A Light Is Waiting To Carry You Home, Everywhere You Look

I just got back from Washington DC this week. We spent the Thanksgiving holiday there thanks to Carey and Niles, Joe's sister and brother-in-law. They moved to DC about 2 years ago. Neither of us had been there since our respective 8th Grade field trips. I'd like to say I remember a lot from that trip...and I do remember some things. I remember seeing the Lincoln Memorial at night, I remember being disappointed by how far away the White House was from the gate. I remember seeing the original ruby slippers at the Smithsonian. But I also remember listening to Backstreet Boys on my discman while pining for Kevin W, the boy I liked who wasn't on the trip. And I remember Emily H and I spending all our parent's money on Beanie Babies, which we named after our 8th grade science teacher. MONEY WELL SPENT.

So this time around was really interesting, having personal tour guides in Carey and Niles, and without all the pining because the boy I liked was sitting right next to me (Sigh, being an adult is awesome sometimes.) One of the biggest highlights of the trip was going into the White House. OH YES WE DID.

QUESTION AND ANSWER TIME!

Question: Did you meet the President?
Answer: No. Despite all my dreams of shaking his hand and making him laugh with an uproarious joke I would make up on the fly, I did not see him. I guess he was there somewhere, though, because it was the day he pardoned the turkey.

Question: Well did you at least meet anyone famous and/or important?
Answer: DID WE EVER! We met Bo!

Question: ...Jackson?
Answer: No.

Question: ...Do you mean Boo, the poofy pomeranian?
Answer: No.

Question: Wait, who's Bo?
Answer: Bo! Bo! The President's dog, Bo! The First Woof! Bo!

Question: Ohhhhhh.
Answer. Yeah.

Question: Go on.
Answer: Well, right when we got inside the East Wing, about 4 amiable security guards pulled our group aside and wouldn't tell us why. Of course we're all racking our brains for what in our murky pasts has caused the hold up, while some guy walks around with a device that tests the amount of radiation coming off you (weird). Finally they took some old lady away. I wanted it to be a whole thing where it turns out she's got a criminal record, but I guess it was just because she had a pacemaker. BUT! While we were being detained, in strolled Bo and his dog walker! Carey nearly fainted. He bounded up the stairs and out of sight, and we weren't allowed to take photos in the White House, so there is no proof. But I swear it happened.

Question: What else did you see in the White House?
Answer: You don't really get to see too much of the place. Definitely none of the private residence of course, none of the West Wing or the Oval Office or any kinds of offices. You really just see the rooms where they host guests. You can peek your head into the China room (dishes, not the country) and walk up to the red, green, and blue room. And you see the East Room, which is the biggest room in the White House, and which looks down the hall that the President walks when he makes big announcements.



Question: That's pretty cool.
Answer: I know, right?

OVERALL THOUGHTS ABOUT THE CITY OF WASHINGTON DC

1. No building can be taller than the Washington Monument, so the tallest "skyscrapers" are only about 12 stories. But since they still need the space, companies just build out. Meaning DC is filled with these stone and brick buildings that take up the entire city block. It all makes the city look so...so...sturdy.

2. The city has all these rules you would never know unless someone told you. For example, the statue on top of the Capitol Building represents freedom, and she faces east so the sun never sets on the face of freedom. That kind of thing. Why are lawmakers/historians/architects/artists so into this? I don't know. It makes for good tours, though.

3. DC has laws about never changing the colonial facade of buildings. But since you can do whatever you want behind the facade, these enormous buildings just use the front to look like colonial houses, and behind the entire row is just one giant, cement building.

HANGING OUT

We didn't really tour very much, at Joe's and my request. We spent the time doing more low-key, family things, like eating at fun restaurants, making Thanksgiving dinner (I contributed a few things including our candied yams which were all eaten ATHANKYOU), watching football games, drinking. Carey does a great job of decorating their apartment, and DC gets into Christmas pretty quickly, so it all felt very festive. And good god, the smells. THE SMELLS.

OH! And we also saw the Muppet movie. My non-spoiler thoughts: It was fun. I loved the callbacks to classic Muppets instead of current iterations. But they tried to pack in too much--too many story lines, which never gave any of them justice and made most of them fall flat. Also, Future Husband John Krasinski only made a fleeting appearance and I don't understand what would have been so wrong with giving him a leading role. BUT! The cameo by this guy was....*kisses fingertips* molto bene.

FINAL THOUGHT

This was my first time coming "home" to San Francisco. Which was a bit strange. It wasn't really coming home, it was more like coming back to my stuff. My pillow, my TV. And I guess my stuff is part of what makes a place feel like home. But I've come to learn that the saying is true: home is where the heart is. What's funny about that is, my heart is in a few places. I feel at home when I'm with the people I love. And those people are in a lot of places. So yes, San Francisco is home. And so is Chicago. And so is DC....and on and on.

I imagine home is a little bit of everywhere, as long as someone you love is there.

Movin' On Out

Well I started inklings of it here. And then I really got into it here.

But when Joe and I were in Seattle, we shook on it. It's official: I'm moving to San Francisco in November.

Question: Gasp! Do you have a job out there yet?
Answer: Welll...no I do not. But Advertising is a very in-the-moment, we-need-you-yesterday kind of business, so this doesn't worry me. EDIT: Joe's contract job isn't full-time yet either. We just decided that even if he doesn't get it, we'd both have to look for a job somewhere, so we might as well make it San Fran.

Question: Do you have a place out there yet?
Answer. No we do not. Joe doesn't have much spare time to devote to checking out places, but once we get our credit reports and checkbooks ready, he is going to go apartment searching by himself to try and find us a place that is not a) falling apart and b) a hundred million dollars. Apparently this is a difficult task.

Question: Have you bought your plane ticket yet?
Answer. No I have not. OKAY SO I KNOW THERE ARE A LOT OF "NO I HAVEN'T DONE THE RESPONSIBLE PARTS OF MOVING" YET CAN YOU PLEASE GET OFF MY BACK MOVING IS HARD I'M DOING MY BEST TO KEEP IT TOGETHER NOW LOOK WHAT YOU DID I'VE STOPPED USING PUNCTUATION AND I FORGET WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT....wait, what? Oh, okay so no I haven't bought the plane ticket yet. Gotta do that, but I probably should know when we're moving in before I do. And flying with Regina Phalange means a few extra tasks so it's going to be really fun and complicated and annoying.

Question: Did he like it so he should have put a ring on it?
Answer: Well, well, well. The question I knew you were REALLY wondering all along. Only took you four tries before you got the heart of it. He does like it, he has not put a ring on it yet. We're getting there, don't worry. My personal opinion? I'd like to feel a little more grounded before we start throwing rings around willy-nilly. You know, slightly less like a giant helium balloon flying high above the parade of life. (PS in this metaphor it's best to think of me as a giant Kermit flying above your faces. Really drives the point home. But I digress.)

Question: But! But! What about...And then there's....You can't just...!!
Answer: I know. I know! When I started to think about moving away, my core group of friends was starting to break off and do their own thing. And it felt like the move would be really easy. And then Laura finally moved back into the city and my niece learned my name and I moved next to the lake and my little sister became legal drinking age and I have a friend who could use me close by--I KNOW!

Question: SO?! THEN?! HMM?!?!
Answer: Well the thing is, I've never memorized a zip code that didn't start with a 6. But this isn't one of those "I've gotta get out of this dump" situations, because Chicago is awesome. I'll even say that in January and mean it. I just need to experience somewhere outside the prairie. And it's not one of those "I've gotta get away from these people" situations because these are my family and my friends and the people I love more than anything. Ever. These are the people who loved me when I had glasses the size of my face. These are the people who hugged me until I stopped crying after I broke up with my boyfriend of 4 years. These are the people who ACTUALLY think I could be a successful Muppeteer if I went out and did it. It's not at all about leaving. It's about arriving. I need to do this terrifying thing because if I don't, I'll always wonder if I could. I'm also going to try (possibly for the last time) to see if I really can be a good copywriter in a city that seems to have better options for me. And besides all this, I get to have an adventure with Joe that's as close as I'm willing to come to "Man, Woman, Wild".

Question: Pff...kcchhh....ccckk...
Answer: I know. But it's happening. It has to. I have to. I don't know how long I'll be there. Maybe I'll hate it and I'll be back in a year. Maybe I'll love it and stay forever! I don't know! Somehow I think it'll be somewhere between those two. A warning: you might be hard pressed to rip me away from a city that's a quick drive to 80 degrees and wine. Just keep reminding me about deep dish pizza. I'm sure I'll come around.

Odd Jobs

Well. Someone from my high school posted the sonogram for their second child on Facebook. And because I am still not in the mood for booze (hurrr) after this weekend (hurrr) and thinking about alcohol makes me dry heave (hurrrr) but I still need to drown my sorrows, I've found the next best thing: licking the Hint of Lime off Tostidos tortilla chips. It's helping.

Here's the thing: I'm not ready for a second child. I am not ready for a first child. Like, AT ALL. In fact, lately I've been having some near mental-breakdown issues where I completely doubt everything about the life I'm living. Well, really it's more about my job.

Basically what happens in my brain is this:

Bah, this one part of my job is the worst.
Well this sucks, I don't even like doing this.
Wait, am I going to have to do what I don't like forever?
Wait, am I going to get laid off if I don't do a good job at this thing I don't like?
Wait, why am I doing a job that I'm going to get laid off from when I'm 40 and then can't find something because I've become totally obsolete and I'll be forced to fold socks at Walmart for the rest of my life?!?!?!?!?

And that's when, as Jan Levenson says, I collapse in on myself like a dying star.

Basically this:


These are the times that I start considering my options. And, as I see it, I have four potential other jobs that I would be willing to seriously consider.


1. Puppeteer


Ya'll know my blood runs Muppet. But honestly, I could see myself making a job out of entertaining on stage with a puppet, Muppet-brand or otherwise. There's something in me that just HAS to talk to inanimate objects (cabinet doors, boxes of dry pasta, running water...) and give voiceless things voices. Every pet and baby I've come in contact with in the past 10 years has had a voice. Each with their own personality and timbre. Taxi finished every sentence with "you know, and stuff." Charlie craved attention. Wally has a 1930's gangster voice. Regina is the first one to continuously threaten to kill me. I really think I could make a puppet show based on my pets. And no, I have never written a more depressing sentence.

I'm so serious about this one, I started legitimately looking into Puppetry schools. There's one in Connecticut. Puppet fantasies AND Gilmore Girl fantasies all wrapped into one? Be still my little beating heart.

2. Kindergarten Teacher


And I know this goes against what I just said about not being ready for kids, but Kindergarten teaching is different than owning and operating your own mini human. I'm pretty sure everyone I say this to has laughed in my face, little specks of spittle flying every which way. But I'm serious. I am really good with 5 year olds. BUT REALLY good. I used to nanny two boys and I MAY have learned the name, number, color, size, and wheel quality of all the Thomas the Tank Engine characters.

The most attractive part of being a Kindergarten teacher, though, is that I'm pretty sure it's the exact opposite to being in Advertising. Instead of constantly trying to figure out how to weasel my products into the hearts and minds of people who could give a damn, I would be teaching children how to become better people. In fact, I wouldn't have to spend another single second pondering an ad. I could even try to IGNORE THEM. Also, I could wear vests with puffy paint on them. And who doesn't love the idea of that?


3. Junior High English Teacher


Honestly, I think I may be a glutton for punishment. But I really like the idea of this one. GONE are the days of kids who can't tell the difference between your and you're FOR I SHALL ATTACK THEM WITH THE NORTH if they ever forgot it.

Also, I remember my high school English classes as being one long string of teachers wailing "WHERE IS THE 'SO WHAT'?!" and we would wail back "WE DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU MEAN!" Do you guys remember that? Did ANYONE get it back then? I know Adrienne and I didn't, that's for damn sure. And it wasn't until I started reading books for pleasure again that I actually figured it out, all on my own. And I want to try and pass on that knowledge to the childrenz, before they even hit high school. Because yeah. I'm ambitious.

4. TV comedy writer.



This is my newest idea. It's an interesting one to me right now. It involves me getting to be raunchier and more authentic than I can be in Advertising, which I like. And I get to write long copy versus headlines, which I clearly like. And I could be funny. And successful. And write myself into a show with Future Husband John Krasinski, Amy Poehler and (what the hell) Aunt Meryl and Tom Hanks.


For now I'm sticking with Advertising. I mean, I DID almost sell an ad with a flying squirrel in it the other day, so the job does have its high points.

Clever Title I Can't Be Arsed To Write

I'm in a place today. A work-related, career-related, life-related, long term goal-related place.

Basically, I would like to get a hold of a time machine so I can go back to the 5th grade and tell my bowl cut, glasses-wearing self, "F*CK IT, you'll be a Muppeteer if you damn well want to be a Muppeteer."

And then I'll come back to now. But for good measure, I'll make a stop in 1999, slap myself for not wearing my retainer, and then come back for good.

I am going to go home and make myself a sandwich comprised of bacon, smoked gouda, and a slathering of Steve Martin. It might work.

Oh my god, it's The Day.

TBD

Well, I've been trying for two full days to write a blog post about the end of the year and the future of the next one, but I can't seem to do it without crumbling into a bunch of tiny pieces and declaring the end of western civilization.

Three problems:
1. There are newly discovered issues with work.
2. They have nothing to do with my personal performance.
3. I can't talk about it, because apparently this is the internet.

So all I can do is spout crytic messages to those who'd get it, which is zero fun for those who don't. I have also discovered that I can create Venn diagrams and quote Natalie Merchant songs I forgot I knew existed. Other than that, I have very little to show for two days and three coffee shops.

But in the end, all I really wanted to say is that this last year has been really awesome. I worked hard and it paid off. Next year has some pretty big question marks, but I'm thinking positively.

And since I have nothing more to give you, I leave you simply with this:

There Are No Need For Words Right Now.

Get In The Christmas Spirit, Emily Style

Guys, it is very likely that I will have no posts for you at all this week. Occasionally at work we have these things where we brainstorm for a week straight, basically doing nothing but working and sleeping. And starting today, that's where I'll be. So, no time for blogs. But in the spirit of the season, I give you some of my personal favorites:









I hope that helped. What clips mean Christmas/Festivus to you? Send me them in the comments! I'm curious to know if I'm missing anything important.

3 Reasons Why Follow That Bird Scared Me and 3 Reasons Why It Was Awesome

I'd like everyone to come in a little bit closer today. Gather, gather. Sit up front. We're all a happy family. For we all have one common thread.

And that thread is: all of us--you, me, that guy over there--were emotionally scarred by the both terrifying and terrific epic film, the 1984 classic, Follow That Bird.

A refresher:


There were three things that made this movie terrifying:

1. My friend and confidant, Big Bird, is on the run. By himself. With no parents to lead him, and Stranger Danger at every corner.

Big Bird is supposed to only be 6 years old, by the by. What if that was me?? What if I had to start a life with a new family and they were terrible so I had to run away all by myself! It happened to Big Bird, it could happen to ME!

2. When Big Bird is blue.

Big Bird. My friend. My confidant. He is in a cage, and he is SO SAD, that he has TURNED A DIFFERENT COLOR. I didn't even know that was possible, but if Sesame Street says it is, THEN IT IS.

3. Do I have to say it? DO I EVEN HAVE TO SAY IT.

Miss.....Finch. If a scarier Muppet exists in the world, I have yet to see it.


Nope. Not as scary.


Not even close.


Nice try.


Nuh-uh.


Still no.


Close, but not them either.


AHHHHHHHHH! RUN AWAY!!!!!!

Miss Finch was perhaps the first villain I ever encountered in my young life. And I have been scarred to my soul. First, she rips Big Bird (friend, confidant) out of the warm embraces of Maria and Luis, then she plunks him down among a horrible, vapid family, and then when he tries to escape, she and her dark, soul-sucking eyelids chase him across the country! It's not enough that he is a child on the run, but he must be a HUNTED child on the run.

And I know I'm not the only one who has felt this way. Anyone young enough to have encountered this movie as a small child was petrified of this woman.

There are two things that are great about this movie, however. Scratch that, three things. The first is Canadian actor Dave Thomas. The second is the music. Specifically "Easy Goin'", the feel-good song of the bird, the children, and their farm.



Question: Did you and Laura figure out the harmony to that song and teach it to your friends so you could belt it out while walking through the nighttime streets of Champaign-Urbana, Illinois?

Answer: DID. WE. EVER.

Question: ...Wait, why were you singing this song in college?

Answer: Because I bought the movie for Laura's 22nd birthday, and (the third and final thing that is great about this movie) we made up a drinking game to coincide with it while we watched.

Question: Oh PLEASE tell me you still have the rules.

Answer: .....

Question: Emily?

Answer: ....

Question: You got distracted looking at the drinking game rules for Cash Cab online, didn't you?

Answer: Hmm? Huh? What? Oh, right! Follow That Bird drinking game. YES! Of course I have the rules. They are simple, and they are awesome. Here we go:

1. Drink every time they say "bird."
2. Everyone pick an extraneous and beloved Sesame Street character to follow throughout the movie, such as Grover or Cookie Monster. Whenever that Muppet is in a scene, you drink.

We may have had other rules, such as "drink every time you are so scared of Miss Finch that you can neither look away nor blink," but for the life of me, I can't recall any other rules being necessary.

So yes, perhaps I have been able to overcome such fears as becoming separated from my family and being forced to walk home. Now I can focus on the important things, like togetherness of friends and drinking alcohol while watching beloved childhood movies. I'd like to think I've become a real grownup.

On a separate note, does anyone want to create a Mary Poppins drinking game with me?

Jinx!

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

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

It’s the religion of jinxes.

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I JUST GOT HIRED FULL TIME, BITCHEZ

Coming Soon: A Story In Pictures

I had an idea for a post yesterday called DO RIGHT in which I talked about companies and politicians and how they need to DO RIGHT and not be total dickwads all the time.

It was just one of those days, you know? Where nothing huge and terrible happened, but every little thing built up until I burst into tears because I had walked a block too far from my el stop. I wanted to make a cartoon about it, as I am wont to do, but I was too emotionally distraught all evening to do it. But I'm giving it some distance, and I'll post it soon. Hopefully it will be funny in retrospect. Plus it does involve yogurt, bruises and my slow and painful demise. So yeah. Should be a good one.

In the end, the thing that calmed me down was this video. Because I'm Emily and I use 70's Gonzo to cheer me up when I'm feeling blue.

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!

Man Thighs: And Don't Mind If I Do.

Reading over my posts last week, I realized they were all very negatively charged. I'd like to say it's because it was the last week of Lent and I was going through some kind of withdrawal, but the only thing I'd given up was cooking my own meals and doing crunches at the gym.

I don't want you all to think I am some kind of constantly negative, angry person. I'm really quite optimistic. So today I'd like to tell you about my single greatest love in the whole world:

Man thighs.



Can you feel the love? Can you feel it emanating from my heart, into my keyboard, through the series of tubes, and straight to your soul?

I was introduced to the power of man thighs through Sara. We were watching Arrested Development together and she pointed out that the hilarity of Gob dangling from a crane in a banana suit rests in the fact that his man thighs are so funny to look at.

For some reason, Adrienne has been trying to explain why man thighs are so great to some friends, and has asked me to help. The problem is, describing why man thighs are amazing is kind of like describing why chocolate is amazing. "Um...because it's amazing?" But since some people don't really understand the majesty, let me try to break it down for you.


Reasons Why Man Thighs Are Hilarious

1. The simple fact that they are rarely seen.

They're such an anomaly! I mean, come on. When was the last time you saw some full man thigh action? Any time you have, I'm sure it was 90-100% hilarious. That's just a fact. I mean, we're not going to get into specifics around here about how exactly you came to be face-to-face with man thighs, but I'm going to assume that, whatever the situation, and whether real or through some sort of tv or computer screen, it was an awkward/amazing encounter. Purely because it's something you aren't used to seeing. There was probably some gawking, maybe a little giggling.

I'm not sure how people felt about man thighs in the 70s when men were walking around with short shorts all the time. Maybe then it was normal and fine. But Joe and I just watched the Muppet Movie, and this miraculous thing happened:



That is Steve Martin in his heyday, looking fantastic, and sporting some very nice-looking man thighs. And since I was not used to seeing 70s Steve Martin or his man thighs, I found myself in a fit of giggles about them.

Side note, because you know how much I love the Muppets, especially 70's Gonzo-- Look at how adorable Gonzo used to be in his little vest and belt.



Okay back to man thigh love.

2. Lack of exposure to sun, or: Milkiness.



This one is directly correlated to #1. Since man thighs stay so sadly hidden beneath layers of clothes, they don't get much sunlight. Hence, man thighs stay a natural, lighter tone. For the white man (for whom man thighs are the most hilarious due to creaminess [it's science]) this puts their man thighs at a nice ivory. Eggshell. Mother of pearl.

3. They're so sturdy.



Even though the word "sturdy" makes me uncomfortable, I can't help but use it to describe man thighs. Women have this lovely gift from God called "cellulite." But men's muscles are designed a different way. I don't really know how it works. Alls I know is: man thighs are biologically more solid. Thick. They were built for round-housing mastodons. AND BOY, COULD THEY. It is my opinion that the more tree trunk-like your man thighs, the better.

4. The hairiness factor.

Nothing is more disappointing than a man with either no hair on his man thighs, or super hairy man thighs. Because the best way to go, truly, is the splotchy-hairy. Really, is anything funnier than splotchy-hairiness?

Quick answer: no.



I hope that clears things up for you nay-sayers. Does anyone have any other thoughts? Any better reason why man thighs are so majestic?

I can Muppeteer and so can you.

I have found no greater joy than in this moment.

You can make a Muppet.

Or, well, you can have one made. But it's authentic Muppet material, by authentic Muppet-making hands. Supported by authentic Muppet frogs and pigs. I'm peeing. Or I might be. I'm not sure, because I think I've lost all feeling in my body due to overwhelming happiness.

So I heard about this a while ago through the podcast Stuff You Should Know (which is awesome, by the way. And free.) and I got very excited until I found out that you actually had to go to the FAO Schwartz in NYC in order to make one. And so this post was going to be me explaining how I need to go to New York again so that I can go make one. But then I went to the website and VOILA!

And, yes, the Muppets do cost $130. PENNIES. Mere pennies compared to the joy it would bring me. I mean come on. You spend that much on a fancy meal for two. And just look at this little puddin' face!!


Look into those eyes and tell me that that guy is not your new best friend.

Maybe I should tell you guys that I'm a bit of a Muppet fan. Oh, you already figured that out? Huh. Anyway, my Muppetlove started with a little wolf named Rosco, and a little cow named Lucy. Walk with me, won't you?

In elementary school Spanish, we were introduced to two puppets: Rosco and Lucy. Rosco and Lucy told us all about the colors of the rainbow and asked us how the weather was today. Hace mal tiempo, Rosco. Hace MAL tiempo. Now, the issue that I had was not really with these puppets. It was with the other students in my classroom. Apparently I was a puppet snob, even then. I just never understood how hard it was to say words and move your hand at the same time. This isn't like rubbing your stomach and patting your head. It is the SAME MOVEMENT. But I cannot tell you how many times I watched in bitter resentment as this transpired:

"Como te llamas?" *moves hand furiously*

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

And so I decided to become a Muppeteer and show them all. I went to the public library searching for books about how to get into Muppeteering. And--something that still boggles my mind today--they actually had some. Here was the problem: I was nine. All that I'd ever been told was that I could be whatever I wanted to be. Marine Biologist? Sure! Who cares that you hate fish, sharks and whales! Screen actress? Of course! You'll probably get over your fear of cameras someday! But this book about Muppeteering was for people who were not nine. It was for people who were serious. And the book was honest and said that it was a hard thing to get into, that most people don't, and that you'd have to move to New York in order to do it. Well screw that. I'm nine. My parents still pour my cereal for me. I am not moving.

And thus, my dreams of Muppeteering were squashed. But now they have become reborn! For, if I cannot hang out with Old School 70's Gonzo all day (my true life dream) at least I can create a Muppet and use it to annoy people by giving them Muppet responses to their serious questions.

"Emily, is the house on fire?" "I don't know, I have a banana in my ear!!" Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

So what I'm trying to say is, can I borrow $130 for a business investment?

Maggie's Birthday Weekend Of Fun and Games

I wish I could tell you about the drag performance at The Kit Kat lounge (She was fabulous. And booty-licious.) I wish I could tell you about the near-empty duelling piano bar where we danced on pianos and I was hit on by a boy with a guitar pick on his hemp choker ("Do you like the Beastie Boys??" *shudder*)

I wish I could tell you about all this. But instead, my friend Maggie had the worst weekend in the history of weekends. So that's the Weekend Story you get to hear.

The reason for the drag show and the piano bar and the hemp choker is that we were out for Maggie's birthday. It was great oh-right-I'm-24-not-30 kind of fun. After we danced our tights off, Maggie +1 went one way and Erin (who is visiting from NYC) and I went another. The next day (Sunday) we met back up and discovered this story:

After we had split, Maggie and her friend stopped for some drunk food at the big McDonald's downtown Chicago. When she walked into the bathroom, there was a group of girls, loud and drunk. One was puking in the sink. God, what is NOT to love about twenty-somethings? Anyway, Maggie found a stall and did her biz. When she tried to get out, the door wouldn't open. So she put her weight into it and shoved. One of the girls was holding the door. Now, at this point, I'm not sure what I would do. But I tend to avoid strangers like they are chock full of leprosy, so I'm pretty sure I would have apologized, washed my hands, and walked out.

But not Maggie.

Maggie says something along the lines of "What's your f*cking problem? Why are you holding the door?" and ALL SH*T BREAKS LOOSE. Apparently this girl and her friends go into "oh no you di'int" mode and started beating her up! She tried to reach for the door and one of them actually grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back.

So a security guard helps her out, and they call the police. The girls actually take a while to high tail it out of there, so by the time the cops get there, the girls have only been gone for a few minutes. The cop tells her that, despite the fact that the girls were in a STRETCH LIMO and that the security guard had gotten the license plate of that limo, they could not find the girls. There are so many things wrong with all that, but whatever. Mags is fine, though shaken, so there's not much else Erin and I could do but listen to this whole thing with our mouths open wider than that damn singing fish.

While Maggie tells us the story, we have a lovely time walking around the annual market they set up downtown full of old-timey German Christmas foods and ornaments and carvings. And we're insinuating things about weiners and schnitzel and wood and it's a lovely time.

Eventually Maggie, who now lives downtown, drives us all back up to my place in Wicker Park. I tell her to park in the first spot we see, and we go inside to watch Muppet Christmas Carol (obviously.) After she leaves to go home, I get a call a few minutes later. Someone has broken into her car. The passenger side window is shattered and her iPod and GPS are gone. She calls her dad, who technically owns the car. He calls the police, and the only thing they do is say they'll mail her dad something. No one comes out, nothing.

The problem here is that I know EXACTLY who did it. There is this group of high school aged guys (gang members question mark?) who stand on my street all day. All the time. Doing nothing. They never bothered me when I walk past or anything, so I've never done anything but mutter under my breath about how they need to go inside and do their homework. And this spot where these guys chill is exactly where Maggie parked. When she got to her car, in fact, she said all those people were standing there looking at her, as well as the kids in the house there. Lovely. So either YOU are the ones who did it, or you stood idly by as someone else did (unlikely).

So in the end, we swept up most of the glass, put cardboard and a garbage bag over her window (WHY do I not own real duct tape?!) and sent Mags on her way.

Happy birthday, Maggie.