The Ankle Saga: A Story In Pictures

So. 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.

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.

On my way to the airport, I walk out the door, down two blocks...



...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.



After about 5 straight minutes of whispered profanity, the girl at the bus stop asked me if I was okay. I told her yes.



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! I usually mock those people! 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.




Eventually I got to the airport...




And then THIS happened.



I had to sit down on the ground like a 3 year old to take off my shoes at security.



Of COURSE I was at the furthest gate. OF COURSE I was.



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.



In the end, I made it and hobbled into the arms of my parents who came to pick me up.



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.



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?

When You're Lost Out There And You're All Alone

Happy Blogaversary, everyone!

Two years. Two Ron F*ing Swanson Years. Can you believe it? I can.......'t! And since it's tradition (ie, I did it last year) I am going to give you A Story In Pictures: Year Two.

A lot has gone on this year in my life. Considering where I started. About a month after I wrote the LAST blogaversary post, I found out our account was up for review and I might lose my job. So, just to give you some context, THAT has been in my life this entire blog year. Let's see where we've gone, yes?

First, on New Year's, Joe and I went to a small town, where disaster ensued, and we all had a good laugh.



Joe and I took a short vacation to LA, and I finally saw California. We were amazed at how different it feels when there's no winter.



Later, we put our stuff in storage so Joe could test out a contract-to-hire job in San Francisco. I moved to a studio on the north side of Chicago.



I started taking improv classes. I met some amazing people and had a blast, but my first time in a real scene...did NOT go well.



As predicted, I was laid off in late summer. I MAY have been there to open the bar that day.



Turns out, being unemployed while living next to the beach was pretty awesome for a little while.



But eventually things started going south after reality came back. I decided to move to San Francisco, and job hunting became overwhelming.



I got on a plane with Regina, who was not so happy to be caged and staged a coup. Twice.


Finally, I made it. When our stuff arrived, Joe and I ushered it in with the pomp and circumstance appropriate for such an occasion.



And that, my friends, has been the blog year! A lot of frustration and loneliness, and one really major change that I think will lead to bunch more minor (good) changes. Thanks, everyone, for following along as I tumble through this thing. Who knows what the next blog year will bring?!

Happy Blogaversary!

Wow, today is this blog's one year anniversary. That is CRAZAAYYY! It seems like just yesterday I was dragging my laptop to Lovely to force myself to finally make a blog, even if I had no idea what I wanted to do with it.

I tried to write a little somethin' somethin' along the lines of "here are all the things I did this year" but it just sounded so Dullsville, USA, population me. So what do I do? I turned it into another story in pictures, of course.

So here it is, a bit of the past year, as seen from EJS IS ME:

Here is essentially what the Cheese Knives debacle looked like.

In which I realized that not everyone remembers classic Bible stories in the same way.

If you haven't caught on yet, whales are the bane/joke upon my life. But the original post about them was not all fun and games.

I really did want to become a Roller Derby girl. For now, I'm going to settle on buying myself some roller skates next summer.

This is a bit of a random one, but it pretty well represents my time as a true Freelancer.

What a disaster. For the entire story in pictures, go here.


Here is a good representation of the place I sat when I first started the internship that turned into a real job. That window was like God shining his love down upon me.

My most crass title to date, but I still don't take it back.

I don't think I ever got around to explaining the 3rd disaster of our camping experience: besides the fact that it was a ghetto piece of land in podunk Michigan and the showers probably gave me smallpox, there was also a nearby group of Russians playing and yelling Hotel California--and nothing BUT Hotel California--for 24 straight hours, including those times most people reserve for sleeping. What was crazy was that when they first started, Joe and I couldn't figure out what song they were even trying to play or sing. And by the time we left, they were singing in perfect harmony and even playing the crazy bridge part.

Two days after I got a job, I got a cat with a mustache. She likes it with us.


And I really mean that. Thanks to everyone who's shown support for me or for this blog by reposting, voting, becoming a facebook fan, commenting, or even just telling me that they enjoyed what they read. It's the reason I kept going, blog-wise, and life-wise. Your support has honestly changed the way I've been doing things lately. For the better, obv.

Oh! And I didn't include SO SO many posts, like the dogs in sweaters, a bunch of Bible posts, the one about Advertising that got a gazillion hits, anything involving Muppets or my embarrassing childhood, my disdain for sports, my British teeth issue (in which I got a few angry comments from British people who apparently only understand sarcasm if it's coming out of the mouth of Ricky Gervais)...the list goes on. Feel free to go back and read as much or little as you want!

It's Regina Phalange And Her Morning Schedule

Something "Special"

I know I've been discussing my childhood with you guys a lot lately, but I promise you will be happy you read this one.

A week ago, my parents brought me a little present. It was a "book" I wrote in the 1st grade for school. And as you'll see, it's Something Special.

Ahem ahem ahem...




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
The front and back cover, a portrait of our family with our house in the background. There's Dad, Mom, Hannah (age 1), Katie (age 10), Emily (age 7), and John (age 4)

NOTES:
1) I would like to apologize to Katie for giving her such girth, although the side pony tail might have been accurate for 1991, apologize to Hannah for my crayon ineptitude which resulted in her turtleneck onesie and lack of nose, and to John for forgetting to give him pants. Although, again, that might have been accurate for 1991.
2) I'm also concerned that this happened:
Teacher: "Now, kids, this is an important book you're writing. So make sure you title it something special."
Emily: "Got it. *writing* Somethiiiiing....speciallll..."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is a bird's eye "vew" of me, as a baby, standing on the scale in my parent's bedroom and weighing the feather-light baby weight of 20 pounds. I assume, as a baby, I would need help standing by myself, so my mother is helping me. To the side, you can see the top of the light, which I had clearly asked how to spell, considering my random stab at "drassor."

THE TEXT:
"If I could... ...be a baby I wood be light."

NOTES:
I don't really know what to tell you on this one. I clearly phoned it in. That, or I had spent all my time getting a mental grasp of my parent's bedroom from a bird's eye view that I didn't have time to properly explain my reasoning behind dedicating an entire page to such thoughts.




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
I am standing in a single file line outside before school. Jon O. is patting my then spiked hair and calling me "Spike." (Pure genius that one.) I am giving the kind of snappy comeback that truly comes after days of consideration, "Jon put a sok in it I meen you all redy got your underwer! not!"

THE TEXT:
"When I grow up I get funnyer and funnyer. I love being lughed at! I'm grat at being funny and I bet you now how funny I am!"

NOTES:
1) I remember being acutely aware that my example joke was not very funny, but I couldn't figure out how to MAKE it funny. Let's review the facts:

a) "Put a sock in it": Modern idiom I had recently learned. Always funny.
b) Reference to underwear in someone's mouth: I mean, how can you go wrong with that?
c) "Not!": Hi. My name is Emily, and my sense of humor spawns directly from Pee Wee Herman. It's nice to meet you.
I mean, based on that evidence alone, this joke just hit a home run--NAY, a grand slam. I don't know what I was so worried about.

2) My blatant disregard toward instruction.
Teacher: "Now this page will start with 'When I grow up...' and you'll write about what you'll be when you grow up!"
Me: "Yeah, eff that. I'm going to need an entire page dedicated to an underwear joke."
3) I clearly set this page up to draw myself in a long line of students, each with their own totally accurate caricatures. But once I had myself in there, I got through one more skirt before saying "Ehh, screw it. They get the point."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is Easter morning in our living room, as evidenced by the creepy painting of a marble splashing in oil we used to have. Katie is discovering the traditional egg-on-the-clock egg, and John has found one of the "easy" (read, BABY) eggs under the couch.

THE TEXT:
Ester is my vavrit thig. man I bet you don't know how special Ester is to me. espashle that Jesus rows.

NOTES:
1) Okay, I'm going to be straight up honest with you here. Ester had VERY little to do with Jesus rowing. And it had very MUCH to do with Cadbury creme eggs. But I knew, even then, that if you want to get in good with The Big Guy, you have to do all the right stuff. You can't call your brother "stupid," you have to pray before dinner and occasionally other meals, and you HAVE to appreciate religious holidays for religious reasons. Otherwise, as a 7 year-old who can think of nothing more wonderful in the world than finding various types of marshmallows in a colorful basket, you are going straight to hell.
2) Every time I read the word "espashle," I want to take little 1st grade Emily and squeeze her so hard, her eyes pop out of her little spiked head a little.
3) I must have just learned the phrase "I bet" from Katie or something. Clearly I was into it. I also like how I kind of sound like an old black man sitting on a bench telling my life story. "Man, I tell you what. You don't even KNOW."
4) Next to the marble picture is a little brown rectangle. I believe it is our doorbell, but to be honest with you, I STILL don't know what that brown box does. But isn't that a strangely specific thing to remember about my living room, considering I drew this at school? And how have I been so perplexed by something for almost 20 years without bothering to ask anyone about it?




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
My father and mother are playing a board game (My mom is cross-legged and in a dress. Scandal!) and Katie and I are playing cards on our living room floor.

THE TEXT:
It's fun to play at or house but, we never have time! You know, mom gos to work dad to School we go to School and the little ones go to the baby sittirs.

NOTES:
1. I have to say, for someone who clearly didn't understand the concept that CRAYONS CAN'T BE ERASED JUST BECAUSE YOU MADE YOUR OWN HEAD ENORMOUS, it was a good effort for the commas on this page. I mean, 1 out of 2 ain't bad.
2. I 100% blame my father for the fact that I referred to someone 3 years younger than me as "the little ones."
3. That blue couch, man. I remember the day we got that couch. And I have to say--my rendition of it? Spot on. Spot. On. The thing is, though, that nothing else in that house even exists. We had no family portrait in which Hannah is falling into a small pit (I WISH) and we had no small windows with red curtains. So I ask you, tiny Emily: why the random attention to detail? Hmm?
4. Note that Hannah and John are no where to be found. That's because this picture embodies a happy place full of happy people, playing games and laughing into all hours of the night, as all the useless family members sleep.
5. I like that spelling and grammar were still just a shot in the dark at this point. I imagine myself like Pollock, just filling in blank space with splotches, hoping to appease the masses. "Capitalize here, lower case here...let's add some punctuation over here...that'll do, pig. That'll do."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is a white stretch limo with a red top pulling up to the red carpet, where throngs of smiling photographers await my appearance.

THE TEXT:
When I get older I hope too be the prasadint!

NOTES:
1. GOD I hope that's how Bush spells "president."
2. Okay clearly I never wanted to be president. Honestly, I think I saw someone else write that and just wrote it, too. At this point, I had no idea that I wanted to be a Muppeteer. I really just wanted to be important and famous. And who doesn't want that, ever? Can you blame me?
3. Also, can you blame me for being an annoying show-off who knows what the Big Dipper looks like?




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Last Thursday: A Story In Pictures

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