But Waiting Just Around The Bend

I know! I know! I'm sorry! I have left you all on the edge of your seat, vis-a-vis The Great Move-In Of 2011. You don't know, maybe I was going for a season finale-esque cliffhanger. Or maybe I got caught up in reprogramming the TV.

Either way, consider my couch Ross and me Rachel because after months of "will they/won't they" we are finally reunited! JK, I'm totally the Ross in that relationship, let's not kid ourselves. Regardless, it didn't cost the nominal egg we thought it would. (TIME OUT to explain a Family Inside Joke: my mom knew a woman from Boston who thought the phrase was "a nominal egg" instead of "an arm and a leg" I would laugh but it hits a little close to home.)

Wow, I am WAY off topic right now. BACK TO THE MOVE IN. So we didn't have to pay for a shuttle because the truck made it to our apartment just fine, AS I TOLD THEM IT WOULD. And right before the truck was due, Joe and I stood guard over five parking spaces out front so the truck could take over all of them. We turned away the elderly and infirm and forced them to park far away and I'm not ashamed to stand here and say it right to your face.

The movers arrived, our stuff was moved in, Joe left for work and I spent the day agonizing over the extreme amount of mugs we brought along with us. Were we planning some kind of herbal tea party? Apparently yes. Regardless, everything is almost finished at this point. We have pictures to hang and rugs to lay out and boxes to toss, but we're mostly there. We have places to sit and a bed to sleep on and Regina is enjoying her options of places to hide in/lay on top of.

The question is: Now what? I've been aiming myself toward this move for so long, now that it's done, I can finally focus on what lies ahead. And what lies ahead is looking pretty good.

I've been on a professional roller coaster this year, including one very large dip. That happened a few months ago, when I was already questioning my abilities as a copywriter (I mean, come on. Laid off twice in two years? Everyone said it wasn't my fault but...it's hard to keep telling yourself that.) I went to a gathering with ex-coworkers who told me the agency was actually hiring already. That stung. When I got home, I had an email from someone I'd sent my work to. He told me that my book wasn't good enough to get a job in San Francisco.

So...it wasn't a GOOD day.

First, I did EXACTLY what Steve Carrell did in 40 Year-Old Version and walked through my apartment yelling. Then I tried looking for work in fields other than copywriting, like everyone had been telling me to do. Turns out, those jobs all require specialized knowledge in the writing topic, like parenting or healthcare or technology. The only thing it seems I can write for is How To Be Awkward and I think I already run that blog for free. That, or you need journalism experience. Which I don't have. So the only thing I was qualified for was a job that I was apparently bad at.

I don't know the right way to handle dark times. My way involved staring into space, getting back into Grey's Anatomy, and my cat laying on my neck. Now that I think about it, it is remarkably similar to the way I handled getting dumped in Paris. Except this time I had a boy who believed in me and supported me, who told me that I should do what felt right. Including staying in Chicago.

I had a lot of reasons to stay. And I weighed all of those reasons. But my gut still told me San Francisco. This was my next step. This was my new beginning.

Now that I'm here, I feel enormously good about it. Was it definitely the right decision? Hell if I know. Hell if I'll ever know. But the city is growing on me every day: the small shops, the crazy hills, the serious amount of Asian food. I like it a lot. And I've gotten more positive feedback about my portfolio, which makes me think that I may actually get a job at some point. And with a job comes more stuff that will make everything even better, including taking improv classes again, going on road trips, and buying a bike. Plus, it's mid-November and I went jogging in short sleeves today. Hard to complain about that.

So is everything perfect now? No. But it has potential to be. And for now I have a couch, my boy, and hope.

Devolving

I feel like I'm really bad at blogging lately.

The problem is, my mind is filled 100% with finding a job in--and moving to--San Francisco. There just isn't room for anything else. I want to give you awesome anecdotes about the crazy stories of my life (and what crazy stories they are, my stars), but as soon as I sit down to write about something it quickly devolves into a breakdown. Something like:

This weekend I went to a party called "Spuds 'N Suds" where everyone had to bring a potato dish and beer. I brought sweet potatoes because I wanted practice for when I make them in DC for Thanksgiving with Joe's family. I'll be flying there from San Francisco. I'm moving to San Francisco. I don't have a job in San Francisco yet. I'M NEVER GOING TO FIND A JOB BECAUSE I'M USELESS AND LAME AND EVERYONE HATES ME AND I'M NOT CREATIVE AND I NEVER HAVE GOOD IDEAS AND I MIGHT AS WELL JUST GET A JOB STUFFING ENVELOPES AND LIVING IN JOLIET BECAUSE NOTHING WILL EVER BE GOOD AGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIN.

See what I mean? It's pretty bad.

I'd like to think I'm getting a little better each day, though. Surrounding myself with positive thinking and helpful lists and fun-sounding back-up plans. Seriously, here's what I'm thinking: if no advertising agency wants to hire me (BREATHE, EMILY. STAY WITH US. WE LOVE YOU.) I'm going to give it a few months(?) and then get a job as a secretary so I can (just barely) pay for rent and food, then I'm going to take stand-up classes and improv classes and spend my free time writing sketches and spec scripts.

I think it's a stellar back-up, in my opinion. Besides the fact that is still leads to me never saving up money, maybe one day I will be rolling in it after working on TREAT YO SELF: The Donna/Tom spin-off show and THEN I'll finally be able to buy luxurious things like a car and socks and dental insurance. One can dream.

Why I Just Don't Care About Organic (Or Any Of That All-Natural Nonsense)

While reading last month's Marie Claire magazine (which I took from the box of old magazines at the gym [as one is wont to do]) I came across this little gem of information about a cocoa butter lotion:

"Earth-friendly manufacturing practices-- like rain-watering methods, solar crop drying, and the use of fuel derived from dried coconut shells---make the co-op sustainably sound."

Okay, you know what? That sounds like a bunch of nonsense words to me. More than that, it sounds like something Jack Donaghy would say to make fun of the Carter administration.

I want to come out and say something that I'm not sure anyone has said out loud before:

Meh.

THAT'S RIGHT: MEH. I said it. And what does "meh" mean exactly? It's this: I don't care. I don't care about your vegan, organic, free range, fair trade walnuts. Here's the way I see it:

I actively walk past organic food.
I recognize that non-organic food is probably covered in a thick film of rat poison. I know I'm probably putting growth hormones in my body and THAT'S why my eye starts twitching out of nowhere and no one else can see it. But I just can't bring myself to care. And this goes for all that stuff: cage-free eggs, all-natural soap (aka pachouli and sage. Yum), vegan hemp, whatever.

Am I the only one who will admit it? That, yeah, maybe it does cause cancer but it's forty cents cheaper and that stuff adds up. Besides, everything causes cancer. And also, NOTHING causes cancer. So give me the damn oversized strawberries.

And you know what? I like that my non-organic sliced bread lasts outside a refrigerator for weeks. WEEKS. How does it do it? No idea. How does Cameron Diaz continue to be cast in movies time and again? No one knows why and frankly, I'm tired of caring about both the bread AND the Diaz. At least one of them could cry convincingly and I think we ALL know I'm taking about the bread.

While I'm at it, I also eat meat.
I guess I don't like cows THAT much. Funnily enough, I could easily be a vegetarian. I eat Greek yogurt and black beans like it's my job. And, considering my current state of unemployment, it kind of IS. And Morningstar makes a veggie corndog that'll blow your mind. The only problem I foresee in going veg would be the restaurant ads that show hands pulling apart juicy chicken breast. But otherwise, I could definitely survive as a vegetarian. But I don't, because I don't care.

I hear all that about animal cruelty and it makes me sad...and then eventually I forget what I was thinking about because I'm hungry and I order a steak. I even read the Jungle in college. Sure, I didn't eat sausage for about a month. But eventually I convinced myself that meat packers must have changed their ways, that sausage is now made of rainbows and sunshine and nothing else, and I ordered a pepperoni pizza.

I give up.
Here's the real reason why I don't care: because whether or not I buy organic carrots, I'm sure I'm surrounded by injustice. Where did my shoes come from? Probably Malaysian toddlers. The carpet under my feet is likely peppered with asbestos. And even if the soap I bought is biodegradable, the loofa I put the soap on could be made of baby seals for all I know. So if you want me to care about something, I'm going to have to ACTUALLY care about it. And I don't live in a moss hut where I sew my own clothes and chickens gently hand me their eggs. So why really bother? I mean, I recycle. I'm not a monster. Let's just back off a little with the "all-natural" pride we get from using Aveeno hand cream while we turn our air conditioners a degree cooler because we "like to use blankets at night."

And even that Marie Claire magazine can't pretend to get all "every little bit counts" on me, because 40 pages earlier, in the same magazine that touted COCONUT FUEL, there was an entire page on how to make a statement with fur parkas. Yes, seriously.

So yeah. I buy the cheap stuff. Because that sticker (with horse hoof glue) you just slapped onto that bar of soap? It doesn't say "organic" to me. It says "don't bother".

What's With The Hipster Hate?

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

See, I found this online:



via Samantha Hahn

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

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

So then I sat back and thought about it.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

My two problems with this entire Hipster hating ordeal:

1. The Hipster classification

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


2. The Hipster denial.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

And what kind of choices do YOU make?

I Think I'm Alone Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

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

Squash, guys. Squash.




Squash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jinx!

I’ll be straight with you guys. I’m not the most religious person to have walked the planet. It’s not that I’m anti-God, I’m just anti-people who think they know anything about the guy.

But I will tell you one religion I believe in and adhere to steadfastly. It is a religion that any ad Creative worth a dime bows down to every day.

It’s the religion of jinxes.

In the crazy world of professional advertising, where up is down and right is wrong and boring ads sell quicker than a burrito at 2am in Champaign-Urbana, jinxing is a way of life.

Which ad do you like best? Tell ANYONE, and that ad will not sell.
Which ad do you recommend to the client? They will hate that ad.
You sold an ad and you’re so excited, you tell all your friends and family? Sorry, that ad just got killed.

But for some reason, I just haven’t been able to stay true to the Jinx Religion. I always doubt it. I get cocky and I decide that jinxes don’t apply to me. My ads are so good, they’ll break through the jinx and shine on through.

No! Bad Emily. Bad! You go in your corner and you think about what you did. Jinxes don’t care about your race or gender or salad dressing preference. They attack from all sides, and they especially love to attack when you least expect it. In fact, the more people who love your ad and tell you how good it is, the LESS likely it is to sell.



And when your occupation revolves so heavily around keeping your mouth shut when things go well, just in case a jinx will come and take it away, it’s seeped into my real life, too.

I realized recently that I’ve stopped talking about when things go well. I mean, I still tell everyone general life-changing things like getting a job or living with Joe…those I can’t avoid telling people or else they start wondering if I’ve become a Mole Person.

But the thing is (and my palms are sweating because I am about to tell you this), things are going REALLY well for me right now. To the point where I feel like I’m bragging. But like…I have a job, I have a boy, I have friends, I feel good about my weight, I have a cat…I have all five basic things you need to be happy. And honestly, I should be REALLY happy about it.

But I’m terrified of jinxing it all. And isn’t that just sad? I mean, life goes in circles. There are ups and downs. I’m bound to go into a few more downs here and there. Hopefully not TOO down, but I’m sure downs are out there. But what’s the point of even…I don’t know, of even EXISTING, if I can’t be happy when things are going right?

What I’m saying is: I’m doing well right now. REALLY well. And whether or not I say it out loud, things might not always be great. But I can’t go around worrying about acting “too happy” when I actually am, just because I don’t want to jinx it and have it all taken away.

So watch out. I may be happier than normal nowadays. Not like obnoxiously cheery and optimistic. I mean, I DID just see a man hock a loogie on the top of the INDOOR STAIRS at the gym yesterday. And really? REALLY?!?!?! All I mean is, I need to count my blessings more often.

But also, if I die in a horrible, fiery accident today...I’d be careful what you say from now on if I were you.

Bally Total Fitness Can Suck My Ovaries

A) Ew.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Until we got the email.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Need Packing Advice

I need some advice, and I am serious this time. Not like those other times when I ask for advice and then start daydreaming about cheese.

No. I need packing advice. See, Monica and I are moving out of our lovely apartment by the end of this month. She is moving back with her fah-shah for now and I am going to dump all my stuff with my loving parents and live the life of a nomad for a month until Joe's lease is up. And then I HAVE TO LIVE WITH A BOOOOOOY! (Friends quote, people. Keep up.)

So really, we could pack up and move right now if we wanted to, since parent's houses are not time sensitive. But frankly, we paid good money to squat here for the rest of the month. However, people keep referring to the fact that I should have things in boxes already.

And I don't. I have nary a box. Everything is just as sprawled out as usual. The only thing I've done so far to get myself closer to moving out is to stop cleaning the bathroom, since we just have to clean it before we move out anyway. Baby steps.

The way I usually pack is, unsurprisingly, the way I do everything in life. I start in one corner, forget what I was doing, start something else, realize I need to sweep, do that, come back to the original box, discover old love letters I forgot I had, read those, throw them away, have a sandwich, call it a day. I don't know why I do it this way. I guess when your attention span hinders on the question of Is there, or is there not, something shiny over there? your packing skills are slightly erratic. This may also explain why I haven't started packing yet. Because once I start, there are just forty half-filled boxes in every room, and the pan I need to cook my rice in is currently under my Ninja Turtle figurines.

So what I want from all of you is advice. Packing advice. Things you have learned in your own personal packing journeys. Should I not put all my books in one box because it's too damn heavy? Where should I start? Where should I end? How should I label? And do YOU think I should be packed already, even though I have a week left in this apartment?

10 Reasons Why Unemployment Rocks My Pants Off (Literally.)

Well, my freelancing gig is over for now. It was pretty awesome, though. I made connections, I got to write for money, and I think I proved that I actually deserve to be employed. Yippee!

But for now (and through until at least Monday), I am technically unemployed again. And, frankly, I'm pumped.

To explain this, let me take y'all on back to Emily circa February 2009. I spent the morning hopped up on Firing Day adrenaline, wringing my hands and being assured by everyone that there was no way I would be let go. I'm young, I'm hip, and they essentially pay me in shiny rocks.

Cut to that afternoon. Bloodbath. I am holding a neon yellow folder that holds a bunch of papers I've signed promising God-knows-what and a pamphlet with FAQs about Cobra.

Good times.

Our group packed up essentials (for me, that was four Ninja Turtles, my collection of flip flops and a stapler that was not stolen and definitely belonged to me.) We headed home to drink. AND DRINK WE DID. By dinnertime, I was feeling good. I was feeling REAL good. My parents called me once they heard my message and assured me I'd be back on my feet in no time. Jane's mother told her to get fat.

What I remember very distinctly, though, was the realization that I didn't have to go to work that Monday. And that led to the realization that I didn't have to go to work all WEEK. That project I was working on? Done. I am physically not ALLOWED to work on it anymore. And that led me to realize one very specific thing: I could READ. I could pick up a book and I could curl up on the couch, and I could read it. Any book I wanted. Just me, Mr. Darcy, and Charlie.

Since then, I have had a large amount of time to be funemployed. I have also had some good spurts of time to be regular ol' employed. And I have to say, as much as I do love being a copywriter, I am always pretty psyched for unemployment again. Let me break it down for you.

1. Pants.

Do I have to wear them? No I don't.
Do I wear them? Oh you, with your questions.

2. Sleep.

Do I get some? Yes I do.

3. Grocery shopping.

When I'm employed, I'm like the rest of society: I make a list, run in, get only the things I need, go home, realize I've forgotten three essential things, give up, and make myself a peanut butter & turkey sandwich in between two pancakes.

When I'm unemployed, going to the grocery store is an all-day event. I saunter down the aisles. I'm comparing prices, I'm picking out new brands of cheese, I'm taking the time to ponder how many flavors there are of Cheerios, I'm coming up with recipe ideas on the fly...basically, I'm an in-store marketer's dream. Why, what's this? A coupon for 5 cents off Jimmy Dean with any four dozen eggs? What a steal! Let me mosey on back to the meat section and...wait, not this meat section. It must be in another one. Hold on, why aren't the sausages with the bacon? Oh, they're over with the pre-cooked chicken. No, I was just over there. The DAIRY section? Why would they be in the dairy section? Weird.

4. The gym

Not only do I have time to go to the gym when I'm unemployed, I get to choose to go whenever the hell I want to. I don't wake up early, I don't have to plot out a spare hour or so when I can go. I just look at the clock, go "well about that time, eh mate?" pull on my Nikes and walk out the door. And do you know who else is there? No one. No one except a few other poor unemployed schmoes like myself. There are not scary muscle guys on my machines, I even get to choose which elliptical I want (near the front so I can stare out the window, but not too far front where I think people are watching me wiping my bra sweat. And when I realize that I just laughed out loud at something Wilson said to Al, it's okay. Because no one is around me to notice.

5. Charlie time

Question: Is Charlie currently spooning with me and also licking my chin for some reason?
Answer: Not anymore. He has now switched positions so that I am forced to smell his butt.

6 Joe time

This one is pretty key, of course. I figure when Joe and I move in together, I'll inherently see him more. Maybe work will even become a welcome break from seeing his mug. But for now, when I'm employed, I don't get as much face time with the man, which has therefore also equaled less back massages. Because I am dating a boy who gives back massages without asking. Yeah. He's pretty much amazing. You're jealous.

7. Me + TBS = BFFs 4 life

8. Me + internets x Adrienne = constant entertainment

9. Volunteering

I get to volunteer during the day when I am unemployed. Which is sometimes a pain in my ass, but really it's great getting to work with kids and feel like I'm helping things. Again, love copywriting, but am I really helping society in any way by convincing you to buy more shampoo?

10. Bloggery

And finally, I have all the time in the world to blog. Which is really quite nice, considering some of these posts have taken me hours to concoct. And you know what would be a great way to show your appreciation? Why, by clicking over there on the right and voting for this blog on the Blogger's Choice Awards! You can vote for as many as you want in each category--and seriously, you should also vote for 2birds1blog and Hyperbole and a Half. And read them religiously. But also vote for mine! Because, come on. I'm funnier than half those dumb blogs up there right now. Plus, all the cool kids are doing it.

8 Things I Have To Do Today That Have Come Between Me And JTT

You guuuuyyyys...I have things to do and it's harrrrrrd....

Seriously, I've been mostly unemployed for a year and my tolerance level of doing simple, everyday tasks has slipped its way on down to empty. If my motivation had a face, it would be Bruce Vilanch.



The simple fact is: the things I need to do today are all either fun, simple, or all of the above. But the mere fact that I have to do them is just a huge inconvenience, considering what I'd LIKE to be doing: curling up with Charlie the cat, eating a bowl of mac and cheese and watching a marathon of one Mrs. Jill Taylor being exasperated-yet-forgiving in a way that gives me comfort and hope.

But instead, here is my HORRIBLY INCONVENIENT to-do list:

1. Wake up at the ass of dawn (aka 7:45 am, when the sun is nearly mid-sky.) Eat a bowl of cereal.
Ugggnnn, why meeeee?

2. Get on the el, transfer to a bus.
BOTH? At easy, safe locations? Why don't you just rip open my chest and pull out my heart?

3. Read picture books to kindergarteners on the South Side.
Hey, you know what's awesome? Eager Kindergartners named Raphael who think you are the bees knees. You know what's NOT awesome? Reading Green Eggs and FREAKING Ham three times on the day you forgot your coffee. Also, I am sorry, but "I would not, could not, with a goat" is the dirtiest sentence ever, and you should be ashamed, Dr. Seuss.

4. Travel back home.
Argghhhhh...sitting and letting other people transport you places is such a terrible endeavorrrrr.

5. Immediately rip off comfortable, baggy, 5-year-old jeans for pj pants from Aeropoastale that are so old you got them FROM AEROPOSTALE.
That one isn't so bad, but they're under this pile of clean clothes...what if I never get to them?

6. Sit in said pjs, nom a sandwich, and edit sentences so they are simple enough for a 9-year-old.
But I can't do that AND play Facebook Scrabble! This is like torturrrrre.

7. Create a hilarous flow chart about mustaches so you can raise money to help inner city kids learn to read.
Ugn, the stress of my life is making me whither away into nothingness.

8. Go to a bar where there are free drinks to hang out with nice people and Adrienne and laugh about mustaches.
More traveling? And putting on real pants again? What kind of life do I LEAD?

God, life is so difficult. But this is one cross I'm going to have to bear if I want to be a productive, helpful member of society who one day DOES have a job and works hard to keep things as such. So here I go with the work and the things and the stuff!

After this nap.