A Year In Review

Wow. Another year down, 91 more to go. I've decided that I have a new goal, and that is to live to 116 and be able to say I lived in 3 different centuries. Although by the time I'm 116 I don't imagine I'll know what's going on around me anymore. But I'll be in the futuristic newspapers, and that's what's important.

2009. Two...thousand...nine. Sigh. 2009 was like this girl I used to work with who was always nice to me so I could never technically complain, but somehow I always got the feeling that she was a mean bitch who was out to get me. That was 2009.

I lost my job and never found a new one (that's that mean bitch part), but I had a lot of fun this year, made a lot of friends, and also managed to snag a boy that people actually approve of. Which is apparently a huge accomplishment for me. I consider myself a smart girl, but when it comes to picking boys... Are you chauvinistic? Drunk? Jealous? Live on the other side of the world? Well hand me an oar and let's get this sinking ship a-rowin'!

But that's all changed now. And, while the job thing is not-so-much, I feel like I've still come somewhere. I know who I am much better, and I like where and who I am. Right before I went to write this post, I found this quote:

"Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it." --Maya Angelou

Ms. Angelou, welcome to my honorary extended family.
REVISED LIST:
Aunt Meryl Streep
Uncle Rick Steves
Grandpa Carl Reiner
Grandma Maya Angelou

ANYWAY, Grandma Maya Angelou is right. I especially think this because her quote means I am successful. Phew. Thank God.

I believe when I look back on 2009 in the future, I will remember it as a good year. Especially if I can find a job that makes this yearlong break worth it. And that is still to be seen.

TOMORROW: Looking Ahead to 2010, or, Holy Shit Things Are About To Change.

I love you all.

I really do. You keep telling me that you read this ol' thing--AND that you actually like it! (Which is different from when I got my hair cut super short in the spring and I got mostly, "You got your hair cut! *Silence.*")

And so, as someone who reads and allegedly enjoys the blog, I encourage you to leave comments! I'm hoping that eventually I'll have complete strangers reading my odd innermost thoughts. Because apparently I'm narcissistic like that. But if these total strangers stumble upon my blog and see that I have zero comments on everything I write, what will they think?! They will think "Wow, no one loves this girl." And they will imagine someone with crazy frizzed-out hair, rocking herself in a corner while she sinisterly strokes her stuffed cat and blogs about the injustices she sees in the word.

You wouldn't want people to imagine me like that, WOULD YOU?! Especially since I don't even OWN a stuffed cat yet.

Inadequate excuses:
-"Well it was like 2:30 in the morning."
-"I couldn't write it the way you would."
-"I have no fingers."

If you really don't want to leave a comment, even anonymously, please don't have facial spasms trying to figure out how to break the news to me. I will understand. But think of the strangers. Won't somebody PLEASE think of the strangers?!

Love (for reals),
Emily

Feminism, from The Talkgirl to Facebook Ads.

I have been against pink electronics for as long as I can remember. My first memory of it was at age 8. I watched Home Alone 2 just like everyone else. And, like everyone else, I was DEEEEESPERATE for the Talkboy that Christmas. It was amazing. You could change your voice to trick your sister from behind the couch!! You could record things! You could play them back! What lonely, deranged middle child WOULDN'T want such a device? FINALLY! The attention I deserved!

Imagine my chagrin when, not long after the Talkboy came out, Mattel (or whoever) put out what they believed to be an equal opportunity electronic: The Talkgirl.

Ohhhhhhhh, The Talkgirl. You haunt my nightmares.

Now this was nearly twenty years ago, so the details might not be totally exact, but if I recall, the Talkgirl was exactly like the Talkboy in every way.

But it was pink.

Oh, and the dot on the "i" was now a flower. How precious.

My outrage was clear. When I was younger I considered myself a tomboy. I requested short hair at the salon. I owned nothing with ruffles. I refused to play run-from-the-boys and instead played my own version, hip-check-the-boys. And I hated--HATED--the color pink.

At the time, I didn't really know why I hated it. All I knew was that it was girly, and anyone who embraced it also seemed to be embracing an attitude of "I'm too dainty for that" which annoyed me to no end.

I found myself confused: adults everywhere were proudly telling me that girls can do whatever boys can do. But then they were laughing at my short hair, rolling their eyes when I complained that lace is itchy, and handing me electronics that had been specially created for my daintiness.

I told you about a few of my asinine pet peeves back here but this one is my I'm Going To Change The World pet peeve: indoctrinating children into their socially afflicted gender roles.

Okay, and I've officially gotten too SOC 101. I'm going to take a step back.

Yes, I hate that kids are told how to be since birth. But the reason for this post actually came about because of Facebook ads. See, I thought that all this indoctrinating had stopped by now. That I am able to see sexism and point it out. But, indeed, I cannot. And I have learned this harsh reality through Facebook ads. Here was a random group of ads from today, one that is not atypical:



I don't know WHY Facebook continues to think that I am a mother, nor why they give me ads for Sorority Life. No matter how often I check the x and tell them "Irrelevant," here they are, day after day, informing me of who I SHOULD be...which is apparently a single mother in a sorority whose debt is piling so high she is willing to exploit her children.

Now before I show you the next set of ads, I must explain who these are for. They are for a cat. I needed another facebook account for (NERD ALERT) a flash game I play. So I made an account for my roommate's cat, Charlie. He has no other friends but me [EDIT: The Charlie in real life has many, many more], and his page has no use but to cheat at this game. However, Facebook requires certain information in order to have an account. Namely, age and sex. Charlie Cat is a male. And he was born the same year that I was, making him also 25. So, given the simple fact that these ads are for an imaginary 25 year old male, here are his ads:



I'm not sure which gender should feel more outraged: the girls who get "Tee hee! I'm a girl! Babies and chocolate and lipstick!" Or the boys who get "Rawr! I'm a boy! Burgers and war and babes!" All I know is, as a feminist I feel insulted. And as a human, I want that damn brownie.

Emily Shares a Secret

I have an embarrassing secret. And I've decided I don't want it to be embarrassing nor a secret any longer.

I still have my baby blanket.

And by "baby" I mean that when I was about 8, I stole it from my little sister when my true baby blanket became so overused, it disintegrated. And by "have" I mean that I sleep with it every night and find it hard to go without.

LOUD AND PROUD, people. LOUD AND PROUD.

Okay, now I'm just shouting nonsense phrases to make up for my embarrassment. Fine, so it's true! But I strongly believe that I am not alone. And that anyone who doesn't still have something comforting to sleep with from their childhood is either a) lying b) a robot or c) cries themself to sleep every night and doesn't know why.

When I was younger I used to worry--worry--that I would have to get married and I wouldn't be allowed to sleep with my blanket. I guess I thought it was either a secret I would have to hide from my theoretical husband (what kind of MONSTER was I planning on marrying?!), or maybe it would just take up too much room in our bed. Because a 3x3 blanket takes up SOO much space. I considered a future where I would wind up framing it like guys do with jerseys, or maybe I would turn it into a quilt of some sort. Or maybe, just maybe, there would come a day when I would just grow out of it.

Well, I just turned 25. And last night me and ol' green had a snuggle fest like you've never seen.

I think I've decided that I can keep this blanket. Indefinitely. Sure, I guess it's strange for a grown woman to sleep with a blanket covered in pastel bunnies. And the image of me with it as a 50-year-old is super weird, if not a bit Miss Havisham-y. But the feeling of my blanket calms me in a way that nothing and no one else can. There is no bear hug, there is no Bette Midler ballad, there is no bucket of whiskey that can straighten my brain waves like the satin edge of my baby blanket. Which, now that I've typed that out, sounds ridiculous.

Telling you guys all this is stressing me out. I need to calm down. Time for my baby blanket and a bucket of whiskey.

Post Christmas Blues? I have your solution. And my affliction.

You guys, I can't stop watching this video. I think I may have a problem.



I especially love the boy in the purple shorts. I want to be his boyfriend. You heard me.

Thoughts Written While at The Nutcracker

What was ballet like in the Chinese foot-binding era?

Am I a straight woman? Or a gay man? I can't remember anymore.

What if you have a foot fetish? Would finding out she's a ballet dancer be a deal breaker?

Oh God. This guy who plays the brother was supposed to be a small child and now he's in tights and I feel vastly inappropriate looking at his business.

This ballet is just one giant reminder that I don't stretch enough.

Are you a man who likes to be naked solely from the waist down? Consider the ballet.

If anyone set me down on just one tip toe, I would 100% immediately fall over.

When any of these boys turn, all I can do is analyze their butt muscles.

Say what you will about girls being complicated. At least we don't have mysterious bulges.

AaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH THERE IS A GIANT CLAPPING PUPPET WITH CHILDREN UNDER HER SKIRT AND SHE'S GOING TO EAT THE BABY IN FRONT OF ME!!!

Tutus represent everything I stand against.

Does 'bravo' mean 'good job' in Italian?

I also want to share with you that as we were leaving, this man appeared from the heavens to grace us with his amazingness:

The question is not "Is this man wearing a floor-length mink coat?" It is, "Does his wife have a matching floor-length mink coat?" And I can answer you with a resounding YES. YES SHE DOES.

Don't bother me. Busy.

Okay, kids. I'm sorry for the absence, but I am running a covert, secret Christmas present operation and it is taking up all of my brain power.

Expect pictures and other fun things soon. Fun things that require brain power.

The best presents are the ones you didn't know you wanted.

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?!

Cheese Knives.

Can I please tell you all about the insanity of my night last night? Stop me if this gets a little livejournaly.

BACKSTORY TIME.
I dated a guy about nine months ago (coincidental number, no this is not a story of how I have a lovechild.) We were not super serious. We were never bf/gf. And it lasted about 6 months total. I broke it off because I thought neither of us cared enough to try any harder at it, and I was done. Have we got an image in our head of how this 'relationship' was? Good.

SECOND BACKSTORY TIME.
Since breaking it off, this boy has jumped off the deep end. He has decided that I'm a liar and a whore, and if I hadn't broken up with him, he was going to take me to Spain and ask me to move in with him.
WHAT?!?!?!, you say.
RIGHT?!?!?!, I say.
Okay, moving on.

THIRD BACKSTORY TIME.
Joe--current bf and all-around best guy ever--and I went to Crate and Barrel the other day. We were preparing for a white elephant party with a $20 limit (ie in Emily's mind, everything ever). Joe decided his gift would be a really good knife. Because that's the kind of thing you'd never spend $20 on yourself but you'd love to have. Turns out, the really good knives at Crate and Barrel are even more expensive than that. DAMN YOU CRATE AND BARREL FOR BEING OVERPRICED BUT DON'T EVER LEAVE ME I STILL LOVE YOU. So Joe decided to get a little set of cheese cutting knives. They were cute, they were practical in an impractical way, they were under 20. Perfect. We hiked it out of there because I had a canker sore and my face was falling off.

ONTO THE STORY OF LAST NIGHT.
So we get to our friends' apartment, a small gathering of kids drinking wine and eating cheese and rum balls. My heaven. (Seriously, when I get up to the pearly gates and Peter or whoever is there, checking names off a list, he'll be like, "Right this way, Miss. The cheese has been waiting for you.") Only problem: since these are our mutual friends, Boy I Used To Date is there. And he is drinking wine out of a beer bong. Awesome.

So we are eating and talking and laughing--mostly about the fact that my friend Carla has apparently thought I was Jewish for over a year. And Boy is now acting drunk and saying inappropriate things to everyone under his breath. In a room of 11 people. He is muttering things, he is yelling things, he is throwing things, he is "woo"-ing being Jewish. In a room of 11 people. If you are trying to imagine how many that is--it is enough to gather around a single coffee table. Luckily, everyone ignores him, and he decides his new Best Move is to pretend to just pass out. We accept.

Now we move on to white elephant giving. Fun stuff is opened, things are going well. We get to Carla, who opens the cheese knives. I turn to Joe and give him a knowing smile. He turns to me and whispers, "That's not mine." Shocked, I turn back. I notice the wrapping paper. It's not his. Someone else has chosen the EXACT. SAME. GIFT. Of all the items that exist under $20, in a room of ELEVEN people.

"Who is this from?" Carla asks.

Silence. Everyone looks around. It is from no one. Scratch that--it is from no one who has been drinking their wine out of a GLASS.

Of all the gifts. In all the world. That exist. Ever. My "ex" and my "current" brought the exact. same. gift.

Cheese knives.

The Eyebrow Killer

"Have you seen the girl in Wicker Park who makes faces?"
"Why, yes! I saw her at North and Wood just the other day!"

...I imagine this is a common conversation amongst Chicagoans. Anyone who pases me in the street has probably gotten some strange face or another. The issue is, I have fake conversations all the time and for some reason I find it necessary to have these conversations in broad daylight while walking down the street. It must be some kind of tic.

At least I don't talk out loud. It all happens in my head...except for the facial expressions. Apparently it's uncontrollable. And anyone who passes me in the street has probably almost gotten smacked in the face by one of my quickly raised eyebrows. "Oh REALLY?!" smack "And what about THIS?!" crash

I tried to stop the faces by just listening to music. You better believe that helps not at all. Because sooner or later, Poor Unfortunate Souls comes on Shuffle.

My God, the massacre.

Messed Up Christmas Lyrics

Today, while brushing my teeth I began humming Winter Wonderland. And it dawned on me: that song has some Messed. Up. Lyrics. Just a refresher:

In the meadow we can build a snowman,
And pretend that he’s Parson Brown
He'll say, “Are you married?”
We'll say: “No man,
But you can do the job when you're in town.”

Let me paint the scene for you. You and your loved one are walking around in a snowy, open field. You decide, hey! There’s lots of snow here. Let’s build a snowman and pretend like he’s our small town minister, Parson Brown. “What fun,” you laugh! “What a lark!” But suddenly, all this hilarious pretending turns BAT SHIT CRAZY when the snowman comes to life and starts talking to you. And what does he say? Not “Hey, check me out, I’m a talking snowman.” Oh, no. He turns to you, he turns to your loved one, and seeing the heathen thoughts behind your eyes, he quickly sizes up the matter and makes sure you’re married. Is this a swinger snowman? What kind of a first question is that?! "Hey, kids, nice to meet you. Are you married?"

And then as your answer to your Snowman Who Looks Like Your Pastor, you laugh and say, “Why no! We are not married! But now that you mention it, by golly, follow us! We’ll go back to town and you can marry us today! Because you are a snowman who can legally bind two people together.”

And don't even get me started on the changed lyrics. There is no way that I am about to create a snowman that looks like a clown. That shit is scary.

In conclusion, I leave you with these:

Shunning

Hello, my name is Emily, and I have a “shun” problem. As in “tion” “sion” and “cion.” And it's an issue, because I'm supposed to be good at English.

I am not necessarily proud of being good at English. More, it boggles my mind when others are bad at it. And it’s totally a double standard. Because I am the WORST at science. What’s an isotope? Don’t know. No idea. Possibly something made of ice.

Can’t do science. Don’t understand people who can. But I CAN do English, and I look down upon people who cannot. Which I recognize makes me a horrible, terrible person. They should write songs about what a bad person I am.

But hopefully I can make up some of my horribleness with this: I have a serious problem with T, S, and C. Especially in words that end in the sound "shun." Don’t know when to use them. Never figured it out. Thank God for spell check and the internet, or I would be hopelessly, hopelessly lost.

Permision. Permition? Permicion? WHAT?! NONE of those are right?! SCREW YOU, squiggly red line!

Oh, there’s two s’s.

My Winter Happy Place. You're Welcome.

Sweet Baby Jesus, it is cold outside. I'm talking two pairs of gloves, eyeball freezing, mmmkay-I'm-gonna-just-lay-here-and-let-the-winter-consume-me kind of cold.

So everyone hunker down. I shall take you to my winter happy place.

It's night, in the middle of the forest. Not scary forest, don't worry. Disney forest. Little House in the Big Woods forest. The only creatures around are chipmunks and foals, who scamper here and there amongst the green evergreens. It's snowing. The trees block the wind, so the snow falls slowly. Gracefully. Quietly. There is a fresh sheet covering the ground.

Ahead is a large, modern log cabin. The windows and door are green (my greatest dream is to have a colorful door. I don't know why), and puffy white smoke billows from a large brick chimney, bringing with it the smell of burning wood. No, the cabin isn't burning down. This is extra wood, from a tree that fell naturally. No one heard it.

This is your home. You open the door and step inside.

You are hit with a warmness that wraps itself around you. Classical music plays softly. Normally you aren't a classical music kind of person, but the ambiance just seems right. Immediately to your right is a large kitchen filled with new appliances and an island. A fresh batch of sugar cookies lay cooling. The mystery of how they got there is irrelevant. They are warm sugar cookies. You grab seven.

On your left is the living room. It is the coziest room you could imagine. An enormous fireplace takes up most of the wall, a fire crackling within it. Basically, picture Beauty and the Beast when Belle pulls the thorn from the Beast's paw. A pillow-adorned couch faces the fire. You sit down, leaving your boots on the oval rug there, and cover yourself with a thick blanket. You grab the book sitting on the end table (again, not always a reader, but somehow Monday Night Football doesn't seem to fit with the night), and spend your time cozy and warm.

That's it. Fill in the gaps with your own cozed-up needs. As a teen, this of course included an interruption at the door by a tall, handsome man with a single red rose. Occasionally an engagement ring. Nowadays, my happy place does usually include someone there to keep my toes warm. But the quiet involved is part of this place for me. So they have to mostly keep to themselves.

Do you want to be my guy-friend? [ ] Yes [ ] No

Phew. I have survived The Illness. Now on to more important matters.

I have a very serious guy-friend crush. Not a crush crush, not a girl crush, not even the mystical gay crush. I am talking guy-friend crush. Which I'm not sure I've ever had. And I have no idea what to do with myself.

I know how to flirt. I'm practically a professional flirter. Wiggle wiggle, smile, smile, fake hit, hair flip...repeat. If I could have been paid to flirt back during the height of of my hair flippitude, pleeease. I would have been able to pay off my student loans before I even owed them.

But I can't flirt my way into guy-friendship! He'll get all kinds of wrong ideas via my wiles. It's this boy at my volunteer tutoring place. And he is so smart and...okay I actually know very little about him. He's...tall? Look, all I know is, I want to sit in a coffee shop and listen to him tell me things. French revolution, how to change a tire, Socrates... I don't know, I bet he knows it all. It does make for a problematic friendship, though. I imagine us like those dogs from Looney Toons with the little dog yipping and running around the big, cool dog.

Basically, our conversations thus far have sounded more or less like this:
Him: *says something witty to a group of people*
Me: ggggllhhhhh...I KNOW EVERY LINE IN ARMAGEDDON!!!

But every once in a while I get one of those almost-laughs from him. Like when you reverse sniff? I consider those moments some of my greatest accomplishments. Next accomplishment: actual conversation. Crap, I better brush up on my Socrates.

Lazy Brain

I am sick. Or in pain. Or dying. I don't know which, because my symptom is weird. See, yesterday I was more typically sick. Aches, aversion to food, but no fever (so suck it, swine flu). Today, that is all gone. And it has been replaced by one thing: as soon as I stand up or move, my stomach muscles cry out for help. Of course this happens now, because I just switched my insurance to hospitalization-only one week ago. I'm going to go ahead and say it: Cobra got me sick. Or in pain. Or dying. I don't know which, because my symptom is weird and WebMD has given me a vast list of possibilities.

So, since it is a mystery and I have no doctor to go to, I'm going to tell the blogosphere: if I die, tell them to check my stomach. It's possible that it is all black and covered with holes. Or...holed with holes.

(EDIT: while sick, I also think that all the hair on my body has stopped growing. Don't ask me how I know this. Just be sure to inform the autopsist.)

Whilst I lay here, writhing alone in my room, I have been thinking about anti-social-ness (versus anti-socialism, which I think is more in the Glenn Beck milieu). I mean, the past two days have been forced anti-social-ness, seeing as I can't manage to stand up. But sometimes I just have an irrational urge to stay home.

Like, when someone who I like will invite me somewhere that sounds fun, my brain yells, "Say no! Don't do it. It's too hard. You'll have to get up...put on shoes...best to make an excuse and watch TBS instead." I also do this before interviews or even work-related calls. "What if you just don't call them? Just put the phone down. It's easier this way."

I guess it's really all just laziness. It just seems strange to me because it's not laziness to avoid doing something difficult or boring. It's laziness against having fun and/or getting a job. Regardless, at some point my brain just goes, "Hehhhh...this is harrrrd" and tries to convince the rest of me to turn around, put my pajama pants back on, and crawl into bed. Luckily, this is not my entire brain function, and my legs usually keep on walking out of my apartment.

Does this happen to anyone else? The urge to say no to something good? Am I secretly Catholic?

Top 3 Pet Peeves

For being a relatively easy-going person, I have a staggering amount of pet peeves. I'd even call it a bevy. Let me lay out a few for you.

First, I'll start with one simple word: “pieces.” Let’s use that word in a sentence. Please, say this sentence out loud: “The pieces are coming together.” Or this one: “My grammar is falling to pieces.”

Now let’s look at this lovely lady: Reese Witherspoon.



Isn’t she adorable and wholesome? Absolutely. Now, that dress she’s wearing. Do you think it is hers? Yes, it most likely belongs to Reese Witherspoon. In other words, it is Reese’s dress. It is Reese’s.

One final picture for you. What are these?




IF YOU JUST SAID "REESEES PEESEES" I WILL FIND YOU SO HELP ME GOD.


Next up is this one:

Emily's Friend: "Emily, did you just swallow your gum?"
Emily: "Yes. Yes I did."
Emily's Friend: "WHAT?! Are you CRAZY?! I'M NORMALLY A SMART PERSON BUT I IRRATIONALLY BELIEVE THAT GUM WILL STAY IN YOUR STOMACH FOR SEVEN YEARS!!!!"

BAM. In your face.

And my final pet peeve for today has no illustration. It has to do with people who have never taken out the garbage in the food service industry. Here is why: I have. I had to haul that garbage from the very front of the sandwich shop all the way through the kitchen and to the dumpster. And you know what the BEST part of it was? It was the liquid in the bottom that inevitably leaked out, not only leaving a stream of waste through the store, but also all over my pants. So, like former waiters who cringe at the idea of leaving a measly 15% tip, I want to fly through the air to strangle anyone who throws out a full cup of liquid. Quit being an asshole and drink your damn Mello Yello.

Junior High

People have asked me if I was homecoming queen in high school. I don't say this to brag, I say this because you should find it so funny, you are currently rolling on the ground, kicking your legs in the air. Why? This is why:



That's me in the 7th grade. Okay, so by high school graduation, I was a few steps closer to Normal Human, but not "homecoming queen" close.

The thing is, despite my amazing face-sized glasses and braces with color-coordinated rubber bands, I was actually pretty happy in junior high. I hated the popular girls, of course, and I dreamed of the day I'd figure out how to do my hair (note to 13-year-old-self: it's called a straightener, and it's about to change your life.) But I was happy. Or at least, as happy as a girl can be when she is also perpetually terrified someone will notice she's wearing a bra.

I attempted to give off a vibe of "I'm different and I don't care" which I still long for nowadays. I claimed that neon green was my favorite color, put my hair into pigtails daily, wore a ring-watch, and walked around proudly wearing rainbow toe socks. I doubt any adults ever bought it. If I saw a girl like that now, I would sigh and pat her on the head. "You'll get it eventually, grasshopper," I would whisper. But I think kids my age actually thought I was genuinely Weird And Proud. Or at least they humored me. Either way, they stuck by me. And I survived junior high with a group of Monte Python-quoting weirdos by my side.

The one thing I will never forget in Junior High, the thing that changed my whole outlook, was the day I sat next to Rachel T. I remember exactly where I was in our English room. We had been split off into groups, and my group included none of my friends, and a bunch of popular girls. And to my left was the most popular of all: Rachel T. She knew how to do her hair. She was pretty AND smart. And when she said a boy was cute, THAT'S when he was cute. Not a moment sooner. Blech, and the worst part of all was that she was nice. Oh, GO HOME, Rachel T. No one wants your nice, smart, Abercrombie-wearing ass around here!

Sitting next to Rachel T. wasn't my defining moment. It was when, in the middle of the discussion, she stood up slightly from her chair and did a little thing. I'm having trouble describing it...ladies know what I'm talking about--when you wear a pad, sometimes it gets out of place and you have to rearrange it. Well, Rachel T. REARRANGED. Rachel T. had her period, too! And she was uncomfortable, too! And not everything that goes on around Rachel T. is sunshine and rainbows!

I was floored. Until Rachel T. stayed cool. Everyone noticed her little dance and she took it in stride. She laughed and acted like it was not actually embarrassing to have to rearrange your pad. Like it was something we were all dealing with. Like it was possible to ACTUALLY laugh about the new and scary things going on within us.

I'll never forget that day.

That bitch.

Stink, Stank, Stunk

Something about unemployment has got me in the season. Knee deep in the season. Like, I might need someone to hand me a branch because I might not be able to get out of the season by myself.

Ooh, that reminds me, I have to watch Little Women soon.

See, this is what I'm talking about. Without the distraction of "work" and "life," I'm watching movies left and right--and this year it's not just because I accidentally changed the channel and The Santa Clause was on. Oh, no. I specifically made it home by 7 in order to make that one. My phone's wallpaper is a picture of just-born Rudolph, and I'm looking up recipes for hot buttered rum (which I've never tasted before, let alone made.)

I am an insane list-maker. If I don't write something down, I will never remember it. So I have a list for gifts to buy, of meals to make, a list of songs I need to download (how do I not have Piano Man?) a list for potential Halloween costumes, etc, etc, etc. And I have a list of Stuff I Need To Do This Winter/Christmas. This year, that list includes:

1. "Homemade gingerbread houses": Now, the fact that I haven't made a successful gingerbread house since 4th grade doesn't deter me. Neither does the fact that I have never made any kind of gingerbread. Or icing. And neither does the fact that I insist on badly burning myself each time I use the oven. The idea of a successful gingerbread house is just too juicy.

2. "Roast chestnuts on an open fire": Problem 1) What is a chestnut? Problem 2) Do people sell them? Problem 3) No open fire. My prediction: I accidentally buy hazelnuts and we burn them over open gas stove flames.

3. "Sled": My parents have our old sleds (I hope, unless my mom tossed them out with the rest of my childhood memories.) So I suppose the only way we'll make this work is by travelling to the burbs and sledding alongside the tiny children. Oh, the faceplants. The faceplants!

These are the three items on the list that I am most worried about. Adventures to be updated.

TMI

Another thing I have not quite decided on for this blog is: what qualifies as too much information? Exactly how much of myself am I willing to give away for this thing?

On the one side I think: Hell with it! Finally, you've found a place where you should be able to be yourself. Don't censor! Just BE!

On the other side I think: Yeah, but...but...

So there are the two sides. Both valid points. Today I'm going to venture out and err on the side of TMI.

So I mentioned earlier that we went out to a drag show for my friend, Maggie's birthday. Now, I've never been to a drag show of any sorts. But if I've learned anything from the movies (and boy have I) I think many drag shows feature multiple manladies. And they have a stage, to show off their gloriousnness in all their glory.

Wellll this drag show was more classy than that. Ish. It takes place at the Kit Kat Lounge in Boystown. Basically, you walk into this place and it seems like any marginally classy restaurant. Minimal menu, tablecloths, etc etc. You sit, you order a strawberry daquiri because they have no beer on the menu and dagnabbit, what the hell are kids ordering these days??

And then at some magical hour, which I believe is every 30 minutes, a woman comes out decked to the nines (that's a phrase, right?) in sparkles and twelve different colors of eyeshadow and she lip syncs to something Beyonce-ish. Occasionally she rubs her voluptuousness up against the poor souls sitting on the inside seats until they put dollar bills into her hand/cleavage.

So, naturally, while the drag queen is changing into her next number, me and my friends practice slipping ones smoothly into each other's nether regions. Erin slips one into my shirt and immediately begins commenting on my cleavage. So, since the night has basically been filled with boobs (real or supplemented) I feel comfortable enough to comment back. Now, I'm the kind of girl who talks with her hands. Even on the phone. So whilst discussing my lovelies, I begin demonstrating. I'm looking down and doing a bit of push, release, push, release. Suddenly Maggie lets out a snort and I look up.

I realize that not only am I doing a cleavage show for two of my best college friends, I'm doing it for the entire table. And the one over. And the drag queen. And her two friends.

I hope she didn't think I was trying to make her jealous.

Patrick Dempsey and the Mysterious Fig. By Roald Dahl.

So I just sent this facebook ad to Adrienne:



And, jokingly I ask what the hell is a green fig, and WHY would it be considered mysterious?

And she just IMs me this.

Touche, my friend. Tou. Che.