When I Believed In Santa Claus

I remember exactly where I stood in my kitchen as I told my friend, Courtney, "Well I don't believe in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, but I'm not sure about Santa Claus."

My parents are notorious for forgetting that our teeth were hiding anxiously under our pillows. I had taken to writing notes on scraps of paper and taping them--facing out--onto the window. You know, just in case she just happened to fly by. Then there was the fact that all the richer kids in my school bragged about getting twenty dollar bills under their pillows. I hadn't even SEEN a twenty dollar bill, let alone owned one. Suddenly my excitement over having my very own silver dollar seemed silly. I couldn't even buy a Ninja Turtle with it. It didn't take long to put two and two together: a real fairy would be more scrupulous.


The Easter Bunny took a little longer. Easter had been my favorite holiday. It had the early morning excitement of gifts and surprises, with the creativity of dying your own eggs just the way you want them and not sharing them with your siblings, with the shrewdness-showboating of finding things someone had meant to hide from you. Also, there were Cadbury eggs. Santa and his plain ol' walnuts just couldn't compare. But slowly, the excitement began to erode. A bunny? Carrying all this heavy stuff? And how could he get an egg on top of the clock? And how does he get in, anyway? Problem was, there weren't a jillion movies, books, and old-timey newspaper articles to reassure me, give me insider knowledge, or promise that the non-believers can't hear the sleigh bell. That's all saved for Christmas. So Easter was a slow dwindling. I don't remember going from believing to not. Reason just kind of seeped its way in.


But Christmas was different. Each knock-down of Santa Claus was like a little slap to the brain, strong enough that I remember those little moments even now. Like the conversation with Courtney. Or the time I pulled my older sister, Katie, into the bathroom, closed the door, and demanded to know if she believed in Santa Claus. "No," she said. "Phew. Okay. Neither do I," I exhaled. Finally, the truth from someone reputable. I had been lied to for so long by all the people I thought I could trust, I didn't know where to turn. Yet I also knew to keep my mouth shut about it. This was private conversation, not meant for the impressionable ears of John or Hannah who still had a chance at believing. While still unsure myself of the truth, I understood that this was an okay lie, a fun lie, a lie meant for the smallest among us. It never upset me to find out that I'd been lied to. Maybe because I was happy to be on the other side with the adults. The Truth-Knowers.

It feels like a decade later, although it was probably just the following year, my mom came into my room and asked to borrow my green pen "for signing Santa's presents" she said. "You're old enough to know by now," she said, smiling. I smiled back. Of course. Of course I knew. Duh. Pff. Silly. And even though I thought I did, even though I'd already gotten the confirmation from Katie, it was that moment that made it reality. There was no chance now that, like the movies said, I had simply stopped believing. Tim Allen would never give me the weenie whistle to make be believe again. It was a fact: there is no Santa Claus, and my mother was responsible for the swirly green handwriting on all my favorite presents.


There is a magic lost that you never get back when you stop believing. Waking up that morning with proof--tangible proof--that magic exists (and it ate your cookies) is an amazing feeling. It might even be the first strong emotion I ever remember having. The four of us would sit at the top of the stairs of our split-level, surveying the gifts now overflowing from under the tree. Trying to guess whose gifts were whose, and who was the lucky duck to get the one enormous, wrapped present inevitably laying there. Finally, after 25 days of my eyes playing tricks on me, my stocking was definitely full this time. And look! He gave Rudolph the carrot we left, and he even left a note! I'm not sure what kept us from running down immediately. It might have just been our parents demanding we stay there until the coffee had brewed. Whatever it was, I never minded sitting there for a few minutes. After all, we'd been waiting for this moment all year; why let it pass by so quickly?


Of course, it's always nice to get presents, even when you know who really gave them to you. But those first few years have something special to them. It's the only time when you know--for a fact, with proof--that someone is out there who knows you intimately, and is watching over you. It's an innocence you never get back, and a feeling that many people spend their whole lives striving to find again.

A Hand To Hold Onto

Or: "What I Remember From Indian Princesses."


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

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

QUICK OVERVIEW:

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MEETINGS:

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

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

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

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


THE RETREATS:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

3 Things That Made Sense When I Grew Up

I was a pretty innocent child. I had little interest in making trouble (apparently when I was a toddler I was Hell on Legs but I mean AFTER that.) As I grew up, my fantasies with boys involved a LOT of snuggling and very little else. The occasional fantasy make-out session was not unheard of, but it was likely in a library or after a rousing reenactment of Monty Python and the Holy Grail. I watched Friends, but mostly because I thought Chandler had a funny way of talking, not because I wanted to emulate their lifestyle. Besides, they were ADULTS. They were, like....in their TWENTIES.

So I don't understand why people--people MY age--get up in arms about the shows kids these days are watching. I don't think we give kids enough credit for their innocence.

Actual Conversation:
Girl: Have you seen iCarly?! They have such adult conversations It's forcing kids to become older than they are!
Me: Yeah, maybe. Then again, I used to watch Night Court.

It's true. I did. And damn me if I understood a single word those people were saying, but I LOVED that show. Or maybe I just loved John Larroquette. Hmm. Regardless, every generation thinks that the generation younger than them is going to Hell in a handbasket because of the shows and movies and news they're surrounded by. (PS that phrase always makes me think of this image)



Awwww! Handbaskets are so cute!

Wait, where was I? Oh right, how everyone always thinks kids are screwed. But really, I think we forget that kids do not have the knowledge, experience, and life biases that we do. 3/4 of the stuff thrown at them goes over their heads. And the other fourth gets taken in, processed, and decided upon. Because they are human beings, not robots. But most of it? Most of that "adult" stuff we let them watch? It's called "adult" for a reason--kids don't get it.

If you don't believe me, here are three things I simply DID NOT GET as a child.

1. Grease



I don't know why Grease is considered such a family-friendly movie. It boggles my mind. That is a dirty, DIRTY movie. The thing is, though, I had no idea it was dirty as a kid. All I knew was there were a lot of parts in the movie I didn't understand.

Eventually (but while still young) I was informed that the movie was kind of dirty and I started looking for things. But with my innocent, untainted mind, I still had no idea what was going on. Remember the scene when Rizzo climbs down the drainpipe to meet the boys and she says "eat your heart out" to Danny? Well, from what I could tell, Danny responds "Stop your sex just ain't my style." Which...I guess made sense. I didn't really get what it meant. Then one day it hit me--I wasn't even watching the movie, I just thought about it for AN second and realized he had said "sloppy seconds ain't my style."

And like that, all the pieces of Grease started coming together. I started thinking about lyrics I had previously ignored or glossed over and realized what sick, twisted words were going in one ear and out the other. It became so strange to me that we all danced to "Greased Lightning" in the 6th grade. Like, we're all willing to ignore the fact that John Travolta sings "you know that ain't no sh*t, we'll be gettin' lots of t*t" just so we can punch our fists up and out. White people go crazy for dancing to Greased Lightning. "You mean we get to fist pump...IN UNISON?! And then we get to CLAP?! SIGN ME UP!" But seriously that song has nothing on Eminem for dirty, sexist lyrics. And yet children have been dancing around in their living room to that song for literally DECADES. Has Family Guy REALLY caused that much trouble?


2. Tracy Chapman, Fast Car



A lovely song about a woman who likes driving in a car with her loved one. We had this album on tape and listened to it all the time when I was about 5. This one was Katie's favorite song on the album and I thought she was SO BORING for liking it. It's about a woman driving a car! What's so great about that?! I doubt Katie, an 8-year-old suburbanite, understood that the song was about the socioeconomic issues behind a woman's lower-class life and relationship, but it took ME until I was 26 to actually listen to the lyrics and realize how much is actually in this song. Which, admittedly, is probably longer than it should have taken me. (Also, check out this great cover)


3. Gin-flavored Limes



When I was little, I loved lemons and limes. I know, I know--I was a WEIRD child. And whenever we went to my aunt's house, the adults would drink drinks with limes in them. This was as far as my understanding went. They sat around drinking drinks with limes and talking about boring adult stuff. I had too many other, more fun things to be doing. I had too many Playmobil toys that needed wheelchairs to care. But every once in a while I'd come by my parents, make sure they were talking about me, and ask for their limes.

When I finally started drinking gin (ie, like last year because I am embarrassingly un-classy) I realized then, and only then, that gin and tonics remind me of my aunt. Because I had been eating gin-soaked limes as a young child and had no idea. Was I a drunk 6-year-old? Is that why I decided to get spiked hair and a tail? The world may never know.


I'll tell you one thing that still makes no sense to me, though: Mary Poppins.



Now, don't get me wrong, I loves me some Dick Van Dyke dancing with penguins. But you have to admit, that movie makes no sense. WHY ARE THERE MEN ON A ROOF SHOOTING OFF A CANNON?! WHY DOES LAUGHING MAKE YOU FLOAT?! It's one of those things I always figured I'd understand when I got older and then I got older and realized, NOPE. That stuff is just completely insane. I guess they were trying to make a movie about a child's imagination. But it wasn't MY imagination, so I thought it was just weird.


I'd love to hear some from you guys. What did you only understand once you got older? What do you STILL not understand? I wanted to make a huge list of these but I couldn't think of very many, even though I know there are a million. So help me out! Please?

The Truth Behind the Tootsie Pop Wrapper Star

I wish that title was actually "Tootsie, the Pop Rapper Star". But alas, I'm speaking of this:



Let me tell you all about a little girl named Emily. This little girl had a dream. And that dream was to discover that she had won a prize.

Rumor had it, back in the Olden Days of Yore, Tootsie Pops used to print the star on different places around the wrapper. If you found one with the star, consider yourself Charlie Bucket, because you just won an amazing prize: whatever the star was next to. That's right. Kids roller skating? You won roller skates. Kids playing baseball? You won a baseball set. Kids swimming in a lake? You win a lake. No matter what, you see a star, you win a prize. Just like God intended it. But sadly, by the 80s when I was ready for my free lake, Tootsie pop had discontinued the prizes and just used one standard wrapper, the star forever next to the bow and arrow (of which I should have won at least fifty by now.)

Turns out, apparently I am the only nut job to have heard/believed this story.

If anything, you all heard the rumor that if you find the star, you get a free Tootsie Pop. And some stores even did it. So it wasn't even a rumor, it was actually a thing that happened. Lucky for me, I had a know-it-all big sister who liked to mess with me for FUNZIES and told me a totally different rumor. GOD. This is just like the time in kindergarten when she told me to say "X" a million times fast and I was DUPED into saying a DIRTY WORD ON ACCIDENT. ARGH.

Apparently there was NEVER a rule for when you find the star even when the company put out the sucker in 1931. Tootsie just wanted to mess with our heads by making a kid dressed as a chief shooting a boldly out-of-place star. WELL WHAT THE HELL, TOOTSIE? What. The. Hell.

Anyway, I have no end to this story but to say how vastly disappointed I am to finally learn the ultimate truth.

And to say this: "A one? A two-hooooo! Tha-ree. *crunch* Tha-ree."

Something "Special"

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

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

Ahem ahem ahem...




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

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




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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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




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

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

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




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

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

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




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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.

Prepared For A Maiden Name

I went home to my parents house this weekend to hang out with my family, because Katie had come from Indy with the Liberator (who, by the by, finds me hilarious. I told you, the babies. They love me.)

While there, my mom pointed out something I had completely forgotten about: on the inside of one of the bedroom closets, I had left my mark. And I have that to share with you all now.



For those without the ability to read legible 2nd grade handwriting, here it is:

March 31, 1993
Emily

(I hope I
can show
my kids
this!?)

Emily J__
S______
and now
---> __________
Last name marryed!


First of all, yes. That is officially what ejs stands for. I considered blurring it and then realized that if you want to find me on the internet, it would take you about four seconds, whether or not you knew my full name. Feel free to steal my identity and use it as your own. It might get you unemployment checks (CHA-CHING!)

Now let's go on to the analysis portion of this photo.

A) Clearly there is a sticky mark beside my date and name. Which means that I found something that was sticky and thought it would be awesome if I hid it somewhere and then found it decades later, and it would be important enough to gather my offspring around. "Come on kids! This is where I used to live. Let me show you the place where I spread gak on the wall with my finger."

B) Yeah that's right. Who has two thumbs, is eight years old and knows how to properly punctuate her dates and use an interrobang? This girl.

C) So the sticky substance you placed there because you thought it would last forever. And then you used pencil. And also tried to erase a mistake you made in your own signature. Sure.

D) I actually had considered writing a post about my thoughts on Ms. versus Mrs. and last name changing and more feminism things before I came upon this. But luckily now I don't have to; you all know my opinion. In the future, I WILL be getting married, and I WILL be changing my last name and I WILL be having children. Multiple. There is no other alternative. My 8-year-old self already had it planned out.

E) I also appreciate that this sticky substance wasn't just important for me as a second grader. It was to be important to me as a grown, "marryed" adult. For when I rediscovered the sticky thing in the closet, I could thoughtfully update it so that any future owner of the house would have a full, complete record of just WHO this girl was who was leaving important sticky things around their house.

In fact, I updated it once myself:



The old one fell off two years later. Well that's good to know. And I'm so glad that whatever it was I was sticking to the wall for eternity was still available to use again. And that I was keeping a proper record.

Anyway, that's all I have to say about my weekend at home. Unless you want to look at 8 thousand pictures of Libby? Oh you do? Oh I have them right here....

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.

Say hello to your new Big Brother.

I don't know why people keep telling me that they are "stalking" me by reading this blog. That was the point of my writing it...for people to read. These are not my innermost thoughts. My innermost thoughts are WAAAAAAAAAAAAY more boring. They sound something like this:

"Dear Diary: The locker room in the gym smells like poo. It's terrible. Chicken sandwich was good today. Put ranch on it."

That's why this thing is public. To encourage me not to talk about my chicken sandwiches. Which, seriously...it was pretty good.

But anyway, no need to worry about whether or not you are stalking me, for I am stalking you right on back. PHEW! That feels good to get off my chest. See, I finally started to track my blog last week and I have found so many ways to interpret my visitors, it’s taken internet time wasting to a whole new level for me.

I mean, mostly I don't know who you are because all it tells me is the city you are in, and then a bunch of other pretty useless facts. Unless, that is, you were wondering just what version of Javascript most people have. Because I've got some cold hard facts about that. But obviously I don't have your names or email addresses. Because then any website could know those things. And if that were true, every time you went to badgerbadgerbadger.com, you'd start getting emails about legalizing marijuana.

I do like that I can clock you by city, though. Because sometimes I know who you are. Well, rarely. But my big sister is (I’m pretty sure) the only one who lives in her town. I think it’s just her, the hubs, Libby, and the cat. So I know when she reads my blog.

Mostly, I get excited when I DON'T know who you are. Who cares if Hannah reads my blog? Not me! (Just kidding, Hannah. I care.) But someone out there in Kentucky is reading me and I can’t figure out who--yet I love you regardless. I've even got international readers! Someone in England from Warwick, Warwickshire looked at my blog once! Of course, I mostly share that because COME ON. That’s like being from Yemen Road, Yemen. That is a made up place, my friends.

Also, occasionally, Canadians read my blog and it makes me nervous. Am I proving to them that Americans are lazy, uncultured, embarrassing idiots? Or am I showing them our negative side?

Zzzzzing. Kidding.

There is one way to analyze things which consistently manages to blow my mind, and that is by "referral," or, the website that people clicked on to get to my blog. And almost always this is either Facebook or "unknown" so it really does nothing. But then sometimes it's a total mystery that makes no sense!! One time, someone got to my blog from an Always Sunny episode on Hulu. What? I mean, I'm flattered to be somehow connected to the magic of Danny DeVito, but I just don't understand how this happened. Which could also be because I don't understand computers.

Anyway, I just thought you all aught to know, there is mutual stalking going on. So feel free to read. Especially you, visitor #685 from Allendale, Michigan with the Mac OSX whose monitor has a resolution of 1280 x 800.