Why I Don't Like Big Dogs

PEOPLE OF THE INTERNET! PLEASE! *hammers gavel multiple times* PLEASE! SETTLE DOWN. LET THE WOMAN SPEAK.

It's true. I had an epiphany recently that, despite my previous statements of liking anything fuzzy, I kinda dislike big dogs.



Clarifications:

This is not a post about how cats are better than dogs. If you are looking for such a post, you will never find it here. I believe in the lyrics of that classic children's song:
"All God's critters got a place in the choir
so quit getting your pants in a bunch about it
and let's be friends, for Christ's sake."

This is also not a post in which I try to convince you to dislike big dogs. This is an epiphany all my own, with my experiences and biases.

I came to acknowledge my dislike the other day while walking home from the grocery store. I went to turn down a street and saw a large dog about a block away. I did one of those "Blurg! *shuffle shuffle" things, backed up, and kept walking down the original street, deciding to turn at the next block instead.

I started thinking: Why? What has that dog done? Nothing. Nothing except look large. What was it that made me want to avoid it? The reason, I realized, is twofold:

1. I'm scared of a lot of large dogs.

Dogs you don't know are unpredictable. You don't know if it is a Beethoven or a Cujo. And big dogs' jaws are designed to rip apart small to medium animals. My childhood friend's son was attacked by a large dog. And I have had a few run-ins (injury free but still terrifying) with large dogs myself while babysitting. And if you know me at all, you know there was no egging on for my part. (I mean, come on. I call Great Danes "puppies".) And yet I've seen my life flash before my eyes multiple times thanks to large dogs.

2. The big dogs that don't scare me...kind of annoy me.

Okay now here is where I'm sure I'll get some eye rolls, but big dogs that are nice are also often slobbery and overweight. And they LOVE to smell people's crotches. I don't know about you, but I enjoy nothing more than trying to shake my boyfriend's parents hand while also shoving a Labrador away from my crotch. Really leaves a good first impression.

So fine, maybe I have angered you. And for dudes, this opinion certainly doesn't make me a "cool" chick (see also, my disdain for sports)(But on the other hand please see my love of beer and occasional Star Wars references?) But I need to be honest with myself. I'm just not the biggest fan of large dogs.

I know, I know, big dogs save people from burning buildings and they're loyal and sweet and answer the phone for people who have no arms. And I'm sure most of them are lovely, wonderful creatures. But you have to admit it, they can't ALL be Shadow.

Ohhhh, Shadow! You were old and hurt and in a ditch and we thought you were too old and it was too far but you made it out! And you were so worried about Peter but really WE were so worried about YOU! SHADOW! Sha-ha-ha-dow! ARRRGGGALARRAAAHAAAAHHHH!--Wait, let me say something! Let me say something!--BLLRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Okay, everyone immediately go hug your pet. If you have a large dog, please give it a ham bone for me. God, this is like the Toy Story fandango all over again.

10 Things To Know If You're Moving To Chicago

I've lived near or around Chicago my whole life, and specifically in the city for four years. At this point I think I get it.

Here's what you need to know about Chicago before you come here.


1. WEATHER


Learn how to complain.
People in Chicago have two jobs: the first is the one they get paid to do, and the second is part-time complaining about the weather. Rainy. Windy. Cold. Hot. Nothing satisfies the people of Chicago and they are always baffled by anyone who moves here from a warmer climate. Of course if anyone from that warmer climate DARES TO INSULT THE GREAT CITY OF CHICAGO we know how to passive-aggressively tell you that we just love the change of seasons and we don't think we could ever live without it.

Chicago is not the end of the world, weather-wise.
I drove from Chicago to Wisconsin in January and I will tell you, Chicago doesn't even know the MEANING of the word snow. "Oh but what about that snow storm we had that one--" --PUNY NONSENSE SNOW, I will interrupt, COMPARED TO WISCONSIN. Wisconsin eats snow for breakfast. And I imagine so do many other northern states and that place above Wisconsin, Ol' What's-Its-Name. Yeah, it gets windy and snowy and horrible here and it makes you want to curl up inside a Tauntaun. But at least we have salt for the roads and trucks to distribute it. Do you know what Wisconsin uses to keep their billions of feet of snow off the roads? SAND. But like, a child's sandbox amount of sand. What are you, Houston? Wisconsin, you care just a LITTLE too much about those lakes of yours. If your fish refuse to adapt to the salt, just buy something more tropical. I'm sure they'll adapt.

The secret to surviving winter
Two things: Preparation and not bothering to care what you look like. A coat from an authentic sporting goods store. Multiple gloves at once. A hat that is so big and fuzzy that it is possible it's still alive. Large, weather-proof winter boots that can trudge through dark grey slush. Basically, the closer you are to looking like an Inuit, the better. They know what they're doing. If you can wrap yourself up in an actual polar bear, you have done your job.

It always snows once in April.
I am telling you right now: there will be a day in March. Maybe even a few days. On that day, it will seem magical. It may even be 60 degrees outside, dare I say 70. Every year this happens. And every year on that day I tell people "It always snows once in April." And they laugh. Oh! How they laugh. "You fool!" they say. "Weather cannot change!" They put on shorts and flip flops and wonder why no restaurant has put out its outdoor cafe seating. But the restaurants have learned. And so have I. I have held this "April" theory since college. Chicago has never let me down. Every year it comes back. Usually not too harshly. But it snows. Oh! How it snows. And all the idiots who vow that they'll never go back to pants have to walk around, their teeth chattering, pretending they never heard my warning. But they heard. They heard.

The summer is freaking awesome.
Because of our deathly winters, Chicago comes alive in the summer. There are literally festivals on every weekend. Free concerts, movies in the park...all kinds of things. Check out metromix.com to find fun stuff.


2. ROADS


We're on a grid.
After the Chicago fire, this city had a chance to rebuild itself smartly. One thing they did was put everything on a grid system, where almost every street goes either north-south or east-west. That makes it easy to get around. However...

Some roads go diagonally into the city.
These roads are generally annoying because they mess with intersections. The worst of them being Elston Ave...Ohhhhhh Elston, how I loathe thee. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Stick with the grid and you'll be fine.

Some Chicagoans understand location based on the address numbers.
They say things like "Oh, 1400? that's really far north" or some nonsense. These people are freaks. Most of us just give main cross streets. "Broadway and Foster" "Damen and North." Eventually you'll learn these roads too and these intersections will mean something to you as well.


3. FOOD


A proper Chicago hotdog
If you don't know, the Chicago dog is piled with everything besides ketchup. I don't know why we are so opposed to ketchup on our sausages but it is just our way. Most places won't blink if you order ketchup, but I suggest you try the true Chicago way just once. There are plenty of places for them. Check Yelp, or go to Portillo's.

A proper Chicago slice
Chicago pizza is usually served deep dish. It is intense. One to two slices will suffice, and you have to eat it with a knife and fork because it weighs about 80 pounds. Giordano's is well-liked and there are tons of them around, although I'm partial to Lou Malnati's. Lou's isn't for everyone--the sauce is chunkier and less sweet, and the crust is buttery and crunchy, not bready. But it should be tried. Stay away from Uno's. It's not worth it.
Thin crust pizza in Chicago often comes cut into squares, not large triangles like New York. It's good that way; you have no idea how many you've had and can pretend like it wasn't much.

Groceries
In order of expense: Whole Foods, Dominick's, Jewel, Trader Joe's, Aldi. I'd personally stay away from both end caps. But that's the Middle Class Girl talking.

Restaurants:
We have them. To say Chicagoans only "like" food would be doing us a great injustice. I mean, sure, our winters aren't as bad as some, but they're enough to keep you indoors for 9 months. We've got good restaurants, and all the kinds you want. We also have been home to immigrants from all eras, which means delicious foods from around the world: Polish, Ethiopian, Irish (Fadó is Irishman certified), Turkish, Mexican, Detroitian...we have it all, and it's all good. There are tons of independently owned restaurants if you get away from the city, like in Wicker Park (Division and Damen) and in northern Andersonville (Clark and Foster). Again, Yelp that shizz.


4. NEIGHBORHOODS


Where to start:
If you're looking for a good place to move to in Chicago and you don't know the area at all, I suggest you check out Lakeview. Unless you consider yourself a little more Indie/Hipster, then I say Wicker Park. Both these places are pretty generally well-liked. They have a lot to offer, lots of shops and restaurants and they're close to public transportation. From there you can do research into the other neighborhoods, but here's a small list to get you started:

Neighborhood Breakdown:
This is insanely stereotyped and obviously not the final word, but here's who tends to live in some of the neighborhoods you'll hear about, in no particular order:

Streeterville: Newbies, Rich people
Gold Coast/River North: Old Rich people
Old Town: Young rich people
Lincoln Park: Newly college grads
Wrigleyville: Frat guys
Boystown: Young gays
Lakeview: Yuppies
Pilsen: Hipsters, Mexican-Americans
Wicker Park: Rich hipsters, Mexican-Americans
Bucktown: Richer hipsters
Logan Square: Poor hipsters, Mexican-Americans
Ukranian Village: Reformed hipsters
Chinatown: Chinese-Americans (surprise!)
Uptown: Crazy people and corporate gays
Andersonville: Lesbians, Sweeds
Edgewater: A melting pot of immigrants
Rogers Park: Rich college kids
Roscoe Village: Dinks
Lincoln Square: Saxons
South Loop: Couples with dogs
West Loop: Greek-Americans
Humboldt park: Puerto Rican-Americans
Hyde Park: Obama


(Most of these are north side, because I don't know much about the south side. You'll have to sleuth on your own if you want to move there.)(Also, there are SOOO many more than these but I ran out of brain power.)

I've lived in 4 different neighborhoods and I still haven't made up my mind about my favorite neighborhood. They're all pretty great in their own ways.


The neighborhoods are still very segregated.
If you couldn't already tell based on how I just described the above. But I'll let the numbers speak for themselves. Check out this map.


5. PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION


All the information about the CTA is here. But let me break it down.

Cards:
There are three kinds of cards.
1. Unlimited paper cards. You can buy these at grocery stores and you can ride as much as you want for 1, 3, 7, and 30 days.
2. Pay-per-ride cards. You can buy these at the el station with cash. Each ride is $2.25 per ride, no matter where you go. Put as much or as little as you want on these cards.
3. Magic plastic CTA card that automatically refills with money. You can get that online.

Train:
The el, which we also call "the subway" or just "the train" (or at least I do because I'm too lazy to remember words), runs like a spiderweb into the city and back out again. A lot of it does run above ground, but the red and blue line run underground once they get to the city. These two are the fastest lines and the only two that run 24/7. These are the only two lines I've lived along, so I know them the best.
All the el lines transfer to the other lines at some point or another, although it's not always the fastest way to get around. Often the best route is to transfer to a bus. I always check Google Maps for the fastest transit directions. Gmaps is your friend. Use gmaps.

Buses:
I hear people say that they're too scared to ride the buses all the time, but they're harmless. They basically just run up and down one street. If it runs up and down Grand, that bus is called "Grand." It's really hard. Again, Google Maps will help you figure that part out anyway. As for paying, if you already have a card, there's a place by the driver where you use it just like on the el. If you only have cash, you can put that in the little machine and it sucks it up. But there's no cash back so pray you have quarters.


6. PARKING


I've never had a car in the city, but I'll tell you what I know.

Parking downtown is insane. Avoid! Avoid!
It's near impossible to find street parking, and the parking garages cost more than a Donald Trump haircut. If your destination is downtown, a taxi or the CTA is your best bet.

Street parking elsewhere in Chicago:
Some places you pay. We recently replaced coin meters with ones that'll take credit cards, which is clutch.
Some side streets are free, although these ones are usually pretty full, of course. Some side streets require a permit.
No matter what, you're going to need to learn parallel parking. It's the only parking you'll do for a while.

Parking where you live?
Your apartment may have a spot that you'll probably have to pay for, although some places give it to you for free. That one's a toss-up. Just like whether or not they make you pay a move-in fee (BAH, don't get me started), it depends on your landlord. If you're living in a walk-up (an apartment with 3-4 apartments stacked on one another) you're more likely to get cheap parking. The high rises will cost you. If you can live without a car, I say go for it. I've survived so far on borrowing others' cars, renting cars, and taking public transit. Although I have a few friends who have used zipcar.com, too.

Dibs
In the winter it's hard to get a spot because the street cleaners are not particularly precise and snow covers a quarter of the spots. Once you finally dig yourself out/into a spot, some people find that spot hard to let go of it. So they put old lawn chairs out to save their spot. It's pretty much crap and a point of contention for Chicagoans every winter. In the end, it persists because people are afraid if they move the lawn chairs, they'll be keyed.


7. ENTERTAINMENT:


(Look familiar?)

This is a big city, so of course there are tons of places to see regular concerts and plays and stuff. Here are a few slightly more underground:

Second City: Improv
Steppenwolf: Weird theater
The Neo-Futurists: Weirder, smaller theater
The Vic: Smaller concerts and stand up
Music Box Theater: Film festival type movies
Landmark Cinema: Film Festival type movies...but the ones with Sean Penn in them
Buddy Guy's Legends: Authentic Chicago blues that will ease your soul.


8. SAFETY


You know all those jokes New York people make about homeless people pooping in boxes? Yeah, we have those people, too. I've seen some crazies. I've HEARD some crazies. I've been approached by crazies. But I have never been hurt by a crazy. They smell like the pachyderm house at the zoo, they ask for any food you can spare and then get mad when you give them your sandwich because they wanted Wendy's (*true story*) they sing loudly. Everyone has a few stories about crazy/drunk people on the el. My personal favorites:
1. The guy who announced everything the P.A. voice did, with the exact same timing and intonation.
2. The guy who kept yelling "MATA LA GENTE" which I confirmed via phone meant "kill the people." That one was by far the scariest. But he got off the el without touching a soul.

There are stories. People being beaten or jumped. And apparently lately there have been these mob attacks where a bunch of kids jump on a bus, take everyone's stuff, and jump off. And the morning news is not exactly the best time to look for feel-good stories. Almost every day, a child on the South Side has been killed and someone was found in the lake. Safety is not to be taken lightly, for sure.

All I can tell you is, I've never had anything stolen from me (KNOCKS ON ALL THE WOOD) and I've never been hurt (AGAIN WITH THE KNOCKING). Keep your headphones in your pocket at night, and stay alert. But we're still Midwesterners, and most of us still have the decency to keep our hands to ourselves. We're also a city, so the streets are well-lit and well-populated. Use those to your advantage.


9. YOUR APARTMENT

Nine times out of ten, your apartment will look like this:



It will be a walk-up, huge, with tiny bedrooms off to the side. It is the Chicago way. A landlord told me that this was because, before central heating, people did nothing but sleep in bedrooms because they were so cold, so they didn't bother making them very big. So if you go looking at apartments, expect this general look.

If you've never lived in cold weather:
Go to a hardware store before winter sets in and buy this stuff to go over your windows. Especially if you have old windows, this will cut down drastically on your bill and cut out drafts.


10. SPORTS



Yikes. I am the last person to tell you about sports in this city. But it's important for you to know the basics if you want to live here. We are REALLY into sports in Chicago. So for those in the dark, here is the breakdown. If you want deeper info than this...you're in the wrong place.

Basketball
The Bulls. Red, Black and White. We used to have Michael Jordan and once he left, we were only okay until this year.

Football
The Bears. Navy and Orange. We used to have Ditka and once he left, we were only okay until we got Urlacher, a white dude with an insanely large neck.

Baseball
Cubs: North side. Blue and red. The stereotypical fan is white, rich, and a prat. We are infamous for having a 100 year losing streak, and famous for Harry Carey and an analog scoreboard.
White Sox: South side. Black and white. The stereotypical fan is...well, the opposite of a Cubs Fan. The Sox won the World Series in like...2005?

Hockey
Blackhawks: Red and black. This is the jersey they wear in Wayne's World. Everyone forgot about hockey around here until last year when we won the Stanley Cup and suddenly everyone became enormous hockey fans. I found it annoying, but I guess good for general morale.

Soccer
Chicago Fire: Navy and red. One time, two players from the Fire came to our junior high and played Keep The Ball In The Air with one of my classmates, Paul. Paul won.


Okay! That's what I have to say about Chicago. Hope this helps any newbies (or potential newbies who are thinking about making your way here). Any other Chicagoans make it all the way through this thing and have anything to add? Comments welcome and requested!

3 Reasons Why I Scared Everyone At The Super Bowl Party

When Joe and I first started dating and I met his friends, I was impressive. I'm not going to lie. I was the life of the party. I sparked conversation, I laughed at all the right places, I cracked jokes...I don't know what it was. Somehow I was not socially awkward. I thought maybe I had finally grown up and come into my own. Turns out? Nope. No, I'm exactly the same person I used to be. At the Super Bowl party with Joe's friends, I was super awkward to the extreme. Here's the breakdown.

1. Chevrolet

The commercials are going. I'm paying attention even though no one else is (As I expected would happen. The curse of being in Advertising.) People are laughing. Chatting. And then this ad comes on:



And I screamed. SCREAMED. Silence fell over the party. Everyone looked at me. I had my face covered and buried in the couch cushions. Joe whispered, "She has a phobia of whales."

You know what, Chevy? SCREW YOU. I was expecting a lot of things from this Super Bowl, including overeating, giggling at the phrase "ball control", and watching a ton of great ads without FEAR FOR MY LIFE. And you have RUINED those plans for me

2. Boy Parts

You guys know I'm not the biggest sports fan. But I'm willing to gather where ever there are people talking smack and eating bean dip. I've learned through years of training (aka forced viewings of sporting events) how to pacify my time. And that is by scrutinizing the players.

Who has the most stickers on their helmets? Who has a weird last name? What does that tattoo say? What did he just mouth to the other player?

I figure, if other people are analyzing the plays, I can analyze the players just as well, and become just as adept. And YES. I tend to call their uniforms "outfits." And YES. I know what color Gatorade they're drinking before I know what direction they're running. And YES. Sometimes I end up noticing their junk.

But come on. I mean, they're wearing the tightest lower-half clothing next to ballet dancers. Things are played in slow motion. Knees run into things. Can you REALLY blame me when, during a silent moment, I pointed at the screen and shouted, "PENIS!"


3. Ads

Like I said before, I was the only one with a vested interest in the commercials at this party. I was fine with it. It did mean that people thought I was a little bit nutty because as soon as the game stopped, I would completely zone out of any conversation, mid-sentence and stare at the screen. That wasn't really the worst of it.

I was getting food in the kitchen when the ads TOTALLY SNUCK UP ON ME, so I ran back into the living room. I'm standing there, deep in analytical thought, when the host just goes, "You ok, Emily?"
I had been staring, frozen. My brow furrowed, my lips moving, holding a pair of tongs with chicken still in them. While everyone sat, chatting happily around me. They all turned to stare. Joe whispered, "She's in advertising."



Oh well. So much for being impressive. At least Joe's friends know who they're really dealing with now.

Chicago Vs. Wisconsin, And Not A Football In Sight

Well this weekend was an adventure. And by "adventure," of course I mean "near-death experience."



If any of you are wondering if you should drive from Chicago to northern Wisconsin in January, I'm going to say NO. And if you any of you are then wondering, "But what if--" I'm going to say, "SHHHHHHHHHHHH. Shhhhh. Shh. No."

Yes, we took a trip up to Mercer, Wisconsin. Lovely, lovely place. Wonderful, wonderful snow. Terrifying, terrifying drive. We actually had to pull-over on the way and spend the night in a hotel. So, awesome. One more Never Have I Ever that I can no longer use. "Never have I ever been so afraid of my life that I had to pull over and spend the night in Mosinee, Wisconsin--damn it, I HAVE done that."

It's a good thing that I had such a great weekend while there. Because if it had been anything less than awesome, 18 total driving hours in a snowstorm (that's right; snow storms both there and back) would have been juuuuuuust enough for an Emily Smash situation. I mean, I know Wisconsin natives hate Chicagoans who drive up and stay at their lake houses, but a) get over it, we're the reason you have tourism and b) you didn't have to create an entire state-wide avalanche to keep us away. Christ.

Luckily, once we were there, there were comfy beds, good friends, warm fireplaces, rocking chairs, homemade breakfasts, and lots and lots of alcohol.


...And a lot of stuffed animals on the walls.

Also, there was Bananagrams, which is like individual Scrabble. I'm no longer allowed to play because apparently I am the Bobby Fischer of Bananagrams. Also, at one point we decided to play Dirty Bananagrams...let's just say one of my words was SEXROBOT and leave it at that.

Then there was cross-country skiing. Which I have never done. And here is my ultimate conclusion about it: screw YOU, cross-country skiing. SCREW. YOU.

They should change the name from "cross-country skiing" to "Here, NOW try to walk."


To be honest, I really liked cross-country skiing. Until it stopped being fun and started being "Damn it guys, WAIT THE HELL UP." I recognize that I'm not a physical specimen in athleticism. I get a little wibbly round the mid-section and YES, I strained a muscle while bench pressing 20 pounds a few weeks ago. But you know what? I get up. I move. I burn some calories, and I do it for ME. And when I'm suddenly thrown into an athletic team effort, it stops being for me, and starts being about either keeping up or trying to not look like an idiot. And if anyone remembers the Falling Down The Stairs On My First Day Of Work incident of '07, I am especially good at looking like an idiot when I am trying very hard not to.

Of course, the extra long, extra skinny pair of skis I got matched with didn't help. It was very reminiscent of the group bike race I did where I was a block behind everyone for hours until I switched with someone for a bike where the wheels actually had air in them. It's like the malfunctioning equipment FINDS ME. "Hey look, that girl looks like she has no natural coordination whatsoever. Quick, make yourself look usable."

Then there's also the fact that my right foot turns out a little when I walk. Which is not a huge deal on a day-to-day basis, but when you emphasize it by attaching a big stick to each foot, yeah. Things get a little sloppy.



And thus ends another athletic activity that I cannot/will not be a part of. Ah well. Somehow I find myself trapped in the middle, between Girls Who Go To Spas and Girls Who Do Outdoor Things. I'm not exactly sure where I sit, but I think it's somewhere near the fireplace with a glass of wine and a book.

Consider Me Miles Davis (Or: My Most Embarrassing Post Yet.)

I am not what you'd call a particularly outgoing person. I second guess myself and clam up in front of anyone who I find intimidating.

Sure, I have momentary spurts of outgoing insanity, generally leading to me embarrassing myself. Like in the 8th grade when we had a mock-discussion on the pros and cons of slavery, where I stood up and tried to shame everyone who was fake "pro slavery" with a heart-felt speech.

GOD. I relive that moment at least once a week.

But I'm really kind of shy most of the time. I don't tend to make friends with people until they come up to me and tell me, "We're friends now." "Oh...okay. Wanna watch Friends and write down all the funny quotes in a notebook for no reason?" "SURE!" *skip arm-in-arm into the sunset*

My shyness was especially apparent as a kid. I was terrified of authority. TERRIFIED. And of course, by "authority," I mean anyone over the age of 12. When I still had spiked hair and dressed kinda like a boy, we had to line up in two boy/girl lines for our first ever trip to the library (EXCITING!!!) So of course, I got in the girl line. I AIN'T NO BOY. Before we left, the librarian noticed me. Thinking I was a smart-ass kid, she scoffed, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the boy's line. And I was too shy to correct her. Me, the one who had decided that I wanted a TAIL, was too shy to actually correct someone who thought perhaps I was not a girl. So what did I do? I shuffled back into the girl line, hoping she wouldn't notice. Of course she did. Again, she thought I was one of those, so she dragged me back to the boys line. Aaaaaand I slunk back. Finally, the entire class erupted, "SHE'S A GIIIIIRL!!!" And the librarian was embarrassed beyond anything. Poor, poor, permed lady.

This was a problem for me throughout elementary school. Not the tomboy thing, the shy thing. It was such a problem, that I peed my pants once a year for five years. OH YES. I am about to chronicle my bladder problems for you right now. ENJOY.

1. Preschool

Nap time. We had to sleep on these little mattresses they'd make us put down. But one day, everyone decided that they'd all have to pee during nap time. Followers is what they were. Damn followers. NONE OF YOU HAD TO PEE AND I'M SURE I MET YOU AGAIN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND NEVER KNEW THAT YOU WERE THE REASON FOR MY DEMISE THAT DAY. Buttons and Bows. 89. I will find all of you.

So there was a string of kids going to pee, and the teachers were rolling their eyes and dragging the kids off and I couldn't manage to get in there before another kid decided it was THEIR turn to go next. Well, you can imagine what happened. That mattress did not stay dry.

The traumatic part, though, is that when my parents came to pick me up, my teachers CORNERED me with them and demanded that I admit to peeing the mattress. Well eff that noise! I'm not embarrassing myself in front of God and country! I denied that accusation tooth and nail. Until they did their STARING DISAPPROVINGLY trick on me, and I'm pretty sure I crumbled.

2. Kindergarten

Gym class. We were all sitting on the yellow circle, learning how to play The Lone Ranger (aka free-for-all Dodge Ball [By the by, it is the fault of my gym teacher that I thought it was "Hi-Ho silver" and not "Hi-YO Silver", so please take it up with her.]) So we're sitting there and she's talking, and I've got my hand raised. She ignores it. I raise it higher--maybe she didn't see it. Ignores me. I flail. Ignore.

Finally, I ran out of the gym. But it was too late. Not only did I pee my pants, but I did it as my entire class watched.

That's right.

And people wonder why I never dated a boy from my school through high school. "Don't go to the dance with HER, she peed her pants in Kindergarten and I SAW IT."

AND IT GOES ON.

3. First Grade

T-Ball. Oh yes. The first and last time I ever played an organized team sport. T-Ball, where my team name was "The Gold Team." Where I threw the ball to whoever seemed like they wanted it more. Where they put me in left field where NO 1st grader could hit it except one time, when of course the ball hit me in the face and I cried until every coach and assistant coach came out to inspect my teeth.

THAT T-ball.

So I hit the ball. Which was quite an accomplishment for me, considering the ball was stationary in front of me. I ran and made it to first. Again, an accomplishment. Uh-oh. That's when I realized it. I had to pee. But I couldn't stop the game--then the adults would yell at me! And I couldn't just run to the port-a-potty like that kid on AFV. Sooo...dance around a little. Yeah, that's good. That's working. Dancing. Dancing. WHY ISN'T ANYONE HITTING THE BALL SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?? Oh right, because there's no such thing as "strikes" in T-ball. Dancing, dancing, dancing, annnnnnnnd....peeing. Nothing I could do. The first baseman just looked at me in amazement. But otherwise, no one noticed. For the rest of the game, I sat there in my pee-pants, acting like nothing was wrong. It wasn't until we got our fig newtons and Mondo that I worked up the courage to tell my Mom. "Oh, Emily," she said. As if a) I had done it on purpose and b) as if it was like you couldn't just throw the pants in the wash. JEEZ, MOM. There ARE strikes in "making your child feel bad for her bodily functions" and YOU are on strike 2.

4. Second Grade

This one was a little different. See, while we were watching some Discovery Channel show, I started to feel a little woozy. Miraculously, though, whenever I set my head on the desk, I felt better. My evil witch of a teacher, MS. WIEAND, (God rest her soul) came around and told me to pick my head up. Now granted: this is the point in which I should have told her that I didn't feel well. Meh. I was terrified of her. And I'm pretty sure that I thought I could just SHAKE IT OFF. So I begrudgingly raised my head and watched the rest of the movie, my stomach gurgling all the while.

Later, when the movie was over, Ms. Wieand decided that now was the time for her to clean out her supply closet. You know, while she had minions to boss around. So she's up on a ladder, nose deep in construction paper, and it hits me. Things aren't sitting right, and I have limited time. So I try to interrupt her and ask to go to the bathroom, and she doesn't hear me. I sit back down. Nope. Nope. Back up. But at that point? Too late. *Blarg-larg-larg-larg!* Right on the orange reading rug.

5. 3rd grade

I've mentioned this one before. We switched class for Science. We were in Mrs. Barkley's class learning about the different kinds of clouds. You know, talking about RAIN and SPRINKLES. I raised my hand to use the bathroom, and she didn't call on me. And I was too shy to say anything. Her loss. Left a nice present for her on my red-orange chair. And a nice present for whoever's chair that usually was. Whoopsee.

Luckily, that was the last time (save an incident when I was 13 at summer camp, but that wasn't shyness. It was a very intense scavenger hunt.) I think in general, I've learned to speak up for myself to people I find intimidating. Why just today, I made a snarky comment to my boss that I absolutely should have kept to myself. So...mission accomplished?

Thanks for liking me and "liking" me, guys!

Emily And A Drunk Guy: A Conversation

On Friday all the interns at our agency got treated to a Cubs game. As I strolled back to our spot with a beer and a hot dog (as God intended it), I was confronted with a group of standing Reds fans. All standing there like a bunch of standing things. So I say in my cutest, flirtiest, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way-this-hot-dog-won't-eat-itself voice,

"Excuse me, boys (they are all around 40), I've got to get through here."

And that's when it starts. Some drunk guy, taking what I'm sure was astute note of my skirt and boobs, decided to be hilariously interactive. While all his friends move out of my way, he says, "It'll cost ya!"

Oh yeah? Really? Will it? ...SEE? Even now, I CANNOT come up with a good comeback to that line! What do I say? WHAT? So of course, asking me to think of one on the fly was a total disaster. Add the immense amount of sunlight, the already-consumed beer, and the sheer number of people around me waiting for a response, you can imagine how it all went down, I'm sure. But just in case you can't, here's the play-by-play.

Drunk Guy: I'll cost ya!
Emily: Okay...well...yeah. Pffssh.
DG: So what is this? [noting my plain gray shirt] Are you a Reds fan or what?
Emily: No, I'm a Cubs fan. Kind of. I just, I had a shirt, er, a blue shirt. But I lost it! And who loses a shirt?!
DG: Maybe someone stole it.
Emily: Yeah, probably some Cincinnati...jerk!
DG: Alright...
Emily: I'M SORRY I'M BAD AT COMEBACKS NOW LET ME GO BACK TO MY SEAT WITH MY $6.50 CUP OF BUD LIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

It was disastrous. Not unlike the game (zzzzzZZING!)

Anyway, that's all I have for all y'all right now. Got a bit of a work...thing...the next few days. I'd explain it but it's TOP SECRET!!!1 (not really, it's just kinda boring to explain) So I might be kinda MIA for a bit. But in the meantime, won't you become a fan of this blog? Look on over to the right-hand margin. Click the ol' thumbs up sign there and you're good to go! Ta!

What I Did Today Instead Of Writing You A Post Worth Reading On Tuesday

1. Finally watched Alice in Wonderland, the New Class
And you know what? I LIKED it. So take that. The hero was a girl in a suit of armor and she didn't end up in love at the end. That's enough to get all those little feministic pieces of me all fluttery. Now if only Helena BC and JDepp would get together with Cameron Diaz and Glenn Beck and agree to stop saying things ever, all would be right with the world.

2. Worked out
Except since we moved I have to go to an inferior gym coughBALLYcough and they don't have individual TVs, only the ones in the front.

GOD my life is SO HARRRRRD.

No, but seriously it's a pain in my ass (literally--zing!) because they set half the TVs to special gym channels that are useless, and the others to ESPN and CNN. And I'm sorry. I am sweating my ass off over here on your slimy machines. Is it too much to ask for a little prime time? Seriously. All I need is a decent plot line to distract me from the suffering happening in the inside of my body. I do not like my choices of Some Team versus Who Cares, or an interview with that bald southern alien man.

3. Fretted over the lack of eggs I own in my Facebook flash restaurant game
Yeah. You want to fight about it? What.

4. Tried and failed to come up with a decent headline.
Headlines are also harrrrrrrd. Why do I have to wriiiite themmmmmm??
Oh, right because I'm a copywriter and that was my conscious choice and it's basically what I get paid to do all day. *Sigh* GOD, the things I do for you, expensive Nordstrom bras. THE THINGS I DO.

5. Successfully cooked chicken that didn't make me feel like gagging
I'm a freaking culinary genius over here. Thursday is homemade sloppy joes and YEAH. You're jealous.

And that is all. Special shout out today to my little brother, John, who I dreamt got hit on the head when a car flew over him and instead of ducking, he video taped it. Thanks for automatically making my day feel sad and terrible. I hate you. Please don't die.

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.

Talking Derby

Question: Did I spend most of my weekend watching Gilmore Girls and eating butter cookies?
Answer: Did you REALLY need to ask that?

Question: Did I also have a rockin' weekend?
Answer: Why yes! Yes I did!

On Saturday I had an awesome date night with Joe, which you do not need to hear about EXCEPT for the fact that I have learned something viciously important to your lives: Nutella-flavored things are disappointing--HEAR ME OUT! Please, everyone, put down your pitchforks and your barraging tree trunks. Now, obviously, Nutella in the raw is the single greatest thing in existence. But Nutella cheesecake? Just tastes like chocolate cheesecake. It's a sad, harsh reality to just have thrown upon you, I know. But those are the facts. And sooner or later, you're just going to have to face them.

But enough with such trivialities!
For a solid fourteen-or-so hours now, I have had a whole new take on life, Nutella be damned (Yeah, I said it. WHAT.) Guys. I am in love with the roller derby.



Ever since my time as a tomboy, I have longed for such a lifestyle. My inner self actually has a slim, boyish figure, short, wind-swept blue hair, and tattoos up and down my arms. Of what? I don't know. But there they are.

I never really embraced my badass, blue-haired tomboyness, though. For one thing, I am not actually badass at all (see previous Gilmore statement.) Also, I just don't have the strong jaw/flat chest combination that I feel the look truly requires.

But yesterday I saw my first roller derby, and it has given me new hope for my inner blue hair.

First of all, these girls wear spankies. And I'm sorry, but I would look HOT whipping through time and space in a pair of those bad boys. What can I say? I've got good legs. Even if I gained 50 pounds, my legs would still be nice. Granted, I would look like a giant potato on toothpicks, but for some reason, the legs would still be intact. Thanks, genetics!

Secondly, cool names. In roller derby, you get to have a hardcore, kick ass new name! All you do is take your name and you use a pun to make yourself sound totally badass. Like Juanna Rumbel, Mel Content, or Zombea Arthur. I haven't quite decided on what mine should be, but I'm leaning toward Emily Killjoy or Death Shepard.

Thirdly, hip checks. So here's how roller derby works: There's an oval rink. Most girls on both teams are in one pack going in one direction. There are two girls in the back who have to fight through the pack and get to the front. They get points for passing girls on the other team. Basically, it's football going in one direction. (...With girls. On skates. In spankies.) So to be good, you've either gotta be wiley and fast and get through a pack of rock star girls, or you've gotta be one of those rock star girls.

I always thought that I would be good at football if a girl's team existed (do NOT suggest "Powderpuff" to me unless you want a knee to the groin.) I considered for one second joining girls' rugby in college, but I didn't like the idea of no padding and flesh being bitten off. But roller derby! Roller derby is my calling! There are hip checks AND elbow pads! There's light pushing! There's butt bumping! There's the speed of skates without the instability of aligned wheels! And there are girls with tattoos on their thighs! I could be one of those girls!

I've been loosely researching derby things all morning now--where rinks are, how to get in, blue hair dye...most likely I'll put Whip It into my Netflix queue and call it a day. But there is a chance I will actually put my mind to something for once. Granted, I haven't been on a real sports team since tee ball in the first grade. But maybe this is my second chance at tomboyness! You know, in a...spankies and cleavage kind of way.

Super Bowl Ads 2010: Naked Men. ...thanks?

"Emily," you are wondering, "you are the end-all be-all in the advertising world [how true]. What did you think of the Super Bowl spots?! We HAVE to KNOOOOWWWWW!"

I'm glad you guys asked. Overall, I actually thought they were well done. Some ads were hilarious or moving (I give sole credit to the copywriters) and some ads fell flat (I blame clients and clients only.) But in the end, everyone tried their darnedest. I've gotta say, it's not easy to make a good ad, no matter how much money you throw at it. Especially after you hear, "Okay, it's gotta be great, and it's gotta be seriously funny. Oh, and millions of people will criticize it when you're done...even the ones who know nothing about it."

Of course, my favorite ad was done by the best agency in the whole wide world: Goodby, Silverstein and Partners *cue angelic music*. They did the Denny's spots:



Aren't they the best? I want to take GSP to a romantic location, whisper "I love you" in their ear, brush their hair back, and softly kiss them.

Anyway. This season I noticed the ads leaning in two ways: Men who hate women, and men who love men.

First of all, men who hate women. There were at least four ads this year that were based around emasculation. I guess it's true, that some (maybe most) women are just the worst. They're annoying, they make you do things you don't want to do, they try to change you. And that would suck. So...I'm with you. Women are terrible and we'd be better without them. Got it.

Then there was the plethora of half- to mostly-naked men this year. What a crazy, random happenstance. The thing is, I read this Twitter post during the game: "It's official. Theme for this yrs SB Commercials: Men in their underwear. #brandbowl (Suppose it's time after years of half dressed women)"

So...here's the thing. After years (meaning "decades," right?) of half-dressed women who look like, I don't know, THIS perhaps?


You're saying we should feel vindicated by ads that look like THIS?


Yeah, that's the same. That's exactly, exactly the same. Now, this guy just tweeted that really quickly, and I'm not going to start putting all of women's rights on his shoulders. All I'm saying is--I'm all about men in their underwear. All about it. Even when they look weird, at least it's funnier than weird-looking men in clothes. But come on now. The men in their underwear clearly weren't for us women and gay men. So they must have been for you. You touchdown-dancing, chest-bumping, crotch-grabbing, pile on-inducing, butt-patting, women-hating...

...straight men?

Best Of?

One new thing I'd like to add to my blog is a list of some Favorite Posts so far. They say it helps increase viewership. And as I've said before, being a middle child means that my goal in life is to get as much attention as possible from those who are averse to giving it.

So I feel like at this point, I've got enough posts to start telling people which ones to read (and which they can skip, let's be honest here.)

I was thinking, based on the reactions I've received from people:

1. As I recall: Moses
2. Feminism
3. Cheese Knives.

What do you think? Are there any more that strike you as good enough that if someone read that one--and only that one--that they'd want to keep reading more random things I say? Help a lonely, deranged, unemployed copywriter out.

I'm looking at YOU,
Sra M.
Laura M.
Erin R.
Kristin R.
Kim L.
Katie G.
Hannah S.
Sara G.
Margaret (Z)N.
and
Adrienne C. & Family

...God, I need to get more guy friends. Maybe I should stop making fun of sports so damn much. Well at least you, TOO:

Keith P.
and
Joe-P C.

Super Bowl 2010 Prediction: Who To Root For

Start placing your bets now, people. I have your scientific Super bowl prediction. With my MASSIVE knowledge of sports, I found it easy to weigh the pros and cons of this year’s Big Game. So here we go. Sports Center, eat your heart out.

PUMP UP NFL THEME:
DUN dun dun dunnnnnnn (BUM BUM, BUM BUM)

The Colts

I have family in Indy: +1

The Colts seem a little too satisfied with themselves: -1

But it’s Indiana. Give them some slack. They have nothing: +1

Which Manning is on this team? Who cares, someone has to stop them: -1

Their mascot is possibly the cutest mascot ever: +1

The Colts beat the Bears in 2007: -1,000,000


The Saints

At first I thought the Jets were playing and I was excited to sing West Side Story during the game. But it’s the Saints: -1

The city’s had it rough the past few years: +1

But still, at least they aren’t Indiana: -1

They have the shinier helmet: +1

Their mascot is a Saint Bernard. Not an actual saint. WTF: -1

Gumbo: +1


Final Tally
Colts: -999,999 Saints: 0

Looks like I’m rooting for the Saints! GooooOOOOOO SAINTS!



(added note: I love her, but seriously I kinda hope Liv Tyler dies right before the Super bowl to bring new meaning to "Super bowl X-LIV." Anyone? No one? Pff.)

10 Facebook Faux Pas You May Have Committed

You know people who claim they knew a band before they got big and now everyone knows them and they’re too commercial and The Man and all that nonsense? *Whine, whine* I knew Kings of Leon / Death Cab / Plain White Ts before anyone else! I hate it when bands make good songs and then people recognize their abilities! Waaaaaaaaaah.

Yeah. I am that person with Facebook. Facebook was invented in Fall 2003; the same time I started college. I was a hater for a good solid month, and succumbed while it was still only available to college students on large campuses.

All this to say, I think I know a thing or two about what is—and what is not—acceptable on Facebook. It’s like with fashion, and I take the Stacy/Clinton mantra to heart: just because someone created it does not mean you need to pull it over your head. So here are a few things you should know about unacceptable Facebook actions.

1) Poking:

Poking was the very first Facebook faux pas (The second was deleting someone’s entire wall. Remember that hot mess?) Poking is Old School Facebook. It was what made Facebook interactive. It was basically the first version of “liking” something: It takes one click, you don’t have to type a single word, and you still get to tell someone, “Hey, I know you exist.” But then people started poking back and forth eighty million times. Frankly, I’m of the opinion that Facebook poking is mostly obnoxious because ACTUAL poking is obnoxious.

2) 'Friending' someone who is not your friend:

Everyone has at least 50 friends who they aren’t really friends with. If you saw them at a bar, you might talk to them...begrudgingly. And that’s, well, I personally think that’s acceptable. But what’s not acceptable are the people who you would never in a MILLION YEARS consider a friend. There are a few versions of these:

- Strangers! Lately I’ve gotten a few friend requests from mystery men who I’ve never met and who only have six other friends, all of which are young Asian girls. Yikes.

- People You’ve Never Said A Word To! These are people who you remember...slightly. The truth is, you completely forgot they existed until they friended you. Maybe they were in your Spanish class? Or was it Philosophy? Oh wait, no. It was that play in middle school. You were Townsperson #11 and they were Townsperson #48.

- Enemies! These are people who you remember—AND HOW. What blows my mind are the people who accept enemies as Facebook friends. They usually claim it’s just out of curiosity, or because they’ve “grown up.” WHATEVER. Special note to Rachel A: You were a terrible person in high school. You made my Sophomore and Junior year a living hell. And you were a whore. Will I be your Facebook friend?! *Ignore.* (Burns, doesn’t it?) And special note to all you who are ‘friends’ with her: SHAAAAAAAAAAAAAME.

3) Applications that mimic real life:

“Emily sent Joe a rose!” “Joe just took Emily out on a date!” “Emily just accidentally virtually dropped Joe’s present and it broke into a million virtual pieces!”

4) The Over-Responder:

Now this is a toughy. Because I legitimately like when people respond to things I do and say on Facebook. That’s why I do and say them: so others will see it. But, as Feist says: There’s a limit to your love. A-love, a-love, a-love. And sometimes I wish someone more random would recognize my hilarious status update.

5) Status update abusers:

These aren’t just people who update a lot. I’m fine with that, as long as they’re worthwhile. These are true abusers. My peeves:

- Laying out your day. No way! You’re going to the gym AND shopping AND making garlic chicken with spinach salad AND watching American Idol? Wow, I can’t believe you’ve changed so much since we did that group project on Romeo and Juliet.

- Awkwardly Emo. Eesh, man. There are bad days, and then there are BAD DAYS. And those ones don’t go on Facebook. They go into your Mood Journal.

- Live sports commentary. Aw man! Can you believe Rodriguez just did that crazy thing? What?! A flag?! What kind of RBI touchdown tight end hetero foul ball is THAT?!...Thank God I have your status updates, or how would I know what a terrible coach Lovey is?

6) Status chatting:

My Status: Emily is watching The Office.
Acceptable response: “Me too! *funny quote*"
Unacceptable response: “Hey Boooooo! Let’s chill!!!1 When are you back in town?!?!?!?!?!!?!~*<3

7) Mean Photo Tagging:

You look adorable. I look like a red-eyed turtle. Come on.

8) Poor Grammar and Spelling:

My personal vendetta, I know. But seriously, people. You don’t need to dissect a participle here. Just get common English words right so I can spend the day without my eye twitching. In fact, here. And if you know how to add single digits, you should know when to use an apostrophe. No excuses.

9) Chain Letters:

This one tends to be in the Mom milieu (though I'm blessed with a mother who doesn't do this). But I feel for all you out there with those loved ones. The ones who are still waiting on their check from Bill Gates. The ones who had to pass it on or else they’d have ten years bad luck! The ones who have a hilarious joke for you but you just have to ScRoLl dOwN!!~!~!~!~!!!

I filled out those surveys. I passed along those emails. I laughed at those jokes. But then Pre-Algebra started getting hard and my braces were too tight to care anymore.

10) Forgetting that my wall is public:

Wall writing is for things that are short, sweet, and to the point. They are for things that are appropriate for all audiences. Anything else goes in a “message.” Thems the rules. This rule tends to be broken by: the long-winded, the assholes, and the old.


Finally, I need to say that there is one last faux pas: actually getting offended by what others do on Facebook. I mean, yeah, some people seriously don’t know when to stop sending you requests or posting weird things. But it’s Facebook, and you have the ability to delete whatever you want, all from the comfort of your couch. You also have the ability to go outside. So breathe, release your shoulders, maybe send them this post, and go make a sandwich.

But wait! Keep those shoulders hunched for one more second! I know there are things I’ve missed here. In fact, I secretly left a few out because I wanted a nice, even ten. What haven’t I mentioned? Leave me a comment (and leave your name/first initial/secret code name so I know who you are!)

Sports Show Idea

I have an ingenious idea for a television show. COPYRIGHTED!! (When you scream "copyrighted!", that means it's copyrighted, right?)

I want to make a sports show--HEAR ME OUT!!--for the non sports fan. For the person who is forced to watch sports with others, like their boyfriend, dad, wife, whomever. I have been one such victim. And it is a sad, lonely road to walk down, my friends.

Here's the premise: We start a radio show that airs at the same time as The Big Game. The radio show consists of me and my college friends, Laura and Kathy (who I am aware you don't know, but you will grow to love). And we comment. I will say idiotic things, Laura will make innuendos and funny retorts, and Kathy will explain things to us when we don't know what's going on. For example:

Emily: Okay...there's a bunch of dudes getting ready to start hiking the ball. I believe they'll be throwing it over to the left there.
Laura: Whoah--those white pants show a little much, am I right? Aaaand they seemed to have hiked the ball to the guy with the dreadlocks sticking out of his helmet, which I personally find distracting.
Emily: I believe he is the tight end.
Everyone: ((giggles.))
Kathy: That's absolutely tight--I mean right, Emily, and he's taking that football all the way to the ten! What a fine, tight end that man is.

And that sort of thing. And anyone who is forced to watch a sports game can tune into our show, maybe listen on headphones, and giggle along with us while their sports fans yell and scream and get angry about things they can't control.

I haven't figured out how we'd be able to comment on every game ever, but...details, details.

WHO'S WITH ME?!