Let'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.

But I'm healing. My time in Chicago has been another 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.

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".

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.

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.

10 Things To Know If You're Moving To Chicago

I've lived near or around Chicago my whole life, and specifically in the city for four years. At this point I think I get it.

Here's what you need to know about Chicago before you come here.


1. WEATHER


Learn how to complain.
People in Chicago have two jobs: the first is the one they get paid to do, and the second is part-time complaining about the weather. Rainy. Windy. Cold. Hot. Nothing satisfies the people of Chicago and they are always baffled by anyone who moves here from a warmer climate. Of course if anyone from that warmer climate DARES TO INSULT THE GREAT CITY OF CHICAGO we know how to passive-aggressively tell you that we just love the change of seasons and we don't think we could ever live without it.

Chicago is not the end of the world, weather-wise.
I drove from Chicago to Wisconsin in January and I will tell you, Chicago doesn't even know the MEANING of the word snow. "Oh but what about that snow storm we had that one--" --PUNY NONSENSE SNOW, I will interrupt, COMPARED TO WISCONSIN. Wisconsin eats snow for breakfast. And I imagine so do many other northern states and that place above Wisconsin, Ol' What's-Its-Name. Yeah, it gets windy and snowy and horrible here and it makes you want to curl up inside a Tauntaun. But at least we have salt for the roads and trucks to distribute it. Do you know what Wisconsin uses to keep their billions of feet of snow off the roads? SAND. But like, a child's sandbox amount of sand. What are you, Houston? Wisconsin, you care just a LITTLE too much about those lakes of yours. If your fish refuse to adapt to the salt, just buy something more tropical. I'm sure they'll adapt.

The secret to surviving winter
Two things: Preparation and not bothering to care what you look like. A coat from an authentic sporting goods store. Multiple gloves at once. A hat that is so big and fuzzy that it is possible it's still alive. Large, weather-proof winter boots that can trudge through dark grey slush. Basically, the closer you are to looking like an Inuit, the better. They know what they're doing. If you can wrap yourself up in an actual polar bear, you have done your job.

It always snows once in April.
I am telling you right now: there will be a day in March. Maybe even a few days. On that day, it will seem magical. It may even be 60 degrees outside, dare I say 70. Every year this happens. And every year on that day I tell people "It always snows once in April." And they laugh. Oh! How they laugh. "You fool!" they say. "Weather cannot change!" They put on shorts and flip flops and wonder why no restaurant has put out its outdoor cafe seating. But the restaurants have learned. And so have I. I have held this "April" theory since college. Chicago has never let me down. Every year it comes back. Usually not too harshly. But it snows. Oh! How it snows. And all the idiots who vow that they'll never go back to pants have to walk around, their teeth chattering, pretending they never heard my warning. But they heard. They heard.

The summer is freaking awesome.
Because of our deathly winters, Chicago comes alive in the summer. There are literally festivals on every weekend. Free concerts, movies in the park...all kinds of things. Check out metromix.com to find fun stuff.


2. ROADS


We're on a grid.
After the Chicago fire, this city had a chance to rebuild itself smartly. One thing they did was put everything on a grid system, where almost every street goes either north-south or east-west. That makes it easy to get around. However...

Some roads go diagonally into the city.
These roads are generally annoying because they mess with intersections. The worst of them being Elston Ave...Ohhhhhh Elston, how I loathe thee. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Stick with the grid and you'll be fine.

Some Chicagoans understand location based on the address numbers.
They say things like "Oh, 1400? that's really far north" or some nonsense. These people are freaks. Most of us just give main cross streets. "Broadway and Foster" "Damen and North." Eventually you'll learn these roads too and these intersections will mean something to you as well.


3. FOOD


A proper Chicago hotdog
If you don't know, the Chicago dog is piled with everything besides ketchup. I don't know why we are so opposed to ketchup on our sausages but it is just our way. Most places won't blink if you order ketchup, but I suggest you try the true Chicago way just once. There are plenty of places for them. Check Yelp, or go to Portillo's.

A proper Chicago slice
Chicago pizza is usually served deep dish. It is intense. One to two slices will suffice, and you have to eat it with a knife and fork because it weighs about 80 pounds. Giordano's is well-liked and there are tons of them around, although I'm partial to Lou Malnati's. Lou's isn't for everyone--the sauce is chunkier and less sweet, and the crust is buttery and crunchy, not bready. But it should be tried. Stay away from Uno's. It's not worth it.
Thin crust pizza in Chicago often comes cut into squares, not large triangles like New York. It's good that way; you have no idea how many you've had and can pretend like it wasn't much.

Groceries
In order of expense: Whole Foods, Dominick's, Jewel, Trader Joe's, Aldi. I'd personally stay away from both end caps. But that's the Middle Class Girl talking.

Restaurants:
We have them. To say Chicagoans only "like" food would be doing us a great injustice. I mean, sure, our winters aren't as bad as some, but they're enough to keep you indoors for 9 months. We've got good restaurants, and all the kinds you want. We also have been home to immigrants from all eras, which means delicious foods from around the world: Polish, Ethiopian, Irish (Fadó is Irishman certified), Turkish, Mexican, Detroitian...we have it all, and it's all good. There are tons of independently owned restaurants if you get away from the city, like in Wicker Park (Division and Damen) and in northern Andersonville (Clark and Foster). Again, Yelp that shizz.


4. NEIGHBORHOODS


Where to start:
If you're looking for a good place to move to in Chicago and you don't know the area at all, I suggest you check out Lakeview. Unless you consider yourself a little more Indie/Hipster, then I say Wicker Park. Both these places are pretty generally well-liked. They have a lot to offer, lots of shops and restaurants and they're close to public transportation. From there you can do research into the other neighborhoods, but here's a small list to get you started:

Neighborhood Breakdown:
This is insanely stereotyped and obviously not the final word, but here's who tends to live in some of the neighborhoods you'll hear about, in no particular order:

Streeterville: Newbies, Rich people
Gold Coast/River North: Old Rich people
Old Town: Young rich people
Lincoln Park: Newly college grads
Wrigleyville: Frat guys
Boystown: Young gays
Lakeview: Yuppies
Pilsen: Hipsters, Mexican-Americans
Wicker Park: Rich hipsters, Mexican-Americans
Bucktown: Richer hipsters
Logan Square: Poor hipsters, Mexican-Americans
Ukranian Village: Reformed hipsters
Chinatown: Chinese-Americans (surprise!)
Uptown: Crazy people and corporate gays
Andersonville: Lesbians, Sweeds
Edgewater: A melting pot of immigrants
Rogers Park: Rich college kids
Roscoe Village: Dinks
Lincoln Square: Saxons
South Loop: Couples with dogs
West Loop: Greek-Americans
Humboldt park: Puerto Rican-Americans
Hyde Park: Obama


(Most of these are north side, because I don't know much about the south side. You'll have to sleuth on your own if you want to move there.)(Also, there are SOOO many more than these but I ran out of brain power.)

I've lived in 4 different neighborhoods and I still haven't made up my mind about my favorite neighborhood. They're all pretty great in their own ways.


The neighborhoods are still very segregated.
If you couldn't already tell based on how I just described the above. But I'll let the numbers speak for themselves. Check out this map.


5. PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION


All the information about the CTA is here. But let me break it down.

Cards:
There are three kinds of cards.
1. Unlimited paper cards. You can buy these at grocery stores and you can ride as much as you want for 1, 3, 7, and 30 days.
2. Pay-per-ride cards. You can buy these at the el station with cash. Each ride is $2.25 per ride, no matter where you go. Put as much or as little as you want on these cards.
3. Magic plastic CTA card that automatically refills with money. You can get that online.

Train:
The el, which we also call "the subway" or just "the train" (or at least I do because I'm too lazy to remember words), runs like a spiderweb into the city and back out again. A lot of it does run above ground, but the red and blue line run underground once they get to the city. These two are the fastest lines and the only two that run 24/7. These are the only two lines I've lived along, so I know them the best.
All the el lines transfer to the other lines at some point or another, although it's not always the fastest way to get around. Often the best route is to transfer to a bus. I always check Google Maps for the fastest transit directions. Gmaps is your friend. Use gmaps.

Buses:
I hear people say that they're too scared to ride the buses all the time, but they're harmless. They basically just run up and down one street. If it runs up and down Grand, that bus is called "Grand." It's really hard. Again, Google Maps will help you figure that part out anyway. As for paying, if you already have a card, there's a place by the driver where you use it just like on the el. If you only have cash, you can put that in the little machine and it sucks it up. But there's no cash back so pray you have quarters.


6. PARKING


I've never had a car in the city, but I'll tell you what I know.

Parking downtown is insane. Avoid! Avoid!
It's near impossible to find street parking, and the parking garages cost more than a Donald Trump haircut. If your destination is downtown, a taxi or the CTA is your best bet.

Street parking elsewhere in Chicago:
Some places you pay. We recently replaced coin meters with ones that'll take credit cards, which is clutch.
Some side streets are free, although these ones are usually pretty full, of course. Some side streets require a permit.
No matter what, you're going to need to learn parallel parking. It's the only parking you'll do for a while.

Parking where you live?
Your apartment may have a spot that you'll probably have to pay for, although some places give it to you for free. That one's a toss-up. Just like whether or not they make you pay a move-in fee (BAH, don't get me started), it depends on your landlord. If you're living in a walk-up (an apartment with 3-4 apartments stacked on one another) you're more likely to get cheap parking. The high rises will cost you. If you can live without a car, I say go for it. I've survived so far on borrowing others' cars, renting cars, and taking public transit. Although I have a few friends who have used zipcar.com, too.

Dibs
In the winter it's hard to get a spot because the street cleaners are not particularly precise and snow covers a quarter of the spots. Once you finally dig yourself out/into a spot, some people find that spot hard to let go of it. So they put old lawn chairs out to save their spot. It's pretty much crap and a point of contention for Chicagoans every winter. In the end, it persists because people are afraid if they move the lawn chairs, they'll be keyed.


7. ENTERTAINMENT:


(Look familiar?)

This is a big city, so of course there are tons of places to see regular concerts and plays and stuff. Here are a few slightly more underground:

Second City: Improv
Steppenwolf: Weird theater
The Neo-Futurists: Weirder, smaller theater
The Vic: Smaller concerts and stand up
Music Box Theater: Film festival type movies
Landmark Cinema: Film Festival type movies...but the ones with Sean Penn in them
Buddy Guy's Legends: Authentic Chicago blues that will ease your soul.


8. SAFETY


You know all those jokes New York people make about homeless people pooping in boxes? Yeah, we have those people, too. I've seen some crazies. I've HEARD some crazies. I've been approached by crazies. But I have never been hurt by a crazy. They smell like the pachyderm house at the zoo, they ask for any food you can spare and then get mad when you give them your sandwich because they wanted Wendy's (*true story*) they sing loudly. Everyone has a few stories about crazy/drunk people on the el. My personal favorites:
1. The guy who announced everything the P.A. voice did, with the exact same timing and intonation.
2. The guy who kept yelling "MATA LA GENTE" which I confirmed via phone meant "kill the people." That one was by far the scariest. But he got off the el without touching a soul.

There are stories. People being beaten or jumped. And apparently lately there have been these mob attacks where a bunch of kids jump on a bus, take everyone's stuff, and jump off. And the morning news is not exactly the best time to look for feel-good stories. Almost every day, a child on the South Side has been killed and someone was found in the lake. Safety is not to be taken lightly, for sure.

All I can tell you is, I've never had anything stolen from me (KNOCKS ON ALL THE WOOD) and I've never been hurt (AGAIN WITH THE KNOCKING). Keep your headphones in your pocket at night, and stay alert. But we're still Midwesterners, and most of us still have the decency to keep our hands to ourselves. We're also a city, so the streets are well-lit and well-populated. Use those to your advantage.


9. YOUR APARTMENT

Nine times out of ten, your apartment will look like this:



It will be a walk-up, huge, with tiny bedrooms off to the side. It is the Chicago way. A landlord told me that this was because, before central heating, people did nothing but sleep in bedrooms because they were so cold, so they didn't bother making them very big. So if you go looking at apartments, expect this general look.

If you've never lived in cold weather:
Go to a hardware store before winter sets in and buy this stuff to go over your windows. Especially if you have old windows, this will cut down drastically on your bill and cut out drafts.


10. SPORTS



Yikes. I am the last person to tell you about sports in this city. But it's important for you to know the basics if you want to live here. We are REALLY into sports in Chicago. So for those in the dark, here is the breakdown. If you want deeper info than this...you're in the wrong place.

Basketball
The Bulls. Red, Black and White. We used to have Michael Jordan and once he left, we were only okay until this year.

Football
The Bears. Navy and Orange. We used to have Ditka and once he left, we were only okay until we got Urlacher, a white dude with an insanely large neck.

Baseball
Cubs: North side. Blue and red. The stereotypical fan is white, rich, and a prat. We are infamous for having a 100 year losing streak, and famous for Harry Carey and an analog scoreboard.
White Sox: South side. Black and white. The stereotypical fan is...well, the opposite of a Cubs Fan. The Sox won the World Series in like...2005?

Hockey
Blackhawks: Red and black. This is the jersey they wear in Wayne's World. Everyone forgot about hockey around here until last year when we won the Stanley Cup and suddenly everyone became enormous hockey fans. I found it annoying, but I guess good for general morale.

Soccer
Chicago Fire: Navy and red. One time, two players from the Fire came to our junior high and played Keep The Ball In The Air with one of my classmates, Paul. Paul won.


Okay! That's what I have to say about Chicago. Hope this helps any newbies (or potential newbies who are thinking about making your way here). Any other Chicagoans make it all the way through this thing and have anything to add? Comments welcome and requested!

My Brief Punk Rock Adventure

Before I get into today's post I want to correct something I have overlooked for nearly nine months (NOT PREGNANT. JUST AN UNFORTUNATE COINCIDENTAL NUMBER. I WILL NOT BE ON TLC LATER. WHY AM I TALKING IN CAPS LOCK STILL?)

If any of you remember, a while ago I shared with you my list of potential celebrity husbands, at the top of which is of course Future Husband John Krasinski. But I forgot one crucial celebrity, and that is probably because he is not yet...well, a celebrity. He is this guy:


And he was in this T-Mobile commercial.

His name is Kyle Bornheimer. You may also know him as Advertising Guy from the Office episode, "Local Ad" or you may know him as Main Character Guy from That Show That Was On Some Channel Probably NBC That Was Almost Good But Not Quite And Oh Wait Wasn't Olivia Munn In That? Yeah Yeah I Think I Saw An Episode Of That Show.

But I know him as T-Mobile Voicemail Guy SLASH Future Husband. I mean, look at him in that ad! He's so nervous and snuggleable! I want to do crosswords over breakfast with him and then later go out to dinner at Benihana.

What can I say? I dream high.

ANYWAY, now that that's out of the way, let me tell you about my adventure yesterday. I went to a punk rock show at a bar in Logan Square. As someone who openly admitted to liking Maroon 5 and Avril Lavigne in high school, you can imagine this was a typical night for Emily.



The reason I was there was layered. At the top layer, I am friends with a band member's older sister. On a layer underneath that, I am trying to go do more fun things with a variety of people instead of being a Netflix-watching hermit in my apartment with my cat at all times. When I went, I didn't know it was a punk rock show. But I figured it out when I saw people with mohawks/pony tails/worn black t-shirts. I won't lie. I was scared. The last experience I had with Punk Rock was the video I watched of a mash-up between Slipknot's "Psychosocial" and Justin Bieber's "Baby", which had the affect of a child singing in a horror movie. If this was the night I was in for, I was going to need someone to hold my hand on the way home.

We stood in the back, so as not to offend the true punk rockers. Our colorful clothes and chipper attitudes really would have killed the mood. However, this meant that my view was obstructed by a man who was roughly 6'6", 300 pounds. His pony tail fell to the middle of his back. Jean shorts. He was the kind of guy you'd want with you at Six Flags purely because you would never lose him in a crowd. He probably either knows everything about either Star Wars or Star Trek but definitely not both. You get the picture.

He was the only one dancing. And by dancing, I mean nodding his head. There was no swaying or bopping in this bar, only diligent listening. Each band seem to be in competition with their own bandmates for how fast they could play the song, which led to songs so fast that each one lasted thirty seconds. No real words ever came out of the singer's mouth, just a gutteral string of vowels with the occasional f-bomb. Think "Master of Puppets" but without the genius talent and ten times faster and louder.

I loved it.

See, since Joe has left, I've quickly developed an eff-it attitude about what to do with my time. There's no longer a "Why am I here when I could be snuggled up on my couch with Joe?" thought running through my head at all times, pulling me back toward home.

So I was there. And I was determined to enjoy myself. What I found was that even with this loud, Adderall-filled music you begin to hear the nuances. So, you know when you turn on the radio and it's the middle of a Lady Gaga song or some such nonsense and at first you're like, "What fresh hell is this ruckus?" But give it a second of listening and you get into the rhythm of it? That was the deal with this music, too. You start tuning out the screeching and reverberations of too-much drum bouncing off the matte black walls and you start to hear the melody. And it's not that bad. But then you try to listen to the lyrics. And that's where it all goes all downhill.

My particular favorite song was from the opening band, a song we dubbed, "F-ck the bullsh-t" in which the lyrics were "F-ck f-ck f-ck, f-ck the bullsh-t." It was a deep song. I was amazed that we made out those words. Otherwise, words like "instigator" and "mashed potato" were completely indiscernible from one another. My second favorite song was the one about Mayor Rahm Emanuel being a mashed potato.

The singer for the opening band also kept dedicating his songs to other dude friends, with names like Kyle and Scott. You could tell he had never gotten a girl to listen to more than a second of his favorite music, let alone request a dedicated song to her.

I spent about an hour and a half listening to this music, observing, chuckling, legitimately enjoying the music at 4-second intervals. It was the kind of night that made me realize, I really need to let go and do stuff. Without that nagging thought in the back of my head that I would be happier at home. Sure, I was yawning despite the in-yo-face music because it was 11:30 on a school night and I am old. But I had a good time. I didn't need to feel like I fit in or like I was doing something accomplishing (although I knew I'd get a half-assed blog post out of it--AND HOW!) in order to have a good time. When my time lately has been spent watching movies and drinking wine or WISHING I was watching a movie and drinking wine, it was nice to remind myself that it's not the only way to be happy. I needed that.

What's With The Hipster Hate?

I'm going to say something that no one has ever said out loud: I wish I were a Hipster. Let me back up.

See, I found this online:



via Samantha Hahn

And I thought, "But I LIKE all those things. (Except the girl in the middle in the orange drapery but that's really more because I just can't pull that look off.) And I'm not a Hipster. Wait...is being classified as a Hipster really such a bad thing?"

And then I went off into this whole inner struggle where it's like, I like indie things but I don't feel like a Hipster but I have friends who are Hipsters but they don't think they're Hipsters and some people are more Hipster than others or really is that possible and WHAT THE FRICKEN HELL I CAN'T EVEN TELL IF BEING A HIPSTER IS GOOD OR BAD AND IF I AM ONE OF THEM!!!!1g

So then I sat back and thought about it.

Maybe the issue is that there are different classifications of what makes someone a Hipster and it's become so broad it sometimes seems to include anyone who does anything against the norm. We'll come back to that.

There is definitely a type, though. An I'll-know-it-when-I-see-it kind of person who is truly, undeniably Hipster. But not just Hipster. Annoying Hipster. These are the people who try too hard to be part of the counter culture, get really snobby (hence the "you've probably never heard of it" meme) and it makes them annoying. Like such:


(via latfh.com)(Granted, I do not know this person. He might be hilarious and awesome. But you get the point of the kind of people I'm talking about.)

Don't be weird for weird sake. Be weird because it's legitimately who you are...within the boundaries of being a functional human being. I think we can all agree: people who do things JUST to either be pretentious or for attention are annoying. And yes, this is coming from the girl who regularly wore rainbow knee-high toe socks in the 8th grade. But guess what? IT WAS THE 8TH GRADE. I'm an adult now.

But there's still all this Hipster Hate out there, besides toward this outlying group of individuals. It's like leftover anger. Just because the people who crochet their fixed gear bike out of vegan hemp are stupid, all people who do anything against the norm don't have to be stupid.

There seem to be two kinds of Hipster Hate: People who hate Hipsters for going against the norm, and people who hate Hipsters for going WITH the norm.
a) You can't find pink hair in J. Crew so YOU'RE A DAMN HIPSTER AND I HATE YOU.
b) Why are there so many people with pink hair nowadays?! YOU'RE A DAMN HIPSTER AND I HATE YOU.

Why don't you people swallow the fire coming out of your throat and let the girl/boy have pink hair if they damn well want to have pink hair?

My two problems with this entire Hipster hating ordeal:

1. The Hipster classification

It's like, if you don't shop at big-box stores and you do enjoy farmer's markets, that's enough for people to throw you into one giant category: Hipsters. And then "Hipsters" all classify everyone else as "Yuppies." Why are there only two categories? THIS ISN'T THE GOVERNMENT. Sure, people try to weave in new categories, like "twee" or reclassify "hipster" as "indie" so that it won't sound so offensive. But if a girl in a funky floral dress and thick-rimmed glasses almost ran over you on her vintage bike, you'd spit, "F--king hipster" under your breath and don't say you wouldn't.


2. The Hipster denial.

So if we can't break the Hipster classification, if everyone with a fauxhawk has to be Hipster, let's at least just suck it up and admit it. Say it with me: "I'm a Hipster."



Let's stop this. Let's quit hating on Hipsters when we probably are all a little Hipster ourselves. It's starting to feel like the study that found homophobic people are most likely gay. I call it "The Whoever Smelt It Delt It Theory." Or possibly the "Steve Mandarino Theory." (Steve Mandarino was a kid in 7th grade who made fun of my nerdy hair in math class because he was roughly 4 feet tall and had a serious need to compensate in order to feel cooler.) Hating on other people just reflects poorly on you. Regardless of the god you may or may not pray to, it's just good sense to love one another without judgment.

And really. Is it such a bad thing to be a Hipster? Can't I wear funky sunglasses without being scoffed at? What if I legitimately like Hemmingway? Why does riding a bike have to be for "image" and not because it's cheap, good exercise, and environmentally friendly? Can't we just let people do things they want to do without snarling?

So I'm here to say: YEAH. I'm a little bit hipster. And I wish I were even more so. I'm not saying I want to see my face on Look At This F--king Hipster Dot Com. and I don't want Fred Armisen to mock me in a sketch on Portlandia. But if doing and owning things you can't find in a mall makes me Hipster, then FINE. I accept your overarching, slightly-cynical classification. Call me a Hipster. And call me a Hipster Wannabe. I'm a little of both.

Things I do That Classify Me As A Hipster
- Get short/asymmetrical haircuts sometimes
- My sunglasses have an extra bridge over the top
- Lived in Wicker Park
- Own vintage luggage
- Tweet? Is that hipster?
- Drink PBR cans at bars to save money
- Complain about cheap American lagers while I do it
- Go to shows with audiences under 50

Things I Wish I Did That Would Classify Me As A Hipster If I Did Them
- Take fashion risks
- Support more local (artists, bands, restaurants, food, etc.)
- Ride a moped
- Ride a bike
- Read a lot of smart books and talk about them with my friends
- Listen to music by people who do not make bank
- Wear no makeup/tons of makeup/risky makeup/make art on my face and feel comfortable with it all
- Get a big tattoo in plain sight and f--k worrying what I think about it when I'm 80
- Knit
- Get crafty
- Decorate my whole apartment with vintage-y things
- Hang out in coffee shops
- Wear big, seafoam green headphones
- Shop at Whole Foods (Some day, Whole Foods...some day.)

Basically I want to be Zooey Deschanel in the Cotton commercial and I don't care who knows it.



And are those things so bad? Why? I'm not ruining lives. I'm not hurting myself (well the tattoo would sting a little but otherwise...) Let's all back off and let people do things they like. For once. I know it's human nature to lash out at people who are different from you because they make you question your own choices. But maybe other people don't do things SPECIFICALLY to fit in/stand out/annoy you. Maybe they made choices because they know who they are.

And what kind of choices do YOU make?

Life Update

Wow, this week has been very...different.

So if you can recall, I moved this week. Still within the city limits of Chicago, but BARELY. I took off work on Wednesday and Thursday, moving my stuff from our apartment in the South Loop up to a studio in a neighborhood called Edgewater, which is North Side to the xtreme. (Yeah. No "e". THAT'S HOW FAR NORTH I LIVE NOW.)

The second day, we moved the rest of our stuff-we-don't-need-for-four-months-which-makes-me-question-if-we-REALLY-need-it-at-all-and-then-I-remember-it's-stuff-like-a-couch-and-a-blender-and-I-don't-feel-SO-bad-but-really-I-still-question-it-and-then-I-watch-Hoarders-and-think-"well-at-least-it's-not-mummified-rats-and-old-toothbrushes"-and-I-feel-a-little-better-but-seriously-do-we-REALLY-need-this-chair? into a storage unit.

And the rest of the week was spent unpacking and learning about my new neighborhood. It is seriously bizarre how much I feel like I'm in a totally different city right now, to the point where it felt odd coming into work because, well, shouldn't I WORK somewhere else, too? Something consistent in my life?? HUH??

NEW THINGS: I live walking distance to the beach (WHAT?! AWESOME), there are trees everywhere instead of cement covered in dog pee, and the woman working the cash register at Dunkin Donuts is best friends with everyone and calls us all "My Friend." It might just be the most glorious thing ever.

The sad thing that comes with all this is that Joe is gone to San Francisco. His zip code starts with a 9 instead of a 6. It is sad. And quiet. But I've been preparing for it for so long, it doesn't feel that horrible yet. I'm emotionally prepared AND physically prepared: I've been waiting to read Bossypants for a month so I'd have something to do. And we've already done a Skype video call in which I spent most of the time looking at my own hair and wishing I'd put on a little eyeliner.

ALSO, I'm making a puppet but I can't tell you why!! I wish I could but I can't for like two weeks. I'm making it for a contest and if I tell you what contest it will mess with my chances. But I can show you the puppet! And I can show you my test run with him. I'm trying to get a hang of his personality and voice, so I just started talking...and out came the Brady Bunch theme song. And yes, THIS is officially the nerdiest thing I've done since the time I memorized all the words to the Black Knight scene in Monty Python.



So that's basically where I'm at. Studio, Reading, Work, Puppet. I'm cool with it.

The Tragic Tale of Mold-A-Rama Lincoln

Joe and I went up to the Sears--GAH! WILLIS!!--Tower on Saturday. This is his last weekend in Chicago before he moves to San Fran for the next four months, and he's never been up to the top of the Sears--WILLIS!--Tower. So we decided it would be a fun, quick touristy thing to do. We actually live only a few blocks away, so it was a fast walk. And it was really cool to be able to look at the place you live from up above. Turns out Target is shaped weirdly.

Since I've last been there, they've added these glass boxes that jut out on the west side of the building, so you can basically step out and be 5/6 suspended in mid-air. When I first heard about it, I swore to the high heavens that I would absolutely 100% never go.

Sigh. Here I am, giving in to the peer pressure.



Once we circled the top and went back down, we walked through a bunch of touristy things. Mugs, snowglobes, we walked past them all. But then! *Fanfare music* Photo booths, penny-flattening machines and two, COUNT EM, TWO Mold-A-Rama machines.

For those who do not know about the majesty that is Mold-A-Rama, here's the deal: they're these retro-looking things that make wax figurines. The only other place I can remember seeing them is at the zoo. Near the dolphins, you can get a dolphin. Bears, bears. Rhinos, rhinos. Etc etc, ditto ditto, and so on and so forth.

Here's an example of another one I found on Google.



Up in the top left they show you what the figurine would look like. Then there under the glass is the mechanism: two halves of the mold, which come together and fill with wax after you put the money in. After a minute, the mold is done, and a little arm comes down and pushes it down into the hole where you can get it, vending-machine style.

Well. I got pretty excited about this particular mold, a bright blue Abraham Lincoln with "The Land Of Lincoln" written underneath. It just sounded so kitch, I couldn't resist. Here's what he would look like.



Joe put in the $2 it costs, the two metal arms came together as they should, we heard the noise of the mold coming in, aaaaaannnnnd something weird happened.

Blue wax started dripping out the bottom.

Now, I have a pretty bad memory, but I've also made my way around a Mold-A-Rama before. And I couldn't remember ever seeing the wax come out the bottom of the mold. Confused but hopeful, we waited for the mold to open so we could see what would happen.

Abe was there, all right. But it looked like the mold had filled with twice the amount of wax, and it had plastered him to the bottom. The little arm came out and tried to shove him into the hole (ooer) but only got him slightly loose, thus moving him off his track but not far enough for him to drop.




I'm a true Illinoisian so I have to say, it's the first time I've ever been disappointed in Abraham Lincoln.

Refusing to give up hope, I sent Joe to get help as I stood guarding Honest Abe. I had to explain to quite a few tourists why it was broken and why I was keeping them from attempting to get their own.

Joe came back with some 20-something ticket vendor kind of guy. The guy scratched his head, shook the machine (genius thinking at its best with this one) and confirmed what I said, he'd have to call the Mold-A-Rama people and they'd refund us our $2.

NO! NO. This was simply not good enough. I was invested in my Abe now. I wanted my mold. At the very least, I wanted to see the machine squish my Abe and remelt it and see what happens, because I think melted wax is ever-entertaining. (I'm often called a pyro because I play with lit candles all the time, but it's not actually because I like fire. I fear fire, unless Tom Hanks is stranded on a deserted island and desperate to create it. [Oh my God, Wilson.][Oh my God did anyone else see Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig is watching Castaway and it's only about 5 seconds long but it's the part where he realizes Wilson is gone and he's sobbing and screaming "I'M SORRY WILSON!" and Kristen Wiig is crying and I'M crying because I remember that part in the movie VIVIDLY and it is seriously more heartbreaking than when actual PEOPLE die in movies and you just want to cradle Dirty Tom Hanks in your arms, even though technically you are watching Bridesmaids and then you remember how every time you see that part in Love Actually where Liam Neeson watches Titanic, they play it for just long enough that you forget you're watching Love Actually and when they stop it you get really upset because you were kind of getting into the scene and you kind of just want to watch Titanic now?])

Whoah. Where am I?

Oh, right. So Lincoln is off-kilter and I wanted to know what would happen if we put in two more dollars. I'm not going to lie, I was really hoping for doubled up, conjoined twin Lincoln. So we asked the guy if we could do it and see what would happen. Of course this guy wasn't about to say no. He was two bakes past half-baked. He said he'd turn his back.

So we put in the money, and of course what happened was this:



The already formed figure was keeping the two sides of the mold from coming together, thus none of the wax stayed in the mold and it all started dripping everywhere. When it opened, it looked like this:



"NO! NO! OH MY GOD, LINCOLN!! WHAT HAVE I DONE? Joe, we need to go. No, we need to get out of here right now. Run. Leave the money, I WILL NOT STAND AROUND AND BE FORCED TO PAY FOR A BROKEN MOLD-A-RAMA MACHINE."



We left the Sears--SCREW IT. SEARS.--Tower with nothing more than a flattened penny and a shamed look.

I Think I'm Alone Now

Oh heyyyyy guys. How've you been? How was your weekend? What have you been up to lately?

Sigh, I'm sorry. I feel like I've been gone/absent for a while and now we've gotten to that point like when you haven't seen a good friend for an awkward amount of time, you know? And you feel weird asking them about their life because they're supposed to be a good friend and you should KNOW if they have a boyfriend/job/car but you don't, but you also feel weird making small talk because they're your good friend and you refuse to discuss the weather. You know.

You do know, right? Please tell me you know. Don't tell me I'm the only one out there who gets that awkward. Although God knows I'm capable of it.

Anyway, I'm avoiding it now. Here's the skinny. The nub. The gist. The low-down. STOP IT, EMILY.

Joe has accepted a 4-month contract job in San Francisco. He'll be gone from the 4th of July to Halloween. I will be alllll alone. I'm moving to a studio on the (extremely) north side. I will be a sad, lonely, destitute old hag, with no one to comfort her during the cold, dark nights but her mustachioed female cat named after an obscure Friends reference.

Thing is, though...I'm actually really excited. But like, REALLY excited.

Not so much excited that Joe is going to be gone. That part makes my insides feel like burning. But I'm excited to have my own place for a little bit. I've never lived alone in my entire life. I've never blasted my music in the middle of a living space for hours. I've never been able to constantly pick my own movies and tv shows without consulting someone else (why HELLO, marathon of old Grey's Anatomy episodes. And how are we this evening? Anyone object to a Miranda Bailey lecture once every 40 minutes? Regina Phalange? Refrigerator? No one? Excellent, let's begin.)

Dishes will be done WHEN I SAY THEY'LL BE DONE. Everything in the fridge is mine, MINE! ALL MINE!! BWA HA HA HA HA HA!! What's this goo on the bathroom sink? Who knows, but I created it and therefore I won't get the Black Lung by scraping it off. THE FREEDOM IS ENDLESS, PEOPLE.

I'm also looking forward to forcing myself to do more alone-time things. I'm going to go to a movie by myself for the first time. I'm going to go out to eat by myself. I'm going to go to movies in the park by myself. Rent roller skates at the beach? Maybe! You never know what kind of kooky adventures I'll find myself in.

It's not that I couldn't have done these things earlier. I just...never did. I guess I never really thought to. Even when I was unemployed and had all the alone time in the world, the whole pesky "lack of paycheck" thing was keeping me from reaching my true adventuresome potential.

So what does this mean to you? Because, let's great real. The world revolves around each and every one of you. Separately. What it means is that you get nonstop complaining for the rest of the month as we pack up our stuff and put it in storage until Joe's gig is done and we know what we're doing next. HOW FUN FOR YOU! Also, you get to hear about the adventures of a single girl who is not really single. Read: no posts about awkward first dates BUT INSTEAD posts about how I broke my pride falling into the lake while roller skating. Yippee!

WHY, TOM? WHYYYYY?

OH MY GOD.

I missed YET ANOTHER Tom Hanks-themed event in Chicago. EVERY YEAR, people. EVERY YEAR. How is it that someone can utter the phrase "Tom Hanks-themed event" and I'm not all, I feel a disturbance in the Force and then am IMMEDIATELY by their side with a volleyball and permanent marker? Hmm? HOW.

This time apparently it was International Tom Hanks Day, celebrated at Fizz Bar & Grill and endorsed by Tom Hanks via aution items and a tweet.

I discovered the news after my brother informed me that Tom Hanks will be guest starring on 30Rock (Possible roles? I'm hoping someone's brother. Jenna's, Jack's, Grizz's...I don't care.) which only slightly makes up for having missed the second Hanks event in a year. Tom Hanks and Liz Lemon. The names just fit, don't they?

In conclusion:

You look good with a puppy, have I told you that?

No Offense.

This weekend Joe and I went to our first wedding together. It's a little strange that we've been together for two years and haven't managed to cross that one off the ol' list, but there it is.

The wedding was for Joe's godfather's son, so I had little to worry about but looking pleasant and shaking hands while saying "congratulations" a bunch of times. Thank God my level of awkwardness has gone down in recent years because I think I managed to pull off these simple tasks quite well. Five years ago? Forget it. "Oh so you're married, that's cool. I mean it's not cool, it's nice....or, fun? Oh this? It's a toothpaste stain mixed with a deodorant stain that I didn't notice until halfway through the vows. Congratumotions. Or whatever..."

The wedding was lovely. Everyone was very nice. The priest looked and sounded like a Super Fan, and I kept waiting to hear him give thanks for Ditka. The music all came from one pianist who looked and sounded like Michael Moore. There was giggling.

At the reception, we were placed with the other random young people--the boyfriend of a bridesmaid, a childhood friend of the groom, that kind of thing. Everything was going as expected, until we started talking about where we were all from. Joe and I announced that we were from Chicago. This caused a guy in his early twenties, wearing a plaid green button down and cargo pants, to say to us: "No offense, but you look like you're from Chicago."

"No offense, but you look like you're from Chicago."

Wh.....what? What?????1 What does that even MEAN? I tried to get the guy to clarify by joking, "Oh, because we're so classy?" Got a chuckle. "Because we look like a couple of douches?"...more chuckles. I AM SERIOUS, SIR. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

Also, is there a better way to offend someone than by saying "no offense"? I didn't even know it was an offensable thing to look like I'm from Chicago. Maybe if he was from New York or Paris or LA and I was wearing a scrunchie, I would get it...but coming from a guy who looks like he took his wedding attire from a mannequin at Old Navy and lives in Morris, Illinois--the epicenter of, what, Steak & Shakes? I'm not sure exactly what you think someone from Chicago LOOKS like, but apparently it is this:



And YES, I spelled "cardigan" with an h for no reason whatsoever. WHAT.

But seriously, I don't know what that means. Because without the "no offense" I would have just taken it as: a little hipster, a little classy. But WITH the "no offense", WHAT? Can anyone clarify this for me? What is the stereotype of Chicagoans that we fulfilled so terribly?

YES, IN FACT, I AM IN.

I just heard on the news, although apparently some have known for weeks, that Cash Cab is coming to Chicago! Holy baby Jesus in the manger, IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!!

For those who are unaware, I am an ENORMOUS Cash Cab fan. After I found out, I practically SKIPPED all the way to work (while ever on the lookout, of course.)

Now, apparently it's not Ben Bailey driving around, probably partly because he is too high and mighty on his New York horse to come over to LOWLY (but might I add diverse and rich in its culture) Chicago, and also partly because he's probably going the way of BJ Novak when he was on Punk'd and became so recognizable, he could no longer be on the show. Oh, you didn't know you were going to be getting TV trivia during this blog post? Well welcome to the world of Emily, people. I've got a million of 'em. Catch up.

All I have to say is: New York, you aren't all that and a bag of potato chips. We can be cool, too. Remember Ferris Bueller's Day Off? Remember While You Were Sleeping? Remember...uh, uh...Real World: Chicago?? YEAH. I WENT THERE. So swallow your pride and turn on the TV to something that DOESN'T happen four blocks from your tiny, expensive apartment. Because we (AKA my dad, Laura, and Laura's dad--my Cash Cab Dream Team. Don't act like you don't have one) are about to win some serious MOOLA.

Clinky So They Can Thinky

Oh, hey guys. What's up? Nothing much over here. Just wondering if any of you could donate some money for Adrienne and I. We're playing Scrabble for Cheaters, and the more money we get, the more cheats we'll have, and the more glory will shine upon us. Our name is "Collabostache" and we have a picture of Bob Dole. Because, yeah. That makes sense. Every bit of the money goes to charity; tutoring inner city kids. Which is my #1 charitable passion. So please donate. There's a link around this blog plea somewhere...if only I could find it...

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

Breathe it in, guys. It’s October. It is the fall. It’s time for spices and blankets and brisk strolls and moderate-sized scarves. It’s time for everything to be flavored like pumpkin. Here is where I was going to insert something funny that pumpkin would be gross in, but I honestly can't think of anything. Pumpkin vitamin water? Might be delicious. Pumpkin mustard? Potential.

Squash, guys. Squash.




Squash.

There are two distinct camps of people in Chicago: those who are like me, and crave nothing more than a light jacket and a cup of hot apple cider, and those who actually like the beach and the evil, evil sun. These people see fall as the gateway drug to winter. And, admittedly, winter in Chicago is what Hell would be, if Hell were cold. It gets so cold your eyeball goo freezes. Sometimes it starts in November, and lasts all the way into April. Admittedly, it’s terrible.

But it’s Chicago. No one will tell you to move here because of the weather. You live here. You know what will happen. Buy some long underwear and a real hat that doesn’t have large knitted holes in it.

And in the meantime, IT’S FRICKEN FALL. Open a window (but only a little) and enjoy it.

Joe and I have so much planned this fall. It’s awesome.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I started writing this post while watching last season’s Grey’s Anatomy finale, and I was so shaken up, I had to stop writing and focus all my nervous energy on watching the show. LOVE ME FOR WHO I AM, NOT WHO YOU WANT ME TO BE.

So but the thing I wanted to say is: I’ve realized that the best way to enjoy fall and possibly enjoy winter (besides the hat thing. Seriously, buy one of these and also ask Hannah to buy you a scarf for winter, because I swear by the one she gave me. I’m sure she’d oblige) Where was I? Damn me and my incorrect parenthetical asides. Ummmmm, OH! The best way to enjoy these things is to PLAN. Make a list of all the things you want to do this fall/winter/holiday season and then try to check them off a week at a time. Have I mentioned that I am an insane to-do list maker? Fact: I have two separate to-do lists in my phone. And really, these to-do lists need to be broken up into categories. But I’m resisting the urge.

On my personal fall/winter to do list:
1. Make a chili that is actually good. I’ve only made one once and it was terrible. Way too sturdy. No mush. I like my chili like I like my oatmeal: indistinguishable.
2. Go to a Second City show. Because I’ve lived in Chicago for 25 years and I’ve never done this. Hubba wha? I know. What’s wrong with me.
3. Go to the Detroit cider mill. It’s one of Joe’s yearly traditions and I have to say…apple flavored everything? Yes and yes.
4. Drink hot chocolate. Because if I don’t put things on a to-do list, sometimes I forget to do them. I’m amazed I don’t have to put “eat food” on a to-do list.
5. String cranberries for Christmas decoration. I live on the 8th floor in the middle of the city with a picky cat. This may be my only year to put fruit on a tree and leave it for a month without worry of varmints.
6. Make homemade stuffing for Thanksgiving. Here’s the thing: I judge people who use canned cranberry. Yeah, I said it. And you should be ashamed. Because real cranberry sauce is as easy as heating soup and WAY more fun. BUT. I am a Stove Top girl. So no, I have no place to judge. And yet I still do. Welcome to Emily.
7. Eat Turkish food. Never done it. Don’t know why. Especially if they are one of the wonderful groups of people who make good baklava.
8. Mmmmmm...baklavaaaaaa...
9. See more stand up at the Vic. Why? Because I have an entry-level job now. So I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams and I can afford frivolous things like figs and $20 stand up routines by moderately famous comedians.
10. Go to the zoo. “Did they go to the zoo? Supposebly...”

So this is all I’m saying. If you want to survive the fall and winter—even potentially ENJOY it, dare I say, you should make a list. Get a hat, and make a list. And whatever you do, don’t watch the final two episodes of last season's Grey’s Anatomy without someone to clutch.

The Worst Oktoberfest Ever

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Emily. Emily enjoyed going to dingy bars filled with dingy people. The music was fist-pumping, the drinks were blue, and her signature dance move was an intermittent "sexy" hair flip. She yelled out Chappelle Show quotes to people across the street before ducking into Bamba's and requesting extra salsa for her steak burrito.

And then that little girl turned 22. And none of those things were appealing anymore. Emily started requesting no-cover bars only, and scoffed at the girls who wore tube tops in January.

Now I tell you this, not to warn of the woes of growing up. Nor to emphasize what a terrible person I once was (because I wasn't), but to set you up for my personal mindset while going to Lakeview for Oktoberfest.

See, I've never been to an Oktoberfest. I can't think of a good reason why, except maybe the fact that every year I forget that Oktoberfest is, in fact, in September and not October (and COME ON, Shelly.) But not this year! This year I finally remembered! I even spent entire minutes on the interwebs searching for an Oktoberfest, put it on the calendar, and, barring other mildly entertaining substitutions, determined that I would go.

On the el, Joe and I speculated what Oktoberfest would be like. A street full of polka music, leiderhosen, tall beers in glass boots, veiners, warm pretzels...basically, the extent of my knowledge of German heritage. Now according to Sara, that is what Lincoln Square Fest is. Sadly, we learned that tidbit after the fact.

SUSPICIOUS FACT #!: When we got there, we realized that the fest isn't in the street. It's in and around a church. Okayyyyy...

SUSPICIOUS FACT #2: The $5 donation fee was strictly enforced and no where was it posted or stated that it was, in fact, a donation.

SUSPICIOUS FACT #3: Upon entrance of the fest was a large table set up with girls handing out Bud Lights. Joe and I questioned aloud, "Who goes to Oktoberfest and gets Bud Light?"

SUSPICIOUS FACT #4: Once past the beer and into the mass of backwards hats and black North Face jackets, we were no longer able to hear ourselves above the band playing under a massive tent packed with people. "WHAT SONG IS THAT?" I yelled into Joe's ear. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he turned back to me. "SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY," he responded.

Now here--right here--is where we should have turned around and gone home. But we'd gotten all the way there. And we had been assuming a level of debauchery. I mean, it's Oktoberfest. So we pressed on, determined to at least find a pretzel.

We passed a girl who was struggling through the crowd, holding a styrofoam plate of oily stir fry. Joe turned to me (we were single-file at this point as we searched the grounds) and we both said at the same time, "WHO GETS CHINESE AT OKTOBERFEST?"

We passed through a bottleneck and out to a new mass of people: those in line for food. There was a booth for cookies, one for Polish food, one for Mexican, there was the Chinese place the girl must have stopped at, more booths selling Bud, Bud Light, and 312 (a local Chicago brew). And--there it was. German food. I could make out, among the items, bratwurst, pretzels, and hot dogs. It was the only German booth in the entire space. There were over 100 people in line. We realized why the girl had opted for the stir-fry.

Joe and I made our way through the bottleneck again, past the guy yelling, "Which way to the pisser?" (as he stood four feet from a Port-a-potty) and into the church basement. There were two beer booths inside, directly across from each other. Their lines seemed to blend together, holding as tight as a zipper. That and an ATM was all that was inside. I just asked Joe if he remembered if this was German beer or more Bud products. He can't remember either. Neither of us could find the end to a line, so we went back outside to the food. Maybe the German food line would be shorter.

It was longer. So we did what any sane person would do. We got in line for Polish food. At least, I conceded, I would get a sausage and sauerkraut.

As we stood there, somehow the pathway for all the traffic became the area directly in front of us. The gap grew bigger and bigger as six people at a time would pass us. Soon we would be cut off from our Polish food all together. We had to do something, and fast. I jumped in front of people, literally bouncing off of them until I had reached the other side. I stood so close behind the guy before me in line, I'm sure he could feel my breath on his neck. The problem was, I had completely cut off some Dude. But I had to stand my ground. Plus, at this point, I'm not sure if you could tell, but I was pretty annoyed at the entire experience. So I stood there and said, "THIS IS WHERE I'M STANDING NOW."

He just stood there, looking at me. "Really? You're doing that?"

"YEP."

"I like the attitude," he said sarcastically, and he and his girlfriend walked around me. I felt like an idiot. That can't have been the best way to do that. But then the guy in front of me in line turned around. "That was pretty B.A." he said. I was THIS close to giving him a from-behind bear hug.

Finally, Joe and I got our 3 pounds of potato (is there any other way?) There had also been no foresight of the Oktoberfest people to set up places for people to sit or eat. Luckily, the fine people of Bicycle playing cards had set up poker tables. I ate my potato pancake on a fuzzy green table across from some foreign kids debating how to spell "radical." And I enjoyed it.

Joe and I deemed this fest "Worst...Fest...EVER," threw away our leftover kielbasas, and left.

The thing is, I had thought I was going out for a tall, hearty lager and some schnitzel (whatever that is.) And what I got was every frat party I've ever been to, but with longer lines for the bathroom. I understand that some people enjoy the noise and the crowds and the plastic cups and the thumping music. But I don't. I don't like any of that. And maybe back when I was 21, I might have. Or at least I could have put up with it. But within those short four years, something must have changed. Maybe it's the boyfriend. Or maybe I've gotten boring. Or maybe none of those things were EVER really the true me but I did them because, hell. It was college.

When we left, we headed over to our friend's place for part two: Whiskey Night. We stood on his roof, drinking spiked warm cider, making innuendos about Knob Creek, and overlooking this:




And it felt so me. Well, 25-year-old me.

Regina Phalange. PHALANGE.

Apparently I need to clear the air about something.

Yes. I made a Facebook photo album of my last roommate's cat.

But he was a strange, strange cat. Who liked to jump on my shoulders and lick my face.

However, people have gotten the impression that I am some insane cat person. Just because I wrote a blog post about how they're great and just because I want to fly to Greece solely for CATS EVERYWHERE and just because I fantasize of being covered by a box of kittens and just because ON OCCASION I make inaudible squeals at Purina commercials.

The thing is, I just got my own first cat, and she is as low key as my microbrew-drinking, potluck-tv-watching 7-hours-of-sleep lifestyle. And people are SHOCKED that I haven't gushed about her with a million pictures and stories. JUST BECAUSE I have a Facebook photo album dedicated to a grey tabby who was not mine and SOMETIMES threw in a few pictures of my family's cat for good measure does not mean that I am thinking about pictures of cats 24/7. It's not that I'm against talking about her, obv. But these things take TIME, people. I lived with Charlie for a year and a half and was home most of that time due to The Troubles. Now I have had Regina for only a few weeks, I only spend a few hours with her, and she spends most of that time laying sweetly nearby. There's just not that much to tell, except for the fact that she yells at me whenever I'm mobile and does a hilarious thing with her leg (picture once I capture it...it really is awesome, though, I promise.)

Of course, the day we got her was a bit of a story.

We went to this amazing shelter in Chicago (I won't say the name here because I don't want them to read this but if you are looking for a good one, email me and I will tell you.) that has cage-free, free-range, cats.

We got to the shelter, which has a doorbell you have to ring to get in. I announced that I wanted to adopt a cat and the girl led me upstairs. Once upstairs, amongst the cats laying around, there was a woman who looked like she had seen more than a couple Jimmy Buffet concerts. She had a flowy shirt, long necklaces (plural) and blue-tinted prescription glasses. She was scowling at a young gentleman and clearly unhappy with him. The boy seemed perfectly nice. I was being talked to (and also in a room full of cats) so I was distracted, but the only thing I caught from their conversation was that he wanted to adopt a kitten, but was possibly not fully prepared to do so. I put my purse on the floor and immediately, a calico cat sat on it. I tried to pet her, but she hissed. This was not Regina Phalange.

The girl who had led us up the stairs handed me a 3-page form to fill out. It included my employer name, what kind of food I planned to get my cat, what I would do with my cat if I moved, what kind of voice I was planning on giving my cat, etc etc. Five hours later, I was done filling out the form and the ill-prepared guy had been ushered out, cat-less. Hand shaking, I handed the form to the woman. Still frowning she looked over it.

"Copywriter, hmm?"
"Yes?"
"You live in Printer's Row?"
"Yes?"
"Hmm..."

But as she looked through my list, the woman became more and more excited with each step. I'd lived with so many cats, I had to add extra lines. I didn't want to declaw. I didn't want a kitten. I had a job. I had my landlord's name and phone number. I was prepared. Oh, was I. By the time we were done going through the form, the woman practically swooped Joe and I up into her arms and gave us one giant bear hug.

She led us around to the different cats, pointing out which ones were friendly (which I had said on the form was what I wanted.) The first one she led us to was Bubblegum, who was sleeping on a pillow on a high shelf. She was black and white. Seriously? A black and white cat named Bubblegum? REALLY? Joe and I held out our hands for her to smell, and she started licking our fingers and nuzzling us. Good start, cat. Good start. THIS was Regina Phalange.

The woman led us to other cats, knowing each of their names and personalities, and with anecdotes about the cats they've had in the past, and other cats she had at home. "You know I had a cat just like this one at home. Her name was Stormy and she had just gotten ringworm...." Smile and nod, Emily. Smile and nod.

Occasionally, I'd stop and pet the kittens and she'd frown. "Kittens are overrated. Let me show you Snickerdoodle. She's sixteen. OH! Patsy! OH PATSY! She is 45 pounds but she is JUST the SWEETEST THING you've ever seen. OH PATSY IS JUST THE BEST."

We walked on through, pet a lot of cats, but eventually came back to the first room where Bubblegum had been. I pet her again. She nuzzled. They explained that Bubblegum was a solitary cat who didn't really like other cats, but loved people and just needed a good home away from the others. A kitten cams sauntering over like he owned the place and, sure enough, Bubblegum had a bit of a tizzy. Joe and I hemmed and hawed...came seriously close to stealing all four of the little mini tiny little baby little snookem kittens, but eventually decided that Bubblegum was just perfect. The woman, and the two volunteers started cheering and clapping. I think there might have been tears in their eyes. They said the poor thing just needed a good home. And that perhaps her off-centered push-broom mustache had deterred people.

Finally came all the paperwork and signing and contracts and everything. MAN there are a lot of contracts involved in getting a cat. Including one which said that the people from this shelter (I.E. the hippie cat lady) were allowed to make house calls. "I like red wine," she told us. Joe and I laughed nervously. We THINK that they would only do that if there was a problem with the cat. We THINK.

Finally we had everything ready to go. Litter box, toy, food, Jewel bag of clean litter...oh, and a cat. We brought her home, let her explore little by little, and that was that.

She's a good cat. She is currently watching me from a pillow on top of our fireplace.

Here she is, on her first day home, sleeping on a pillow on my lap (PS, she likes pillows.)



And now that I have finally told you guys about her and the experience I went through, I ask that you think of the woman we interacted with, and consider exactly how much of a crazy cat lady I am. (Insert "OH EMILY. THERE'S STILL TIME" joke here. HAAAAR.)

People I Saw On My Walk To Millenium Park

1) The second large-chested African American woman this week using her cleavage as a cell phone holster.

2) A gay couple deciding that they would visit Dollywood this year.

3) A family of Germans. The blonde sons were wearing matching Rugby shirts. On the back instead of someone's last name, it just said "COLLEGE".

4) A crazy homeless woman wearing leather pants.

I don't judge. I just observe.

Emily And A Drunk Guy: A Conversation

On Friday all the interns at our agency got treated to a Cubs game. As I strolled back to our spot with a beer and a hot dog (as God intended it), I was confronted with a group of standing Reds fans. All standing there like a bunch of standing things. So I say in my cutest, flirtiest, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way-this-hot-dog-won't-eat-itself voice,

"Excuse me, boys (they are all around 40), I've got to get through here."

And that's when it starts. Some drunk guy, taking what I'm sure was astute note of my skirt and boobs, decided to be hilariously interactive. While all his friends move out of my way, he says, "It'll cost ya!"

Oh yeah? Really? Will it? ...SEE? Even now, I CANNOT come up with a good comeback to that line! What do I say? WHAT? So of course, asking me to think of one on the fly was a total disaster. Add the immense amount of sunlight, the already-consumed beer, and the sheer number of people around me waiting for a response, you can imagine how it all went down, I'm sure. But just in case you can't, here's the play-by-play.

Drunk Guy: I'll cost ya!
Emily: Okay...well...yeah. Pffssh.
DG: So what is this? [noting my plain gray shirt] Are you a Reds fan or what?
Emily: No, I'm a Cubs fan. Kind of. I just, I had a shirt, er, a blue shirt. But I lost it! And who loses a shirt?!
DG: Maybe someone stole it.
Emily: Yeah, probably some Cincinnati...jerk!
DG: Alright...
Emily: I'M SORRY I'M BAD AT COMEBACKS NOW LET ME GO BACK TO MY SEAT WITH MY $6.50 CUP OF BUD LIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

It was disastrous. Not unlike the game (zzzzzZZING!)

Anyway, that's all I have for all y'all right now. Got a bit of a work...thing...the next few days. I'd explain it but it's TOP SECRET!!!1 (not really, it's just kinda boring to explain) So I might be kinda MIA for a bit. But in the meantime, won't you become a fan of this blog? Look on over to the right-hand margin. Click the ol' thumbs up sign there and you're good to go! Ta!

Bally Total Fitness Can Suck My Ovaries

A) Ew.

But you know what? B) You deserve it, Bally's. You deserve that mental image. And I hope you all think of that image each and every time you hear mention of Bally Total Fitness Centers.

Here's the thing. Technically, Bally's is...FINE. They didn't murder my grandchildren. They didn't tell me they'd be at my home between the hours of 8 and 8 and then not show up (I'M LOOKING AT YOU, AT&T, YOU SON OF A BITCH.) They didn't eat all the Drumsticks out of the freezer without so much as leaving me the bottom of a cone where all the chocolate collects.

No. Bally's is.....fine. Their gym doesn't really feel top-notch, but hey. I'm not paying top-notch prices. But tonight they went too damn far.

Here's the thing. The Bally's I go to is in the basement of a building. A building that is right next to a river.

Let's let that sink right into the ol' noggin there.

Who puts anything--ANYTHING--into the basement of a building that is next to a river? A river in a city that is NOTORIOUS for its terrible weather patterns? Shouldn't all buildings be on some sort of STILT system?! I mean come on, Shelly. THESE people figured it out, for Christ's sake!


All this to say, yes. My Bally's has flooded. I don't know the extent of it, but I know there were firetrucks (plural) and at least one animal control truck (I'm sorry...did the ducks get out of hand? Were there otters floating around your free weights?)

At first I speculated that we might get some money back. No problem. You prorate us or some nonsense, and Joe and I will run around the block for a week instead.

Until we got the email.

"Your Bally's in closed. But lucky for you, we have 80 million OTHER Bally's locations that are all inconveniently located from where you live!" ....Yippee.

Guess what, kids? I finally got my butt over to the next closest Bally's. It is also in a basement. It sucked.

1) I got there at 8:30, since my Bally's closes at 10. Well THIS one is downtown Chicago where no one lives, so it closes at 9. Huzzah.

2) I jumped on the elliptical. In front of me was Larry King. Sans subtitles. It is the only television within eyesight. So I got to lip read Larry King talking to that gymnast girl about how she apparently had a stalker. Mostly I got to ponder the effects of blonde hair dye on a girl who looks a squirrel. Anyway, there is no one around to ask to change the channel. So I opt to watch myself in the mirror and imagine fake conversations (which is my most common day-to-day activity.)

3) At 8:40--TWENTY MINUTES before close--the guy comes down and turns off all the TVs AND all the fans.

4) So now I, who HAVE PAID for a membership, am sweating my ass off in the gym I never intended on patronizing, with no visual to focus on and no fan to circulate the basement air. I can feel my claustophobia setting in AND I can feel just how deeply I am not wanted at this gym. I get the hell out and decide that my calories are better spent walking home.

And OF COURSE I can't cancel my membership right away; I have to give a full month's notice. And by then, my flood-center gym will probably be back up and running.

Basically what I'm saying is, I unknowingly paid to be screwed over. And now I'm going to go get some cheese to go with my white whine. A-thank you.