old man came in. He had a fuzzy, wibbly achor tattoo on his forearm which I thought was possibly the most badass thing I'd ever seen, because you know that thing was hand-chiseled by a fellow navy man. <br /><br />The first time I ever considered that I might get a tattoo myself was after seeing the episode where Rachel gets a heart on her lower back/hip:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXF8zAJ9S08K8f3QjF5E6kds6HGVpsSlJq3pK2k8rPXzChGRTI2163-Oxx9pGNMGsdp4jMs5mwYTgF8V6TaGRnSLgrXBpY5O3K5gWZD4yZizY3eMzXF11fXd3BFyq13B134CpdN5nGmRQX/s1600/Rachel%2527s+heart+tattoo+friends.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 292px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXF8zAJ9S08K8f3QjF5E6kds6HGVpsSlJq3pK2k8rPXzChGRTI2163-Oxx9pGNMGsdp4jMs5mwYTgF8V6TaGRnSLgrXBpY5O3K5gWZD4yZizY3eMzXF11fXd3BFyq13B134CpdN5nGmRQX/s400/Rachel%2527s+heart+tattoo+friends.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688293521978320818" /></a><br />Because I'm pretty sure that's the first time I realized tattoos could be for non-sailors/women in the circus.<br /><br />So of course at first I wanted a heart tatoo on my lower back. Because I was a very original teenager, and because the word "tramp stamp" hadn't been invented yet. Or if it had, I hadn't heard of it. But eventually this idea turned into me wanting a heart that was made out of the letters of my middle name: Joy. I told Teenage Boyfriend about this, and he designed one for me. Which of course ruined it for life. I've made some relationship mistakes in my day, but at least one of them has NOT been to get a tattoo that reminds me of a boy, no matter how convinced I was that we would be married and have billions of children.<br /><br />So that was out. And for seven years or so, I hadn't come up with another tattoo I would want. There was nothing that I cared about enough to emblazon it on my body and know I would still care about it at forty.<br /><br />Until recently. <br /><br />I hold in my possession (ie my brain) one giant, awesome idea...and I don't know how to make it: I want a tattoo that says "Keep going" if you look at it from one way and "slow down" if you look at it from the other way. Like how this Princess Bride cover mind-blowingly reads upside down and right side up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWodExsiOF-AwBfjhiVTfbMugHKSZ6IfQO5yjIhsvWO8phg051BLmoSukRt34jjX6EkCqJurBAzaoTEcpWwIiAuZ-_37ap1mD5X0tqLIcdxcNpZgzj08UqSI3398buALG_X55N9c23d7rV/s1600/images-1.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWodExsiOF-AwBfjhiVTfbMugHKSZ6IfQO5yjIhsvWO8phg051BLmoSukRt34jjX6EkCqJurBAzaoTEcpWwIiAuZ-_37ap1mD5X0tqLIcdxcNpZgzj08UqSI3398buALG_X55N9c23d7rV/s400/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688292968874640306" /></a><br /><br />I think it would be rad. And I NEVER say rad, so you know I'm serious about it. I also like the idea of just the words "keep going" written on my hand so it looks best while you're writing, like in this position.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMCUeOljAoGTc7jCGnptrNQAgEKIt4Ige-rdKJXWSn4-cKrb1_BzrnB4-qTtJwIG2E2yrLIc_eKVqyS9Hs1vWhGgwopV7_bUk_uIzXNCiGqFGvIyzfHG6_8rvz5bf0HfR7DxSH37OFWVY/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMCUeOljAoGTc7jCGnptrNQAgEKIt4Ige-rdKJXWSn4-cKrb1_BzrnB4-qTtJwIG2E2yrLIc_eKVqyS9Hs1vWhGgwopV7_bUk_uIzXNCiGqFGvIyzfHG6_8rvz5bf0HfR7DxSH37OFWVY/s400/images.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688292973412540850" /></a><br />I also don't really know what that would look like either.<br /><br />And before you get all "yikes that sounds like a terrible idea" because I know you and that is what you are saying, consider the idea of white or light ink, and consider that it could be small and classy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_KAeSa87XCjNT-NaFB2zivFYs4xTGL9l00QwkRZl2OGf9Y0xlvX-0ytwQsamCQPAg4QUxhU-VNc7SqhvRJh9r__s1tT6OlWgkGiA5griiRti2GYsGdmyUcJr4wf5N_w4RQVFou6GXjD3/s1600/2686897233.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq_KAeSa87XCjNT-NaFB2zivFYs4xTGL9l00QwkRZl2OGf9Y0xlvX-0ytwQsamCQPAg4QUxhU-VNc7SqhvRJh9r__s1tT6OlWgkGiA5griiRti2GYsGdmyUcJr4wf5N_w4RQVFou6GXjD3/s400/2686897233.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688292956366098642" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBV5Rs1zkvic-UyBmIiTzg9kf6YjOi0PcH-bxsKFyey3OgAl9jteM7qVyueWxPW6QSe3tjEIt0zt3NL3BMNIZZV6xfsJ1hJ2QzS77gXvJC9PahGUvJErbgvoP0BNZq1G1kdDgmJGLDYK2/s1600/183310647302502766.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 191px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBV5Rs1zkvic-UyBmIiTzg9kf6YjOi0PcH-bxsKFyey3OgAl9jteM7qVyueWxPW6QSe3tjEIt0zt3NL3BMNIZZV6xfsJ1hJ2QzS77gXvJC9PahGUvJErbgvoP0BNZq1G1kdDgmJGLDYK2/s400/183310647302502766.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688292961749187586" /></a><br /><br />I'm not going to get a tattoo now because I am in <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2011/12/homesick.html">a fragile state</a> and I'm pretty sure 99% of my ideas right now are ill-informed. So I'm holding off. Especially because I kinda just want to say EFF THIS and go with a connect-the-dots tattoo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWFYEbi3om9jn6dBIGFjp_qFZOGR9Bsv7ACpVkO_0oaRmAxR0YfZ5bOxiIBSDgHQs-3JWeIGEGpMe09E5X10RB_pfooyIcAOaYvGAECh3r2Rm0Pnn4wwK57oh-EeBOMvP-EgTnMo0j-Z4/s1600/dot-to-dotTattoo2.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWFYEbi3om9jn6dBIGFjp_qFZOGR9Bsv7ACpVkO_0oaRmAxR0YfZ5bOxiIBSDgHQs-3JWeIGEGpMe09E5X10RB_pfooyIcAOaYvGAECh3r2Rm0Pnn4wwK57oh-EeBOMvP-EgTnMo0j-Z4/s400/dot-to-dotTattoo2.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688292970108607698" /></a><br />But again, small and classy. Like a little connect-the-dots kermit on my inner arm. COME ON, IT COULD BE GOOD, YOU DON'T KNOW.<br /><br />What tattoo ideas do you have? What do you wish you had the guts to do but never will? What have you already had done? Regrets? No regrets? Comments!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-7296669892164376972011-12-19T09:00:00.001-08:002011-12-19T13:07:34.587-08:00HomesickOkay, I'm going to have to level with you guys. I just spent all weekend trying to write a normal post. I mean, as normal as it gets around these parts. <br /><br />But the truth is that I'm homesick. And I want to talk about it. Because I blame Jesus.<br /><br />Yeah, I said it. I mean really if you think about it, Christmas makes EVERYONE homesick, by its very nature. Even people who are currently home start to ache for the home they once had.<br /><br />So now I find myself in a city I don't know with weather I don't know, with people I don't know. I even find myself getting mad at crazy people on the SF buses for not being the same as the crazy people on the Chicago buses. It's a deep homesickness.<br /><br />Then add in the fact that it's Christmastime, a time when I should be surrounded by family and friends and instead find myself feeling incredibly alone. I knew this time would come, that there would be a point where the newness would wear off and I'd still be without all the familiar faces. I was aware it would happen--but I forgot to factor in Christmas, so now the homesickness goes to eleven.<br /><br />I'm struck by how often I don't feel like myself, but like some really boring version of myself who spends all day watching every Stefon Weekend Update sketch and forgets to brush her teeth. Sometimes I think that just forcing myself to get up and shower and walk out the door will help. And then I'm surprised when it doesn't. Then I'm just sad...and outside. Then I get annoyed at slow walkers and people who don't leash their dogs (because WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE--shhh, breathe, Emily. They aren't here anymore. They can't hurt you.) I guess going outside only helped when my problem was laziness, not actual emotional distress.<br /><br />Anyone have advice on how to climb back out? Is "time" the only solution? I hate when "time" is the only solution.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-20550895374909978732011-12-14T21:20:00.000-08:002011-12-14T22:03:53.190-08:00Pinterest, Hot Chocolate, Stitching, And A Whale For Good MeasureI have a few things to tell you, none of which have anything to do with anything else. So I'm just going to go ahead and lay them on the table.<br /><br />1.) I just joined Pinterest, so naturally my life is over. Pinterest combines two of my favorite things: sharing stupid things, and categorizing stuff. When I was young, my mom set me free in a department store, and I spent my time organizing a bunch of rings by color. Over a decade later, I realized the rings were organized by size and I just ruined some poor store clerk's night. <br /><br />So yeah, I like to organize. But now it's organizing pictures into "crafts I'll never do" and "food I'll never make" and "wedding stuff" because despite my rampant feminism, I'm ONE OF THOSE. Sue me--sometimes I see cool wedding stuff by accident (cough when I'm surfing wedding blogs cough) and I don't want to forget those ideas. Like this one!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZqdhTQmYA6cCMx4p6fMqXUw8DzpBZD2kpLnES5tM4nbjNt6JLxy3KGP8muyGy1x41rQRSGI_-O_cOdCoJ9VkFZmrd5mnuT6n553K13jymln7RwrWad5yQ4mNyhyphenhyphennrt33N3ydpgWskq6n/s1600/diy-storybook-paper-roses.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZqdhTQmYA6cCMx4p6fMqXUw8DzpBZD2kpLnES5tM4nbjNt6JLxy3KGP8muyGy1x41rQRSGI_-O_cOdCoJ9VkFZmrd5mnuT6n553K13jymln7RwrWad5yQ4mNyhyphenhyphennrt33N3ydpgWskq6n/s400/diy-storybook-paper-roses.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686223349070401586" /></a><br /><br />Flowers made of paper?! Paper made of flowers?! COME ON! <br /><br />2.) Joe and I just walked across the street and payed $2 each for hot chocolate powder in steamed milk. I just wanted to share with you how stupid it was that we just paid for something we own, and I also want to share that it's sad how much spending $2 is affecting me emotionally. That's what my life has become now.<br /><br />3) I've decided on a new hobby and I am EXTREMELY interested in it, mainly because I haven't yet learned anything about it. I am still the 3rd grade kid who decides she wants to take drum lessons until she finds out you have to practice and it isn't immediately easy. This is why I am a writer by trade. It's the only thing that didn't cause much exertion on my part.<br /><br />Oh my God, I didn't even tell you what the new hobby is. ATTENTION SPAN! Sorry. The new hobby is going to be cross-stitching--HEAR ME OUT!--funny things. Like stupid quotes and swear words next to adorable embroidered squirrels. Kind of like this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51XrD4W4oxHAfLxkzoRzKfxW5EhU5nFWZnqCKLPcSidVc38aKZxLeCY9RhhGQL1chmhRYdCIeXG4uUvm1xz5K2S_2k71ap39q2LOOwvW3202JtIq5tDDKEU5Or9H7AIYKIaDxhfk8P3S_/s1600/awe6.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg51XrD4W4oxHAfLxkzoRzKfxW5EhU5nFWZnqCKLPcSidVc38aKZxLeCY9RhhGQL1chmhRYdCIeXG4uUvm1xz5K2S_2k71ap39q2LOOwvW3202JtIq5tDDKEU5Or9H7AIYKIaDxhfk8P3S_/s400/awe6.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686230536310809186" /></a><br />It's what makes the sauce so awesome. They will sell like HOTCAKES on Etsy. Except I assume hotcakes do not actually sell that well on Etsy since that would be a disaster, packaging-wise. But can't you imagine a cross-stitch pattern that says:<br /><br />"A real man makes his own luck. -Billy Zane, Titanic" -Dwight Schrute<br /><br />RIGHT?? I WOULD BUY THAT! I know I'm not the first person to do this. There is great, funny embroidery all over the internet. I'm not suggesting that I'm original, just that I want to be part of this amazingness. I mean, if millions of people can put a bird on it, then a couple of us can cross-stitch the f-bomb onto pillows and sell them on the interweb.<br /><br />4) And finally, if this picture does not instill <a href="http://ejsisme.blogspot.com/2010/01/say-what-you-whale-cetaphobia-is-real.html">the fear of God</a> into you, then you have no soul. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykYebwkaK7DODyaMVmWqW_dPaGg8qebBLk9Beiz2LCsAPmyFZgWCa2go7bn7UvpgsxMNWCKVTNlSNu_IcIXLjXFcoVYhZIHzATFDidKdln8zzmtzIkbGfjmCl-gKcT5MtaeWE3e4Lh7vD/s1600/whale+swimming+past+boat.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykYebwkaK7DODyaMVmWqW_dPaGg8qebBLk9Beiz2LCsAPmyFZgWCa2go7bn7UvpgsxMNWCKVTNlSNu_IcIXLjXFcoVYhZIHzATFDidKdln8zzmtzIkbGfjmCl-gKcT5MtaeWE3e4Lh7vD/s400/whale+swimming+past+boat.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5686227498901949202" /></a><br /><br />*shudder* The only reason those people are not being drowned is because that whale has CHOSEN TO SPARE THEM.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-13813043907811141982011-12-12T16:34:00.000-08:002011-12-12T17:08:09.355-08:00The Internet: Encouraging and Depressing At The Same TimeThe internet is the reason why I am both sane and insane at the moment.<br /><br />Sane, because it's my connection to people I know. Otherwise, I spend most of my time conversing with Clinton Kelly and my cat. The former never talks back and the latter is just plain cold. The internet gives me old episodes of 30 Rock (really, the only thing I'm paying Netflix for if we're all being honest with each other and I think we are) and lets me share links of stupid stuff with my family despite our distance.<br /><br />It's also why I am insane as well, however. Because there are too many things I'm not seeing. Or making. Or becoming, or visiting, or buying. It reminds me of all the ways that I am not as good as other people, who are all out doing all the things. And it continues to remind me that other people have jobs and get money for doing those jobs and then spend that money on things they want to own. Seriously, how is it that LUTZ has a job, and I don't? Where did I go wrong? <br /><br />It reminds me that there are all kinds of crafts that other people thought of which I never thought of and that makes me jealous and angry. It reminds me that delicious food can be made in my own home, which inevitably involves at least one ingredient I refuse to buy. (Oh, two tablespoons of buttermilk? Well I'll just run to the Tablespoons Of Stuff That Go Bad Quickly store and pick that right on up, sir.) The internet gives me all kinds of awesome hosting ideas, which reminds me that I have no one to host in a city where I know very few. It reminds me that other people are going out and exercising and I didn't. It reminds me that still other people are happily gorging on delicious things instead of exercising and I didn't do that either. It reminds me that other people are getting married and having babies and adopting dogs and finding jobs and traveling and I'm not doing any of that stuff. It reminds me that people who are famous started off when they were younger than me, and that makes me question whether or not I'll ever have any hope of being successful.<br /><br />All I'm really doing, I guess, is complaining. I'm not looking for help. I know the answer--get up and go do things and quit whining about it. I know. And most days I do. But some days I get sucked in. Today is one of those days.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-74138063079202977662011-12-09T13:04:00.000-08:002011-12-09T16:46:26.409-08:00Why Do Girls Like Diamonds?: A Legitimate Question To Which I Demand Answers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIAmQni8rTppyPgfnPkxB1vuqp-yJuaV3Lf1yPIkm-gArseev7nRjR3lkp8CoIFhyphenhyphen2SeT9JBhRYIOfoT92YHN0DLtDdC4Zw6X9ERdFbWVQJAtsJqjwkqPjUbDyE5QltDRseUdgpvofRr_R/s1600/boring+tiffany+diamond+ring.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 392px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIAmQni8rTppyPgfnPkxB1vuqp-yJuaV3Lf1yPIkm-gArseev7nRjR3lkp8CoIFhyphenhyphen2SeT9JBhRYIOfoT92YHN0DLtDdC4Zw6X9ERdFbWVQJAtsJqjwkqPjUbDyE5QltDRseUdgpvofRr_R/s400/boring+tiffany+diamond+ring.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684258687757616146" /></a><br />I just don't get it.<br /><br />Why am I supposed to like diamonds? What is the deep, underlying need I'm supposed to have for shiny bangles? Is it connected to the part of me that should want to wear puffy pink ball gowns all day? That would make sense, since I have never wanted either.<br /><br />Maybe it's the stingy part of me that scoffs at diamonds. The part that doesn't like to overpay for things. The part that makes me not buy celery because I know it was 50 cents cheaper last week. But isn't it a known fact that diamonds are a whole...messed up Africa trade thing and they aren't actually worth that much? <br /><br />So why do people keep buying them? And why do they make perfectly sensible women go crazy? For example, here are some scenes I would like explained to me:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">30 Rock, 3.12<br />Elisa (Selma Hayak): "Okay, but I want a ring so big that it gives me back problems."</span><br />What?! You are a woman with TWO jobs. You work with your hands, caring for the elderly. In what world would that ring make sense for your life? Also, aren't you a devout Catholic? Doesn't Jesus preach all kinds of things about giving your worldly possessions to the poor and a rich man can't get into heaven and all that?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Office, 7.11<br />Pam: "Is it pebbles from that beach in Jamaica? *Opens box* *Silence* Oh my God. *Tears* I love it."<br />Jim: "Yep, I do make great Christmas gifts. But I couldn't make that."</span><br />COULDN'T YOU? Well then, what if you just stuffed a teapot with all kinds of things that remind you of each other to secretly show her that you love her? Oh, you already did that. Okay fine. Then just spend all your money on a trinket for your wife when you have a family to feed. No need to put any thought into the gift--just toss money at her. Because that's the kind of person Pam is. The kind of girl who appreciates expensive gifts over thoughtful ones and LITERALLY CRIES over a diamond bracelet. That's the person we've all come to love for seven years, sure.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Up All Night, 1.11<br />Reagan: "The fact that you went through whatever you went through is enough for me. It's the thought that counts."<br />Chris: "Well then I got you two gifts. The thoughtful thing and, well, and also this."<br />Reagan: *GASP!* Oh my God! Oh my God! *GASP!* Look at this! Look at it! Look at this!...Look how hot my wrist looks! Oh, f*ck you, everybody! My husband ROCKS!"</span><br />Okay first of all, you need to breathe, Christina Applegate, although those last two sentences were hilarious. Secondly, you are the one technically making money. So you just bought yourself that bracelet. And again, with the family to feed. And REALLY does your wrist look that hot? Because I'm pretty sure your FACE looks hot and you are an awesome, powerful, smart woman who is better than that reaction. And what happened to the thought that counts then? Is this some funny way for us to all see that it really isn't? <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sex And The City, 3.9<br />Trey: "I think we should stop here for a minute. Maybe we should go in and find you the most beautiful ring they have."</span><br />Charlotte, I know that you are image-obsessed. And I know it took Harry to knock out the crazy. And I know this ring came from a proposal from a guy who says "alrighty." But you have an amazing sense of style, and THIS is how you show it? Trey lets you choose the ring, and you go with just a silver band with a rock on top of it? I guess I just had higher hopes for you, that's all. There's no more thought to this ring than there was to the "alrighty." He just sent you in to pick out something you can wear that proves how rich you're going to be. Where's the love? Why is this scene supposed to make the "alrighty" better?<br /><br /><br />I wish I could say that these shows are all just men writing what they think women want. But all four of these shows are either written, helmed, or overseen by women. So either we're letting these stereotypes happen, or they're actually true: it doesn't matter the circumstances, throw an expensive bunch of diamonds at it and it'll purr like a kitten.<br /><br />Why? What is it? Are we distracted by shiny things? Do we just like to show off how much money our partner has? <br /><br />Maybe I have such apathy because I don't have super nice clothes and I'm not a particularly elegant person. I don't like diamonds because I know how insane they would look next to my $10 Old Navy dress (DON'T HATE, I bought it in three colors). It's like when I was little and I had short hair so I hated wearing girly things because I thought it made me look silly, not fancy. <br /><br />My thing is, I would just rather have something more sentimental or at least more useful, like a plane ticket to Italy, or some of that anti-wrinkle cream that actually works. Diamonds? You never get any use out of them unless you attend galas often (which I clearly don't--my god, the shattered champagne glasses...) or unless your engagement or wedding ring has them. And if you have a big rock like all the girls apparently want, you have to worry about snagging it on stuff or getting yourself hijacked when you go to Guam or blinding yourself from the glare reflecting off the sun.<br /><br />So has my ranting terrified everyone from fighting for the other side? Anyone want to argue for diamonds in all their pretty, sparkly glory? Or does anyone want to join me in my confusion?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7684693041184550742.post-125349872799552202011-12-07T10:32:00.010-08:002011-12-07T13:10:48.946-08:00When I Believed In Santa Claus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6we6-voemIB_hj4XCmaW0dJ6Dz0fr81-RGTTKOvqiOGvS4oJ9UejobwdCKKxZ2qsYXTuIQE3Wf8oQAP08rfwzxRrQcwjZ2uK2IeeWW8IjA62rnAGKd2BBF8ofo3EBVaq5JU-BHVvBRTtM/s1600/Emilychristmas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6we6-voemIB_hj4XCmaW0dJ6Dz0fr81-RGTTKOvqiOGvS4oJ9UejobwdCKKxZ2qsYXTuIQE3Wf8oQAP08rfwzxRrQcwjZ2uK2IeeWW8IjA62rnAGKd2BBF8ofo3EBVaq5JU-BHVvBRTtM/s400/Emilychristmas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683466357837099010" /></a><br />I remember exactly where I stood in my kitchen as I told my friend, Courtney, "Well I don't believe in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, but I'm not sure about Santa Claus."<br /><br />My parents are notorious for forgetting that our teeth were hiding anxiously under our pillows. I had taken to writing notes on scraps of paper and taping them--facing out--onto the window. You know, just in case she just happened to fly by. Then there was the fact that all the richer kids in my school bragged about getting twenty dollar bills under their pillows. I hadn't even SEEN a twenty dollar bill, let alone owned one. Suddenly my excitement over having my very own silver dollar seemed silly. I couldn't even buy a Ninja Turtle with it. It didn't take long to put two and two together: a real fairy would be more scrupulous.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzUwymICmzsGmS8O96GBWJkXwexFP8HFVWbrjsdXOWm-XsfB7NbAultx9hAZfgnAR9bf1D7mWKeGngH-_aV5FXX28YtV3KZg99GUux_qy7IV0TBqooiVcyFJ5YiPM-j50icEs-mEnPGxxK/s1600/n1909865_49117475_7327239.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzUwymICmzsGmS8O96GBWJkXwexFP8HFVWbrjsdXOWm-XsfB7NbAultx9hAZfgnAR9bf1D7mWKeGngH-_aV5FXX28YtV3KZg99GUux_qy7IV0TBqooiVcyFJ5YiPM-j50icEs-mEnPGxxK/s400/n1909865_49117475_7327239.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683466362979960258" /></a><br />The Easter Bunny took a little longer. Easter had been my favorite holiday. It had the early morning excitement of gifts and surprises, with the creativity of dying your own eggs just the way you want them and not sharing them with your siblings, with the shrewdness-showboating of finding things someone had meant to hide from you. Also, there were Cadbury eggs. Santa and his plain ol' walnuts just couldn't compare. But slowly, the excitement began to erode. A bunny? Carrying all this heavy stuff? And how could he get an egg on top of the clock? And how does he get in, anyway? Problem was, there weren't a jillion movies, books, and old-timey newspaper articles to reassure me, give me insider knowledge, or promise that the non-believers can't hear the sleigh bell. That's all saved for Christmas. So Easter was a slow dwindling. I don't remember going from believing to not. Reason just kind of seeped its way in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiPfXRRbuuf0TU6rb8G5b6jdOxvdkN-HieX6fuPH4Uqm3Qf-nYsOUfO6iheAtdCqGSt0Bnavqbx5kKpk3QMciEvbKDgtIGH9iUAmGnXSXKcHbvOGbMYbXYsC2LLtFaMdM07ezrd2DPah6/s1600/n1909865_49117473_271281.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 277px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHiPfXRRbuuf0TU6rb8G5b6jdOxvdkN-HieX6fuPH4Uqm3Qf-nYsOUfO6iheAtdCqGSt0Bnavqbx5kKpk3QMciEvbKDgtIGH9iUAmGnXSXKcHbvOGbMYbXYsC2LLtFaMdM07ezrd2DPah6/s400/n1909865_49117473_271281.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683466356981722306" /></a><br />But Christmas was different. Each knock-down of Santa Claus was like a little slap to the brain, strong enough that I remember those little moments even now. Like the conversation with Courtney. Or the time I pulled my older sister, Katie, into the bathroom, closed the door, and demanded to know if she believed in Santa Claus. "No," she said. "Phew. Okay. Neither do I," I exhaled. Finally, the truth from someone reputable. I had been lied to for so long by all the people I thought I could trust, I didn't know where to turn. Yet I also knew to keep my mouth shut about it. This was private conversation, not meant for the impressionable ears of John or Hannah who still had a chance at believing. While still unsure myself of the truth, I understood that this was an okay lie, a fun lie, a lie meant for the smallest among us. It never upset me to find out that I'd been lied to. Maybe because I was happy to be on the other side with the adults. The Truth-Knowers.<br /><br />It feels like a decade later, although it was probably just the following year, my mom came into my room and asked to borrow my green pen "for signing Santa's presents" she said. "You're old enough to know by now," she said, smiling. I smiled back. Of course. Of course I knew. Duh. Pff. Silly. And even though I thought I did, even though I'd already gotten the confirmation from Katie, it was that moment that made it reality. There was no chance now that, like the movies said, I had simply stopped believing. Tim Allen would never give me the weenie whistle to make be believe again. It was a fact: there is no Santa Claus, and my mother was responsible for the swirly green handwriting on all my favorite presents.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7JE9rLj2Pdw8piV9gZy4SOuRbSmKaRD7ISs771T1zjEJzAAExM0rKv3j0DRlExqwwLHzXqiLnqSG1abaTzrszk2PQhbq8ZckZZs77W7q5wtPsVt8El81YN8WJ9NukWNleh1CooU0qjGi/s1600/n1909865_49117466_2839962.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR7JE9rLj2Pdw8piV9gZy4SOuRbSmKaRD7ISs771T1zjEJzAAExM0rKv3j0DRlExqwwLHzXqiLnqSG1abaTzrszk2PQhbq8ZckZZs77W7q5wtPsVt8El81YN8WJ9NukWNleh1CooU0qjGi/s400/n1909865_49117466_2839962.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683466375047463186" /></a><br />There is a magic lost that you never get back when you stop believing. Waking up that morning with proof--tangible proof--that magic exists (and it ate your cookies) is an amazing feeling. It might even be the first strong emotion I ever remember having. The four of us would sit at the top of the stairs of our split-level, surveying the gifts now overflowing from under the tree. Trying to guess whose gifts were whose, and who was the lucky duck to get the one enormous, wrapped present inevitably laying there. Finally, after 25 days of my eyes playing tricks on me, my stocking was definitely full this time. And look! He gave Rudolph the carrot we left, and he even left a note! I'm not sure what kept us from running down immediately. It might have just been our parents demanding we stay there until the coffee had brewed. Whatever it was, I never minded sitting there for a few minutes. After all, we'd been waiting for this moment all year; why let it pass by so quickly? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66lKK_b0ZVwsVBuOTw9VBAeI102X9zDpQp8YUfbJu9lDHrxm1U7YPV-9jDMSMfPfUyly8Gq1S5anqoxKV7AzHIFAjAxx6WOI9viuhkkmhvwSRUn0gTeTrtkc8il6q1Hl6-ks5KJnrZU2P/s1600/n1909865_49117477_5787707.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj66lKK_b0ZVwsVBuOTw9VBAeI102X9zDpQp8YUfbJu9lDHrxm1U7YPV-9jDMSMfPfUyly8Gq1S5anqoxKV7AzHIFAjAxx6WOI9viuhkkmhvwSRUn0gTeTrtkc8il6q1Hl6-ks5KJnrZU2P/s400/n1909865_49117477_5787707.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683466372561818754" /></a><br />Of course, it's always nice to get presents, even when you know who really gave them to you. But those first few years have something special to them. It's the only time when you know--for a fact, with proof--that someone is out there who knows you intimately, and is watching over you. It's an innocence you never get back, and a feeling that many people spend their whole lives striving to find again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2