Light As A Feather, Stiff As A Hoard...er

Hey guys, hey guys, hey guysguysguys.

Look, I'm going to be straight with you. I came here to write a post and got lost in a sea of Liz Lemon YouTube clips and now I can't remember where my brains were.

BLERG! NERDS! *EYE ROLL* I WANT TO GO TO THERE!


Oh my God, STOP BEING ME.

There, I think it's out of my system.

So Wednesday and Thursday are the big moving days. It'll be two solid days of me alternating between yelling at Joe and pretending to not be mad at Joe while telling everyone that "I'm fine, I'm FINE! NOW WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST MOVE THIS G.D. LAMP BEFORE I START USING MY FINGERNAILS AS WEAPONS?!"

What can I say? It'll be my 8th move in 9 years. I know how I work.

But then after we've moved our stuff to studio/storage unit, we'll have two full days of peace and box-scrounging before Joe walks out of my life. Well not really out of my life. I'm going to see him once or twice a month while he's at his contract gig. Yay being in your late twenties and going to weddings every weekend!

So this weekend I had people over to take my unwanted stuff. It was therapeutic. I am genetically both pack rat and unencumbered garbage-tosser. My father is of the "salad dressing doesn't expire" and "sure, you can never have too many hammers" persuasion, while my mother is from the "throw it away before she gets home for summer break, why would she want a Stay Puft action figure any more" side.

Side note: I think about that marshmallow man every day, Mom. EVERY. DAY.



I have a little of both hoarder and thower-outer in me, which I guess is supposed to make me well-rounded but really just creates extreme interal anguish every time I move or clean.

It's an empty tin. Toss it.
But I could put things in it! Keep it.
What, more things you don't need? Toss it.
But I have a lot of lip gloss that could go in there.
You don't wear lip gloss because it makes your hair stick to your lips when it's windy. Toss it.
Pencils?
No.
Eyeshadow?
No.
Thumb tacks?
No.
Lip gloss?
WHAT DID I JUST SAY.

I actually think I've done really well with getting rid of unnecessary things. Did I finally get rid of some muscle relaxants from 2004? Yes. Even though they did not have mold on them or anything. They were probably FINE. And just because I didn't trust something 7 years expired that is supposed to render me unconscious doesn't mean I wouldn't need them SOME time in the future. But they were still tossed. Because that's how important it was for me to finally purge myself of my literal extra baggage.

Joe also did quite well. And especially since school is over, he got rid of tons of supplies. We put everything in a pile...which then turned into a few piles...which then became our entire dining area filled with stuff that we didn't need or use. I was amazed at how much stuff we'd had hiding in our apartment that we didn't even use. This is what happens, I suppose, when you are blessed with a lot of storage space: a nice, clean apartment that is SECRETLY FILLED WITH CRAP. Luckily a bunch of people came over and claimed stuff. It's amazing how much more awesome things seem when they're free. (The first time I had Potbelly was their opening day when they were giving away everything for free and I still maintain it was the best meal of my life.)

The rest of everything goes to Goodwill. I was reminded by Jess that Goodwill was the NON homophobic charity company COUGHsalvationarmyCOUGH so that's where it's going. It'll be nice to have had such a purge. Everything I now own has been deliberated with the same level of scrutiny as a line of children picking the next Red Rover runner. The things moving forward with me to the other side are the biggest, toughest of children. Only the truly best nail polish. The truly best note pads. The truly best muscle relaxants.

I feel light as a feather. A feather that still probably has way too much stuff.

Potential Life Changes

I haven't really talked about what is going on in my life recently. This is because it is so MIGHTILY up in the air right now.

The deal is, Joe graduates in a few minutes (or like a month or two but you get it) and he's looking for work. And APPARENTLY the job market is a little touch-and-go at the moment OR SO I HEAR. So it's not a very stress-free process. And then throw ME into the mix and what do you get, boys and girls? Seven ulcers. That is what you get.

In my opinion, we've both been really good about taking each other into account when it comes to next steps for his job. Open-minded. I told him that if we have to move, we can. I'm not going to keep us cooped up in Chicago if that's not the right option--just because I'm afraid to leave. And in exchange, he gets to continue to date me. NO, no. ...Yes. NO! In exchange, he has to make sure we both approve of the city, and that it has good Advertising gigs so I don't have to become the next Real Housewife of Boise or something.

At first, the motto was "Chicago first, but if we must, maybe another city." But the more and more we talk about it, the more the motto changes to "F*ck it, let's do this."

Obviously nothing is set AT ALL. And Joe is trying hard for Chicago-based places. But if it has to happen, here are some of our current options, and why I'd be happy to move to any of them:

SAN FRANCISCO:


1. Francisco! That's fun to say.
2. Apparently the weather is constantly 50-70 degrees. SIGN. ME. UP. Plus, I can rock the light jacket like no body's BEESWAX.
3. It seems really laid back. And everyone I know there is really awesome. It must have some connection to the weather. People don't get cooped up for months on end, nor do they get irritated by constant boob sweat.
4. I do not have a Sassy Gay Friend. Maybe I could finally find one in San Fran.

SEATTLE:


1. Again with the laid back attitude.
2. I see your "it rains too much" and I raise you "It rains while you sleep or while you enjoy a nice cup of tea and a book on a lazy Sunday afternoon." Game set match.
3. Two of my aunts live near or around there. My aunts are super adorable.
4. Fresh fish at the fish market MIGHT mean I am able to choke down seafood.

PORTLAND:


1. I feel like Portland is like Seattle, but with less water and more hipsters.
2. In preparation for a potential move, I watched all the Portlandia episodes on Hulu and I have to say, Portland might just be the rich man's Wicker Park. And I love Wicker Park.
3. I could get a bike. I could get a bike and ride it around everywhere. And since everyone else has a bike, it would be way cooler and I would not fear for my life because people actually WATCH for bikers unlike SOME cities coughCHICAGOcough.
4. Joe and I could recreate the Oregon Trail and, as always, Hannah would get dysentery.

LOS ANGELES:


1. The constantly nice weather means I could get a scooter instead of a car and be like Jason Segal in I Love You, Man or like Zooey Deschanel in Yes Man. Basically any movie involving a scooter and ending in Man? That could be me.
2. I would be SIGNIFICANTLY closer to Future Husband John Krasinski. A plus for me, a negative for Joe. But these are the sacrifices we must make.
3. Higher potential for becoming famous. I assume everyone who lives in LA is famous, right?

So that's it. That's what's going on right now. Yes it is crazy. Yes it is frustrating not knowing for sure what city I'll be in within a few months. Yes I would be moving far away from my family and friends. Yes I have never lived outside Illinois. Yes it is creeping dangerously close to the end of our lease. Yes I need to go chug some Maalox right now.

What What WHAT Are You Doing.

Dear everyone,

I am currently in love with the Second City's "Sassy Gay Friend" youtube videos. They actually get funnier the more you watch them, to the point where I went from "haha" to "LOL" to "ROFL!!!!11!!!!1!!!1"

And I am not even joking. I really was rofl-ing. Like, on my back, kicking my legs in the air laughing. NO BUT SERIOUSLY. ASK JOE.

If you've seen Black Swan, kindly watch this one (It's my fave):

Maybe! No.

If you haven't watched Black Swan, any other one will do, but may I suggest this one:



In other news, I have just discovered how spoiled Joe has made me. I was over at Carla's (of "Wait, you're not Jewish?" fame) eating chocolate & peanut butter ice cream and watching Modern Family, as one does, and I requested to split a particularly large chunk of peanut butter. And Carla's husband, Bryan, wouldn't let me! The nerve! I may or may not have thrown a small temper tantrum. Aaaaaand I may or may not have called him a fat whore.

"No, Emily, I am not Joe. I will not split things with you just because you don't feel like eating the whole thing."

"But...but..."

It was the moment I realized: Joe basically does everything I ask him to do. Granted, I don't ask him to do much besides split peanut butter chunks and get me things when I can't get up because I'm busy snuggling with Regina Phalange. I came home later and asked him about it, and he said, "Well, yeah, I let you have stuff if it's something that will make you happier than it would me."

"Oh, so is that why you never let me eat the first bite of your pizza slices?"

"Exactly."

That's real love. It's giving but it's honest, and it will always, always choose the first bite of pizza over you.

One Small Step For Man (And His Partner)

And woman and HER partner.

Today, Illinois will be recognizing Civil Unions. I'm happy. It's a good step. But why stop there? Let's get equal up in here, up in here.

A Plea Before You Vote

So mid-term elections are tomorrow. If you are one of the unlucky ones like me, who suffer through garbage campaign ads, you are well aware: Everyone is terrible, the world will crumble if anyone is elected, and no one is looking out for your interests but only their own.

So if you're voting tomorrow, please use your head. Vote for people that agree with your general interests and pray that, if it turns out they ARE the terrible, money-laundering, black-and-white photo the ads say they are, pray they'll be a hilarious one like Rod who you can at least make jokes about on the interweb, while the smoke slowly plumes from your head.

My only two personal interests, if it weren't obvious from the fact that I mention them all the time, are education and gay rights.

For the former: I have no idea what needs to be done or who should be elected in order to fix it, all I have to say is FIX IT.



Just someone for the love of God, fix our education system so my dad can read aloud to his students again, and doesn't have to stick to the "if it isn't tested it doesn't matter" mantra that has become The Public School System. My personal idea: why don't we just ask Switzerland (or whatever blonde country it is that's doing so well) what they're doing and then just copy them? They're pretty AND smart AND rich. I say, screw the American Dream. I want the Swiss Dream. And I want it to start in our schools.

And as far as gay rights go, I have tried and failed many times to write a gay marriage-centered post that doesn't end with me spitting out half-formed sentences of anger and bewilderment. And then I found this article from Newsweek, "The Conservative Case For Gay Marriage" which was written before Prop 8 was overturned (can I get a WHAT WHAT) and it's perfect. This is the most comprehensive articulation that I've seen of what people are saying against universal gay marriage and the logical arguments to refute them. So for today, I direct you there with a slow bow and a "namaste."

So if you vote tomorrow, I just ask you from my personal heart to yours: be nice to the kids and the gays. In both cases, they just want to have the same opportunities as you and I.

The Most Important Book You'll Ever Read

I have in my possession The Holy Grail. And, like Charlie's golden ticket, it is the kind of thing that one can only discover when one least expects it.

There I was, standing in an obscenely long line at the pharmacy. As my mind wandered, my eye caught sight of something strange. It was a book in the clearance bin. As I could see it, the title read, 'MEN WHO [$5.99] & THE DOGS". I stared, trying to figure out what the price sticker was covering up. Because, of course, my mind started going to all kinds of places.

Ahh, times were so simple back then (two days ago). So simple.

I reached for the book and removed the sticker. And this was what I beheld:



Sweet, sweet Lord. In case there was a question, God exists. God exists, and he is especially fond of me in particular. And by association, he probably likes you, too. But mostly me.

I flipped through this book with tears welling in my eyes, giggling and gasping at every page. I knew from the moment I read the title that this was the perfect gift to give someone. But when I opened the book I realized it wasn't a gift for someone. It was a gift...for the world.

I have been bequeathed a very real, very necessary item. And it would behoove me to share such an item with as many people as possible. Frankly, I can't think of a better way to reach the masses. So I give to you a sampling. If you'd like the entire thing, you'll have to come visit me, or buy it yourself. I highly suggest doing both. Because I'm not giving this bad boy away.

Here we go.

Are you ready?

Wait for it.....

Here we go for real. First picture.



Here is this book at its most basic: Man, sweater. Dog, matching sweater. "And, look, Barkley! Here's all the numbers I got from hot babes who love men that knit dog sweaters! Pages and pages of them!...what do you mean 'this is my mother's number written over and over again?' THAT IS NOT WHY I TAUGHT YOU TO READ."




Another great part about this book is the intro. I have this to say: Is my new dream to own a yarn/wine shop in small town Michigan? YES. ALWAYS.




This dog is such a trooper. Doing tricks in a knitted 'kerchief, and for what? A hand without a treat from a goony-looking man who is most assuredly in Dad jeans? You keep chugging along, lil guy. Don't you give up. Not on my watch.




Nothing like staring into the distance, surveying the land, and contemplating your two-level sweater.




Seriously, how ADORABLE is this picture? How adorable...and yet, how sad?




POLL:
A) A man with a sleeve tattoo would absolutely knit his own socks, just as assuredly as he would wear one of those 90s hemp sweaters.
B) A man with a sleeve tattoo would rather die than be caught knitting just as assuredly as he would rather die than drive a tan Volvo.
C) I can't decide but how hilarious is it that they very clearly included the sleeve tattoo to try and make the book seem more edgy?




What? WHAT? .....WHAT?!! I can't even...I don't even...This doesn't even....




I'm sorry, but there is no chance in the history of America that this man knit himself this sweater.




I'm sorry, but there is a high probability that THIS man knit himself this sweater. And that last guy's. And every sweater in this book. Twice.




"Ha ha ha...We are laughing and we are very good friends. Good buddies sharing a special moment. Laughing and enjoying our friendship, and someday we'll look back on this with much fondness."
"Dude...why am I on a chair in the middle of the house?"




Really? Does EVERYTHING in your life need to be knitted? How about a knitted food bowl?




Emily: "Huh. This guy's not terrible-looking. I mean, despite the fact that he's wearing the Christmas sweater his great aunt made him--wait. WAIT. WHAT IS THAT DOG WEARING?"....




OH MY GOD. KNITTED. MUSCLE SHIRT. FOR YOUR DOG. When Joe finally adopts Arf Vandelay Vandely Industries, I WILL learn to knit and this WILL be my first project and it WILL be amazing.




Sir, sitting in a Jeep Wrangler with your sunglasses on your head does not make up for the fact that you KNIT YOUR DOG A MUSCLE SHIRT OUT OF MULTICOLORED YARN.




"Come on, man. Pull yourself together. You can do this tonight. You can DO THIS. You're a strong, confident, totally rad Maltese in a sweater. Why WOULDN'T she date you? Come on. Suck it up."




Boy, DO I?! Do I EVER!! (Here comes the picture in 5...4...3...2...)




I remember the time--this was after 'Nam, see--when I would go fishing. Just me and the guys, you know? We'd sit along the lake, them with their dogs, me with little Bubbles...they'd spend their time cursing over lost fish and touching unsanitary worms. But me and Bubbles? Why, we'd just sit and knit, sit and knit. All weekend long. Good thing she was in charge of carrying the extra yarn, or I don't know WHAT we would have done.




If you take away the matching hat and the dog sweater, this isn't such a terrible picture. Just a guy whose sister made him a warm scarf. But you CAN'T take away the hat and dog sweater. YOU CAN'T. And therein lies the majesty of this book.





How much money are you willing to put down that Ted would win the Most High Maintenance Gay Man Ever Award? Because I am willing to put down quite a bit.




At first, you may look at this picture and think, "Well this guy isn't so bad." True, he has that once-nerdy charm about him. But then you remember that the sweater he's wearing doesn't come from Kohl's, but from his own needle-bearing hands. And then you really take a good look at his face and you notice that it has a bit of a creepy come-hither-so-I-can-kill-you look. And that reminds you of the nice man in Grey's Anatomy who turned into a mass murderer and OH MY GOD, MIRANDA BAILEY, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE HE IS ON YOUR FLOOR RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!1




Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer but you're still creepy, dude.




"You know what I need? A hat with deadlock-inspired yarn coming out from the top."
"But Gerald! That technique hasn't been invented yet! You'd be CRAZY to try that!"
"You just watch, Francine. It'll be big someday. HUGE."
"That's what she said."
"Touché, Francine. Touché."
Oh, I'm sorry. Were you guys wondering about the matching dog sweater? Well, wonder no more.




Soak it in. Soak it all in.




And finally, here is one of the two authors. I'm curious...what does tongue-in-cheek mean?

People I Saw On My Walk To Millenium Park

1) The second large-chested African American woman this week using her cleavage as a cell phone holster.

2) A gay couple deciding that they would visit Dollywood this year.

3) A family of Germans. The blonde sons were wearing matching Rugby shirts. On the back instead of someone's last name, it just said "COLLEGE".

4) A crazy homeless woman wearing leather pants.

I don't judge. I just observe.

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.

Cupcakes With Mustaches. It's For The Children.

So the other day I was walking to my gym and one of THOSE people was standing in my way. Looking at me. With a clipboard.

Oh, GOD.

Usually, these people are standing in groups in the middle of downtown, and they are easily ignorable because I am listening to my headphones and walking eighty billion miles an hour. But not this time, for I was fumbling to get out my membership card, take off my hat (so as not to appear unattractive to Cute Gym Worker Man) and turn off Britney Spears' Drive Me Crazy.

Suffice it to say, I was powerless. And then she caught me with a double whammy. She said, "Hello, do you have time to support same-sex marriage?" Why yes, ma'am. I always have time to support same-sex marriage. Especially because supporting same-sex marriage is something I usually do while also doing other things. Why, just the other day, I was eating a sandwich, watching TV, and supporting same-sex marriage all at the same time!

So I stopped. I figured: the woman had a clipboard, she wanted my support, I believe in all the same thing she believed...why, we may even become best friends. At best, I'd sign her little doohickey and then be on my way to Elliptical Hell.

This woman starts talking a mile a minute, and when I take a look at her little clipboard I notice--wait a minute. There is no list of signatures here! What have I gotten myself into? Oh my god, they're going to try to scare me straight. But I AM straight! Oh no wait...she just wants money.

I said, as nicely as I could, "Oh, do you want money?"
And, if I remember right, her response was something along the lines of "Blah blah at least $20 blah blah blah. PS. Blah."
And my response was, "Oh, heh heh....I don't have...well I mean I have, but I don't want...but I mean I support...but I just can't afford, but again with the support...well-wishes...proposition 8...my gym...money...unemployed...OKAY BYE! *Zzzzip!*" (That last part was me frantically running into my gym to get away from her.)

All this to say, I hate when people ask me to donate money. Even places where I know things are going to a good cause. Because on the one hand, giving money to people who need it is a good thing. Salvation Army at Christmas. Boys and Girls Club Toy Drive. Red Cross. ASPCA. This American Life podcasts. All good places to donate money. But with my bank account on a constant spiral downward, I just can't help that much--unless you want me to actually be one of the people ASKING for the money in about a week.

Thus, I give my time instead. Hence all the posts about volunteering. And lately, Adrienne and I have been involved with one such activity: a mustache-growing contest. Now, clearly since we cannot grow mustaches ourselves (if only...) we are given a weekly creative challenge while the natural growers do their thing. And the point of both is to get people to support your mustache growing/creating endeavors. This week, we were challenged to make a mustache out of any material we wanted and take pictures of it.

Adrienne and I are weird.

Let me get that out of the way right there, if you didn't pick up on that here. So instead of just cutting a mustache out of cardboard and taking pictures of it on statues, our cats, etc etc, we created a whole challenge for ourselves. We made little mustached cupcakes, and then sent them on adventures around the world.

Check it out.

Our goal is to be the most creative mustache team, have some fun, and also--you guessed it--to raise some money.

Any money donated to our cause goes to the place I tutor at. It's a non-profit writing and tutoring center. It's the place where a boy wrote this:


Which is, undisputedly, the single best piece of writing in existence.
These kids are from inner city schools, working off the public school system (which does not always do super well for them.) I've tutored a few kids now who come because they literally don't WANT to go home. Including a seven year old girl who had had a rock thrown through her living room window by a gang member. And yes, I tell you all that for pure and utter guilt factor.

What I'm telling you is this: I hate donating money. And I hate when people ask me to donate money. Because there are just so many good causes out there, I can't possibly give to them all. And anyway, I can't give money because I am piss-poor broke.

But maybe you are different. Maybe you have money. Or like to donate. Or just really like mustaches. Or cupcakes. Or...cupcakes with mustaches perhaps?

To donate money (any amount) you can go here. Scroll down, find Adrienne and I (second row, fourth column) and donate away! And remember: it's for the children.

As I Recall: Genesis. Killing The Gays and Fooling the Blind.

I went on a quest to figure out what story to do next, and discovered something: the Old Testament is completely insane. Which is something I guess I already knew, but seriously, guys. Seriously.

So I decided to just pull some quality samples for you. Trying something new here; these are stories that do actually follow along with the text (er...ish), because I didn’t even know enough to crappily retell them from memory and had to use Old Soggy.

So here are a few more things that go down in Genesis:

The Tower of Babel:

How did we get from Noah’s family to a billion people all over the earth, you ask? Simple answer! Forget Pangea. No science needed, guys. It’s covered. So there’s only a handful of people, they all speak the same mystery language (American English, I’m assuming), and they decide to work together and build a skyscraper. And God’s like, “BAH! Working together? Cooperation?! What is this, Sesame Street? Let’s shake things up around here!” So he takes his tongue of fire and makes everyone speak a different language. Then he picks them up by their scruffs and drops them off in different places around the world. Frankly, if I was the person who got stuck with Siberia, I’d be piiiiiissed.

Abraham:

There is nothing NOT frightening about this reenactment picture.

So Abraham was one of the early guys. At first, his name was Abram. But when he was 100 years old (literally,) God shows up, scares the crap out of him, changes his name to Abraham, and makes a whole bunch of promises to him.

Then he tells Abraham to circumcise everyone—the first of about 80 references to circumcision in this particular book. Someone’s got some Freudian issues, and I think his name is God. Finally, God tells Abraham that Abraham's going to bear a son, which cracks Abraham’s sh-t up. He seriously loses his mind laughing. “Oh, God. You’re a stitch! Seriously, have you considered comedy? Because that is honestly a good one.” And God just stands there with his arms crossed and blinks. Finally God’s like, “Ahem. Anyway, name him Isaac. See ya.” And then Abraham goes out and runs around with a scalpel, swishing it back and forth until he’s taken care of every dude in a 10-mile radius.

Later, when Isaac is a little older (and Abraham is rickety beyond comprehension,) God comes back to Abraham and tells him to burn Isaac as a sacrifice to God. Abraham gives a little heel click and goes off to do God’s bidding. He drags Isaac away, telling him they’re going to sacrifice a lamb. Things get a little suspicious when Abraham has a knife, some fire...and zero lamb. Isaac starts getting all shifty-eyed, but Isaac just brushes him off. “Nah, we’re cool. God’s going to give us a lamb when we get there.” Which Isaac is totally okay with. I guess during a time when God just shows up willy-nilly, I might believe that, too. So I’mma give Isaac that one. So Abraham’s setting everything up, he’s got Isaac tied and his knife quivering in the air when an angel finally shows up (I guess this time God was too busy to make a guest appearance?) and tells him “JK LOL! You don’t have to kill your son. It was a test!” At this point I’d find it hard to not at least grumble “ass” under my breath, but Abraham takes it all in stride, and they go back home.

Sodom and Gomorrah:


So Sodom was the town that was completely sinful. Or gay. I'm not totally sure. (Kinda skimmed it.) Either way, it's doomed. They give a little example of how outrageous this town is. So this nice guy named Lot lived there with his family. One night, two angels come to hang out with Lot, play a little poker maybe, have a few beers. You know, typical angel stuff. But every guy--ALL of them--in the town saw the two angels go into Lots house, and banged on the door, saying, “Hey, you just let two hot men into your house! Bring them out so that we can do them!” (Yeah. I said “do” like that.) Lot gives them a perfectly viable second option: “Please don’t sleep with these angels! Hey, you know what? I’ve got a couple virgin daughters! Take them instead!” And the Dad of The Year award goes to… Luckily, the men were all, “Girls, BLECH!!” So Lot runs back inside and the angels strike all the men blind, and I quote, “so that they were unable to find the door.” I’m sorry. You are suddenly BLIND. Are you seriously like, oh I can’t see. No matter! Sleeping with a stranger THIS SECOND is more important than my SIGHT. Now where is that damn door? *grope, grope*

So I guess Sodom (and then this other neighboring town, Gomorrah) were all covered in sin and yet another hopeless cause. Too bad God had already promised no more floods, so he takes the next route and goes with fire (earth and wind come later). First, though, he tells Lot to take his family and run away and not look back OR ELSE, FOR REALS. Lot’s wife, who doesn't understand the phrase FOR REALS, turns back. BAM. God turns her into a pillar of salt. She may have been stupid, yes, but at least now she's delicious. And useful in preserving sacrificed lamb meat.

Jacob and Esau:

When Isaac (poor, unsacrificed Isaac) grows up, he has twin boys: Jacob and Esau. Isaac is a fan of Esau, because Esau is a great huntsman and Isaac really likes meat. Seriously, that’s why.

So Isaac is old and blind and he tells Esau to go out and get him some meat, and then Isaac will bless him. Jacob finds out about this and goes and does it even faster. Even though he is the lesser huntsman. Whatever. So his plan is to just pretend to be Esau, but since he’s a hairless wonder and Esau is a beast, he needs to make sure he is nice and hairy like his brother. So he covers his hands and the back of his neck with the bloody skins of the goats he just killed. (Hello, Tyra? Yeah, I have an idea for Cycle 13.) Newly Hairy Jacob goes in to see his father, who actually buys the goat fur. Seriously, how hairy is Esau? Is he the original Wolf Man? No matter. So he believes it and blesses Jacob and tells him he’ll be successful and everyone will bow down to him. Jacob gives the thumbs up and leaves. Then Esau comes in with his perfectly trimmed goat and naturally fuzzy skin and they all discover the shenanigans that have just gone down. Esau demands to be blessed too, but Jacob says, “TOO BAD! One blessing per son! I can’t just say words TWICE, boy! I’m no magician. Now you’re doomed. Enjoy!” Esau’s pissed, Jacob flees, Isaac dies.


...or did I just BLOW YOUR MIND?

So those are the big parts of Genesis. Joseph’s in there, too, but it’ll have to wait for another day. I also skipped a story where one of Jacob’s daughters is raped, so her brothers make every man in the town get circumcised and then kill them in the night. It’s up there with Monte Cristo on the revenge scale. Awesome.

So thanks for reading, thanks for comments!

Poetry and Grammar, your two faves

I didn't blog yesterday. Or, really, I couldn't. I couldn't, because I went to a poetry thing. Poetry slam. Whatever. SEE?! I CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE! IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE!!

So the deal is, I went to this poetry whatever with Adrienne and it was AWESOME. (Check it out here) I know nothing about poetry, but I assume that it has to do with rhythym? And not putting a lot of words on one line? Question mark? Clearly I don't know how to write them. But I'm not going to lie, I am pretty awesome at the 3rd grade version of poems.

There once was a dog named Roof.
Upon his small tail was a poof.

Case closed, I am awesome at it. But these poems with their symbolism and their anger and their humor and their...moving your arms when you read them... it was incredible. It was like Robin Williams in What Dreams May Come when he dies and he's all "What IS this magical place?" and then he finds out it's actually familiar, because it's all from his mind and the hot Asian girl is his daughter and it's weird.

It was like that. And when I got home, I was a bit over-inspired. All I wanted to do was write symbolic poems about gay rights and childhood memories. So instead I watched tbs and went to bed. And now I need to get back on the writing horse.

My bout with poetry yesterday and my other bout with trying to be an editor have made me realize that I am not a real writer. I can call myself a writer. My occupation even has "writer" in the title. But the last time I got a grammar lesson was my Sophomore year in high school, and that's only because my teacher was appalled at how bad our grammar was. Do I actually know where commas go? Clearly, no, I do, not. And when I freelanced over the summer and a REAL editor went over my work, I was mortified to learn all my wretched writing mistakes. Did YOU know there are rules for what kind of hyphen to use, AND what kind of spacing to use around them? I didn't. I still don't really know, which just makes me jittery every time I use one now.

Really, being a copywriter means I'm not good at any kind of writing except writing how I speak. Which isn't always helpful because I say things like, "Okay but no because it's like super awesome and stuff" on a daily basis.

Oh, and copywriters are supposed to be able to write concisely.

*blinks*

So I raise my glass today to the real writers. The ones who know what the hell they are doing. To you I say, will you write a poem about me?