When I Believed In Santa Claus

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."

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.


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.


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.

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.


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?


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.

A Hand To Hold Onto

Or: "What I Remember From Indian Princesses."


When I was little, I was in something called Indian Princesses. It was a program put on through the YMCA to help build father/daughter relationships, and the glue that tied it together was a Native American theme.

I decided to write this post because I can't seem to find anything online about Indian Princesses, except a few remedial articles arguing the racial issues behind it. So I've written what I remember. Partly for posterity and partly so that people can tell me what the hell was going on. I was six, afterall.

QUICK OVERVIEW:

The program was something like this: fathers and daughters got together once a month in a small group. They were assigned a specific tribe name--ours was the Winnebago. There were also the Sioux, Cree, Blackfoot...you get the picture. Each tribe had their own costume. They were totally authentic...by which I mean they were not at all authentic. Our costume had jeans with bright red fringe running up the sides, a white turtleneck, and a rectangular red poncho. With more fringe.

The tribes gathered to discuss their lives, made simple crafts, that kind of thing. Then a few times a year, all the tribes would get together for a weekend retreat and do father/daughter activities together, all to varying degrees of Native American themes (which I'll get into later.)

A little history: Indian Princess actually started with Indian Guides, a father/son program formed in 1926. For your point of reference, the Indian Guides were featured in the 1995 JTT classic film, "Man of The House".

So to make sure we're all on the same page:
Father/son: Indian Guides.
Father/daughter: Indian Princesses.
Mother/daughter: Indian Maidens (which I learned about while researching.)

We won't get into the gender implications of these names, but suffice it to say...this was not a PC program. And I apologize for my liberal use of "Indian" over "Native American", but that was its name. Apparently the program is still running, but in a new form called "Adventure Guides" and "Adventure Princesses" and without the Native American themes. But this was how things were, as late as the 1990s when I was involved. In fact, according to the interwebs, the "Indian" theme didn't end until 2003. Was it racist? Absolutely. Did I know that? Absolutely not. Should our fathers have known better? Probably. But these were also men raised on Cowboys-and-Indians movies. Personally, I give them credit for going from shooting Native Americans to trying to honor them. I'm glad it's been changed, but I think of Indian Princesses like a Michael Scott lecture: good intentions...but somehow Tom Hanks ends up on the wall twice and everyone feels awkward.

So those are the straight facts about Indian Princesses, but it doesn't get at what this program was all about. So I'm here to give you Indian Princesses as I remember it...as a 6-year-old.

THE MEETINGS:

• Once a month, our tribe of about 8 pairs of fathers and daughters got together to...I don't remember. Talk? Draw? Eat cookies? What I'm saying is: I don't really remember what we did. I was just glad to have time with my dad and Katie. It made me feel grown up.

• We all had Native American names. I didn't like the pressure of coming up with one on my own, so I think Katie and my parents came up with it for me. My dad's name had to do with Horse, so Katie's and mine were Pony-related. Running Pony maybe? Something like that. I remember feeling like it wasn't quite the right fit for me, but was too shy to ask to change it.

• I do remember singing in a circle at the end of the meeting. We sang Taps--like the actual lyrics of Taps. We lifted our arms into the air and then back down when we sang it. It ended with the words "God is night" so I assumed it was a bedtime song. (Later, I learned the words were actually "God is nigh" and my mind was totally blown.)

• There were also sew-on badges. I think you earned them for going on retreats, unlike Boy and Girl Scouts, where you have to do stuff to earn them. So clearly this was way more awesome.


THE RETREATS:

As I explained, once (or twice?) a year, all the tribes traveled to a retreat center for added bonding and fun and friendly competition (which I even hated back then). I wish I could explain these retreats better as an adult, but all I have are my memories as seen through a small child. So here is what I've got:

• Like I said, our tribe was the Winnebago. Whenever all the tribes got together during the retreats, the other girls would make fun of the name. But they didn't mock "Winnebago" because of its associations to motor homes. No, they made fun of it because it sounded like "win a bagel." I was annoyed by their mocking. Not that I was embarrassed of the name, but I didn't think it really warranted the mockery. Sure, if our tribe name was Poop or Butt or Stupid, then you can make fun of us. But bagels are delicious. What's so wrong with sounding like one? Anyway, we got them back by saying that "Cree" sounded like "pee" so...game, set, match.

• There was one big night with games...like...games...okay clearly I don't remember what that was about. Was there a bouncy castle, or am I dreaming up memories now? Someone help me out with this.

• There was a bonfire one night where we'd do faux-Native American chants and songs. At one point, the designated "chief" for the weekend would wear a big chief headdress and call up to the spirits. He'd ask the spirits to send us a sign Then he'd secretly throw something into the fire to make sparks fly. I was in total awe of this, though a little confused about what it meant for my Sunday School lessons. I am now mildly horrified by the whole thing, especially after having gone to a college whose mascot, "Chief Illiniwek", was ousted my senior year. He was criticized for his inauthenticities, such as using chicken instead of eagle feathers in his headdress. I'm pretty sure the Indian Princess chief's feathers were made of polyester and dyed fluorescent blue.

• There was a Native American-looking doll called Puddin' Face...or Puddin' Cup...Puddin' Head? I think it was Puddin' Head. I assume it was also racist. But the doll was part of a game, where you sneak into other tribe's cabins and whoever ended up with her at the end of the retreat lost. The suspense of the Puddin' Doll gave me stomach ulcers. I was terrified of her.

• One retreat had an outdoor climbing wall. The guy in charge of the wall was TOTALLY old and mature. He was in college AND he had long hair. He was studying to be an engineer. I thought that sounded fun, but I wasn't sure why all the dads thought he had to be really good at science and math just to drive a train. True facts.

• Each tribe slept in one cabin, which meant all the dads got the bottom bunks and all the girls slept in the top bunks. This. Was. Awesome. Top bunks rule and they're really exciting. The poor dads never got the top bunks. I'm sure they were very disappointed by this.

• One retreat had a rickety old toboggan that was at least 3 stories high. It was terrifying.

• During dinner, when all the tribes were in one place, the daughters would BEG their fathers to bellow out into the cafeteria, "WHO'S THE BEST TRIBE IN THE NATIOOOOONNNN?!?!?!" And then all the daughters would yell--nay--SCREAM their own tribe name. This was another very historically accurate aspect of the retreat.

• One retreat had archery. I was terrible at archery. It hurt my fingers and the string was too hard to pull. This was NOT a father/daughter bonding experience. This was a father/daughter getting increasingly frustrated experience.

• On the very last day, there was some kind of prize giveaway. There was a table with all kinds of prizes at the front that the dads would buy or make, and the girls were called up to choose a prize. I have no idea how they decided the order. One of our dads made handmade puzzles once. And one time I think we spray-painted buckets and told everyone they were chairs. One year, I took too long deciding what I wanted, panicked, and picked a bedazzled mirror. I cried the whole ride home.

And that's all I've got. I'm worried none of this made sense to anyone, or was just really boring to people who were not in the program. But hopefully there are some ladies out there whose memories are jogged. Really what I want to get across was that, despite the stereotypes of Native Americans I had to unlearn later, I'm glad it was part of my childhood. I had fun. In a family of 6, it was a time that I got to spend with just my sister and my dad. And those are the kinds of memories you learn to cherish later, even if they come with horror-inducing dolls appearing in your cabin as if from nowhere.


So?! Comment please! Tell me there were other people in Princesses or Guides who have a better memory than I do and can fill in the gaps. Specifically: Puddin' Head, The Game Night, and the Prize Table. These are my great mysteries right now.

Light As A Feather, Stiff As A Hoard...er

Hey guys, hey guys, hey guysguysguys.

Look, I'm going to be straight with you. I came here to write a post and got lost in a sea of Liz Lemon YouTube clips and now I can't remember where my brains were.

BLERG! NERDS! *EYE ROLL* I WANT TO GO TO THERE!


Oh my God, STOP BEING ME.

There, I think it's out of my system.

So Wednesday and Thursday are the big moving days. It'll be two solid days of me alternating between yelling at Joe and pretending to not be mad at Joe while telling everyone that "I'm fine, I'm FINE! NOW WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST MOVE THIS G.D. LAMP BEFORE I START USING MY FINGERNAILS AS WEAPONS?!"

What can I say? It'll be my 8th move in 9 years. I know how I work.

But then after we've moved our stuff to studio/storage unit, we'll have two full days of peace and box-scrounging before Joe walks out of my life. Well not really out of my life. I'm going to see him once or twice a month while he's at his contract gig. Yay being in your late twenties and going to weddings every weekend!

So this weekend I had people over to take my unwanted stuff. It was therapeutic. I am genetically both pack rat and unencumbered garbage-tosser. My father is of the "salad dressing doesn't expire" and "sure, you can never have too many hammers" persuasion, while my mother is from the "throw it away before she gets home for summer break, why would she want a Stay Puft action figure any more" side.

Side note: I think about that marshmallow man every day, Mom. EVERY. DAY.



I have a little of both hoarder and thower-outer in me, which I guess is supposed to make me well-rounded but really just creates extreme interal anguish every time I move or clean.

It's an empty tin. Toss it.
But I could put things in it! Keep it.
What, more things you don't need? Toss it.
But I have a lot of lip gloss that could go in there.
You don't wear lip gloss because it makes your hair stick to your lips when it's windy. Toss it.
Pencils?
No.
Eyeshadow?
No.
Thumb tacks?
No.
Lip gloss?
WHAT DID I JUST SAY.

I actually think I've done really well with getting rid of unnecessary things. Did I finally get rid of some muscle relaxants from 2004? Yes. Even though they did not have mold on them or anything. They were probably FINE. And just because I didn't trust something 7 years expired that is supposed to render me unconscious doesn't mean I wouldn't need them SOME time in the future. But they were still tossed. Because that's how important it was for me to finally purge myself of my literal extra baggage.

Joe also did quite well. And especially since school is over, he got rid of tons of supplies. We put everything in a pile...which then turned into a few piles...which then became our entire dining area filled with stuff that we didn't need or use. I was amazed at how much stuff we'd had hiding in our apartment that we didn't even use. This is what happens, I suppose, when you are blessed with a lot of storage space: a nice, clean apartment that is SECRETLY FILLED WITH CRAP. Luckily a bunch of people came over and claimed stuff. It's amazing how much more awesome things seem when they're free. (The first time I had Potbelly was their opening day when they were giving away everything for free and I still maintain it was the best meal of my life.)

The rest of everything goes to Goodwill. I was reminded by Jess that Goodwill was the NON homophobic charity company COUGHsalvationarmyCOUGH so that's where it's going. It'll be nice to have had such a purge. Everything I now own has been deliberated with the same level of scrutiny as a line of children picking the next Red Rover runner. The things moving forward with me to the other side are the biggest, toughest of children. Only the truly best nail polish. The truly best note pads. The truly best muscle relaxants.

I feel light as a feather. A feather that still probably has way too much stuff.

Emily's 4th Grade Journal: Excerpts

(Prequel: No, this is not an April Fool's joke. Y'all know how I feel about those.)

Wow. Let me just say, wow.

When I went home a few weeks ago and found my fourth grade journal (which was a class-enforced activity), I knew there'd be some gems. But I've landed on a goldmine here, guys. Originally I was hoping for some hilariously baffled Mini Emily entries about "A Wrinkle In Time." But it turns out, I was probably so embarrassed by said bafflement that I hardly mentioned it at all. And what I did say was, frankly, pretty smart. NOT FUN, EMILY. NOT FUN AT ALL.

Luckily for you, me, and the state of this blog, there are other entries in here that are RIFE with comedic gold. I don't want to delay you any longer. Here we go.

Oh but first, assume [sic] for any journal misspellings.

Here we go for real this time.

8/31/1994
If I could go any where in the world I would go to Florida because I could go to Disney World and I could get a good tan. Or I would go to London but I don't have a reason why.

(Good God, I'm just imagining poor little 9-year-old Emily...bowl cut, wire-rimmed glasses as big as her face...laying out among the palm trees drinking a Shirley Temple.)

9/6/94
This weekend I went to a polo game with my friend. We did everything we could do exept watch the game. We colleted beer bottle caps, looked at the horses, watched around a week-old puppy and shared a cheeseburger & fries.

(I remember that entire day. That. Entire. Day. And can I say? Those are STILL my preferred pastimes to polo.)

9/7/94
If money grew on trees, every one would want one. When they got one they'ed all go shopping. Then the stores wouldn't have anything so we'd starve. Everybody would move, then those stores wouldn't have any thing. Soon the whole world would starve and the world would come to an end sooner than we thought. THE END.

(Wow, Mini Emily. Get a little more pragmatic, could you? Christ, I feel like I need an antidepressant now. But also...spot on. BUT ALSO, kudos for already knowing then vs. than. That's m'girl!)

9/9/94


(I'm showing you guys this one to prove WHY I am an advertising copywriter. That is me, scrutinizing a car based on the words in its TV ads. See?)


(I was an advertising whore, even before I knew was a whore was. Or what advertising was, actually.)

9/20/94
If Santa Clause came every day, my family would suddenly become poor, I wouldn't have any room too put my toys (I barely have any room now)and I'd be spoild.

(For a kid with a rampant imagination, I'm really hitting them out of the park with these "what if" prompters. Also, Mom and Dad, I hope you're seeing the responsible, selfless child you raisd.)

9/29/94
Last night we went to pick up my dad at the airport. My mom is just as near-sided as I am, so she wore my glasses. I couldn't see that the man in the gray jacket was my dad until he was 1 foot away from me! On the way home my sister and I started spitting at eachother.

(HAR!!!1 I don't remember this at all. And how surprised am I to learn that my mother used to steal my glasses in order to drive? I'll give you one guess.)

10/4/94
If there was no elavators, it would be very tiring and it would take alot more time. They wouldn't have one of the "Perfect Strangers" shows either.

(PRIORITIES.)

10/25/94
Red Ribbon Week is,
To teach you the're erresponsable.
If you're old enough, limit them,
(If you're not don't do them.)
To tell you the're not cool.
They won't help you relax.
It could give you cancer.

What are:
the're
them
they, and
it?
DRUGS! (don't do them)

(Well move over, Walt Whitman. Also..."LIMIT them"? Wh...)


Seriously, guys, I could do this all night. But I imagine I should span these bad boys out. But I PROMISE there is more to come if you want more.

Tears On St. Patrick's Day

Well I thought you should all know, there WERE, in fact, tears on fake St. Patrick's day on Saturday. But it had nothing to do with any exes and everything to do with the fact that SOME JERK played BUTTERFLY KISSES ON THE JUKEBOX.

And can I just say, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Are you the same person who played Freebird for the third time in as many hours?? Now, I am a reasonable person. And a song that was even cheesy in 1997 does not usually get me going, but put a few hours worth of Bud Lights in me and then BARRAGE ME with a sentimental song about a father's love for his daughter and you have a recipe for waterworks, my friend. And how dare you.

What's worse, the guys had all just gotten up to play darts, so the song came on while four girls sat at the table, staring deeply into their pitcher. Was it some kind of sick joke? Was someone running through the bar, seeing how many girls' nights he could ruin? Or did someone ACTUALLY think that the appropriate song to play after "Friends In Low Places" was FRICKING BUTTERFLY KISSES??

Luckily I didn't stick around for much longer so I didn't hear what was sure to be a round of The Freshman, Brick, and My Immortal. CHRIST.

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.

Hot Chocolate

Last week I bought something that looked magical: Trader Joe's peppermint hot chocolate, with little bits of real chocolate.


And how could I resist? From the adorable canister to the word "shavings," this thing didn't just call out to me, it taunted like a child who doesn't understand that their parent is ignoring them on purpose. "Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy--" "For the love of GOD WILL YOU BE QUIET, MOMMY IS ON THE PHONE."

So I bought it. Brought it home. Tasted it.

And it was spearmint.

SPEARMINT? REALLY?? Really, Trader Joe's. I TRUSTED you. When you said pumpkin butter was good and I didn't believe you, who was right? YOU were. When you said I wouldn't notice how bad $3 wine was, who was right? YOU were. When you said chicken sausage should be available for the masses, who was right? YOU were. But now? Now I don't know what to think anymore. Will that box of organic vegan cookies be filled with worms? MAYBE! Nothing is right anymore! Up is down, left is right, PEPPERMINT IS SPEARMINT AND MY WORLD IS CRASHING AROUND ME.

Here's my other problem (I know, you're so amazed that I have this many things to complain about when it comes to cocoa): I have become unimpressed by powdered hot chocolate--NOW HEAR ME OUT. I recognize that if I melted down a bar, mixed it with some cream and called it cocoa, that it would be delicious.

But I'm talking regular ol' run-of-the-mill Swiss Miss. Is it me, or is it just not the same as it was as a kid? I mean, maybe it was the insane amount of marshmallows my mom added. Or maybe it was the fact that the cocoa was given to us after we came in from "hours" of "sledding" (aka "minutes" of "dragging my sister around on the sled like a dog because it's Illinois and our only hill is the converted landfill on the other side of town") but it seems like hot chocolate was just a million times more delicious than it is now.

I mean, hot chocolate used to be the saving grace in a world full of chaos. Adults got coffee at every turn, but what did we have to lift our spirits? A can-do attitude? Hardly. Because when your Indian Princess tribe (Another day. Another day.) is trying to sell Christmas trees to raise money for their next father-daughter bonding retreat and you can neither a) Pick up the trees because you are too little, b) Sell the trees because you cannot subtract yet, nor c) Play hide-and-seek amongst the trees because SOMEONE is an enormous party pooper, coughDADcough, you have one option: sit in the warm trailer and drink powdered hot chocolate through a coffee stirrer. It's not fancy, it's not made with a mother's loving care, but it does the trick. And it's why, whenever I burn my tongue, I hear the soft sound of Jingle Bells playing in the recesses of my mind.

But powdered hot chocolate just doesn't do that for me anymore. It doesn't entertain in the way that it used to. And even the Trader Joe's cocoa with its chocolate shavings, which sounded like the cure to my hot chocolate blues, seemed only okay.

Is it just me? Am I the only one who feels this way? Where has my childhood gone? Is it trapped, like a chunk of globbed chocolate powder in the coffee stirrer...of life?

My Father's Day Memories

Well Father’s Day has come and gone, but I have yet to weigh in on the subject. And is it really a holiday until I ruin it with my blathering? No it is not. In fact, did Arbor day REALLY feel like Arbor day without my help? I didn’t think so.

So in honor of Father’s Day, I thought I’d give you guys a few memories of mine. I think it’s pretty necessary, considering when people who know me finally meet my dad, the response tends to be, “Ohhhhhh.” Follow me, and perhaps you’ll see why.

First of all, one of my personal favorites: Most people will agree, it is a father’s job to tell you lies to scare you into being good, a-la George Bluth’s armless friend.
And who among us hasn’t heard the phrase, “Be careful. If you swallow those seeds, a plant will grow in your stomach.”

My father’s story was a little different. When we asked him if it were true, if a plant really could grow in your stomach, he said, “Sure! All you have to do is drink a lot of water, swallow a lot of dirt, and walk around outside like this,” and he’d lean back and open his mouth as wide as he could. I have to say, I was never afraid of swallowing seeds. Although he really took a gamble assuming I wouldn’t try to consume spoonfuls of dirt. That’s faith.



I think the thing my dad is most famous for are his voices. When I was in Elementary school, we would have these “Read-In” days once a year. I have no idea if this is a nationwide thing, or if it was just our school, but basically we’d get to come to school in our pajamas and read the whole day. And throughout the day, parents would come in and read to us, too.


I am not saying this as an exaggeration; my dad was the Rock Star of the Read-Ins. I had some internal anguish because, on the one hand, everything your parents do is without question extremely embarrassing. But on the other hand, every kid in my class thought my dad was the coolest dad ever. He’d come in to read us The Twits, complete with Evil British Woman voice for Mrs. Twit (think The Queen but more gargly) and Evil British Man voice for Mr. Twit (think Brad Garrett playing a chimney sweep.) And it was awesome! Teachers would come from down the halls asking what the blazes was going on, possibly because a grown man was cackling in a woman’s voice that she just fed her husband worms. But I knew they were jealous. They were allllll jealous.

One final story. This one has become a family staple around Easter. The way we dye eggs in my household is the typical, Paas-endorsed way. You drop a tablet into some vinegar and then soak those puppies. And if you want to get fancy, you draw something on the egg with a white crayon first, which the die doesn’t touch and leaves the egg white in that spot.



Well one year, I had come home from college for the holiday and we decided to dye some eggs. We gave one egg to my dad to decorate. He picked up a crayon, scribbled something, and left the egg to soak in green.

A little while later, he took out the egg and, giggling, showed it to us all. It said something, but I couldn’t make it out.

“Zackary? Zeppelin?.”

Finally, Hannah guessed it. “…Zakly?”

My dad: “Yep!...Egg-zakly!”

Groans all around. And yet, memorable enough that we talk about it every year since. So you tell me: genius?

So Happy Father’s Day to all. And here’s hoping, no matter who or where your dad is, that you have some good memories of your own to look back on.

Hey I Was A Teenage Dirtbag, Baby

I could not fall asleep last night. And do you know why? It wasn't because I was stressed. It wasn't because I had a big day ahead of or behind me. It wasn't because I'd had a Dr. Pepper for dinner and was more wired than a cat on narcotics.

It was because of something I did my freshman year of high school. Let me back up.

I've never explained to you about Teenage Boyfriend. I call him Teenage Boyfriend not because he is a teenager now (weird) but because I was literally in love with him from the age of 13 through the age of 20. I even managed to date him for four of those years. He loved me, I loved him...he was hot...what else is there to say? We were going to get married and have a million babies and no one could convince me otherwise. Those who tried just DIDN'T UNDERSTAND. What part of he-knows-my-favorite-TCBY-flavor-it's-real-love aren't you people hearing??

So TB and I were about 15 when my church did a talent show. A talent show which I wanted to be a part of. The only problem is, I had no real talent. Um, I could play the Apollo 13 song on my trumpet? No...all my trumpet endeavors always ended badly and usually involved clogged spit valves. What else can I showcase for a few dozen people? Oh I know. My undying love for Teenage Boyfriend. This is sure to go well.

God. I don't know WHY I did 99% of the things I did when I was 15, but I really think this one takes the cake. So I decided that my genius idea would be to take the lyrics to this ever-so classic song:


...and I would slightly rewrite it. And then sing it. A capella. In front of my church. To my 15-year-old boyfriend.

*facepalm*

Honestly, the memory of that day will live in infamy in my mind. It is so embarrassing to me now that I literally lay awake at night, tossing and turning at the thought. WHY. WHY did you do that? I had to BEG my boyfriend to come to the talent show in the first place. I'm not actually a marvelous singer, so I'm sure there was off-key warbling in there, too. Then after I sang it, my father (who was of course the MC of the night) said, "Thank you, Emily. That was...enlightening." I turned bright red and sat down. There was polite (and probably embarrassed) clapping, and I'm not sure TB even said a word to me or looked at me. He was completely mortified. I had been so convinced that everyone would think it was so cute, and my boyfriend would find me endearing and think I was just the best girlfriend in the whole wide world. Instead, I got avoided glances for the rest of the night, and a few people lightly clapping me on the shoulder as if to say, "Buck up, Sport."

I just needed to tell you all about it, because holding it inside for one more day was one more day of me showing the world that I think my behavior was acceptable. And it wasn't.

But really, now that I read over it, maybe it wasn't the worst thing to happen in the world. It's not like I sang it naked or something. I was an innocent, hormone-ridden teenager in love. Was it so stupid to sing to her boyfriend that she wanted to grow old with him? *shudder, shudder* Yes it was. Yes it was indeed.

Blech. Does that Eternal Sunshine memory-erasing contraption thing exist yet? I would really appreciate it.