Welp! Adrienne and I FINALLY presented our 50 finger 'staches yesterday. It was supposed to be last week but The Storm Of Insanity (not to be confused with The Cliffs of Insanity) kept us all in our houses.
Here's the entire thing. Look how pretty!!
And here are the winners. *Awkward Michael Scott Drumroll* BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrr....brrrrrr....rrrrrrr....
RUNNER UP:
SECOND PLACE:
FIRST PRIZE:
AND SECRET ASSISTANT TO THE FIRST PRIZE (brought to you by Regina Phalange):
Sadly, our efforts did not win us a prize, but you guys should have SEEN the great stuff people brought in. The winner made an entire (BOUND) coloring book. Someone else made pins. Someone else made 50 drawings that were good enough that Adrienne and I both bought one off of her at $5 each. That does NOT, however, mean that we don't appreciate the effort that you guys put into your finger 'staches, and we thank you VERY much. Wow, I'm really into the CAPS today. I regret nothing.
Of course, if you can donate a bit (a dollar, five...a million, whatever) to the cause, which is a tutoring center in inner-city Chicago, that makes you even more splendorrific. Go to "Collabostache" and donate your heart out.
Well, Scrabble For Cheaters has come and gone. Dreams were crushed, PBRs were drunk in the middle of the day, and in the end,
WE GOT 2ND PLACE, JERKS!
AND!!! We all raised $10,000 total towards the impressionable minds of children! HUZZAH!!
So what does 2nd place mean? It means we played 4 games of Scrabble in 5 hours. And with only two minutes per turn, all of those games became down-to-the-wire, one-point-difference, oh-crap-is-FE-a-word-or-isn't-it-why-didn't-I-memorize-my-two-letter-words-better-quick-quick-just-play-something-for-the-love-of-GOD kind of games.
I think I gave myself about twenty ulcers on Saturday. I might as well have just stayed at home and chugged lemon juice straight from the bottle.
But NO! For then we wouldn't have raised all the moneys and helped all the childrens!
I have to give a special shout-out to my parents, who donated exactly enough money for us to purchase one of my favorite cheats: The Augment. The Augment lets you add 10 points to any letter. And how did we use it?
On the X in "EXITING." THAT'S RIGHT. All seven letters (50 points) plus a letter that's worth 18 points WHICH we were able to double up on another word. The word was worth almost 100 points and is absolutely the reason why we won that round.
*breathing heavily* Sorry, let me catch my breath from nerding out so hard just then.
.....
........
........... okay all better.
So anyway, Adrienne and I would like to say thanks to the contributors. You helped us and the tutoring center out immensely. But I would especially like to thank my parents. I'm sorry, I like them more than you and you need to accept that.
WHAT? What is this girl talking about? "Mustache thanks"?! This blog makes no sense. I’m leaving.
STOP! Turn. Come back.
Lemme ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: I did a thing for charity (involving mustaches) back a few months ago and promised anyone who donated that I would write a blog post about them. And then I didn’t write a post about my aunt, who donated bravely along with the rest of them. And the children appreciated her dollars just as much as the next person. And yet I did not post.
And time went by. And I did not post.
And more time went by. And- wait, what was that? Oh right, I did not post.
The thing is, I was waiting for inspiration. But none came. See, from what I can gather from the stories my mom has told me, back in the day, Aunt Margaret was kind of a badass.
I haven’t gotten the chance to hang out with my aunt because she’s always lived very far from me. So I can only base my knowledge on stories my mom told me a long time ago. And since I have no memory whatsoever, even those stories are pretty skewed in my mind.
SO! What’s a girl to do?! Why, a girl is to make up a fake story about her lovely Aunt Margaret, that’s what!
Here goes.
Margaret was raised in The Good Ol’ Days. Back when women consulted Good Housekeeping before they fluffed their pillows. When they rationed their use of butter because men needed it to fight the Nazis, who were renowned for their aversion to the stuff. They spent their days lamenting over pot roasts and recovering from the vapors, which they were overcome by each time they were forced to look at anything unseemly.
Not Margaret.
Margaret was born in a pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket. When she was three, an older boy pulled her pigtail, so she turned around and put her cigarette out on his chest. When my grandparents tried to tell Margaret what to do, she blew that popsicle stand and hitchhiked her way to Vegas, where she took a lover named Alfonzo. From there, she spent her days skinning chickens by day and making hooch by night.
Okay, I’m already out of ideas for what to tell you about Fake Aunt Margaret. So I guess I just have to tell you that the Real Aunt Margaret as I know her is really great. She’s super supportive of me even though she hardly knows me and has a mysterious, badass past. And from what I can tell, she’s very interested in helping you tend your Farmville garden, if anyone needs some help.
So here’s to Aunt Margarets, both Real And Fake: Two very awesome ladies (though I think I’m partial to the real one to be honest), who helped some inner city Chicago kids take a few steps closer to being rock star students.
As you may recall, I made a promise. I said that if you donated money to the Mustache Cause, I would write a blog post about you.
Even if I don't know you.
Well, Emily, you now have permission to eat your words. I have in my possession the list of those who donated. And one such person is Lisa K. Lisa K, who I do not know, and have never met. As far as I know. And neither has Adrienne. The 'stache count says she is from Indy, so I first asked my Indy contacts if they knew her. They do not.
So Lisa K, I now owe you one kickass blog post, without ever knowing you. So for you I have a poem based on what I could discover via Google. I hope you enjoy it.
Lisa K. Lisa K. What on earth do I now say? Wait a second! Look here! Ooh! This girl REALLY likes I.U.
She hangs out there and learns real things Of blood and guts and arms in slings At least that's what she prob'ly does She's in med school. Or...well, she was.
Want to hear 'bout cells transgenic? Hope you do! It's a pandemic! But maybe not. It might not be. Her paper's 10 p. long, you see.
Oh wait! She's not in med school! No! She's in law school. Why? I don't know. But, oh that Lisa. She likes school. She must think it's pretty cool.
You know who I think's cool? Why, Lisa. More than leaning tower of Pisa. For she donated without knowing How much she'll get those kids' smiles glowing.
Okay the end is Barf City, but hopefully Lisa will enjoy it.
I was actually planning on doing some family posts coming up soon, but my older sister, Katie, ever on the ball, scooped up the opportunity preemptively and donated to the Mustache-a-thon, in which I promised any donators would receive their own post.
So here goes.
I dropped an f-bomb on Katie once. Once. And I never said I was sorry. I think I was in junior high/early high school. The hormones were raging. We were running out the door...and there was definitely something about shoes involved. I have no idea what Katie did to deserve it, but out it came nonetheless. And I've never forgotten it. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: I managed to traumatize myself as a child.
So to Katie: I am sorry for throwing an f-bomb at you. And so haphazardly at that.
The thing is, and the reason Katie did not deserve such a jab is because she is 100% the most mature person you will ever meet, and is therefore above such childishness. When Katie got married straight out of college, I didn't blink. Now I'm like "JEEZ I'M ONLY 25 QUIT HARPING ON ME, PEOPLE." But for Katie, it was okay. Because she's mature and knowledgeable and always knows what she is doing. (Which I'm sure isn't technically true, but that's just the way it goes in my mind, like it or not.)
I do have proof of Katie's silly side, though. It's something that still makes me laugh to think about, and that is the way that Katie and I often chose to enter each others' bedrooms: butt first. It was more of a backwards, hopping/scooting way of entering a room. Really, it was quite dangerous if you didn't know who was in the room you were about to enter. And it was definitely Katie's invention. Don't ask me when it started. Just know that if you hear the staccato sound of feet rubbing on hardwood, expect an eyeful of jeans when you look up.
Despite such shenanigans, Katie is the oldest child of four and therefore the Leader of The Pack. She has always held herself to the highest standard--including an adorable story about her first day of Kindergarten: while walking to school, she stopped my mom abruptly:
"Mom, WAIT!! What's the capital of the United States?!" "Oh, Honey, I'm sure they won't ask you that on your first day." "BUT WHAT IF THEY DO?!" "It's okay, I promise they won't." "MOM! JUST TELL ME!!!!" "...Washington DC." "Okay. Washington DC. Washinton DC. Washington DC..."
I can safely tell you that on MY first day of Kindergarten, I was concerned about peeing my pants, missing my daytime stories, and little else. But that's how Katie always is: highly prepared. Before she had her baby in August, I think she actually read every book about children that existed in the world.
It's always been helpful to have someone boldly go where none of us had been before. Someone to test out the waters of all those scary things. Bike riding, junior high, boyfriends, prom dresses, college, weddings, kids...
I've never had a problem letting Katie skip on ahead of me. She's always been willing to turn back around, grab my hand, and show me how it's done.
Today is another thank-you day for those who donated to the Mustache cause. I bring to you two wonderful people: Keith P and my younger sister, Hannah. Keith and Hannah went to high school together. When I found out Keith had donated, I immediately got to work inventing a really great post about him. I started with a poem:
Keith, Oh my Keith. You wonderful boy. You fill up my days with such bountiful joy. 'Twas on that fine day within Luscombe we met You thought I was Hannah, and started to fret. Why won't she say hi? Why won't she look here? But soon you saw differences, though they were mere. For, my hair was shorter, my eyes bit more round. At once a new kinship was formed, I have found. I know you know Hannah, but I'm so much better. It's just that it's been some more time since you met her.
...Which is true, Hannah does know Keith better. And with that reasoning, I decided to introduce my first guest blogger, my sister Hannah. Take it away, Han!
What can I say about Keith P?
First of all, let me preface this post by noting that my family does (and always will) love Keith P. more than me, and that is just an established fact.
“But Hannah!” you say, “That can’t possibly be true. WHERE are the facts?”
Step into my office, stay a while.
On the day of my graduation, the day that I was meant to be honored and adored by all family near and wide, there was one picture taken of me while I crossed the stage to be handed my diploma. Fine. Good. Grand. I had no problems with this. I wasn’t exactly looking my best in a floor-length bottle-green robe (Harry Potter reference? Anyone?) And cardboard cap.
But there were THREE PICTURES taken of Keith P. by my family. And damn him, does the boy know how to pull off a bottle-green robe.
Second of all, Keith P. is an unstoppable musical machine and I am painfully jealous that he plays piano and cello and sings and acts and can do handstands while juggling and plays the harp with his toenails, blindfolded. (His eyes are blindfolded of course. His toenails aren’t blindfolded. That’d be cool, though.)
Where was I? Ah. Talent. The boy is talented in every way. This scored him major points with every freaking teacher in high school. Every time a play was coming up Keith would be summoned to the front of the class:
Mr. Schoenburg: “Oh KEITH (*gush gush*) (EDITORS NOTE: I SAID *GUSH GUSH* IN MY LAST POST! IT'S LIKE WE'RE SISTERS!!) I hear you’re going to be playing the part of Male Lead #1 and might I just say that you are perfect in every way and you smell like what I imagine Jesus must use as aftershave. By the way, Hannah is spreading a vicious rumor that you play the harp with your toenails. Any truth to that?”
But I digress…
Keith P. had talent in one much more important area. An area I like to call: Speech Team. Lets all take a moment of recognition for the fact that I was a big major nerdlinger in high school and absolutely loved speech team (as did Keith).
Boiled down to the essentials: in speech team you wear a suit and memorize an eight-minute speech that is written by you, or by someone else. Some are funny, some are dramatic, and some are serious. Some are done with a partner, and some are done by this terrible chick in the pink suit who thought she was all that but she wasn’t and GOD who fake cries during dramatic interpretation and REALLY?! A PINK SUIT?!?!
But I digress. Again.
Keith and I balanced our time at tournaments between performing our speeches, and stalking the people who we thought were good/terrible/wore pink suits and therefore had no reason to live.
How many "speech boyfriends" did I have? Lets conservatively say five.
How many of them knew who I was? Zero. Possibly one.
How many of them knew who Keith was? All. And they loved him. They would all go out on weekends and pick out matching china patterns.
And now Keith P. is a roaring success with reviews on his plays that would knock your socks off. He is going to be on Broadway and I’m going to show up with flowers, which he will politely accept and then add to his pile of gifts (including, I would have to assume, some sort of priceless antique china patterns that his old speech team buddies brought him...curse them.) And we will reminisce about the days of old when we would hang out in the music lab, and laugh at the gym teachers as they foolishly beg that we run at least one lap, and write wildly inappropriate notes in psychology, only to be discovered later by Mr. Reddel, the famed crazy man from crazytown. (EDITORS NOTE: DON'T YOU TALK THAT WAY ABOUT MR. REDDEL.)
So here’s to you, Keith P. I wish you success in everything you do.
P.S. Have you heard the rumor that Keith P. has nasty long toenails that he uses to play the harp? Spread it.
As promised, those of you who donated to the mustache cause over the last few weeks will be blessed with your very own blog post. I won't do them all this week because I've got a few other ideas up my sleeve (including a new Bible post, huzzah!)
But today will mark the very first Thank You Post. And first up is my mother. Of course she gets first dibs; the woman had to put up with me from the very beginning. While she was pregnant, I stuck around for two extra weeks, which I'm sure she appreciated (What? It was warm in there.) And then generally wreaked havoc until I was about twenty. Last night, my mom told me that she used to buy me scotch tape to keep me entertained. Not going to lie, I'm pretty sure that's all you'd need TODAY. I'd be all, "Hmm, there's nothing on TV besides Meet The Browns...guess I'll just sit here and unroll some tape. Zzzzzzzip! Zzzzzzzip! *Tee hee!*"
Now, you've already gotten one Mom story here. And there are certainly many to come, I'm sure.
So for this post, I want to share a story of my Mom that my aunt told me. It might be my favorite story about her to date. (Oh no wait..there's one more. Okay, TWO mom stories today!) I'm sure she'll be thrilled by both of these.
Okay the first one takes place in the 50's. My mom is, say, three. I've seen pictures; she was seriously adorable: auburn pigtails, freckles, light blue eyes. Adorable, that little Susie. Now little Susie, being young and impressionable, knows only one song. Just one. And that song is the theme to the television show, Wyatt Earp.
And who says television is ruining children? Well, they were right. But it's been happening for decades.
Every Sunday, my mom would skip to church along with the rest of her family. But because Wyatt Earp is the only song that my mom knew, that's the one she sang. Every time. Meaning, while everyone else is singing, say, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"...
...Little Susie is belting out a song about the kindly cowboy from Kansas.
Well, as you can imagine, eventually the hymn ends. The organ echoes it's last note, everyone closes their hymn books and sits back down. Welp, sorry folks! But the Wyatt Earp theme song is still going strong! Everyone turns around to see this little girl standing on the pew, belting out, "Wyyyyyatt Earp! Wyyyyyat Earp! Brave, courageous and BOLD! Long live his name and long live his glory and long may his story be toooooold!"
The second story of my mom is much more recent. I think about five years or so. And once again, it's a story I can only relay because I wasn't there.
My parents and two younger siblings went to see a movie together. Afterward, they decided to go to Baker's Square for some pie. Yum. So they're in the elevator on their way to the car in the parking garage. And the conversation goes as follows:
Dad: Well I thought that movie was pretty good. Hannah: Yeah, I really liked how the main character changed at the end. John: And the soundtrack was really great. *silence* Mom: .........Pie.
I don't know WHY this story makes me laugh so hard, but despite not having been there, I cannot repeat that story without cracking up. It's one of those where I just start laughing in the middle of telling it before I even get to the punchline, so by the time I actually say the word "pie" I'm completely unintelligible and anyone listening is laughing just because I'm laughing, but really they have no idea what the hell is so funny.
So those are my two Mom stories! I guess thanking my mom by telling two mildly embarrassing stories about her is not EXACTLY a proper thank-you, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity. Of course she was and is a magnificent mom, and I love her very very much. But in my defense, she has always been the greatest supporter of my creativity and writing.
