You Miss Your Old Familiar Friends

You guys all appreciate stories about my ever-approaching demise, right? Yes? Good? On we go.

All my dreams have come true: our stuff arrives tomorrow. "But, Emily! I thought you said you'd get 2 days notice before your stuff arrived!"

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.................DIDN'T I?!

Well, in true "all moving companies are a bunch of assholes and there's nothing you can do about it" fashion, my driver called to inform me that I had less than 24 hours to get my affairs in order, and that he would be needing a shuttle truck (an additional $350 minimum charge) since he was sure he wouldn't be able to drive his 18-wheeler through the streets of San Francisco.

................WOULDN'T YOU?!

I started calling around to all the official city numbers I could muster. I was assured that the man could drive his truck down the necessary roads. I called him back to tell him this. He told me to call the moving company because he's done it before and gotten ticketed. FINE. I called the company. Are you grasping the number of phone calls I made today yet?

Once I assured the manager that I had all the maps and the phone numbers the driver needed to ensure a good route, he started giving stuff like "well aren't there a lot of hills?" and "you're really close to the ocean" (Side note: WHAT now?!) and "he needs a place to park" and SOOOOO many excuses, it makes me wonder if these semi trucks ever get to their destinations. Like, unless you actually live ON the highway--like, ON IT--how does a 70' truck EVER deliver your stuff to your home? How? I have no idea. None.

I called 311 about bagging a few meters so the man and his beloved truck could park. They told me I needed over 24 hours notice. "YES," I told them. "That would have been LOVELY, wouldn't it?" The officer told me that what I COULD do was just get a bunch of friends to park in the metered spots until the truck came, and then have them move. I wanted to sob to the woman, "But I HAVEN'T any friends anymore!" (When you get really overdramatic, you have to talk like Amy March from Little Women, by the way.) "I've deserted them in their wintry time of need!" I'll tell you, if absence makes the heart grow fonder, my lady friends have become superheroes in my mind. They'll do anything for me now that we're apart. Adrienne would have parked there all night for me! Laura would have parked sideways and DARED anyone to complain about it. Michelle probably would have just laid across the parking spots! And Jane would...well, she would have come with hummus to keep everyone's cars company at the very least!

Oh my god, I just had a genius idea for a comic book and it may or may not involve my friends deflecting lasers with their chest plates.

So no, Officer. I do not have anyone to help me with my ketchup/catsup problem.

All of these issues, plus a few calls made by Joe and between me and Joe in which I sobbed more or less uncontrollably into the phone, took all freakin' day. With little conclusion. We will likely be paying an amount of money (in cash) the likes of which I always thought I would pay someone someday, just while adjusting my monocle and top hat.

Oh but wait. Cash. Right. And how I need to have that by tomorrow. Hmm, that's interesting. And how my bank isn't in California. Yes yes, I see the issue now.

Well I've been needing to switch my money to a bank out here. And considering all the terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad banks out there, I thought I'd do the hippie thing and join a Credit Union. I'm still unsure of exactly how Credit Unions function. But all I know is: they aren't mean banks that do mean things with your money. Okay, cool. I'll take a hundred. A hundred Credit Unions.

After all this dealing with people who are hell-bent on taking every penny they can squeeze from me, I headed over to switch my account and take out some money.

To understand my emotions upon entering the building, please watch the following:



There were actually a couple people applying to open new accounts at the same time, so a man took all of us and explained the basis of what a Credit Union is and how it works and where to find ATMs and all this.

He was...the most wonderful, adorable 30-something gay man I have ever met. He was just so freakin' cheerful. And I say again, not fake cheerful in order to get something. He was legitimately happy. Like he hadn't just spent the last 6 hours on the phone, fretting about how to park a semi on a six-lane residential street. He took out his own debit card to show us how he'd customized it with a picture of his dog. And he said things like "Let's be frank. My name's actually Carl but...sorry, stupid joke." And when he told us there was a $5 fee to sign up, he actually APOLOGIZED about it. It took every ouce of will power in my loins not to jump wholly, trustingly, into his arms, Dance Of Joy style.

Later, I went one-on-one with another guy to actually open an account. Still untrusting about hidden fees, I ripped open a fun-size M&Ms bag on his desk and started popping them like House pops Vicodin, only with slightly less scruff and to a calmer effect. Yes, I am a stress eater. I don't need your judgement, I only need your chocolate. But the guy assured me that there were no hidden fees. He also assured me that he couldn't give me the cash I needed to pay my movers. And he sent me on my way. I took an extra bag of chocolate Vicodin for the road.

So ONCE AGAIN, here I am, stuck without a bank and with maximum withdrawal limits. I'm going to try with a real bank tomorrow, and Joe can take out a bit, too. So it's not the end of the world, but it was just one of those icing on the cake moments you really love.

It was one of those days that, despite the calming affects of the Credit Union, when I got home and saw a note by the elevator that our new washer/dryers now only use h.e. soap, I threw myself face-first against the wall and pounded on it, screaming, "WHY, GOD, WHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!" I wish it was a day ending with an ANTM potluck or a wine and cheese gathering or an Office marathon. It would have been nice to end the day laying on the floor with you guys around me, swearing to the high heavens about my woes and telling me how correct (and how pretty) I am.

And finally, I leave you with The Oatmeal, who put my day's emotional spiral into perfect words.

See you guys on the other side of Stuff-Having and Money-Haven'ting.

What Ever Happened To Predictability?

Okay, I thought I'd share with everyone what I've been up to since arriving in San Francisco. But since we are a visual people, let's do it in PICTURES! YEAH! PICTURES! LESS! READING! MORE! SEEING! LESS! READING! MORE! SEEING! WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

I don't know...I'm in a weird place right now. A weeeeird place.

So just a bit of overview: I haven't been doing anything extremely touristy. One, because I did those things when I was here the first time. Two, because I'm unemployed and have to conserve my money. And three, because I have a life to live and internet to catch up on, and I can't spend my days riding a trolley all day.

But if you are curious about what my life is currently looking like, here it is:

First and most importantly, I discovered that I live about half a mile from Robin Williams during my run this morning.

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I'm just giving you all a little moment to let the majesty of that sentence grip your hearts.

I made a nifty little map for you. The orange star is where I live. The kooky neon green star is where Robin Williams lives.


And yes, you heard right. I am running again. I have to run now. I'm a runner. Way far away from the dock, with the, with the wind and the sky and everything. Ahoy. I am not amused. There are no gyms near me because APPARENTLY it's nice weather all year and there is a giant park nearby and SOME people think that is reason enough to forego my precious, precious ellipticals for "fresh air" and "free exercise" and "scenery." WHATEVER.

So anyway, yesterday I ran south to Golden Gate park. There were hills involved. It was not awesome (The hills, I mean. The park is, in fact, quite awesome.) Today I decided to run north to the ocean and see what that was all about. Now, I knew Sir Williams lived in San Francisco, but I didn't know where. Once I got into the neighborhood I started thinking about it, though. Every house was gorgeous, and if you were in the right place you got a view that looked something like this:


I wasn't actually looking for his house or anything...but then I saw this one.


Bigger than the others, with actual space around it (rare in this city), an enclosed basketball hoop, and the best view of the Golden Gate Bridge. THEN, across the street from the house was a bench with this on it:



Whoa. When I got home, I googled it to be sure and YEP. That is the one!

Question: Do you now play out different scenarios in which you run into Robin Williams to varying degrees of interaction, from hand wave to “You’ve got a lot of spunk! Why don’t you play my daughter in my upcoming feature film?”
Answer: OF COURSE.
Question: Do you realize how silly that is?
Answer: OF COURSE.
Question:…But you can’t stop, can you?
Answer: OF COURSE.
Question: Also, that's not how Robin Williams talks.
Answer: Quiet, you.

So that happened. Anyway, here are a few more things about where I live.

This is my apartment building.



Here is what is directly next to it.


Here is the sole piece of furniture in our apartment right now. It is a borrowed air mattress.


Here is Regina sitting awkwardly in the sunshine. She will be even happier when our furniture arrives than I will be.


OH! Speaking of Regina, here she is in her carrier (BEFORE she wriggled out.)




These are the two canned meals I had bought in preparation for easy, cheap dinners. Then I remembered we don't have a can opener yet.


Here is how we eat our meals. On the floor. Next to a cat toy because...of course.


Once we get furniture I will take you all on a virtual tour of our apartment. Until then, there's not much to see, obviously. Although there are a lot of windows and closets, which is pretty awesome.

Anyway. San Francisco composts. Like, as a thing. Hippies.


My first day I went on a grocery store hunt. I found one, which sold these. I obviously thought of Michelle.


Then I went past this. I obviously thought of Adrienne.



Then I walked past this church. I obviously thought of Jane. JUST KIDDING. I thought of Monica. Who is St. Monica? The patron saint of being a badass? I’m pretty sure.


This is an authentic Irish bakery that I think Joe will enjoy, next to a pub. I'm excited to bring his family there when they visit. (Oh, and I forgot to take a picture of the burger joint called Bill's Place which I will OBVIOUSLY take my father to when they visit. Because it is absolutely "Bill's place".)


And finally, apparently San Francisco is littered with Whomping Willows.



So that about sums it up. Everything I haven't pictured is me sitting in various coffee shops looking for a job or watching Hulu+ on my phone (Mother Necessity, where would we be?) or Joe and I running through our endless To Do lists. We spend the majority of our relationship compiling lists and schedules. It's our way.

Fears and Pet Peeves

"....Ancient History, Literature, and IT'S ALL RELATIVE." I'm sorry, but I'm a lady who likes to complete her Friends references. DEAL WITH IT.

Ahem. Well, hello. And how are YOU today? You're well? That's marvelous. Come, follow me into my chateau. Have a seat on this velvet armchair.

Sorry, I don't even know where I'm going with this, suddenly I just felt like pretending to talk like a Mrs. Robinson-type for no reason whatsoever. Also, a preemptive warning--if this post seems incomplete and has a lot of non-English words, it is either a) a typical post and you should be used to such things by now or b) prematurely posted by my cat who has decided that laptops are for walking across, and wrists are for wiping your nose on.

So as you are all aware by now, I am moving to San Francisco in a week. And as of today, I have an actual flight reservation, as does Regina (My god, she is going to hate flying SO HARD) and a moving company picked out. I'm nervous about the movers. These ones totally check out--they have an A rating with the BBB and everything. So it's not that they're sketchy, it's that I just assume everyone taking my money is trying to take MORE of my money. And let's be honest, that's probably a good assumption.

But they ask you for an itemized list of stuff, and damn me if I can remember what we jammed into that storage unit 4 months ago before Joe left. I had to guess the number of boxes. I said 30. It could be 100 and I wouldn't be surprised...we had an unnerving amount of things. And when you tell them it's a 1-bedroom, how do you explain that it's a 1-bedroom, but for two people, and one of those people may or may not own multiple sets of Star Wars figurines and a barrel? (A BARREL.) (.............A BARREL.) So I'm pretty freaked out that the movers will get there and be like "We won't move this barrel! It's not in a box!" or "We won't move these Star Wars figurines! You said there are 30 boxes total and there are 32 boxes of JUST Star Wars figurines!" or "We couldn't fit the mattress in the elevator so you owe us $4000 dollars." I don't know...I'm scared. I'm scared because I am not making money right now, and this move is going to be a son. of. a. bitch. And Joe already spent the money his work gave him to move on moving himself out there earlier.

Truth be told, I'm scared of a lot of things about this move. I'm finding that this fear is like the head on a pint of Guinness: It covers all the good stuff underneath, it's the only thing you can taste at first, and it follows you down through all that good stuff, too.



I don't know...I'm still working on my metaphors. Michelle is helping me, she is the Metaphor Master.

My biggest fear is in going bankrupt. I'm going to be paying a lot more for rent in SF than in Chicago, and unemployment isn't going to get me through for very long; neither is temp work or Starbucks. I'm going to need a real person job. And I'm scared I won't be able to find one. San Francisco is filled with tons of great places to work. But it seems like they're all just 10 people per company, and I'm filled with fears that tiny companies won't take a chance on an unknown kid.

I'm also afraid of homesickness. I haven't felt really homesick since college, and even then my emotions were more about pining for dreamy Teenage Boyfriend. I'm moving far away from my family for the first time, so even though we have the internet, I can't go visit them for a weekend whenever I want. A lot of my friends have scattered (Again. I was hoping post-college would have been the last of it but NAY.) but those who are still nearby won't be able to visit and we can't go out for drinks. Even if I haven't seen some friends for a while, just knowing they're in Chicago or even in the Midwest feels comforting, knowing we can hang out if we WANTED.

I'm afraid San Francisco won't feel right. Y'all know me, I move ALL the time. What if I start feeling the need to move cities every year? I don't have that kind of money. Despite people's assertions that it's the best city ever, that you can make of it what you want, and that I personally am going to love it...I'm blindly afraid that I won't. What if I start resenting the hills? or the less-than awesome transportation system? Or the smaller-than-Chicago feel of it all?

I can tell myself a million times that the pros WILL outweigh the cons. I can tell myself about all the reasons SF is going to be awesome. And I do. And I even tell OTHER people why SF is going to be awesome. I hear it. I think about it. But no matter what I do, the foam still stays on top of the Guinness, keeping me from really enjoying the good stuff under it. So while, yes, I know everything will be okay and things will work out and I'm going to love it, I wouldn't be honest if I said I'm totally fine about it all. I'm not--I'm scared.

I guess I shouldn't be afraid for one reason and one reason only. And that one reason is lkookloddddddfffbbbbbbbbbbbhhh

Life List: The First 50

(Me, on the right, distinctly NOT seizing the day two years ago.)

So I've been inspired by other blogs to make a Life List. Otherwise known as a Bucket List, but I feel weird pulling a phrase from something I've heard Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson say in sync. So it is my Life List. And it is halfway done.

With Joe gone, some slow days at work, and my improv classes has sprouted a new feeling in me. A feeling that can only be described (and I apologize but it's true) as Carpe Diem. But like LEGITIMATELY feeling it, not just reading an inspirational quote from Dr. Seuss or Yoda on your friend's Facebook info section and thinking for one second that you SHOULD, in fact, live in the moment...before you realize that Say Yes To The Dress is on and WHAT THE WHAT, you're willing to spend five grand on a dress and you are worried you won't find something?? Also, when they say, "It only comes in one color: ivory" THEY MEAN WHITE so I don't want to hear you say that you don't want the dress because this is your wedding day and you deserve to wear white--grrrrrl don't MAKE me come over there *z snap*

Breathe.

Okay, I'm back. Sorry I had to turn into an offensively fake sassy black lady for a second there, but something had to be done. ANYWAY, lately I've been feeling a lot more in-the-moment than I usually do and I'm loving it. And I want that feeling to stick around. So I thought a To Do list would help me because I can look at it and challenge myself to become the person I want to be, and in very specific ways. I'm not just sitting around watching Parks and Rec, waiting for something awesome to happen. Not that Parks and Rec is ever a waste of time--SHUT UP EMILY, NOT THE POINT.

I want to take more responsibility for my life and what I'm doing with it. Because (uh-oh, here comes another cliche) I'm not getting any younger. The time is now! Six of one, half a dozen of the other! Wait, crap, that last one doesn't work here. WHAT I'M TRYING TO SAY is that my life isn't going to make itself happen and I don't want to wake up all wrinkly and realize I never did anything. I think that's the way I've been living lately. And here are the first 50 things I want to do to change that.

There are 50. I want to get to 100. Some things I could do tomorrow. Some things I could do this year. Some things I could do in five years. Some maybe not for a few decades. It's not so much about the timing, it's more about the fact that I want to be the kind of person who does it...eventually.

Life List

1 Grow vegetables in a garden
2 See my ancestor’s castle in Scotland
3 Swim in the Mediterranean
4 Go anywhere in Asia (But not Russia because that’s not what I mean)
5 Eat lobster in New England
6 Visit Lake Winnipesauke with Michelle
7 Watch enough Dr. Who to know what other people are talking about.
8 Write a script
9 Write a book for young adults
10 Win an advertising award
11 Go on a production shoot outside the city I live
12 See a whale in real life
13 Snorkel
14 Join a funny-women-bloggers community or create one
15 Make baklava
16 Have a fruit tree
17 Send my parents on a vacation
18 Do good in a 3rd world country
19 Help change a struggling school.
20 Go on a girls-only group vacation
21 Be a bike rider
22 Own a vespa-esque scooter
23 Create art
23 Make something funny or cool out of snow
24 Write a new graduation speech for my high school self and friends
25 Become an improv pro
26 Paintball
27 Stay classy in wine country
28 Go to a Gay Pride Parade
29 Sing unconventionally-themed Karaoke (like show tunes)
30 Adopt a dog or two
31 Make a main dish from the Julia Child cook book
32 Get a tattoo
33 Eat at one of those raw, vegan, crunchy restaurants
34 Become a regular at a bar or restaurant
35 Go to an outdoor movie by myself
36 Go to a restaurant by myself
37 Go to a movie by myself
38 Take a sculpting class
39 Buy a nice camera
40 Take a class to learn how to take good pictures with said camera
41 Create a quilt (with help)
42 Crochet a scarf
43 Re-certify for CPR
44 Create a reading nook
45 Stand behind a waterfall
46 Do something cool at a spa, like a mud bath or seaweed wrap
47 Get Lasik
48 Get wisdom teeth out
49 Start a 401K (shut up shut up everyone)
50 Act in something again


So those are the first 50 I've thought of. I challenge you all to make one, too. You'd be surprised how quickly you use up the ones you've wanted to do (like travel) and you'd also be surprised by the things you come up with to challenge yourself.

A Question About Your Childhood

Okay guys, this will be quick and painless. So the other day I met a cool group of ladies and upon shaking my hand, one girl said, "Emily! That's the name I would use when I was little and I'd make up a fake name for myself!"

And right here is where I'm assuming every guy is going, "Wait...what now, crazy?" and every girl is going "OH MY GOD YES!!!!1"

Thing is, not only could every girl remember making up a name, but we all still knew that name right then and there.

Mine was Brooke, in case you were wondering. Michelle's was Kathy, which is never not funny.

I don't really know what situation it was that we were making up names. I guess "House" or "Dolls" or "Barbies." For some reason you couldn't just be your OWN name. And you couldn't use the name they gave on the box. You had to have an entirely new persona.

I will also tell you, and this is only because I know Michelle would tell you in the comments anyway, that my alter ego was also usually physically disabled. What can I say? I wanted a challenge. Skipper and Barbie going to work in evening gowns? BORING. Brooke and Kathy trying to collect enough berries to make mud soup with only the use of one leg? ENDLESSLY fascinating.

So I'm curious:
Ladies, what was your fake name? Don't be that way, you know you had one.
Dudes, did you make up fake names, too? Or were you just "Batman and Michelangelo" or "Red Guy and Green Guy"?

Let's hear it in the comments!

Confessions of a Weddingaholic

So I'm pretty serious about this Joe guy I'm dating. He lets me lick his neck before work...how could I not be serious about him?

We're not engaged, but we talk about it for our future. I only stick around in relationships if I can look at a guy and go, "Yeah, I think I'd like to sit awkwardly in a restaurant with you for a couple decades."

I'm not engaged, but I have a confession to make: I'm a wedding planner.

Not in a horrible JLo movie way, but in the "I already know what kind of dress I want" way. Weird, right? It surprises me, too, considering my long-standing opposition with pink and frills. But when Michelle and I were little, we'd pore over two kinds of magazines: American Girl Doll and wedding. We'd plan our dream wedding with Anonymous Handsome Husband, discussing everything from the clothes to the hair to the clothes to the clothes. (We didn't really know what all went into a wedding, to be honest. But people got dressed up and we were into it.)

I decided I would wear an off-the-shoulder dress a-la Princess Jasmine, I would hold red roses, my bridesmaids would wear red dresses, and the groomsmen would wear red bow ties and red cummerbunds.

YEAH. What can I say? It was 1994, I was nine, and I had a bowl cut. Style was not really in my direct line of vision.

But the point is, I've basically been thinking about wedding details since I knew what weddings were. To me, it's a lot less about wanting to be married and a lot more about planning something pretty. It gives me the same euphoric feeling as a new Crate and Barrel catalog. "Look at THIS decanter! And THIS one! LET'S BUY ALL THE DECANTERS!!!!1"

My best defense for being the Weird Girl Planning Her Fake Wedding is that thinking about those happy little details helps me sleep. I don't know about you, but laying there in the dark is my brain's favorite time to either stress about work, or play out disastrous ways for everyone I love to die. Something about darkness really brings out the worst in my subconscious. And centerpiece planning helps. But now the details are way funkier than red cummerbunds. They look more like this:








I finally confessed all of this to Joe a few days ago. He didn't leave a Joe-shaped hole in our door, so I got a little excited. And I told him one idea I had: no bartenders. Buy booze ourselves and let our friends pour their own drinks like the adults they are. But instead of telling me that I was a freakin' genius, Joe had the AUDACITY to be rational and say that a lot of venues probably don't let you do that. And our friends might be peeved that they'd just come all the way to a wedding just to do all the grunt work. I huffed quietly and then went about my day.

And it stewed.

And finally, after Joe had left town for Detroit, I let it all out in an email.

A) Our friends would NOT be upset that they weren't waited on. They'd be happy they could have as much booze as they'd want and they'd be happy to celebrate with us and if they didn't like it then they could shoveituptheir--BREAAAAATHE, Emily.

B) I told him (because I am a CRAZY PERSON) that when he turned down my idea, he was backing my fake wedding dreams into a corner. And if I'm ever going to fall asleep thinking about flower arrangements, I'm going to need my fake wedding to flow freely.

That night on the phone, he apologized (What a great guy. Apologizing in the face of Crazy.) and said he wanted to hear more ideas. I let another one fly: For the Save The Dates, we take pictures of ourselves wearing Bill Murray masks and have it say "We're getting murray'd!"

Joe told me it was a great idea.

And that was the moment I realized....it really wasn't. It was a HORRIBLE idea. It was weird and creepy and made no sense and was a terrible pun besides. But if Joe had actually told me the truth, I would have sharpened my nails into points and then slashed him across the chest. HOW DARE YOU RUIN MY BILL MURRAY PUN DREAMS!

What I realized is this: Sure. Sometimes we need someone there to give it to us straight. To smack us across the face and tell us we're wrong. But sometimes we just need support. We need someone to be there for us when we make decisions and nod along so we can come to our own conclusions without the blinding rationale-blocker that is the Defense Mechanism. And that relates to partners as well as parents, friends, even work-associates. We all just need someone who knows when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. When to walk away and when you run. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table. There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.

So...comments anyone? Am I the only one pre-planning her dream wedding/who has horrible thoughts before bed/who emails her boyfriend because she's bad at live conversation sometimes/who gets crazy defensive about really bad ideas sometimes? I'd really like to hear your thoughts. I promise not to lash out in email form...well, I'll try.

Crush Them

People often ask me: "Emily, how have you been so lucky in love? You always seem to be in a relationship. Tell me your secret." Well today is your lucky day, my friends. Because I am here to give you a run down of all my childhood crushes. Perhaps there is something to it. A pattern that you can learn from.

We'll start at the very beginning.



Preschool: John R.
John is my husband. How do I know this? Because I very vividly remember getting married to him. I wore a veil (my baby blanket) my brother was the ring bearer (he used his own bed pillow) and my sister was the master of ceremonies (she held a children's picture book Bible for us to lay our hands on.) We got married on my mini trampoline in the middle of the living room.

John and I were soulmates. We each had big wheels. I don't think I need to explain anything further. And just because he moved to the other side of the world (1/2 an hour away) doesn't mean that we aren't still meant for each other.

Kindergarten: Kevin L.
The only thing I remember about my crush on Kevin L. was that I always tried to stand in the same place in the girls' line as he was in the boys'. Not to talk to him. Not to touch him. Just to stand there pretending like his large ears weren't making my insides all squishy.

My mother tells me that I sent Kevin L a love letter. It was quite literally, "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you." First of all, where the hell did I learn this poem when I was five? Secondly, no hilarious puns? No bait-and-switch? Just a plain, boring poem? I'm disappointed in you, Mini Emily. You're better than that.

From here there was a bit of a breather from boys when I considered them gross and dumb (probably true.) But then one day I woke up to realize who my true love really was:

4th & 5th Grade: Mike D.
Mike. Was. Hilarious. He could quote SNL. I'm almost positive the whole school knew of my secret admiration, even though the only move I ever made toward him was picking him to go to the library with me instead of my best friend, Tiffany. Tiffany was...(how to put this?)...displeased.

6th Grade: Lenny N.
Lenny was the first boy that I could talk to like a normal person. About what, I couldn't say. God knows it certainly wasn't about my new braces or the fact that I was the mortified owner of a new forest green AA sports bra.

Lenny moved at the end of the school year and Tiffany convinced me to call him and ask for his new address. When I finally got up the courage (it took a few days) I forgot to get the zip code. And in a time before Google, I had no idea how to find it without admitting to my parents why I needed it. I spent the summer pining and listening to sad Disney songs. True story.

7th Grade: Jeremy M.
Jeremy was funny. And a little mean. And weird. And he parted his gelled hair to the side. And I couldn't have wanted him more. I tried to ask him out once. This was how I did it:

Emily: Hey, have you seen Titanic yet?
Jeremy: God, no.
Emily: You should.

Um, helloooo? Could I have BEEN more obvious? I can't believe he didn't pick up on my subtlety.

8th Grade: Teenage Boyfriend.
TB was not my "B" yet, per say. But this was my first encounter with him and I was SMITTEN. He had a bowl cut, which was hott with two t's. I will never forget the first words he said to me. I asked him what grade he was in. He said, "8th. I skipped the 7th grade because I'm so smart." And then he ran into a glass door.

It was love. But it took a year or so for him to succumb to my wiles. In the meantime, there was--

8th Grade: Scott N.
Scott is the boy of this fame. I have no more to say on the matter. 8th grade was a busy time for me, crush wise. For there was also--

8th Grade: Kevin W.
Kevin was very weird. But he amazed me-- he didn't seem to give a damn about what people thought. He wore a neon green shirt and had hair the shape of broccoli. I had a fantasy about him where we'd make cookies and end up in a flour fight. I had high aspirations as a fourteen-year-old.

I actually called Kevin from our kitchen phone (Michelle listening intently nearby) and asked him to be my boyfriend. Straight up asked him. None of this Titanic nonsense. I believe his response was "Uhhhhh....sure." What a dreamboat.

We went on one date to see Notting Hill, and then he left for the summer to live with his dad. When he came back, we didn't speak for four years. It's a damn shame because when we finally became friends again at the end of high school, it turns out he was pretty much awesome and I had been right all along about how cool he was. Also, he trimmed the broccoli hair. Another damn shame.

High School: Wes Z.
Most of my high school career was spent in the arms of Teenage Boyfriend. But there was a time without him. That time was spent thinking lovingly of Wes Z. Wes was one of those boys who you think is hot, but you don't think anyone else has figured it out. Let me tell you a little story.

In my senior yearbook, after I had put him behind me, Wes had written a little blurb, and at the end it said, "I put my signature by my picture on pg 78 so you'll have it when I'm a famous golfer." and then quickly scribbled after that, "Who wrote 'hottie' by my pic? haha...call me."

I furiously flipped to page 78 and Monica, God love her, had drawn little purple hearts and flowers all over Wes' picture with "hottie!" and an arrow. Oh, Mon. You wonderful girl, you. Too bad this was way after my crush, and Teenage Boyfriend and I were back in action. Otherwise, who knows? I may have become Mrs. Emily Z.


And there you have it. Hopefully it is now obvious to you how high above I soar than everyone else. I have been a love master since the beginning, clearly. I hope you can all use my experience to better your own.

Good luck, and God bless.

New Family Member Induction

Michelle and I have discussed it, and we would like to welcome a new adopted family member into our homes!

Everyone please give a big hug and a glass of chardonnay to Great Aunt Betty White!

We decided she's a little too spunky for Grandmother status, but she'd make a great addition to family parties, especially in the way of being uncomfortably honest in only the way an old great aunt can. Here's to hoping Great Aunt Betty White outs a cousin or announces how ugly the new baby is!

*Cheers*

Three Things:

1. I'm getting my hair cut at 1pm this afternoon. I have given you all plenty of warning of this impending chop, and it's finally happening. For. Reals. No tears! (I'm looking at you, Michelle.)

2. I start an internship next week! This means a few things: "My Monday" comic strips will likely return, I'll have money, and I may even get a cat. OH THE SHENANIGANS.

3. We start moving tomorrow. All my stuff! My precious, precious STUFF! It'll be back in my grubby little paws where it belongs. My couch, and my couch pillows, and my couch sores from laying on the couch too long...it'll all be back!

4. BONUS NUMBER I haven't talked to Laura in a million years and I miss her. I know this is not pertinent to any of you (unless your name rhymes with Shmora) but maybe if I write it in blog form, I will finally pick up my deteriorating phone to call her.

Why I Suck At Sports

WELL! It has been quite a successful vacation so far. My problems are far, far away from me back in evil, smelly Chicago (I'm sorry, Chicago. I didn't mean that. I love you. *pet pet* Although you are kind of smelly sometimes.) We've been to the beach, went to a jazz club, I ate fish--THAT'S RIGHT, ladies and gentlemen. I, Emily, ate fish. Grouper. And I only gagged a LITTLE. So suck on that. Ew but don't because sucking on fish is--*ACK ACK*--too late, gag reflex kicking in again.

Anyway, this isn't Emily's Private Diary (as is evidenced by the absence of Mead-brand notebook with KEEP OUT written in sharpie.) This is a blog. And today I'd like to discuss sports. And where is this coming from? QUESTION AND ANSWER TIME!!!

Q: Did Joe and his parents go golfing this afternoon?
A: Why yes, yes they did.

Q: Did I not bother to go with them, knowing my past (one) experiences with golf?
A: True.

Q: Did I instead choose to spend the day lounging and eating a 100 calorie ice cream bar I found in the back of their freezer?
A: Of course.

Q: Is Gilmore Girls softly playing in the background?
A: Oh, you.


Yes, I chose to be a hermitting recluse whilst the rest of the gang went away to whack a few golf balls hither thither and yon. And no. I have never played real golf before. But let's just say, you don't have to go to Indonesia to know they make terrible hot dogs.

Wow, I really need to work on my metaphors.

Here's the thing about me and team sports (and I'm counting golf as a team sport because other people are relying on you to EVENTUALLY hit the damn thing. Therefore, team sport.) We don't mesh. Reasons we don't mesh:

1. I am extremely uncoordinated. I run into door frames on a daily basis.
2. I don't like competition and the animosity that inevitably arises from it.
3. I get easily frustrated by things I am not good at right away.
4. I only like looking like an idiot when it's on MY terms. I'll punch myself repeatedly as long as it's on stage and people are laughing. But smack my face with a volleyball once and that's it. Game over.
5. I hate disappointing people. I didn't do homework for my health, people. I did it because I couldn't grasp the concept of NOT doing something I was specifically told to do. Same with sports. You tell me to hit that ping pong ball OVER the net? Damn me if I can't get that to happen for you.

I did play one team sport ONCE. I was six. It was tee-ball. We were the gold team. They put me over in left field, and any time the ball came to me, I would back away from it as carefully as a left-wing politician questioned about gay marriage. If that didn't work, I'd just chuck it to whoever was flailing their arms the most wildly. It was a pretty good strategy. Afterall, I won a trophy. Of course, everyone on every team got a trophy...but it was shiny. After that, I decided to stick to more fruitful endeavors, like chasing my brother around the yard and learning to quote Titanic back to front with Michelle.

So no. I am not good at sports. I don't like playing sports. I never really got into watching sports, either. Although, I think watching sports is like my realization with coffee. Walk with me here:

My parents drink their coffee black. So when I was young, I thought that in order to like coffee, you had to like it black. Imagine my glee when I discovered that you could dump 8 sugar packets and a gallon of cream into your cup and still call it coffee. Likewise is sports. Growing up, I thought in order to enjoy football, you had to sit there through the whole game, understand WHY they were throwing yellow thingies onto the field, and that you couldn't giggle every time they say "tight end" (tee hee!) But now I realize that you can call yourself a sports fan whilst spilling light beer down your shirt and yelling things like "GET HIM! No! Get HIM!!" and that makes a world of difference in my mind. I can get involved in that kind of spectatorship like WHOAH. Just not the kind where you need to know things.

So when Joe suggested that he and his parents go golfing today, I said mazel tov and good day. I attempted a golfing range once. I was horrendous, and that was quite enough for me. Moreover, it was quite enough for the ladies, if you know what I'm saying. Hell, I've used the excuse before and I'll use it again. These girls don't golf. I mean, look at this stance.

In what world would I be able to stand with my arms like that? I will tell you what world.

A world where I am good at sports.

Highlights from St. Louis

INSTABILITY!! (If I yell it, it makes it easier to deal with.) Blech. My idea of an appropriate level of instability is taking a shower at a different time of day. Not uprooting myself, casting my things to the four corners of the globe (aka my parents house in the suburbs) and living out of a suitcase and a few boxes of face wash.

So what is one thing that I CAN do that is stable? Blog. I can blog. I can blog and ignore the fact that I have one box left and it is a shoebox, into which needs to go all pillows, blankets, and a jewelry box. Oh and everything in my kitchen. Hmm.

Where was I? Oh...blogging. SO! How was my weekend in St. Louis, you say? Wow, that is very kind of you to ask. I'm so glad you did. Because I ALMOST DIED. MULTIPLE TIMES.

First, I almost died of awkwardness. On Friday we went to hear the author, Bart Ehrman speak. This was technically the reason for my trip (besides just general visiting with Michelle.) He was great. And before we left, we went up to get Michelle's book signed, which he did. We turned to leave and he looked at me and smiled. I smiled. Did I say anything? PLEASE. What kind of socially acceptable person do you think I am? No, I just kept smiling and staring, as Michelle turned and walked away. Finally, sensing the awkwardness, Bart said, "Hi." I smiled. He said "Great question." (I had managed to spew one out during the Q&A. That part had, miraculously, gone normally.) I smiled. I turned. I walked away. Well, it's good to know that I do so well in front of non-celebrities. If face-to-face with Future Husband John Krasinski, I'm sure I would be able to get out a gurgle or two before passing out/licking his face.

Second, I almost died a real, true death. We went to see Date Night on Saturday afternoon but during the preview for Letters to Juliet (Plot line: Why, this curmudgeony-yet-attractive man is forced to travel through Italy with me! I'm sure this will not end in making out with him.) there was a tornado warning and we all had to hang out in the bathroom and wait it out. As much as I love sitting on the floor of public restrooms while people dry their hands over me, Michelle and I decided to just leave. It was only drizzling on us. OR WAS IT?! In the time it took us to walk from the theater to the car, the rain started coming down in bullets. By the time we got to the first stop light, there was so much water on the street, you could have body surfed through the turn arrow. And Michelle's all, "oh it's just water!" and I'm having flashbacks to my elementary school days when the movie Twister convinced me that I would someday lose my entire family to a tornado ripping past our cellar door. And we didn't even have a cellar door. We had a split level. In the end, we turned into Kohl's and shopped around until the rain slowed. I may have bought an adorable shirt endorsed by Britney Spears for $20. I may not have. You'll never know.

Third, I almost died of alcohol poisoning. Not really at all, but it does sound dramatic that way. After we came home (having not seen Date Night and without even a rental because, between the two of us, we had seen every chick flick in existence. #moviefail) I brought a bottle of wine for us to partake in that night to go with some cheese I wanted Michelle to try. She'd never had goat cheese, brie, or smoked gouda, so I thought we'd make a festival out of it. Well she wasn't into the goat cheese, brie, OR wine. And damn if I'm going to have to lug that bottle all the way home OR let my hard-earned 4 bucks go to waste. So I did what any sensible woman with a state school-trained liver would do. I drank that bottle, so help me God. And I'm not going to lie to you. I took it like a champ. An entire bottle and I made it to church the next day. I-L-L!!

And fourth, I almost died of sheer and utter horror. Sunday morning, Michelle and I traipsed off to church. We started the morning off right, with free donuts and a Sunday School video (only thing missing was a coffee with amaretto creamer. Hey now. I have my vices, you have yours.) But I was ill prepared for what magic I was about to encounter through this video. I guess it's a series of VHSs from the 90s with some interviews of talking heads, explaining about how to read the Bible and pray and stuff like that. WELL. There was one old man who was totally adorable. He soothed me. Not sure what he said, but it felt comforting. Until he said one thing that made me almost shoot straight out of my chair. He informed the lovely viewers that when he read the Bible and came to God, he looked at it as the bride, coming to the "bridegroom," asking how best to please him.

There's so many...I don't even...I can't even...

I'm not sure if anyone saw my face. For those of you who know me (or read this post) you know how terrible I am at concealing facial expressions. I wear my emotions on my sleeves--or rather, on my eyebrows. I think they might have shot up so high this time, they became part of my hairline.

All this to say, this weekend won. It won hard. And at the end, I got to spend an entire train ride eating double-stuffed EL Fudge cookies and reading Harry Potter. So yeah. All potential deaths aside, I quite enjoyed myself.

Vintage Luggage Hunting

So I went luggage hunting today. I only have one suitcase, and it is roughly the size of Portugal. I feel ridiculous taking it somewhere for only a weekend because I am SO not "that girl" who needs a big suitcase to cart around 80 pairs of shoes, and that monstrosity makes it look like I am.

On the other hand, I do tend to fill it up anyway, because I AM "that girl" who has four different face washes and uses them all daily. Excuuuuuuuuuse MEEEEEEEE.






I decided that I want a vintage suitcase. Why? I don't know. Because I like to make things difficult for myself. And because I am slowly turning into a hipster. SO! First I stopped in a vintage store in Wicker Park. Just a heads up: don't ever do that. If you want vintage things, try to go to a store that is not on Vintage Hipsters Avenue, Vintage City, USA (Population: Vintage). They had full sets of luggage (that means like 4 varying sizes) that were adorable, but $150. Which probably isn't even that much for luggage but what can I say? I am cheap. Anyway, what am I going to do with a hat box? Who am I, Fraulein Maria?

So I hiked my ass all the way over to Lakeview, to a store that makes no sense to me whatsoever: It is a normal clothing store on the first floor, shoes on the second floor, Army surplus on the third, and vintage on top. What the hell? Make up your damn mind, building.

So I climbed all the way to the fourth floor because I'm pretty sure there's no elevator and I was too lazy to look for one (but not lazy enough to skip the four flights...this is my life.)

They had two that I thought would suffice, both for under $40. One was red leather, very 70s feeling, and it had a belt to close it. And then there was another one--a hard two-piece set. On the outside, milk chocolate brown. On the inside, chartreuse. There was one big suitcase (what I was looking for) and then a little one which I think used to be a kind of carry-on bag. I imagine it being filled with rouge and handkerchiefs for women to wave out the window of the train as they pulled away. You know what I think it's good for? A kitten bed perhaps?

I stood there for maybe half an hour trying to decide. That is not an exaggeration. This is why I no longer go shopping with other people. It took me so long to decide which suitcase to buy I think I actually started to grow a beard, a la Rip Van Winkle.

I mean, on the one hand, the luggage set was brown. Ew. But on the other hand, it looked like a Hershey bar. Yes please. On the other hand, it was old and worn. On the other hand, chartreuse. Char. Treuse.

I walked around...I looked at jackets. I almost dropped an old ice crusher. I walked back to the luggage. Finally, I made my decision.

Of course I chose the brown luggage. I walked all the way back down to the first floor. And right when I got there, after having carefully selected my luggage, spending possibly hours agonizing over my choice, paying for my non-refundable, chartreuse-lined future kitten bed, and passing a crowd of cute boys I...dropped my luggage. on the cement floor.

CLATTER BAM BOOM SMASH.

God damn me.

Well anyway, I got the luggage home safely otherwise. Here it is!


Charlie was very curious about this luggage. It had a mystery smell. The smell is, as humans call it, decades of cigarette smoke. Whoops. I didn't think it was that bad in the store. But took it home and opened it up and WOW. It's smelly. Hence the Febreeze in the background. This luggage will be getting a good dousing.

Anyway, all this to say, I go and visit Michelle this weekend! And now I have proper luggage to do it! I'm excited to see her, yes, but we have all kinds of food plans that I am also pumped for. There is to be wine and cheese AND guacamole.

...

Sorry, I just passed out there for a second. But I'm back. Oh, and I am also hoping to make Brussels sprouts because I have discovered that they are NOT disgusting, and you should, too. So here.

Okay this post started from nothing and has really spun out of control from there. So I'm going to stop. Happy Lost Day, everyone!

Making Ends Meat

I'm going to give you guys some free advice: Do not spend the day listening to old songs that remind you of your exes and then spend the evening reading people's wedding stories. Your dreams will be all kinds of crazy.

Now, as promised, I need to explain to you a little something. It is called "Making ends meat."



When you don't have a lot of money, you still need to buy food. So you go to the butcher with your pennies and you say, "What can I get with this?" The butcher chops off the ends of the salami, maybe gives you the gristly sides of some chicken. The green edges of the beef. Because that's all you can afford. You are making ends meat. We all know this saying. It makes perfect sense.

Imagine, then, me. Circa college. COLLEGE. I am in someone's office, discussing this and that. I look down and notice a book sitting on a pile on the floor. It is blue. There is a man in a suit with his arms crossed. And the title: "Making ends meet."

Hubba whaaa? HUBBA HUBBA WHAAAAAA?!

I go on as usual, pretending that the wheels in my head are not slowly cranking. "Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. Yes, I see." But in my head, I'm going "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON?! MEET?! MAKING ENDS MEET?! WHAT ENDS? WHERE? HOW?"

I rushed home to my parents.

"Mother. Tell me right now. How. Do you spell. "Making ends meat"?

"M-a-k-i-n-g (space) e-n-d-s (space) m-e-e-t." She told me calmly. My face dropped. "Oh, Emily. It hasn't happened again, has it?

Yes, that's right. This situation is not uncommon to my life. It happens so often, in fact, that Michelle and I have dubbed it "having our world turned upside down." (It happens to her a lot, too.) The most traumatizing example of this was during my freshman year of high school when I got in a very heated discussion with Kim about the meaning of "having your work cut out for you."

I argued: well, it's been cut out for you. It's simple. It's almost done. It'll be easy, a breeze.

She argued...frankly, she argued the correct usage of the phrase. I had gone 15 years of my life misunderstanding a common English idiom. Oh, and not JUST misunderstanding it, but thinking it meant THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF WHAT IT ACTUALLY MEANS. Then there were of course the countless songs I have had explained to me over the years. Bopper Ann? It's not BOPPER ANN. Niether is it "She's my little two scoop, you know what I got."

And now in college, it happened again. But this time, I would not be pushed into a corner of idiocy. I went around to everyone I knew and I asked them how to spell the phrase. And what I discovered was this: I was not alone.

My friend, Kevin M, had the best reaction. When I told him it was "meet", his jaw dropped. He spent some time trying to convince the rest of our friends that it was "meat" and then ended it by backing out the door while pointing at everyone, yelling, "SCREW YOU! SCREW ALLLLLL OF YOUUUUUUU!"

There are a lot of people in the world who believe the phrase is "Making ends meat." In fact, I even started a DJ radio argument a few years later about it. They were asking for people to call or write in if they had "just discovered something." (The DJ had just found out you don't have to write www. before you search something. Child's play.) So I emailed in about my situation, and it turns out, the traffic girl also thought it was "meat." Then they asked people to call and weigh in on the subject and guess what? LOTS of people think that it's "meat." Adults. Grown, smart, useful adults.

Here is the thing: both phrases, in my mind, make just as much/just as little sense.

On the one hand, you have no money to make the ends of cloths meet to sew clothing.
On the other hand, you have no money to afford the good cuts of beef.

Therefore, I will concede and spell it "meet" from now on, as long as you recognize that it wasn't THAT stupid for me to have believed it to be "meat" for two decades. And to all those who scoff me and my meat/meet fiasco, I simply say good day to you.

I also have a few other phrases I want to throw out there for discussion, and perhaps to turn your world upside down like mine has been:

Did you know the word is "ulterior"? Ulterior motives. Not alterior, as I thought. You know how I leaned this? From a Sunday comic strip. THAT was a new low.

And two that I actually DID get right growing up:
1) The phrase is "all of a sudden." It is NOT "all the sudden." Neither make sense, I know. However, one is wrong.
2) Flesh it out. Flush it out. These are two different phrases. To flush something out means to reveal something that is concealed, like flushing something from its hiding place. But if you've gotta develop a plan. An outline. A genius idea. You flesh it out. FLESH.

So what else is out there? What have you learned slightly too late? I'm sure everyone's got one. Don't make me feel like a huge, lonely loser. Let's hear them in the comments!