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

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

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

A refresher:


There were three things that made this movie terrifying:

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

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

2. When Big Bird is blue.

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

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

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


Nope. Not as scary.


Not even close.


Nice try.


Nuh-uh.


Still no.


Close, but not them either.


AHHHHHHHHH! RUN AWAY!!!!!!

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

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

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



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

Answer: DID. WE. EVER.

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

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

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

Answer: .....

Question: Emily?

Answer: ....

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Regina Phalange And Her Morning Schedule

Stuff

I have been thinking a lot lately about STUFF.

Like, not that I've been generally thinking about all sorts of things, but I've actually been thinking about all the junk that is acquired in life. That kind of STUFF.

I think it started when I remembered that my Christmas tree is down in our "storage unit" (the quotation marks because it is rather more like a dog kennel than a storage unit, but there it is nonetheless) and I got to thinking: what ELSE of mine is in the storage unit?

And the answer? I have no idea. No. Idea. I assume I put more than a Christmas tree down there...it can't ALL just be Joe's action figures and golf clubs, can it?

And that got me realizing--what if all that stuff disappeared? Would I even remember it existed? And why do I continue to schlep things around from apartment to apartment and then shove them into closets? I mean, besides the awesome surprise factor you get when you open a box and see all the things you forgot about. "Oh YEAH! The lease from my apartment two years ago and magnet backing! Well, I've got to keep this around just in case. Just gunna shove this on in next to the neon green slinky here aaaaaand perfect fit."

My need to collect STUFF was diminished greatly when I lost my job in '09. Suddenly my money was better spent on annoying things like shelter and sustenance and The Internet. At first, I wandered through H&M, listless and woebegone, a single tear rolling down my cheek. I'd touch dresses fondly, as though they were from a distant, happy memory which I could no longer quite remember. I floated through Borders like a ghost too depressed to do anything but to breathe a long, drawn out sigh. Oh, if only I had a true income! I might do more than weep over my DVD collection, now riddled with holes I had once intended to fill.

Cut to a year later. Still unemployed but now ruthlessly hardened to marketing schemes, I became the Clint Eastwood of shopping.



Did I NEED this throwback April O'Neil figurine? NO.
Did I NEED this wheel of extra creamy brie? NO.
Did I NEED this entire store of Crate & Barrel? .....But...but I...what if....NO!

Nancy Reagan would be proud. Also, Lady Bird Johnson. Not really Lady Bird, I just wanted to bring her up because SERIOUSLY who is named Lady Bird? I'm sure they covered all this in the 60s but I wasn't around then and COME ON, Shelly.

Anyway, I just said no and became hardened to the Call of the Stuff. No longer did their siren song affect me. I had bought roughly 4 articles of clothing in a year and a half. I forgot all about Baby Bel and their amazing tiny red wheels of love. My preferred brand of choice had become "store." And I was fine with it.

And then the Man came knocking. And I answered his call and got a job again. Yes, at the first opportunity, I dropped my hard exterior, hitched up my out-of-style pants and marched on over to American Eagle. I slapped my credit card down on the counter and said, "How much will THIS get me?" "Miss, that is a credit card. I have no idea." "RING 'ER UP!" I yelled to no one in particular.

No, not really. But when I finally got to the counter with what can only be described as a PLETHORA of clothing, the guy laughed and asked if I was on a shopping spree. Seriously. He then asked me if I shopped at American Eagle often. I paused and said, "Well, I COULD."

So yeah. I could buy stuff again. All the stuff that an entry level position could buy! *throws $1 bills into the air and laughs maniacally*

But, besides the confidence that I can pay my bills each month, what do I really have? A few new shirts and name-brand cereal? How long does new stuff make you feel like anything is actually different? It seems a lot like when I finally got contacts in the 8th grade and assumed every guy would immediately fawn over me. I got to school and I believe one person said, "Did you get contacts?" "Yep!" "Oh." It's that same empty feeling now, after I buy something shiny, get a compliment or two, and then realize that nothing has REALLY changed. Am I any better than my neon-green-note-passing self?

I just got an email for Crate & Barrel Outlet Christmas stuff. And at first I thought "Ooh! Pretty! Snow pups on oven mitts! Twelve dessert plates for $20!

But then I immediately thought, NO! You don't need it!! And to be honest, I'm not sure if that's my old stingy, unemployed self talking...or just reason.

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.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Victoria’s Secret Sucks

BEWARE BEFORE YOU READ: This post is intended for my lady readers. Men, feel free to keep reading if you want to have some real talk about bras. Otherwise I'll see you next week. You've been warned.

Yesterday there was a big Advertising Halloween party at an editing house. It was great! Free beer, free fun, loud music…OH, and once again I ended up on my soapbox about getting a bra fitting at Nordstrom in the middle of the crowded dance floor.



I am shocked—SHOCKED—that I have had this blog for almost an entire year and I have yet to write a post about bra fittings.

Here is the nub and gist of it: if you have only gotten a bra fitting at Victoria’s secret, dusted off your hands and called it a day, YOU ARE WEARING THE WRONG SIZE BRA. I will put money down on that fact to ANY of you.

Here is how I know:

Every SINGLE person who I know (and I know at least six off the top of my head) that thought they were wearing the right size according to Victoria and then went to Nordstom, found out that they were TWO whole cup-sizes bigger. And every person, once wearing the new Nordstrom bra, felt better, perkier, more holstered, and more comfortable than they ever had before.

And of course, me included.

I have known people to go in thinking they were an “unattractive” (and I use those quotes EMPHATICALLY) 36A their entire young lives, to come out finding they’re a lovely, enviable 36C. I have known people to go in thinking they were a droopy awkward 36D to come out finding they actually feel slimmer and more comfortable in their 32F.

Nothing makes me sadder than someone who looks like they feel awkward in their own boobs. Except maybe someone who laments that they’re an A when even I can now take one look at them and guarantee them that they’re bigger.

Oprah did a whole show and has online info on bra fittings, and guess who sponsored the whole thing? NORDSTROM.

GO. TO. NORDSTROM. OPRAH SAYS SO.

And don't even give me the "I don't WANT to be 2 sizes bigger!" excuse. Because trust me, you do. You will once you feel what a difference it makes in the way you feel and walk and stand.

And speaking of big boobs--It annoys me GREATLY that people think enormous boobs are DDs. I remember a crass frat boy telling a story and saying "they were the biggest boobs I've ever seen in real life. They were like DOUBLE Ds, dude." Guess what. If they were the biggest boobs you've ever seen in real life? She was at least an H (That's five Ds). I guarantee that you see double Ds every day of your life. But because most stores, including VS, only go as high as DD, everyone assumes that's the biggest anyone could be, and anything higher would be a freak show. And anyone who is bigger is not told by the VS people that she is actually too big to fit their bras. She is simply given the wrong size and sent on her merry way, jiggling uncomfortably down the street. It's no wonder 8 out of 10 women are wearing the wrong size bra. These people have probably been fitted by Victoria.

GO.

TO.

NORDSTROM.

And even if you go and find out Victoria’s Secret was right (there’s a first for everything, I suppose), I have another reason you should get your bras from Nordstrom: they have the best return policy in the whole wide world.

Here’s a fun little story for you. Walk with me, won’t you?

A few years ago, I bought a bra from Nordstrom that didn’t fit me right (I tried sizing myself without help. I was wrong.) But I didn’t realize that until I’d worn it for an entire 90 degree day. As you can guess, things got a little sweaty up in here. Well I didn’t want to be The Girl Who Returned a Bra With Sweat Stains, so I washed it. Then I realized that I needed to dry it quickly so I could get to Nordstrom before they closed. But they say not to throw it in the dryer. So what did I do?

That’s right, I used a blow dryer. Face, I’d like to introduce you to Palm. You should be friends.

I noticed that the place I was blow drying was becoming a different color. I thought it was just the water drying. I kept going. Then I stopped. I looked harder. Oh yes. I had MELTED MY BRA. My bra that I needed to exchange for a different size.

I think I screamed. I definitely cried. And since my mom was at work, my poor dad had to be the one to try and console his hysterical daughter cradling a half-wet, half-melted bra in her hands. But he told me I should still try to exchange it.

So I did.

I walked up to the girl at the lingerie register, gave her the short version of the story, and (at this point I was basically on my knees with my clenched, entwined hands raised above my head in desperation) asked if there was any way she could exchange this one with a different size.

The girl, who was probably about my age, gave me a look like I cannot BELIEVE I am about to do this for you and said, “What size do you need?”

And that, my friends, is why you HAVE to go to Nordstrom. RIGHT. NOW. You HAVE to.

Please get a fitting. Even if you are old enough to remember Gandhi. DO IT. If you can go to Oak Brook, ask for Faye. She’ll help a sister out. If you have to go to the one downtown Chicago, then that’s probably better than nothing, but the suburban Nordstroms are best. Hopefully for those reading outside of the Chicagoland area, your Nordstrom is good, too. If not, hop on the next train and get over here. I am not exaggerating when I say that it will change your life.

Or at least it’ll change the way you fill out a dress.

Not A Hot Time In The Old Town

Last night I was woken up by our fire alarm at 2 am.

Joe, who was just about to go to bed (he was studying) still had the clarity of mind of a person who had NOT been jolted out of REM into a cacophony of horror.

His reaction: "I'll grab Regina." *Puts Regina in her carrier* *Puts on shoes and jacket* "Ready?"

My reaction: WHAT IS THAT WHAT DID YOU DO WHERE AM I WHY IS THERE NOISES??????? THE FIRE ALARM?! ARE WE GOING TO DIE? IS THIS BECAUSE I BAKED COOKIES LAST NIGHT? WHERE'S THE CAT? SHOULD I BRING MY BABY BLANKET? SHOULD I BRING MY ALARM CLOCK? *Grabs mis-matched flip-flops* ......Okay I think I'm ready.

We walked down all 8 flights of stairs, Regina meowing all the while as though this was something that perhaps we were doing on a LARK, and could let her out if she just reminded us loudly enough that she was still in a cage. I sat by her as others filed out, strategically shielding her eyes from the St. Bernard. Soon, a fire truck came, nothing was found, and we all went back inside and upstairs. So...fun adventures for all.

Between last night and the night before, when I was scared the impending storm was going to rip the I'm-sure-very-stable roof off our apartment, It's become very clear: I need some renter's insurance.

I meant to get some. A few years ago. When I lived on the 1st floor in a sliiiiiightly ghetto part of Ghettoville, USA. I remember attempting to get a quote online. But they kept asking me all these questions, like if I had a smoke detector or a fire putter-outer thing. And they asked me to estimate how much my stuff was worth.

And I ask you, how the hell do you even start to guess that? I mean, you can figure out the big things I guess, like the TV and the couch and the bed. But how do you start measuring your old Ninja Turtle figurines' worth? Or howabout your VHS tapes you refuse to let go of? What about the clothes you've acquired over dozens and dozens of trips to Target for "necessary things only"? What about the drawers of lotions and shampoos? And how do you measure the worth of the contact lenses that I JUST picked up under great stress and hardship to me? How does my insurance give me those 45 minutes back??

In the end, I gave up. I decided to take my chances with the stealthy security system we already had: owning very little. But after the stress of the past two days, and the thought of seeing all my precious, precious stuff either flung to hither and yon by a tornado, burned into tiny piles of ashes and melted plastic by someone's renegade shrine candles, or drenched by the dangling water spigots that I just KNOW are ready and willing to ruin all the time I've spent slaving over Ikea catalogs, I think it's time for some renter's insurance.

So I'll get right on that. Right after I light all these candles on my bed.

The Single Most Stressful Day Of My Life

Well, Scrabble For Cheaters has come and gone. Dreams were crushed, PBRs were drunk in the middle of the day, and in the end,

WE GOT 2ND PLACE, JERKS!



AND!!! We all raised $10,000 total towards the impressionable minds of children! HUZZAH!!

So what does 2nd place mean? It means we played 4 games of Scrabble in 5 hours. And with only two minutes per turn, all of those games became down-to-the-wire, one-point-difference, oh-crap-is-FE-a-word-or-isn't-it-why-didn't-I-memorize-my-two-letter-words-better-quick-quick-just-play-something-for-the-love-of-GOD kind of games.

I think I gave myself about twenty ulcers on Saturday. I might as well have just stayed at home and chugged lemon juice straight from the bottle.

But NO! For then we wouldn't have raised all the moneys and helped all the childrens!

I have to give a special shout-out to my parents, who donated exactly enough money for us to purchase one of my favorite cheats: The Augment. The Augment lets you add 10 points to any letter. And how did we use it?

On the X in "EXITING." THAT'S RIGHT. All seven letters (50 points) plus a letter that's worth 18 points WHICH we were able to double up on another word. The word was worth almost 100 points and is absolutely the reason why we won that round.

*breathing heavily* Sorry, let me catch my breath from nerding out so hard just then.

.....

........

........... okay all better.

So anyway, Adrienne and I would like to say thanks to the contributors. You helped us and the tutoring center out immensely. But I would especially like to thank my parents. I'm sorry, I like them more than you and you need to accept that.