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.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
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.
Monday, November 28, 2011
A Light Is Waiting To Carry You Home, Everywhere You Look
I just got back from Washington DC this week. We spent the Thanksgiving holiday there thanks to Carey and Niles, Joe's sister and brother-in-law. They moved to DC about 2 years ago. Neither of us had been there since our respective 8th Grade field trips. I'd like to say I remember a lot from that trip...and I do remember some things. I remember seeing the Lincoln Memorial at night, I remember being disappointed by how far away the White House was from the gate. I remember seeing the original ruby slippers at the Smithsonian. But I also remember listening to Backstreet Boys on my discman while pining for Kevin W, the boy I liked who wasn't on the trip. And I remember Emily H and I spending all our parent's money on Beanie Babies, which we named after our 8th grade science teacher. MONEY WELL SPENT.
So this time around was really interesting, having personal tour guides in Carey and Niles, and without all the pining because the boy I liked was sitting right next to me (Sigh, being an adult is awesome sometimes.) One of the biggest highlights of the trip was going into the White House. OH YES WE DID.
QUESTION AND ANSWER TIME!
Question: Did you meet the President?
Answer: No. Despite all my dreams of shaking his hand and making him laugh with an uproarious joke I would make up on the fly, I did not see him. I guess he was there somewhere, though, because it was the day he pardoned the turkey.
Question: Well did you at least meet anyone famous and/or important?
Answer: DID WE EVER! We met Bo!
Question: ...Jackson?
Answer: No.
Question: ...Do you mean Boo, the poofy pomeranian?
Answer: No.
Question: Wait, who's Bo?
Answer: Bo! Bo! The President's dog, Bo! The First Woof! Bo!
Question: Ohhhhhh.
Answer. Yeah.
Question: Go on.
Answer: Well, right when we got inside the East Wing, about 4 amiable security guards pulled our group aside and wouldn't tell us why. Of course we're all racking our brains for what in our murky pasts has caused the hold up, while some guy walks around with a device that tests the amount of radiation coming off you (weird). Finally they took some old lady away. I wanted it to be a whole thing where it turns out she's got a criminal record, but I guess it was just because she had a pacemaker. BUT! While we were being detained, in strolled Bo and his dog walker! Carey nearly fainted. He bounded up the stairs and out of sight, and we weren't allowed to take photos in the White House, so there is no proof. But I swear it happened.
Question: What else did you see in the White House?
Answer: You don't really get to see too much of the place. Definitely none of the private residence of course, none of the West Wing or the Oval Office or any kinds of offices. You really just see the rooms where they host guests. You can peek your head into the China room (dishes, not the country) and walk up to the red, green, and blue room. And you see the East Room, which is the biggest room in the White House, and which looks down the hall that the President walks when he makes big announcements.
Question: That's pretty cool.
Answer: I know, right?
OVERALL THOUGHTS ABOUT THE CITY OF WASHINGTON DC
1. No building can be taller than the Washington Monument, so the tallest "skyscrapers" are only about 12 stories. But since they still need the space, companies just build out. Meaning DC is filled with these stone and brick buildings that take up the entire city block. It all makes the city look so...so...sturdy.
2. The city has all these rules you would never know unless someone told you. For example, the statue on top of the Capitol Building represents freedom, and she faces east so the sun never sets on the face of freedom. That kind of thing. Why are lawmakers/historians/architects/artists so into this? I don't know. It makes for good tours, though.
3. DC has laws about never changing the colonial facade of buildings. But since you can do whatever you want behind the facade, these enormous buildings just use the front to look like colonial houses, and behind the entire row is just one giant, cement building.
HANGING OUT
We didn't really tour very much, at Joe's and my request. We spent the time doing more low-key, family things, like eating at fun restaurants, making Thanksgiving dinner (I contributed a few things including our candied yams which were all eaten ATHANKYOU), watching football games, drinking. Carey does a great job of decorating their apartment, and DC gets into Christmas pretty quickly, so it all felt very festive. And good god, the smells. THE SMELLS.
OH! And we also saw the Muppet movie. My non-spoiler thoughts: It was fun. I loved the callbacks to classic Muppets instead of current iterations. But they tried to pack in too much--too many story lines, which never gave any of them justice and made most of them fall flat. Also, Future Husband John Krasinski only made a fleeting appearance and I don't understand what would have been so wrong with giving him a leading role. BUT! The cameo by this guy was....*kisses fingertips* molto bene.
FINAL THOUGHT
This was my first time coming "home" to San Francisco. Which was a bit strange. It wasn't really coming home, it was more like coming back to my stuff. My pillow, my TV. And I guess my stuff is part of what makes a place feel like home. But I've come to learn that the saying is true: home is where the heart is. What's funny about that is, my heart is in a few places. I feel at home when I'm with the people I love. And those people are in a lot of places. So yes, San Francisco is home. And so is Chicago. And so is DC....and on and on.
I imagine home is a little bit of everywhere, as long as someone you love is there.
So this time around was really interesting, having personal tour guides in Carey and Niles, and without all the pining because the boy I liked was sitting right next to me (Sigh, being an adult is awesome sometimes.) One of the biggest highlights of the trip was going into the White House. OH YES WE DID.
QUESTION AND ANSWER TIME!
Question: Did you meet the President?
Answer: No. Despite all my dreams of shaking his hand and making him laugh with an uproarious joke I would make up on the fly, I did not see him. I guess he was there somewhere, though, because it was the day he pardoned the turkey.
Question: Well did you at least meet anyone famous and/or important?
Answer: DID WE EVER! We met Bo!
Question: ...Jackson?
Answer: No.
Question: ...Do you mean Boo, the poofy pomeranian?
Answer: No.
Question: Wait, who's Bo?
Answer: Bo! Bo! The President's dog, Bo! The First Woof! Bo!
Question: Ohhhhhh.
Answer. Yeah.
Question: Go on.
Answer: Well, right when we got inside the East Wing, about 4 amiable security guards pulled our group aside and wouldn't tell us why. Of course we're all racking our brains for what in our murky pasts has caused the hold up, while some guy walks around with a device that tests the amount of radiation coming off you (weird). Finally they took some old lady away. I wanted it to be a whole thing where it turns out she's got a criminal record, but I guess it was just because she had a pacemaker. BUT! While we were being detained, in strolled Bo and his dog walker! Carey nearly fainted. He bounded up the stairs and out of sight, and we weren't allowed to take photos in the White House, so there is no proof. But I swear it happened.
Question: What else did you see in the White House?
Answer: You don't really get to see too much of the place. Definitely none of the private residence of course, none of the West Wing or the Oval Office or any kinds of offices. You really just see the rooms where they host guests. You can peek your head into the China room (dishes, not the country) and walk up to the red, green, and blue room. And you see the East Room, which is the biggest room in the White House, and which looks down the hall that the President walks when he makes big announcements.
Question: That's pretty cool.
Answer: I know, right?
OVERALL THOUGHTS ABOUT THE CITY OF WASHINGTON DC
1. No building can be taller than the Washington Monument, so the tallest "skyscrapers" are only about 12 stories. But since they still need the space, companies just build out. Meaning DC is filled with these stone and brick buildings that take up the entire city block. It all makes the city look so...so...sturdy.
2. The city has all these rules you would never know unless someone told you. For example, the statue on top of the Capitol Building represents freedom, and she faces east so the sun never sets on the face of freedom. That kind of thing. Why are lawmakers/historians/architects/artists so into this? I don't know. It makes for good tours, though.
3. DC has laws about never changing the colonial facade of buildings. But since you can do whatever you want behind the facade, these enormous buildings just use the front to look like colonial houses, and behind the entire row is just one giant, cement building.
HANGING OUT
We didn't really tour very much, at Joe's and my request. We spent the time doing more low-key, family things, like eating at fun restaurants, making Thanksgiving dinner (I contributed a few things including our candied yams which were all eaten ATHANKYOU), watching football games, drinking. Carey does a great job of decorating their apartment, and DC gets into Christmas pretty quickly, so it all felt very festive. And good god, the smells. THE SMELLS.
OH! And we also saw the Muppet movie. My non-spoiler thoughts: It was fun. I loved the callbacks to classic Muppets instead of current iterations. But they tried to pack in too much--too many story lines, which never gave any of them justice and made most of them fall flat. Also, Future Husband John Krasinski only made a fleeting appearance and I don't understand what would have been so wrong with giving him a leading role. BUT! The cameo by this guy was....*kisses fingertips* molto bene.
FINAL THOUGHT
This was my first time coming "home" to San Francisco. Which was a bit strange. It wasn't really coming home, it was more like coming back to my stuff. My pillow, my TV. And I guess my stuff is part of what makes a place feel like home. But I've come to learn that the saying is true: home is where the heart is. What's funny about that is, my heart is in a few places. I feel at home when I'm with the people I love. And those people are in a lot of places. So yes, San Francisco is home. And so is Chicago. And so is DC....and on and on.
I imagine home is a little bit of everywhere, as long as someone you love is there.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Movin' On Out
Well I started inklings of it here. And then I really got into it here.
But when Joe and I were in Seattle, we shook on it. It's official: I'm moving to San Francisco in November.
Question: Gasp! Do you have a job out there yet?
Answer: Welll...no I do not. But Advertising is a very in-the-moment, we-need-you-yesterday kind of business, so this doesn't worry me. EDIT: Joe's contract job isn't full-time yet either. We just decided that even if he doesn't get it, we'd both have to look for a job somewhere, so we might as well make it San Fran.
Question: Do you have a place out there yet?
Answer. No we do not. Joe doesn't have much spare time to devote to checking out places, but once we get our credit reports and checkbooks ready, he is going to go apartment searching by himself to try and find us a place that is not a) falling apart and b) a hundred million dollars. Apparently this is a difficult task.
Question: Have you bought your plane ticket yet?
Answer. No I have not. OKAY SO I KNOW THERE ARE A LOT OF "NO I HAVEN'T DONE THE RESPONSIBLE PARTS OF MOVING" YET CAN YOU PLEASE GET OFF MY BACK MOVING IS HARD I'M DOING MY BEST TO KEEP IT TOGETHER NOW LOOK WHAT YOU DID I'VE STOPPED USING PUNCTUATION AND I FORGET WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT....wait, what? Oh, okay so no I haven't bought the plane ticket yet. Gotta do that, but I probably should know when we're moving in before I do. And flying with Regina Phalange means a few extra tasks so it's going to be really fun and complicated and annoying.
Question: Did he like it so he should have put a ring on it?
Answer: Well, well, well. The question I knew you were REALLY wondering all along. Only took you four tries before you got the heart of it. He does like it, he has not put a ring on it yet. We're getting there, don't worry. My personal opinion? I'd like to feel a little more grounded before we start throwing rings around willy-nilly. You know, slightly less like a giant helium balloon flying high above the parade of life. (PS in this metaphor it's best to think of me as a giant Kermit flying above your faces. Really drives the point home. But I digress.)
Question: But! But! What about...And then there's....You can't just...!!
Answer: I know. I know! When I started to think about moving away, my core group of friends was starting to break off and do their own thing. And it felt like the move would be really easy. And then Laura finally moved back into the city and my niece learned my name and I moved next to the lake and my little sister became legal drinking age and I have a friend who could use me close by--I KNOW!
Question: SO?! THEN?! HMM?!?!
Answer: Well the thing is, I've never memorized a zip code that didn't start with a 6. But this isn't one of those "I've gotta get out of this dump" situations, because Chicago is awesome. I'll even say that in January and mean it. I just need to experience somewhere outside the prairie. And it's not one of those "I've gotta get away from these people" situations because these are my family and my friends and the people I love more than anything. Ever. These are the people who loved me when I had glasses the size of my face. These are the people who hugged me until I stopped crying after I broke up with my boyfriend of 4 years. These are the people who ACTUALLY think I could be a successful Muppeteer if I went out and did it. It's not at all about leaving. It's about arriving. I need to do this terrifying thing because if I don't, I'll always wonder if I could. I'm also going to try (possibly for the last time) to see if I really can be a good copywriter in a city that seems to have better options for me. And besides all this, I get to have an adventure with Joe that's as close as I'm willing to come to "Man, Woman, Wild".
Question: Pff...kcchhh....ccckk...
Answer: I know. But it's happening. It has to. I have to. I don't know how long I'll be there. Maybe I'll hate it and I'll be back in a year. Maybe I'll love it and stay forever! I don't know! Somehow I think it'll be somewhere between those two. A warning: you might be hard pressed to rip me away from a city that's a quick drive to 80 degrees and wine. Just keep reminding me about deep dish pizza. I'm sure I'll come around.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Solving Mysteries One Search Engine At A Time
Oh man, you guys. I'm like Nancy Drew over here. If Nancy Drew were real, an adult, and used Google to solve all her mysteries. But I'm just as fiesty.
So. On Mother's Day my family went to the cemetery to pay tribute to both my parents' moms who are buried there. This is not the mystery part. That part went as expected. But when we were leaving, a grave caught my eye. It was a large double gravestone, but the woman buried there, Amy, was only 15 when she died in 1985. I looked at the other gravestone, the guy, Larry, was 16. Between the two it said, "Together forever." So they had been buried together but only at 15 and 16. My brother pointed out that they had different last names. So they probably hadn't been married or related. And finally we saw that they had died on the same day.
Whoah. MYSTERY.
We started talking about what might have happened. Car accident, we figured. Although that doesn't answer why a boyfriend and girlfriend would be buried together. Suicide pact? Possibly, but still not right. Finally, the mystery was consuming me. I whipped out my handy dandy (notebook) smartphone and typed in the names of the people and the date they died and voila:
MURDER.
So here's the story as I've pieced it together.
Two high school kids, Amy and Larry, are desperately in love. As 15-year-olds tend to be. But Amy's family was moving to Maryland and they couldn't stand the idea of separation. So they ran away to Colorado where people could get married much younger, I suppose (crazy Colorado and its healthy, lawless hippies.) For some reason they brought along Larry's friend, Patrick. Little did they know, however, that Patrick is CRAZAAAAAAAAY. The three of them decide to make the marriage trip into a camping trip as well, and go traipsing through the Colorado mountains. Larry's truck overturns, and that's when Patrick grabs Larry's rifle and kills his two friends. Eventually the whole story comes out that Patrick has some form of schizophrenia but an IQ of over 140 and admits to the whole thing with no remorse. He's charged as an adult and gets 20 years. Which means, in theory, he could be out right now. But I can't seem to find anything more on the matter. I figure the family is so guilt-stricken that they had forced the two to run away in the first place, buried the couple together.
WOW. What a crazy story! It makes me want to walk around to every grave, Googling things and solving mysteries. "This woman was only 94 when she passed away. Looks like someone had some unfinished business." *whips out phone*
Mostly I'm just proud of myself for being The Master at Googling Stuff. And I'm seriously curious about this guy with the rifle and why he shot his friends, which no one seemed to be able to piece together entirely. Although I guess that's the whole thing with mental illness, not a whole lot of explanation possible sometimes. But there seemed to be some hints in this article that it had to do with the relationship between Larry and Patrick, platonic or...one-sidedly platonic, perhaps.
In the end, I leave you with this:
Looks like this was a shotgun wedding...*puts on sunglasses*...without the wedding.
YYYYYEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!
Sorry. I had to.
So. On Mother's Day my family went to the cemetery to pay tribute to both my parents' moms who are buried there. This is not the mystery part. That part went as expected. But when we were leaving, a grave caught my eye. It was a large double gravestone, but the woman buried there, Amy, was only 15 when she died in 1985. I looked at the other gravestone, the guy, Larry, was 16. Between the two it said, "Together forever." So they had been buried together but only at 15 and 16. My brother pointed out that they had different last names. So they probably hadn't been married or related. And finally we saw that they had died on the same day.
Whoah. MYSTERY.
We started talking about what might have happened. Car accident, we figured. Although that doesn't answer why a boyfriend and girlfriend would be buried together. Suicide pact? Possibly, but still not right. Finally, the mystery was consuming me. I whipped out my handy dandy (notebook) smartphone and typed in the names of the people and the date they died and voila:
MURDER.
So here's the story as I've pieced it together.
Two high school kids, Amy and Larry, are desperately in love. As 15-year-olds tend to be. But Amy's family was moving to Maryland and they couldn't stand the idea of separation. So they ran away to Colorado where people could get married much younger, I suppose (crazy Colorado and its healthy, lawless hippies.) For some reason they brought along Larry's friend, Patrick. Little did they know, however, that Patrick is CRAZAAAAAAAAY. The three of them decide to make the marriage trip into a camping trip as well, and go traipsing through the Colorado mountains. Larry's truck overturns, and that's when Patrick grabs Larry's rifle and kills his two friends. Eventually the whole story comes out that Patrick has some form of schizophrenia but an IQ of over 140 and admits to the whole thing with no remorse. He's charged as an adult and gets 20 years. Which means, in theory, he could be out right now. But I can't seem to find anything more on the matter. I figure the family is so guilt-stricken that they had forced the two to run away in the first place, buried the couple together.
WOW. What a crazy story! It makes me want to walk around to every grave, Googling things and solving mysteries. "This woman was only 94 when she passed away. Looks like someone had some unfinished business." *whips out phone*
Mostly I'm just proud of myself for being The Master at Googling Stuff. And I'm seriously curious about this guy with the rifle and why he shot his friends, which no one seemed to be able to piece together entirely. Although I guess that's the whole thing with mental illness, not a whole lot of explanation possible sometimes. But there seemed to be some hints in this article that it had to do with the relationship between Larry and Patrick, platonic or...one-sidedly platonic, perhaps.
In the end, I leave you with this:
Looks like this was a shotgun wedding...*puts on sunglasses*...without the wedding.
YYYYYEEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!
Sorry. I had to.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
My Own Good Fortune
My fortune cookie just informed me that I will inherit a large sum of money.
Reasons why this is important:
1. It's been a long time since a fortune cookie has given me an actual fortune and not told me in so many words that I am "well-liked."
2. I'm pretty sure I've gotten this fortune before. Which means it HAS to be true, right?? And not that they recycle the same general blather to multiple restaurants?
3. I don't have anyone from whom to inherit a large sum of money (oh EXCUSE me, my family is peopled with hard-working, Main Street Americans who came to this country on the Mayflower with nothing but a dream and a fear of witches, so why don't you BACK THE HELL OFF) but if Gilmore Girls is anything like real life--and I'm almost positive that it is--there is always a possibility that my spunky-yet-responsible attitude will land me into piles and piles of money that I hardly worked for. So there's THAT.
4. The Dream House I created for an assignment in the 3rd grade had a "Gladiators"-style ceiling crawler (At first I googled "Gladiators harness". I do not suggest you do this.) which led into a Scrooge McDuck room full of money for me to swim through. A) Can you tell that my childhood imagination often fell just short of pure plagiarism? and B) This is still one of my dream rooms, physics of metal coins be damned! And when I inherit a large sum of money, why YES I believe I WILL be making that happen.
(PS. That fortune cookie is from Natalie Dee. Go to her.)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Why We All Need Christmas
OH MY GOD, you guys. I'm back. And I'm EXCITED. Are you kidding me?? I get to come home from work and I don't have to go directly to bed? What IS this freedom?!?
But you know who is more excited than I am? Regina Phalange. When I came home she started running around the entire apartment and did a cow-jumped-over-the-moon jump over our queen bed. So yeah. I think she's happy.
As I ease my way back into the life of the blogosphere, I thought I'd share with you guys some thoughts reflecting where my mind is when it's not writing headlines: Christmas. Here's part 1.
I think everyone should celebrate Christmas. Hear me out; I promise not to go Bill O'Reilly on you. I think everyone should get behind Christmas, not because I think everyone should believe in Jesus, because the dude is not for everyone, but because Christmas makes cold weather SO MUCH BETTER. Sure, we all have to suffer in January. But why December? Why? December is cold and snowy and terrible. BUT. If Bing Crosby croons softly in your ear while you walk through that December weather? Not so terrible. Not so terrible at ALL, m'friends.
Lately I've been thinking especially about Christmas traditions; which ones have stuck around, which ones have changed, which ones I'm fine with losing. Especially since this is the second holiday go-around with Joe and I'm starting to realize that maybe I'll need to give a little, and do a few more of his Christmas things and a few less of my own.
I think my favorite Christmas tradition which I'd be sad to lose is Christmas Eve. In my mind, that's one of those traditions that's stayed true year after year. It seems that way, but if I really think about it, it's actually changed a TON.
When I was young, it was the one night a year that I was willing to get fancy. I had short hair for much of my childhood, and was convinced that I looked ridiculous in anything fancier than my dinosaur t-shirt. Plus! Dresses were itchy!
But on Christmas Eve, you endure anything. I mean, Santa's watching, people. Shove those feet into those Mary Janes, froof that lace collar and wait for someone to ask you if you're excited for Santa to come.
So we'd sit all politely and nicely at church, surrounded by people we'd never seen before but happy for the warm bodies, and at the end of the service everyone got a candle and lit it and we'd sing Silent Night. Well, everyone ELSE would sing Silent Night. My siblings and I were more concerned with keeping the wax from dripping onto our soft, defenseless hands.
Then, after the service, we'd all pile into the car (the one time that we all called dibs on the back seats so we could huddle for warmth) and our dad would drive us around town, looking at lights and stopping at the house of the professional ice sculptor who always made something mind-blowing.
Finally, we'd get home, put out the cookies and carrots, bounce off walls like Judy Miller, and burrow under our sheets, ready for the assured amazingness awaiting us the next morning.
But eventually it all evolves. The ice sculptor moved. Our hands became callous enough for the candles. And everything became a lot less about impressing Santa and a lot more about impressing Michael, the organist's son, who sings O Holy Night every year now (and hot damn DOES HE, might I add.)
I mean, things change. Christmas is 90% childhood memories, 10% butter and 1% a pain in the ass. I think we're all in general agreement on that. And even though the traditions we keep anymore might not be exactly as we did them as children, and even though being with Joe may mean that I need to reformat Christmas at times, somehow it's all still...nice. Right down to the lame stuff, like car commercials. Because even THEY have giant red bows and happy soundtracks, and even THEY make driving through the snow feel like some kind of wonder of December.
And whether you're Jewish, Christian, Muslim or indifferent, I think anyone should want to get behind turning December--horrible, thigh-freezing December--into a miracle.
But you know who is more excited than I am? Regina Phalange. When I came home she started running around the entire apartment and did a cow-jumped-over-the-moon jump over our queen bed. So yeah. I think she's happy.
As I ease my way back into the life of the blogosphere, I thought I'd share with you guys some thoughts reflecting where my mind is when it's not writing headlines: Christmas. Here's part 1.
I think everyone should celebrate Christmas. Hear me out; I promise not to go Bill O'Reilly on you. I think everyone should get behind Christmas, not because I think everyone should believe in Jesus, because the dude is not for everyone, but because Christmas makes cold weather SO MUCH BETTER. Sure, we all have to suffer in January. But why December? Why? December is cold and snowy and terrible. BUT. If Bing Crosby croons softly in your ear while you walk through that December weather? Not so terrible. Not so terrible at ALL, m'friends.
Lately I've been thinking especially about Christmas traditions; which ones have stuck around, which ones have changed, which ones I'm fine with losing. Especially since this is the second holiday go-around with Joe and I'm starting to realize that maybe I'll need to give a little, and do a few more of his Christmas things and a few less of my own.
I think my favorite Christmas tradition which I'd be sad to lose is Christmas Eve. In my mind, that's one of those traditions that's stayed true year after year. It seems that way, but if I really think about it, it's actually changed a TON.
When I was young, it was the one night a year that I was willing to get fancy. I had short hair for much of my childhood, and was convinced that I looked ridiculous in anything fancier than my dinosaur t-shirt. Plus! Dresses were itchy!
But on Christmas Eve, you endure anything. I mean, Santa's watching, people. Shove those feet into those Mary Janes, froof that lace collar and wait for someone to ask you if you're excited for Santa to come.
So we'd sit all politely and nicely at church, surrounded by people we'd never seen before but happy for the warm bodies, and at the end of the service everyone got a candle and lit it and we'd sing Silent Night. Well, everyone ELSE would sing Silent Night. My siblings and I were more concerned with keeping the wax from dripping onto our soft, defenseless hands.
Then, after the service, we'd all pile into the car (the one time that we all called dibs on the back seats so we could huddle for warmth) and our dad would drive us around town, looking at lights and stopping at the house of the professional ice sculptor who always made something mind-blowing.
Finally, we'd get home, put out the cookies and carrots, bounce off walls like Judy Miller, and burrow under our sheets, ready for the assured amazingness awaiting us the next morning.
But eventually it all evolves. The ice sculptor moved. Our hands became callous enough for the candles. And everything became a lot less about impressing Santa and a lot more about impressing Michael, the organist's son, who sings O Holy Night every year now (and hot damn DOES HE, might I add.)
I mean, things change. Christmas is 90% childhood memories, 10% butter and 1% a pain in the ass. I think we're all in general agreement on that. And even though the traditions we keep anymore might not be exactly as we did them as children, and even though being with Joe may mean that I need to reformat Christmas at times, somehow it's all still...nice. Right down to the lame stuff, like car commercials. Because even THEY have giant red bows and happy soundtracks, and even THEY make driving through the snow feel like some kind of wonder of December.
And whether you're Jewish, Christian, Muslim or indifferent, I think anyone should want to get behind turning December--horrible, thigh-freezing December--into a miracle.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Fears and Facts
First, I must start this post with a little about podcasts, although that has nothing to do with what I want to tell you.
In iTunes, there is a whole “podcast” section. Click on it. There are, like, 80 billion (rough estimate) awesome podcasts out there for all your podcast needs. I mean, really it’s like recorded XM radio. And I think they're all free. So go there.
WHILST you are there, specifically look for This American Life and Stuff You Should Know (or click those links and get there faster.) These are two amazing podcasts. The former is like what this blog would be like if it were informed and written by someone who took AH Journalism class and had connections and were much, much better.
The latter, Stuff You Should Know, is basically like nerdery for the non-nerds. AKA me. Examples of podcast titles:
1. How Food Cravings Work
2. How The Hells Angels Work
3. How Kleptomania Works
4. How Braille Works
And the list goes on. Practically forever, and/or at least until 2008. SO! Why am I telling you all this?
I am telling you all this because I recently listened to a Stuff You Should Know podcast about quicksand, and I feel like my entire life is turned upside down right now.
Yes. We almost have a “making ends meat” situation on our hands here, people.
Turns out, it’s basically impossible to die in quicksand. Amongst all the reasons is that quicksand is never as deep as a human being. And even if you stepped in it, you’d basically just float at the top, not get sucked into it.
The thing is, besides having the malady of a weak bladder, I was also a fairly paranoid child. And after a few movies where people got stuck in quicksand (OR WORSE, ATREYU’S HORSE DROWNED IN THE MUCK AND OH MY GOD I STILL CAN’T HANDLE THAT) I was convinced that I would some day die from falling in a pit of quicksand. I didn’t know how or why, but the idea terrified me to my very soul.
But no one ever brought me the facts of quicksand. They just said “Oh, Emily. You won’t die in quicksand.” And left it at that, with no substantial evidence to change my mind! And just telling me that there is no quicksand in Illinois would have helped not at all because NO ONE SUSPECTS THE QUICKSAND INQUISITION.
It reminded me of my fear of robbers. I was scared to go to bed at night because I knew a Bad Guy would break into our house and steal all our things and kidnap me and my siblings. And you know what convinced me otherwise? My mom told me that since she and my dad’s bedroom is in the basement, that the robbers would come in those windows and she and my dad would just beat them up.
Bam, end of that fear. I mean, when you’re four, who’s more badass than Mom and Dad?
As I walked around Chicago, listening to the podcast, I had to keep pausing it in order to reflect on the MANY things I was scared of, if only someone had given me good reason not to be.
Like fire. I was sure that a fire would start in our hallway and none of us would be able to get out. And all I really needed was someone to stick a fire detector up there, assure me that a fire would start in the kitchen far away from us, and I would have slept like a baby.
Or escalators! I had a late fear of escalators, spawned from the 90’s show, “Rescue 911.” The thing is, I didn’t realize that a show with the word “Rescue” in it might possibly mean that everything would be okay. So of course I turned it off right in the middle of the reenactment, here
Instead of watching the last two minutes (which I just did thanks to the wonder of YouTube. By the way, STILL SCARY.) when the boy looks all healthy and rosy-cheeked again:
But, see, if someone had just told me, “That boy was fine, and it won’t happen to you because you are not SITTING on the escalator” then the fear would have evaporated in seconds!
Cold hard facts. That’s all I ever needed. Or, really, looking at all of these fears, all I actually needed was the internet. SO GET ON THAT, 1992.
In iTunes, there is a whole “podcast” section. Click on it. There are, like, 80 billion (rough estimate) awesome podcasts out there for all your podcast needs. I mean, really it’s like recorded XM radio. And I think they're all free. So go there.
WHILST you are there, specifically look for This American Life and Stuff You Should Know (or click those links and get there faster.) These are two amazing podcasts. The former is like what this blog would be like if it were informed and written by someone who took AH Journalism class and had connections and were much, much better.
The latter, Stuff You Should Know, is basically like nerdery for the non-nerds. AKA me. Examples of podcast titles:
1. How Food Cravings Work
2. How The Hells Angels Work
3. How Kleptomania Works
4. How Braille Works
And the list goes on. Practically forever, and/or at least until 2008. SO! Why am I telling you all this?
I am telling you all this because I recently listened to a Stuff You Should Know podcast about quicksand, and I feel like my entire life is turned upside down right now.
Yes. We almost have a “making ends meat” situation on our hands here, people.
Turns out, it’s basically impossible to die in quicksand. Amongst all the reasons is that quicksand is never as deep as a human being. And even if you stepped in it, you’d basically just float at the top, not get sucked into it.
The thing is, besides having the malady of a weak bladder, I was also a fairly paranoid child. And after a few movies where people got stuck in quicksand (OR WORSE, ATREYU’S HORSE DROWNED IN THE MUCK AND OH MY GOD I STILL CAN’T HANDLE THAT) I was convinced that I would some day die from falling in a pit of quicksand. I didn’t know how or why, but the idea terrified me to my very soul.
But no one ever brought me the facts of quicksand. They just said “Oh, Emily. You won’t die in quicksand.” And left it at that, with no substantial evidence to change my mind! And just telling me that there is no quicksand in Illinois would have helped not at all because NO ONE SUSPECTS THE QUICKSAND INQUISITION.
It reminded me of my fear of robbers. I was scared to go to bed at night because I knew a Bad Guy would break into our house and steal all our things and kidnap me and my siblings. And you know what convinced me otherwise? My mom told me that since she and my dad’s bedroom is in the basement, that the robbers would come in those windows and she and my dad would just beat them up.
Bam, end of that fear. I mean, when you’re four, who’s more badass than Mom and Dad?
As I walked around Chicago, listening to the podcast, I had to keep pausing it in order to reflect on the MANY things I was scared of, if only someone had given me good reason not to be.
Like fire. I was sure that a fire would start in our hallway and none of us would be able to get out. And all I really needed was someone to stick a fire detector up there, assure me that a fire would start in the kitchen far away from us, and I would have slept like a baby.
Or escalators! I had a late fear of escalators, spawned from the 90’s show, “Rescue 911.” The thing is, I didn’t realize that a show with the word “Rescue” in it might possibly mean that everything would be okay. So of course I turned it off right in the middle of the reenactment, here
Instead of watching the last two minutes (which I just did thanks to the wonder of YouTube. By the way, STILL SCARY.) when the boy looks all healthy and rosy-cheeked again:
But, see, if someone had just told me, “That boy was fine, and it won’t happen to you because you are not SITTING on the escalator” then the fear would have evaporated in seconds!
Cold hard facts. That’s all I ever needed. Or, really, looking at all of these fears, all I actually needed was the internet. SO GET ON THAT, 1992.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Consider Me Miles Davis (Or: My Most Embarrassing Post Yet.)
I am not what you'd call a particularly outgoing person. I second guess myself and clam up in front of anyone who I find intimidating.
Sure, I have momentary spurts of outgoing insanity, generally leading to me embarrassing myself. Like in the 8th grade when we had a mock-discussion on the pros and cons of slavery, where I stood up and tried to shame everyone who was fake "pro slavery" with a heart-felt speech.
GOD. I relive that moment at least once a week.
But I'm really kind of shy most of the time. I don't tend to make friends with people until they come up to me and tell me, "We're friends now." "Oh...okay. Wanna watch Friends and write down all the funny quotes in a notebook for no reason?" "SURE!" *skip arm-in-arm into the sunset*
My shyness was especially apparent as a kid. I was terrified of authority. TERRIFIED. And of course, by "authority," I mean anyone over the age of 12. When I still had spiked hair and dressed kinda like a boy, we had to line up in two boy/girl lines for our first ever trip to the library (EXCITING!!!) So of course, I got in the girl line. I AIN'T NO BOY. Before we left, the librarian noticed me. Thinking I was a smart-ass kid, she scoffed, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the boy's line. And I was too shy to correct her. Me, the one who had decided that I wanted a TAIL, was too shy to actually correct someone who thought perhaps I was not a girl. So what did I do? I shuffled back into the girl line, hoping she wouldn't notice. Of course she did. Again, she thought I was one of those, so she dragged me back to the boys line. Aaaaaand I slunk back. Finally, the entire class erupted, "SHE'S A GIIIIIRL!!!" And the librarian was embarrassed beyond anything. Poor, poor, permed lady.
This was a problem for me throughout elementary school. Not the tomboy thing, the shy thing. It was such a problem, that I peed my pants once a year for five years. OH YES. I am about to chronicle my bladder problems for you right now. ENJOY.
1. Preschool
Nap time. We had to sleep on these little mattresses they'd make us put down. But one day, everyone decided that they'd all have to pee during nap time. Followers is what they were. Damn followers. NONE OF YOU HAD TO PEE AND I'M SURE I MET YOU AGAIN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND NEVER KNEW THAT YOU WERE THE REASON FOR MY DEMISE THAT DAY. Buttons and Bows. 89. I will find all of you.
So there was a string of kids going to pee, and the teachers were rolling their eyes and dragging the kids off and I couldn't manage to get in there before another kid decided it was THEIR turn to go next. Well, you can imagine what happened. That mattress did not stay dry.
The traumatic part, though, is that when my parents came to pick me up, my teachers CORNERED me with them and demanded that I admit to peeing the mattress. Well eff that noise! I'm not embarrassing myself in front of God and country! I denied that accusation tooth and nail. Until they did their STARING DISAPPROVINGLY trick on me, and I'm pretty sure I crumbled.
2. Kindergarten
Gym class. We were all sitting on the yellow circle, learning how to play The Lone Ranger (aka free-for-all Dodge Ball [By the by, it is the fault of my gym teacher that I thought it was "Hi-Ho silver" and not "Hi-YO Silver", so please take it up with her.]) So we're sitting there and she's talking, and I've got my hand raised. She ignores it. I raise it higher--maybe she didn't see it. Ignores me. I flail. Ignore.
Finally, I ran out of the gym. But it was too late. Not only did I pee my pants, but I did it as my entire class watched.
That's right.
And people wonder why I never dated a boy from my school through high school. "Don't go to the dance with HER, she peed her pants in Kindergarten and I SAW IT."
AND IT GOES ON.
3. First Grade
T-Ball. Oh yes. The first and last time I ever played an organized team sport. T-Ball, where my team name was "The Gold Team." Where I threw the ball to whoever seemed like they wanted it more. Where they put me in left field where NO 1st grader could hit it except one time, when of course the ball hit me in the face and I cried until every coach and assistant coach came out to inspect my teeth.
THAT T-ball.
So I hit the ball. Which was quite an accomplishment for me, considering the ball was stationary in front of me. I ran and made it to first. Again, an accomplishment. Uh-oh. That's when I realized it. I had to pee. But I couldn't stop the game--then the adults would yell at me! And I couldn't just run to the port-a-potty like that kid on AFV. Sooo...dance around a little. Yeah, that's good. That's working. Dancing. Dancing. WHY ISN'T ANYONE HITTING THE BALL SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?? Oh right, because there's no such thing as "strikes" in T-ball. Dancing, dancing, dancing, annnnnnnnd....peeing. Nothing I could do. The first baseman just looked at me in amazement. But otherwise, no one noticed. For the rest of the game, I sat there in my pee-pants, acting like nothing was wrong. It wasn't until we got our fig newtons and Mondo that I worked up the courage to tell my Mom. "Oh, Emily," she said. As if a) I had done it on purpose and b) as if it was like you couldn't just throw the pants in the wash. JEEZ, MOM. There ARE strikes in "making your child feel bad for her bodily functions" and YOU are on strike 2.
4. Second Grade
This one was a little different. See, while we were watching some Discovery Channel show, I started to feel a little woozy. Miraculously, though, whenever I set my head on the desk, I felt better. My evil witch of a teacher, MS. WIEAND, (God rest her soul) came around and told me to pick my head up. Now granted: this is the point in which I should have told her that I didn't feel well. Meh. I was terrified of her. And I'm pretty sure that I thought I could just SHAKE IT OFF. So I begrudgingly raised my head and watched the rest of the movie, my stomach gurgling all the while.
Later, when the movie was over, Ms. Wieand decided that now was the time for her to clean out her supply closet. You know, while she had minions to boss around. So she's up on a ladder, nose deep in construction paper, and it hits me. Things aren't sitting right, and I have limited time. So I try to interrupt her and ask to go to the bathroom, and she doesn't hear me. I sit back down. Nope. Nope. Back up. But at that point? Too late. *Blarg-larg-larg-larg!* Right on the orange reading rug.
5. 3rd grade
I've mentioned this one before. We switched class for Science. We were in Mrs. Barkley's class learning about the different kinds of clouds. You know, talking about RAIN and SPRINKLES. I raised my hand to use the bathroom, and she didn't call on me. And I was too shy to say anything. Her loss. Left a nice present for her on my red-orange chair. And a nice present for whoever's chair that usually was. Whoopsee.
Luckily, that was the last time (save an incident when I was 13 at summer camp, but that wasn't shyness. It was a very intense scavenger hunt.) I think in general, I've learned to speak up for myself to people I find intimidating. Why just today, I made a snarky comment to my boss that I absolutely should have kept to myself. So...mission accomplished?
Thanks for liking me and "liking" me, guys!
Sure, I have momentary spurts of outgoing insanity, generally leading to me embarrassing myself. Like in the 8th grade when we had a mock-discussion on the pros and cons of slavery, where I stood up and tried to shame everyone who was fake "pro slavery" with a heart-felt speech.
GOD. I relive that moment at least once a week.
But I'm really kind of shy most of the time. I don't tend to make friends with people until they come up to me and tell me, "We're friends now." "Oh...okay. Wanna watch Friends and write down all the funny quotes in a notebook for no reason?" "SURE!" *skip arm-in-arm into the sunset*
My shyness was especially apparent as a kid. I was terrified of authority. TERRIFIED. And of course, by "authority," I mean anyone over the age of 12. When I still had spiked hair and dressed kinda like a boy, we had to line up in two boy/girl lines for our first ever trip to the library (EXCITING!!!) So of course, I got in the girl line. I AIN'T NO BOY. Before we left, the librarian noticed me. Thinking I was a smart-ass kid, she scoffed, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the boy's line. And I was too shy to correct her. Me, the one who had decided that I wanted a TAIL, was too shy to actually correct someone who thought perhaps I was not a girl. So what did I do? I shuffled back into the girl line, hoping she wouldn't notice. Of course she did. Again, she thought I was one of those, so she dragged me back to the boys line. Aaaaaand I slunk back. Finally, the entire class erupted, "SHE'S A GIIIIIRL!!!" And the librarian was embarrassed beyond anything. Poor, poor, permed lady.
This was a problem for me throughout elementary school. Not the tomboy thing, the shy thing. It was such a problem, that I peed my pants once a year for five years. OH YES. I am about to chronicle my bladder problems for you right now. ENJOY.
1. Preschool
Nap time. We had to sleep on these little mattresses they'd make us put down. But one day, everyone decided that they'd all have to pee during nap time. Followers is what they were. Damn followers. NONE OF YOU HAD TO PEE AND I'M SURE I MET YOU AGAIN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND NEVER KNEW THAT YOU WERE THE REASON FOR MY DEMISE THAT DAY. Buttons and Bows. 89. I will find all of you.
So there was a string of kids going to pee, and the teachers were rolling their eyes and dragging the kids off and I couldn't manage to get in there before another kid decided it was THEIR turn to go next. Well, you can imagine what happened. That mattress did not stay dry.
The traumatic part, though, is that when my parents came to pick me up, my teachers CORNERED me with them and demanded that I admit to peeing the mattress. Well eff that noise! I'm not embarrassing myself in front of God and country! I denied that accusation tooth and nail. Until they did their STARING DISAPPROVINGLY trick on me, and I'm pretty sure I crumbled.
2. Kindergarten
Gym class. We were all sitting on the yellow circle, learning how to play The Lone Ranger (aka free-for-all Dodge Ball [By the by, it is the fault of my gym teacher that I thought it was "Hi-Ho silver" and not "Hi-YO Silver", so please take it up with her.]) So we're sitting there and she's talking, and I've got my hand raised. She ignores it. I raise it higher--maybe she didn't see it. Ignores me. I flail. Ignore.
Finally, I ran out of the gym. But it was too late. Not only did I pee my pants, but I did it as my entire class watched.
That's right.
And people wonder why I never dated a boy from my school through high school. "Don't go to the dance with HER, she peed her pants in Kindergarten and I SAW IT."
AND IT GOES ON.
3. First Grade
T-Ball. Oh yes. The first and last time I ever played an organized team sport. T-Ball, where my team name was "The Gold Team." Where I threw the ball to whoever seemed like they wanted it more. Where they put me in left field where NO 1st grader could hit it except one time, when of course the ball hit me in the face and I cried until every coach and assistant coach came out to inspect my teeth.
THAT T-ball.
So I hit the ball. Which was quite an accomplishment for me, considering the ball was stationary in front of me. I ran and made it to first. Again, an accomplishment. Uh-oh. That's when I realized it. I had to pee. But I couldn't stop the game--then the adults would yell at me! And I couldn't just run to the port-a-potty like that kid on AFV. Sooo...dance around a little. Yeah, that's good. That's working. Dancing. Dancing. WHY ISN'T ANYONE HITTING THE BALL SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?? Oh right, because there's no such thing as "strikes" in T-ball. Dancing, dancing, dancing, annnnnnnnd....peeing. Nothing I could do. The first baseman just looked at me in amazement. But otherwise, no one noticed. For the rest of the game, I sat there in my pee-pants, acting like nothing was wrong. It wasn't until we got our fig newtons and Mondo that I worked up the courage to tell my Mom. "Oh, Emily," she said. As if a) I had done it on purpose and b) as if it was like you couldn't just throw the pants in the wash. JEEZ, MOM. There ARE strikes in "making your child feel bad for her bodily functions" and YOU are on strike 2.
4. Second Grade
This one was a little different. See, while we were watching some Discovery Channel show, I started to feel a little woozy. Miraculously, though, whenever I set my head on the desk, I felt better. My evil witch of a teacher, MS. WIEAND, (God rest her soul) came around and told me to pick my head up. Now granted: this is the point in which I should have told her that I didn't feel well. Meh. I was terrified of her. And I'm pretty sure that I thought I could just SHAKE IT OFF. So I begrudgingly raised my head and watched the rest of the movie, my stomach gurgling all the while.
Later, when the movie was over, Ms. Wieand decided that now was the time for her to clean out her supply closet. You know, while she had minions to boss around. So she's up on a ladder, nose deep in construction paper, and it hits me. Things aren't sitting right, and I have limited time. So I try to interrupt her and ask to go to the bathroom, and she doesn't hear me. I sit back down. Nope. Nope. Back up. But at that point? Too late. *Blarg-larg-larg-larg!* Right on the orange reading rug.
5. 3rd grade
I've mentioned this one before. We switched class for Science. We were in Mrs. Barkley's class learning about the different kinds of clouds. You know, talking about RAIN and SPRINKLES. I raised my hand to use the bathroom, and she didn't call on me. And I was too shy to say anything. Her loss. Left a nice present for her on my red-orange chair. And a nice present for whoever's chair that usually was. Whoopsee.
Luckily, that was the last time (save an incident when I was 13 at summer camp, but that wasn't shyness. It was a very intense scavenger hunt.) I think in general, I've learned to speak up for myself to people I find intimidating. Why just today, I made a snarky comment to my boss that I absolutely should have kept to myself. So...mission accomplished?
Thanks for liking me and "liking" me, guys!
Monday, June 21, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Mustache Thanks: Aunt Margaret
WHAT? What is this girl talking about? "Mustache thanks"?! This blog makes no sense. I’m leaving.
STOP! Turn. Come back.
Lemme ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: I did a thing for charity (involving mustaches) back a few months ago and promised anyone who donated that I would write a blog post about them. And then I didn’t write a post about my aunt, who donated bravely along with the rest of them. And the children appreciated her dollars just as much as the next person. And yet I did not post.
And time went by. And I did not post.
And more time went by. And- wait, what was that? Oh right, I did not post.
The thing is, I was waiting for inspiration. But none came. See, from what I can gather from the stories my mom has told me, back in the day, Aunt Margaret was kind of a badass.
I haven’t gotten the chance to hang out with my aunt because she’s always lived very far from me. So I can only base my knowledge on stories my mom told me a long time ago. And since I have no memory whatsoever, even those stories are pretty skewed in my mind.
SO! What’s a girl to do?! Why, a girl is to make up a fake story about her lovely Aunt Margaret, that’s what!
Here goes.
Margaret was raised in The Good Ol’ Days. Back when women consulted Good Housekeeping before they fluffed their pillows. When they rationed their use of butter because men needed it to fight the Nazis, who were renowned for their aversion to the stuff. They spent their days lamenting over pot roasts and recovering from the vapors, which they were overcome by each time they were forced to look at anything unseemly.
Not Margaret.
Margaret was born in a pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket. When she was three, an older boy pulled her pigtail, so she turned around and put her cigarette out on his chest. When my grandparents tried to tell Margaret what to do, she blew that popsicle stand and hitchhiked her way to Vegas, where she took a lover named Alfonzo. From there, she spent her days skinning chickens by day and making hooch by night.
Okay, I’m already out of ideas for what to tell you about Fake Aunt Margaret. So I guess I just have to tell you that the Real Aunt Margaret as I know her is really great. She’s super supportive of me even though she hardly knows me and has a mysterious, badass past. And from what I can tell, she’s very interested in helping you tend your Farmville garden, if anyone needs some help.
So here’s to Aunt Margarets, both Real And Fake: Two very awesome ladies (though I think I’m partial to the real one to be honest), who helped some inner city Chicago kids take a few steps closer to being rock star students.
STOP! Turn. Come back.
Lemme ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: I did a thing for charity (involving mustaches) back a few months ago and promised anyone who donated that I would write a blog post about them. And then I didn’t write a post about my aunt, who donated bravely along with the rest of them. And the children appreciated her dollars just as much as the next person. And yet I did not post.
And time went by. And I did not post.
And more time went by. And- wait, what was that? Oh right, I did not post.
The thing is, I was waiting for inspiration. But none came. See, from what I can gather from the stories my mom has told me, back in the day, Aunt Margaret was kind of a badass.
I haven’t gotten the chance to hang out with my aunt because she’s always lived very far from me. So I can only base my knowledge on stories my mom told me a long time ago. And since I have no memory whatsoever, even those stories are pretty skewed in my mind.
SO! What’s a girl to do?! Why, a girl is to make up a fake story about her lovely Aunt Margaret, that’s what!
Here goes.
Margaret was raised in The Good Ol’ Days. Back when women consulted Good Housekeeping before they fluffed their pillows. When they rationed their use of butter because men needed it to fight the Nazis, who were renowned for their aversion to the stuff. They spent their days lamenting over pot roasts and recovering from the vapors, which they were overcome by each time they were forced to look at anything unseemly.
Not Margaret.
Margaret was born in a pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket. When she was three, an older boy pulled her pigtail, so she turned around and put her cigarette out on his chest. When my grandparents tried to tell Margaret what to do, she blew that popsicle stand and hitchhiked her way to Vegas, where she took a lover named Alfonzo. From there, she spent her days skinning chickens by day and making hooch by night.
Okay, I’m already out of ideas for what to tell you about Fake Aunt Margaret. So I guess I just have to tell you that the Real Aunt Margaret as I know her is really great. She’s super supportive of me even though she hardly knows me and has a mysterious, badass past. And from what I can tell, she’s very interested in helping you tend your Farmville garden, if anyone needs some help.
So here’s to Aunt Margarets, both Real And Fake: Two very awesome ladies (though I think I’m partial to the real one to be honest), who helped some inner city Chicago kids take a few steps closer to being rock star students.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Near to Heart Attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack
Welp! I'm all moved out! Have I told you all how great my family is? They are pretty great. Even the ones who didn't help. But really, mostly just the ones who did. Sorry Hannah.
So today is cleaning day. I have a suitcase, some random things, and an air mattress left in my apartment. I am not officially gone yet because frankly, I'm paying for the gas bill and damn me if those pilot lights burn for no one.
Hey, you know what's not awesome? Having a billion tiny Charlie cuts while using cleaning supplies. If I die, someone please tell them it was probably the ratio of Scrubbing Bubbles:blood in my veins.
Sigh... I think I've breathed in too many cleaning supply fumes. But at least this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building.
Also I've been singing Hard Knock Life while scrubbing.
Okay yep. I'm going to stop typing things now and let my nose breathe in some real air.
also this
So today is cleaning day. I have a suitcase, some random things, and an air mattress left in my apartment. I am not officially gone yet because frankly, I'm paying for the gas bill and damn me if those pilot lights burn for no one.
Hey, you know what's not awesome? Having a billion tiny Charlie cuts while using cleaning supplies. If I die, someone please tell them it was probably the ratio of Scrubbing Bubbles:blood in my veins.
Sigh... I think I've breathed in too many cleaning supply fumes. But at least this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building.
Also I've been singing Hard Knock Life while scrubbing.
Okay yep. I'm going to stop typing things now and let my nose breathe in some real air.
also this
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Why Vice President Biden Needs To Be My Grandpa
Okay. Breathing again. I came in early to work yesterday, posted that blog, then wrote up a kick-ass script. I then proceeded to not be able to top it for 8 hours, and as of this moment it is still alive. But I definitely had a good 12 hours of freak out-ery.
Now, this morning when I came in, as I awaited my peppermint latte (Hooray! Someone who doesn’t think “mint” is a Christmas flavor!!) my eye caught a sub-line…byline? The Line That’s Not A Headline?...anyway, and it informed me that Vice President Biden dropped an f-bomb recently when he thought the mic wouldn’t pick it up.
And I just want to say, God bless America, and God bless Joseph R. Biden.
This is not a political blog. Nor do I ever—EVER—want it to become one. I do not want to talk about Biden’s beliefs. I do not want to talk about ANYONE’S beliefs. Mostly because I think all people of the world fall into two camps:
1. They don’t know enough about what they’re talking about to actually have a proper opinion.
2. They do know enough. So now they're lying.
I’m going to go right ahead and assume that I, and everyone else who reads this blog (and let's be honest, probably Joe Biden,) falls into the #1 camp. Except all those CIA agents who are reading me to make sure I don’t spill the beans on Code Chicken Feather—I’VE SAID TOO MUCH!!!
What I mean to say is, politics aside, Joe Biden cracks my shit up. And I wish to the high heavens that he was my grandpa. IN FACT…
WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, JOE!
REVISED ADOPTED FAMILY LIST:
Aunt Meryl Streep
Uncle Rick Steves
Grandpa Carl Reiner
Grandma Maya Angelou
Grandpa Joe Biden
Man, I really hope no other old men weasel their way into my heart, because I have no grandpa spots left.
Here’s the thing. My own grandfathers were a little MIA in my life. One of them passed away years before I was born (Although I do have a hilarious picture of him demonstrating how to wear a bridle for my mom’s stubborn horse. Damn him and his love of cigarettes.) And the other one was…quiet. He was a good guy, sure. But he was pretty solitary. In fact, I only have one memory of him saying something to me:
Katie and I were young, about 5 and 8. We were visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, and playing in their backyard as the sun went down. It was that time of year when the caterpillars were out. Whatever time of year that is. And Katie and I were having a field day finding them. We started collecting those orange and black fuzzy ones (the ones that I now know turn into moths. But at the time, I’m not sure I knew they turned into anything.) We put them all onto the underside of a Frisbee and ran around the yard yelling, “I found one here! Mom, look! Another one!” and then sprinted back to add it proudly to the collection. When we’d collected enough to practically cover the Frisbee, we bounced over to our grandpa. “Poppa! Look how many we got!”
Poppa scrutinized the Frisbee. He rubbed his chin. Holding out his hand, he said, “Let me see that.” We proudly handed it over.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
My grandfather smashed the Frisbee against a tree over and over, euthanizing every one of our precious, fuzzy caterpillars. Katie and I stared, mouths gaping, horrified at the malicious injustice before us.
I ran back to my mom who tried to calm me, telling me they were just moths; Poppa just didn’t want all those moths in his yard. I suppose I forgave him, I don’t really remember. But “Let me see that” is the only sentence I remember him saying directly to me (though I’m sure there are more.) And that has to say something for forgiveness.
This entire story to tell you…I need a Grandpa Biden in my life. I need the kind of grandpa who’ll hitch up his pants, squint one eye, and tell you it’s those damn gays who planted the dinosaur bones. Not that Biden would say those things (although, with a mental deterioration that rivals Flowers for Algernon, you really never know.)
I need a Grandpa who took public transportation uphill both ways. I need a Grandpa who understands the importance of a good fart joke. I need a Grandpa who thinks “fucking” is a verb AND an adjective.
I need a Grandpa Biden. AND. HOW.
Now, this morning when I came in, as I awaited my peppermint latte (Hooray! Someone who doesn’t think “mint” is a Christmas flavor!!) my eye caught a sub-line…byline? The Line That’s Not A Headline?...anyway, and it informed me that Vice President Biden dropped an f-bomb recently when he thought the mic wouldn’t pick it up.
And I just want to say, God bless America, and God bless Joseph R. Biden.
This is not a political blog. Nor do I ever—EVER—want it to become one. I do not want to talk about Biden’s beliefs. I do not want to talk about ANYONE’S beliefs. Mostly because I think all people of the world fall into two camps:
1. They don’t know enough about what they’re talking about to actually have a proper opinion.
2. They do know enough. So now they're lying.
I’m going to go right ahead and assume that I, and everyone else who reads this blog (and let's be honest, probably Joe Biden,) falls into the #1 camp. Except all those CIA agents who are reading me to make sure I don’t spill the beans on Code Chicken Feather—I’VE SAID TOO MUCH!!!
What I mean to say is, politics aside, Joe Biden cracks my shit up. And I wish to the high heavens that he was my grandpa. IN FACT…
WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, JOE!
REVISED ADOPTED FAMILY LIST:
Aunt Meryl Streep
Uncle Rick Steves
Grandpa Carl Reiner
Grandma Maya Angelou
Grandpa Joe Biden
Man, I really hope no other old men weasel their way into my heart, because I have no grandpa spots left.
Here’s the thing. My own grandfathers were a little MIA in my life. One of them passed away years before I was born (Although I do have a hilarious picture of him demonstrating how to wear a bridle for my mom’s stubborn horse. Damn him and his love of cigarettes.) And the other one was…quiet. He was a good guy, sure. But he was pretty solitary. In fact, I only have one memory of him saying something to me:
Katie and I were young, about 5 and 8. We were visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, and playing in their backyard as the sun went down. It was that time of year when the caterpillars were out. Whatever time of year that is. And Katie and I were having a field day finding them. We started collecting those orange and black fuzzy ones (the ones that I now know turn into moths. But at the time, I’m not sure I knew they turned into anything.) We put them all onto the underside of a Frisbee and ran around the yard yelling, “I found one here! Mom, look! Another one!” and then sprinted back to add it proudly to the collection. When we’d collected enough to practically cover the Frisbee, we bounced over to our grandpa. “Poppa! Look how many we got!”
Poppa scrutinized the Frisbee. He rubbed his chin. Holding out his hand, he said, “Let me see that.” We proudly handed it over.
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
My grandfather smashed the Frisbee against a tree over and over, euthanizing every one of our precious, fuzzy caterpillars. Katie and I stared, mouths gaping, horrified at the malicious injustice before us.
I ran back to my mom who tried to calm me, telling me they were just moths; Poppa just didn’t want all those moths in his yard. I suppose I forgave him, I don’t really remember. But “Let me see that” is the only sentence I remember him saying directly to me (though I’m sure there are more.) And that has to say something for forgiveness.
This entire story to tell you…I need a Grandpa Biden in my life. I need the kind of grandpa who’ll hitch up his pants, squint one eye, and tell you it’s those damn gays who planted the dinosaur bones. Not that Biden would say those things (although, with a mental deterioration that rivals Flowers for Algernon, you really never know.)
I need a Grandpa who took public transportation uphill both ways. I need a Grandpa who understands the importance of a good fart joke. I need a Grandpa who thinks “fucking” is a verb AND an adjective.
I need a Grandpa Biden. AND. HOW.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Mustache Thanks: Older Sisters. Who needs them? Oh...me.
Look out!! It's another dedication post!
I was actually planning on doing some family posts coming up soon, but my older sister, Katie, ever on the ball, scooped up the opportunity preemptively and donated to the Mustache-a-thon, in which I promised any donators would receive their own post.
So here goes.
I dropped an f-bomb on Katie once. Once. And I never said I was sorry. I think I was in junior high/early high school. The hormones were raging. We were running out the door...and there was definitely something about shoes involved. I have no idea what Katie did to deserve it, but out it came nonetheless. And I've never forgotten it. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: I managed to traumatize myself as a child.
So to Katie: I am sorry for throwing an f-bomb at you. And so haphazardly at that.
The thing is, and the reason Katie did not deserve such a jab is because she is 100% the most mature person you will ever meet, and is therefore above such childishness. When Katie got married straight out of college, I didn't blink. Now I'm like "JEEZ I'M ONLY 25 QUIT HARPING ON ME, PEOPLE." But for Katie, it was okay. Because she's mature and knowledgeable and always knows what she is doing. (Which I'm sure isn't technically true, but that's just the way it goes in my mind, like it or not.)
I do have proof of Katie's silly side, though. It's something that still makes me laugh to think about, and that is the way that Katie and I often chose to enter each others' bedrooms: butt first. It was more of a backwards, hopping/scooting way of entering a room. Really, it was quite dangerous if you didn't know who was in the room you were about to enter. And it was definitely Katie's invention. Don't ask me when it started. Just know that if you hear the staccato sound of feet rubbing on hardwood, expect an eyeful of jeans when you look up.
Despite such shenanigans, Katie is the oldest child of four and therefore the Leader of The Pack. She has always held herself to the highest standard--including an adorable story about her first day of Kindergarten: while walking to school, she stopped my mom abruptly:
"Mom, WAIT!! What's the capital of the United States?!"
"Oh, Honey, I'm sure they won't ask you that on your first day."
"BUT WHAT IF THEY DO?!"
"It's okay, I promise they won't."
"MOM! JUST TELL ME!!!!"
"...Washington DC."
"Okay. Washington DC. Washinton DC. Washington DC..."
I can safely tell you that on MY first day of Kindergarten, I was concerned about peeing my pants, missing my daytime stories, and little else. But that's how Katie always is: highly prepared. Before she had her baby in August, I think she actually read every book about children that existed in the world.
It's always been helpful to have someone boldly go where none of us had been before. Someone to test out the waters of all those scary things. Bike riding, junior high, boyfriends, prom dresses, college, weddings, kids...
I've never had a problem letting Katie skip on ahead of me. She's always been willing to turn back around, grab my hand, and show me how it's done.
I was actually planning on doing some family posts coming up soon, but my older sister, Katie, ever on the ball, scooped up the opportunity preemptively and donated to the Mustache-a-thon, in which I promised any donators would receive their own post.
So here goes.
I dropped an f-bomb on Katie once. Once. And I never said I was sorry. I think I was in junior high/early high school. The hormones were raging. We were running out the door...and there was definitely something about shoes involved. I have no idea what Katie did to deserve it, but out it came nonetheless. And I've never forgotten it. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: I managed to traumatize myself as a child.
So to Katie: I am sorry for throwing an f-bomb at you. And so haphazardly at that.
The thing is, and the reason Katie did not deserve such a jab is because she is 100% the most mature person you will ever meet, and is therefore above such childishness. When Katie got married straight out of college, I didn't blink. Now I'm like "JEEZ I'M ONLY 25 QUIT HARPING ON ME, PEOPLE." But for Katie, it was okay. Because she's mature and knowledgeable and always knows what she is doing. (Which I'm sure isn't technically true, but that's just the way it goes in my mind, like it or not.)
I do have proof of Katie's silly side, though. It's something that still makes me laugh to think about, and that is the way that Katie and I often chose to enter each others' bedrooms: butt first. It was more of a backwards, hopping/scooting way of entering a room. Really, it was quite dangerous if you didn't know who was in the room you were about to enter. And it was definitely Katie's invention. Don't ask me when it started. Just know that if you hear the staccato sound of feet rubbing on hardwood, expect an eyeful of jeans when you look up.
Despite such shenanigans, Katie is the oldest child of four and therefore the Leader of The Pack. She has always held herself to the highest standard--including an adorable story about her first day of Kindergarten: while walking to school, she stopped my mom abruptly:
"Mom, WAIT!! What's the capital of the United States?!"
"Oh, Honey, I'm sure they won't ask you that on your first day."
"BUT WHAT IF THEY DO?!"
"It's okay, I promise they won't."
"MOM! JUST TELL ME!!!!"
"...Washington DC."
"Okay. Washington DC. Washinton DC. Washington DC..."
I can safely tell you that on MY first day of Kindergarten, I was concerned about peeing my pants, missing my daytime stories, and little else. But that's how Katie always is: highly prepared. Before she had her baby in August, I think she actually read every book about children that existed in the world.
It's always been helpful to have someone boldly go where none of us had been before. Someone to test out the waters of all those scary things. Bike riding, junior high, boyfriends, prom dresses, college, weddings, kids...
I've never had a problem letting Katie skip on ahead of me. She's always been willing to turn back around, grab my hand, and show me how it's done.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Mustache Thanks: Mommy Dearest
As promised, those of you who donated to the mustache cause over the last few weeks will be blessed with your very own blog post. I won't do them all this week because I've got a few other ideas up my sleeve (including a new Bible post, huzzah!)
But today will mark the very first Thank You Post. And first up is my mother. Of course she gets first dibs; the woman had to put up with me from the very beginning. While she was pregnant, I stuck around for two extra weeks, which I'm sure she appreciated (What? It was warm in there.) And then generally wreaked havoc until I was about twenty. Last night, my mom told me that she used to buy me scotch tape to keep me entertained. Not going to lie, I'm pretty sure that's all you'd need TODAY. I'd be all, "Hmm, there's nothing on TV besides Meet The Browns...guess I'll just sit here and unroll some tape. Zzzzzzzip! Zzzzzzzip! *Tee hee!*"
Now, you've already gotten one Mom story here. And there are certainly many to come, I'm sure.
So for this post, I want to share a story of my Mom that my aunt told me. It might be my favorite story about her to date. (Oh no wait..there's one more. Okay, TWO mom stories today!) I'm sure she'll be thrilled by both of these.
Okay the first one takes place in the 50's. My mom is, say, three. I've seen pictures; she was seriously adorable: auburn pigtails, freckles, light blue eyes. Adorable, that little Susie. Now little Susie, being young and impressionable, knows only one song. Just one. And that song is the theme to the television show, Wyatt Earp.
And who says television is ruining children? Well, they were right. But it's been happening for decades.
Every Sunday, my mom would skip to church along with the rest of her family. But because Wyatt Earp is the only song that my mom knew, that's the one she sang. Every time. Meaning, while everyone else is singing, say, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"...
...Little Susie is belting out a song about the kindly cowboy from Kansas.
Well, as you can imagine, eventually the hymn ends. The organ echoes it's last note, everyone closes their hymn books and sits back down. Welp, sorry folks! But the Wyatt Earp theme song is still going strong! Everyone turns around to see this little girl standing on the pew, belting out, "Wyyyyyatt Earp! Wyyyyyat Earp! Brave, courageous and BOLD! Long live his name and long live his glory and long may his story be toooooold!"
The second story of my mom is much more recent. I think about five years or so. And once again, it's a story I can only relay because I wasn't there.
My parents and two younger siblings went to see a movie together. Afterward, they decided to go to Baker's Square for some pie. Yum. So they're in the elevator on their way to the car in the parking garage. And the conversation goes as follows:
Dad: Well I thought that movie was pretty good.
Hannah: Yeah, I really liked how the main character changed at the end.
John: And the soundtrack was really great.
*silence*
Mom: .........Pie.
I don't know WHY this story makes me laugh so hard, but despite not having been there, I cannot repeat that story without cracking up. It's one of those where I just start laughing in the middle of telling it before I even get to the punchline, so by the time I actually say the word "pie" I'm completely unintelligible and anyone listening is laughing just because I'm laughing, but really they have no idea what the hell is so funny.
So those are my two Mom stories! I guess thanking my mom by telling two mildly embarrassing stories about her is not EXACTLY a proper thank-you, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity. Of course she was and is a magnificent mom, and I love her very very much. But in my defense, she has always been the greatest supporter of my creativity and writing.
......Pie.
But today will mark the very first Thank You Post. And first up is my mother. Of course she gets first dibs; the woman had to put up with me from the very beginning. While she was pregnant, I stuck around for two extra weeks, which I'm sure she appreciated (What? It was warm in there.) And then generally wreaked havoc until I was about twenty. Last night, my mom told me that she used to buy me scotch tape to keep me entertained. Not going to lie, I'm pretty sure that's all you'd need TODAY. I'd be all, "Hmm, there's nothing on TV besides Meet The Browns...guess I'll just sit here and unroll some tape. Zzzzzzzip! Zzzzzzzip! *Tee hee!*"
Now, you've already gotten one Mom story here. And there are certainly many to come, I'm sure.
So for this post, I want to share a story of my Mom that my aunt told me. It might be my favorite story about her to date. (Oh no wait..there's one more. Okay, TWO mom stories today!) I'm sure she'll be thrilled by both of these.
Okay the first one takes place in the 50's. My mom is, say, three. I've seen pictures; she was seriously adorable: auburn pigtails, freckles, light blue eyes. Adorable, that little Susie. Now little Susie, being young and impressionable, knows only one song. Just one. And that song is the theme to the television show, Wyatt Earp.
And who says television is ruining children? Well, they were right. But it's been happening for decades.
Every Sunday, my mom would skip to church along with the rest of her family. But because Wyatt Earp is the only song that my mom knew, that's the one she sang. Every time. Meaning, while everyone else is singing, say, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"...
...Little Susie is belting out a song about the kindly cowboy from Kansas.
Well, as you can imagine, eventually the hymn ends. The organ echoes it's last note, everyone closes their hymn books and sits back down. Welp, sorry folks! But the Wyatt Earp theme song is still going strong! Everyone turns around to see this little girl standing on the pew, belting out, "Wyyyyyatt Earp! Wyyyyyat Earp! Brave, courageous and BOLD! Long live his name and long live his glory and long may his story be toooooold!"
The second story of my mom is much more recent. I think about five years or so. And once again, it's a story I can only relay because I wasn't there.
My parents and two younger siblings went to see a movie together. Afterward, they decided to go to Baker's Square for some pie. Yum. So they're in the elevator on their way to the car in the parking garage. And the conversation goes as follows:
Dad: Well I thought that movie was pretty good.
Hannah: Yeah, I really liked how the main character changed at the end.
John: And the soundtrack was really great.
*silence*
Mom: .........Pie.
I don't know WHY this story makes me laugh so hard, but despite not having been there, I cannot repeat that story without cracking up. It's one of those where I just start laughing in the middle of telling it before I even get to the punchline, so by the time I actually say the word "pie" I'm completely unintelligible and anyone listening is laughing just because I'm laughing, but really they have no idea what the hell is so funny.
So those are my two Mom stories! I guess thanking my mom by telling two mildly embarrassing stories about her is not EXACTLY a proper thank-you, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity. Of course she was and is a magnificent mom, and I love her very very much. But in my defense, she has always been the greatest supporter of my creativity and writing.
......Pie.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Adventures in Gas Pumpery
I love living in the city. I do. Mostly because there are people EVERYWHERE. I grew up in a small house filled with people. So, while this bothered me growing up ("Emily, here's your first bra. Please try it on while your six-year-old sister sits and watches.") I've come to realize that I can no longer live without people constantly bumping into me. I don't even like when my roommates are gone. What, the TV all to myself?! What am I supposed to do with that, watch whatever I want? Laaaaaame.
But here's the other thing. I hate living in the city. There are people EVERYWHERE.
I borrowed Monica's car yesterday to go to my interview (and thank you all for your non well wishes, it went well) so last night when I got home, I went to fill up the tank. As soon as I got out of my car, another car pulled up behind mine. That's weird, just seconds ago, there had been open fuel stations all over. But I try not to think about it and get going on my gasoline adventures.
I swipe my card, it asks for the zipcode, and of course, it doesn't read my frozen fingers' 666001112266 as a proper zip code. So I cancel and start over. Then it doesn't read it. Then it reads it, but the nozzle won't fit right into Monica's gas tank. And it's cold as shit so I'm talking to all of these items as if they are my misbehaved children. "What's wrong now? You don't want to fit? Come on, I don't have time for this. I am telling your father about this when he gets home." etc etc etc. So finally all is going well...and a man walks up behind me.
"Excuse me, Miss." I turn around. The man is showing me his drivers' license and some other card. Oh, God. I'm trapped. But I'm also highly on edge from the whole commute + misbehaving gas experience. So I interrupt him and just say, "No. Please don't talk to me." in a very authoritative, I-didn't-know-I-could-be-that-aggressive kind of way. Which was pretty stupid because, as previously stated, I'm trapped. The man does a bit of a double take. I don't think he was expecting guff from the white girl with the Sebring. "Whoah, girl, is everything alright?" So at this point I almost want to apologize because I really didn't mean to come across that cruelly. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, take whatever you want. My iPhone? Here. I have some whole wheat crackers you can nibble on as well. Would you like my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly?"
But I've got a whole act going, and it seems like it might get him to go away, so I just go with it."No, I'm just having a REALLY bad day so if you could please just leave me alone."
"I'm sorry, Miss, something something two-year-old something something so if you could just help put a few dollars worth of gas in our car something something."
"No, sorry." So the man leaves. ICE COLD. That's me. ICE. COLD. All this nonsense about me being a good person because I volunteer? FALSE. I am a bad person who wishes harm upon 2-year-olds in the dead of winter.
So at this point I am dying to get out of there. I had put five dollars worth of gas in the car, which is about how much I had used, so I put the nozzle back, screw the thing back in, and I'm set to go. And the little credit card reader thing tells me, "Cashier has receipt." Oh HELL NO. I am not leaving this car. There are spurned people behind me and I don't know what they are like when spurned. Luckily, the words change to "Welcome" and I get my ass out of there. Then I irrationally start hyperventilating, thinking these people could follow me! They could break my bones! They could steal my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly! That's when I look down and realize--Monica's gas gauge has not changed AT ALL. I might as well have put nothing in it. That puppy is in the exact same spot it was when I got there.
And all of a sudden, I am sobbing. Just sobbing. The stress from the interview, plus the commute, plus that man, plus an earlier incident I saved you from involving my period--it all just came out in one giant sob fest while I turned Monica's car onto our street and attempted to parallel park through the snow banks.
Luckily, the night ended with Joe, Lost, Girl Scout cookies, and me singing "Chin Up" from Charlotte's Web, complete with dance moves and lunges.
So...pretty normal day, all in all.
But here's the other thing. I hate living in the city. There are people EVERYWHERE.
I borrowed Monica's car yesterday to go to my interview (and thank you all for your non well wishes, it went well) so last night when I got home, I went to fill up the tank. As soon as I got out of my car, another car pulled up behind mine. That's weird, just seconds ago, there had been open fuel stations all over. But I try not to think about it and get going on my gasoline adventures.
I swipe my card, it asks for the zipcode, and of course, it doesn't read my frozen fingers' 666001112266 as a proper zip code. So I cancel and start over. Then it doesn't read it. Then it reads it, but the nozzle won't fit right into Monica's gas tank. And it's cold as shit so I'm talking to all of these items as if they are my misbehaved children. "What's wrong now? You don't want to fit? Come on, I don't have time for this. I am telling your father about this when he gets home." etc etc etc. So finally all is going well...and a man walks up behind me.
"Excuse me, Miss." I turn around. The man is showing me his drivers' license and some other card. Oh, God. I'm trapped. But I'm also highly on edge from the whole commute + misbehaving gas experience. So I interrupt him and just say, "No. Please don't talk to me." in a very authoritative, I-didn't-know-I-could-be-that-aggressive kind of way. Which was pretty stupid because, as previously stated, I'm trapped. The man does a bit of a double take. I don't think he was expecting guff from the white girl with the Sebring. "Whoah, girl, is everything alright?" So at this point I almost want to apologize because I really didn't mean to come across that cruelly. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, take whatever you want. My iPhone? Here. I have some whole wheat crackers you can nibble on as well. Would you like my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly?"
But I've got a whole act going, and it seems like it might get him to go away, so I just go with it."No, I'm just having a REALLY bad day so if you could please just leave me alone."
"I'm sorry, Miss, something something two-year-old something something so if you could just help put a few dollars worth of gas in our car something something."
"No, sorry." So the man leaves. ICE COLD. That's me. ICE. COLD. All this nonsense about me being a good person because I volunteer? FALSE. I am a bad person who wishes harm upon 2-year-olds in the dead of winter.
So at this point I am dying to get out of there. I had put five dollars worth of gas in the car, which is about how much I had used, so I put the nozzle back, screw the thing back in, and I'm set to go. And the little credit card reader thing tells me, "Cashier has receipt." Oh HELL NO. I am not leaving this car. There are spurned people behind me and I don't know what they are like when spurned. Luckily, the words change to "Welcome" and I get my ass out of there. Then I irrationally start hyperventilating, thinking these people could follow me! They could break my bones! They could steal my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly! That's when I look down and realize--Monica's gas gauge has not changed AT ALL. I might as well have put nothing in it. That puppy is in the exact same spot it was when I got there.
And all of a sudden, I am sobbing. Just sobbing. The stress from the interview, plus the commute, plus that man, plus an earlier incident I saved you from involving my period--it all just came out in one giant sob fest while I turned Monica's car onto our street and attempted to parallel park through the snow banks.
Luckily, the night ended with Joe, Lost, Girl Scout cookies, and me singing "Chin Up" from Charlotte's Web, complete with dance moves and lunges.
So...pretty normal day, all in all.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Bon Appétit!
Right before writing this post, I looked down at my finger and realized that I had a large (though painless) cut right at the tip. It took me a full ten seconds to remember how this had happened--somehow I had cut myself opening a jar. Five minutes ago. Yes.
This is a typical day in the life of Emily. 1) Hurt yourself doing something simple and everyday. 2) Forget that you did it because you have the memory of a wombat. (Wombat? What is wrong with me? *Sigh*, moving on.) I am constantly covered in bruises, not because I have a disease, but because I run into things. And then I forget that I did. I get at least one rather nasty, deep-looking bruise a year and when people see it I usually hear this: "*GASP!* Oh my gawwwwd! What HAPPENED?!" To which I reply, "Oh, uh...ran into a wall maybe?"
My forgetfulness and clumsiness also wrap quite nicely into another lovely quality of mine: a distinct lack of cooking elegance. And these qualities I blame on my mother. Not that my mom is a bad cook. She makes some KILLER dishes. And have I mentioned the Chex Mix? Ohhhhh, the Chex Mix. My stars. But my mom will be the first to admit, she is no Martha Stewart. Let me tell you about Saturday night.
I went home to spend some time with The Fam before my little sister, Hannah, went back to school. For dinner, my mom wanted to try a dish she had made once before, chicken wrapped in puff pastry.
The box of the pastry said to let it thaw for 40 minutes, but it just wasn't thawing fast enough. I suggested she defrost it in the microwave, because I was sure I had seen that suggestion on the box somewhere. I then walked away from the kitchen.
Next thing I know, my mom is cursing my name to the heavens because she microwaved the puff pastry while it was still rolled (note that I never told her to do THAT) so it had turned into a roll of goo and she couldn't unroll it anymore and what was she going to do noooooow??
So I start laughing and trying to pry the damn thing open with a butter knife, which just ends in further massacre. We're both covered in flour, uncooked chicken goo and (mysteriously) soy sauce, and the puff pastry, which is supposed to be a flat square, looks roughly like the state of Idaho.
While my mom is lamenting, "This would NEVER happen to Julia Child!" my dad comes home and starts mocking us. Lovely, Dad, thank you for the advice. He then pours us both a glass of wine and tells us it'll still taste fine. My mom tries to convince Hannah to go out into the cold and buy us more puff pastry, which she refuses to do because she is useless. Meanwhile, the pets need to be fed, so Wally the cat/horse is at our feet, reaching as high as he can. And yes, he CAN reach the counter top. So on this counter top (which is about two feet wide, by the way), we have the Idaho dough, flour everywhere, chicken/salmonella, vegetables, multiple spoons, sauce, cat food, groping cat paws, and two glasses of wine.
Ahh, home.
Perhaps anticlimactic, but in the end, we rolled it out to an acceptable shape and you couldn't tell which was the batch we'd messed up and which we hadn't. Which makes me love puff pastry THAT much more.
And thus, my family (and my clumsiness) lives another day.
This is a typical day in the life of Emily. 1) Hurt yourself doing something simple and everyday. 2) Forget that you did it because you have the memory of a wombat. (Wombat? What is wrong with me? *Sigh*, moving on.) I am constantly covered in bruises, not because I have a disease, but because I run into things. And then I forget that I did. I get at least one rather nasty, deep-looking bruise a year and when people see it I usually hear this: "*GASP!* Oh my gawwwwd! What HAPPENED?!" To which I reply, "Oh, uh...ran into a wall maybe?"
My forgetfulness and clumsiness also wrap quite nicely into another lovely quality of mine: a distinct lack of cooking elegance. And these qualities I blame on my mother. Not that my mom is a bad cook. She makes some KILLER dishes. And have I mentioned the Chex Mix? Ohhhhh, the Chex Mix. My stars. But my mom will be the first to admit, she is no Martha Stewart. Let me tell you about Saturday night.
I went home to spend some time with The Fam before my little sister, Hannah, went back to school. For dinner, my mom wanted to try a dish she had made once before, chicken wrapped in puff pastry.
The box of the pastry said to let it thaw for 40 minutes, but it just wasn't thawing fast enough. I suggested she defrost it in the microwave, because I was sure I had seen that suggestion on the box somewhere. I then walked away from the kitchen.
Next thing I know, my mom is cursing my name to the heavens because she microwaved the puff pastry while it was still rolled (note that I never told her to do THAT) so it had turned into a roll of goo and she couldn't unroll it anymore and what was she going to do noooooow??
So I start laughing and trying to pry the damn thing open with a butter knife, which just ends in further massacre. We're both covered in flour, uncooked chicken goo and (mysteriously) soy sauce, and the puff pastry, which is supposed to be a flat square, looks roughly like the state of Idaho.
While my mom is lamenting, "This would NEVER happen to Julia Child!" my dad comes home and starts mocking us. Lovely, Dad, thank you for the advice. He then pours us both a glass of wine and tells us it'll still taste fine. My mom tries to convince Hannah to go out into the cold and buy us more puff pastry, which she refuses to do because she is useless. Meanwhile, the pets need to be fed, so Wally the cat/horse is at our feet, reaching as high as he can. And yes, he CAN reach the counter top. So on this counter top (which is about two feet wide, by the way), we have the Idaho dough, flour everywhere, chicken/salmonella, vegetables, multiple spoons, sauce, cat food, groping cat paws, and two glasses of wine.
Ahh, home.
Perhaps anticlimactic, but in the end, we rolled it out to an acceptable shape and you couldn't tell which was the batch we'd messed up and which we hadn't. Which makes me love puff pastry THAT much more.
And thus, my family (and my clumsiness) lives another day.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Thoughts Written While at The Nutcracker
What was ballet like in the Chinese foot-binding era?
Am I a straight woman? Or a gay man? I can't remember anymore.
What if you have a foot fetish? Would finding out she's a ballet dancer be a deal breaker?
Oh God. This guy who plays the brother was supposed to be a small child and now he's in tights and I feel vastly inappropriate looking at his business.
This ballet is just one giant reminder that I don't stretch enough.
Are you a man who likes to be naked solely from the waist down? Consider the ballet.
If anyone set me down on just one tip toe, I would 100% immediately fall over.
When any of these boys turn, all I can do is analyze their butt muscles.
Say what you will about girls being complicated. At least we don't have mysterious bulges.
AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH THERE IS A GIANT CLAPPING PUPPET WITH CHILDREN UNDER HER SKIRT AND SHE'S GOING TO EAT THE BABY IN FRONT OF ME!!!
Tutus represent everything I stand against.
Does 'bravo' mean 'good job' in Italian?
I also want to share with you that as we were leaving, this man appeared from the heavens to grace us with his amazingness:
The question is not "Is this man wearing a floor-length mink coat?" It is, "Does his wife have a matching floor-length mink coat?" And I can answer you with a resounding YES. YES SHE DOES.
Am I a straight woman? Or a gay man? I can't remember anymore.
What if you have a foot fetish? Would finding out she's a ballet dancer be a deal breaker?
Oh God. This guy who plays the brother was supposed to be a small child and now he's in tights and I feel vastly inappropriate looking at his business.
This ballet is just one giant reminder that I don't stretch enough.
Are you a man who likes to be naked solely from the waist down? Consider the ballet.
If anyone set me down on just one tip toe, I would 100% immediately fall over.
When any of these boys turn, all I can do is analyze their butt muscles.
Say what you will about girls being complicated. At least we don't have mysterious bulges.
AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH THERE IS A GIANT CLAPPING PUPPET WITH CHILDREN UNDER HER SKIRT AND SHE'S GOING TO EAT THE BABY IN FRONT OF ME!!!
Tutus represent everything I stand against.
Does 'bravo' mean 'good job' in Italian?
I also want to share with you that as we were leaving, this man appeared from the heavens to grace us with his amazingness:
The question is not "Is this man wearing a floor-length mink coat?" It is, "Does his wife have a matching floor-length mink coat?" And I can answer you with a resounding YES. YES SHE DOES.
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