In Lieu Of A Real Post

Sorry, it doesn't look good for ol' bloggy today. I'm in a period of mourning over a series of deceased ideas from the past week.

But since you're already here (and are clearly looking for something to do) guess what? You can vote for me! Mosey your eyeballs over to the right there, and click on either one of those "Nominated for" icons. You've gotta create a profile to do it, which is horrendous, I know, but also totally harmless.

Also, to prove to you that I have not gone completely lazy, I will give you a preview of what is to come for the rest of the week.

Thursday: Why April Fool's Day Is The Worst
Friday: The Greatest As I Recall Ever Told

Now celebrate the lovely weather, you.

My Monday: A Story in Pictures

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I Hate Quentin Tarantino.

There. I said it. And now you're just going to have to deal with it.

Hating Quentin Tarantino now puts my list of Things I Hate That Everyone Else Loves up to three. We all have our own lists. Adrienne hates peppers.

My own list:
1. Sushi
2. Johnny Depp
3. Quentin Tarantino

Here's the thing: I don't have a good reason to hate Johnny Depp. More, my feelings are really those of indifference. But it's the fact that everyone else wants to make out with the boy so furiously that makes me hate him so.

But my hatred for Quentin is true, and it is deep. I came to my realization about QT only Saturday night after having watched Pulp Fiction for the first time (Joe is catching me up on my list of Guy Movies It's Weird I've Never Seen. And, yes, Kill Bill is also still on that list.) After watching Pulp Fiction, Joe and Monica started expounding on what is supposed to be in the briefcase, and it might be the one guy's soul, and such-and-such is supposed to be God and that part's Heaven, and this guy's an angel and blah blah whatever.

I didn't want to hear it. And not because I don't think movies can have deeper meanings. PLEASE. I took film classes in college. I know what's up. But I just. Hate. Quentin. Tarantino. And I don't think that he had a deeper level of meaning. I think he just made the briefcase mysterious because he likes to mess with people's minds. Done.

Here is why I hate Quentin Tarantino:

1) The permanent snarl. I want you all to look through this series of pictures and then not punch the person next to you in the face.






It's like a mix between "Someone at the gym farted but it wasn't me so I'm going to make it obvious that I find that smell repulsive" and the look people give in movies when the Asshole says something funny-but-mean so the hero smiles ironically for a second and then roundhouses them in the face.

2) The snark. Now, I know as the Queen of Snark I shouldn't be upset by this, but you guys have to watch this.



How does this man not make you grit your teeth? Specifically, listen at about 1:20 (try not to get distracted by Jeff Bridges' majesty like I did) when the interviewer is all "everyone wants to work with you" and Quentin Tarantino's response is, "Oh really, bitch?! I hadn't noticed that people think I'm great. Why don't you get out of my FACE." Also, REALLY you DJed an Oscars pre-party? YEAH? REALLY?

I will cut you.

3) His general douchey/dude-bro/entitled attitude. I mean, come on! He acts like a Cubs fan at the Cubby Bear after a win! Isn't that enough for you people? Was Kill Bill realllllly that amazing that you're willing to just forgive the man for being LIKE A CUBS FAN AT THE CUBBY BEAR AFTER A WIN?

Well? ARE YOU?

Who was called "prolific" while freelancing today?

I was. Boo and ya.



Now vote for me.

Shamlessly Promoting a Motion for Promotion

So you may have noticed a slight change to the bloggy blog--there are now two little pictures off to the right where you can vote for me.

You guys know I'm not about self promotion. And you probably also know that I in no way would win for Best Humor Blog LET ALONE Best Religious Blog. But can it hurt to try? The answer is no. No it cannot.

Especially because if I can get my blog up there in numbers, I can get more readers, and we all know that I am a middle child whose only desire is for people to listen to me rant and rave about the blessings and injustices brought upon me.

Plus, who DOESN'T want to read Bible stories with light swearing?

So if you guys enjoy the blog and want to encourage me in giving you a reason to take a study break, or distract you from work, or distract ME from work (Hmm? Huh? What?) I would love it if you'd look on over to the right there and click on either one of those. You've gotta sign up in order to vote (LAAAAME) but I did it--and I am not the kind of person who signs up for things willy nilly. So take a deep breath, make up a password, and show me some love.

OR NO DANIEL AND THE LION'S DEN FOR YOU!!!!

(Just in case empty threats work.)

Why Vice President Biden Needs To Be My Grandpa

Okay. Breathing again. I came in early to work yesterday, posted that blog, then wrote up a kick-ass script. I then proceeded to not be able to top it for 8 hours, and as of this moment it is still alive. But I definitely had a good 12 hours of freak out-ery.

Now, this morning when I came in, as I awaited my peppermint latte (Hooray! Someone who doesn’t think “mint” is a Christmas flavor!!) my eye caught a sub-line…byline? The Line That’s Not A Headline?...anyway, and it informed me that Vice President Biden dropped an f-bomb recently when he thought the mic wouldn’t pick it up.

And I just want to say, God bless America, and God bless Joseph R. Biden.

This is not a political blog. Nor do I ever—EVER—want it to become one. I do not want to talk about Biden’s beliefs. I do not want to talk about ANYONE’S beliefs. Mostly because I think all people of the world fall into two camps:

1. They don’t know enough about what they’re talking about to actually have a proper opinion.

2. They do know enough. So now they're lying.

I’m going to go right ahead and assume that I, and everyone else who reads this blog (and let's be honest, probably Joe Biden,) falls into the #1 camp. Except all those CIA agents who are reading me to make sure I don’t spill the beans on Code Chicken Feather—I’VE SAID TOO MUCH!!!

What I mean to say is, politics aside, Joe Biden cracks my shit up. And I wish to the high heavens that he was my grandpa. IN FACT…

WELCOME TO THE FAMILY, JOE!

REVISED ADOPTED FAMILY LIST:
Aunt Meryl Streep
Uncle Rick Steves
Grandpa Carl Reiner
Grandma Maya Angelou
Grandpa Joe Biden

Man, I really hope no other old men weasel their way into my heart, because I have no grandpa spots left.

Here’s the thing. My own grandfathers were a little MIA in my life. One of them passed away years before I was born (Although I do have a hilarious picture of him demonstrating how to wear a bridle for my mom’s stubborn horse. Damn him and his love of cigarettes.) And the other one was…quiet. He was a good guy, sure. But he was pretty solitary. In fact, I only have one memory of him saying something to me:

Katie and I were young, about 5 and 8. We were visiting my Grandpa and Grandma, and playing in their backyard as the sun went down. It was that time of year when the caterpillars were out. Whatever time of year that is. And Katie and I were having a field day finding them. We started collecting those orange and black fuzzy ones (the ones that I now know turn into moths. But at the time, I’m not sure I knew they turned into anything.) We put them all onto the underside of a Frisbee and ran around the yard yelling, “I found one here! Mom, look! Another one!” and then sprinted back to add it proudly to the collection. When we’d collected enough to practically cover the Frisbee, we bounced over to our grandpa. “Poppa! Look how many we got!”

Poppa scrutinized the Frisbee. He rubbed his chin. Holding out his hand, he said, “Let me see that.” We proudly handed it over.

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!

My grandfather smashed the Frisbee against a tree over and over, euthanizing every one of our precious, fuzzy caterpillars. Katie and I stared, mouths gaping, horrified at the malicious injustice before us.

I ran back to my mom who tried to calm me, telling me they were just moths; Poppa just didn’t want all those moths in his yard. I suppose I forgave him, I don’t really remember. But “Let me see that” is the only sentence I remember him saying directly to me (though I’m sure there are more.) And that has to say something for forgiveness.

This entire story to tell you…I need a Grandpa Biden in my life. I need the kind of grandpa who’ll hitch up his pants, squint one eye, and tell you it’s those damn gays who planted the dinosaur bones. Not that Biden would say those things (although, with a mental deterioration that rivals Flowers for Algernon, you really never know.)

I need a Grandpa who took public transportation uphill both ways. I need a Grandpa who understands the importance of a good fart joke. I need a Grandpa who thinks “fucking” is a verb AND an adjective.

I need a Grandpa Biden. AND. HOW.

WORDS THERE ARE NO WORDS

BAH! Why can't I function when real things happen in my life?!

Okay prepare yourselves because this post is about to make you wonder if you speak English. And if you don't speak English, well...you're screwed.

I started freelancing at a place and it's great and it's what I want and it's only for a few weeks which means I have a few days to prove myself and if I can't then I probably am back to unemployment.

SO. Yesterday after spending all my time actually working and not just checking my email (seriously) we finally had a big meeting at the end of the day and I was told that I was not quirky/witty/tongue-in-cheek enough.

ME.

ME.







MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Life, over. I need to rethink my priorities. I need to rethink my...everything. Words...there are no words anymore. Only...ellipses.

If you are wondering, YES. This is my post for the day. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME

Prepared For A Maiden Name

I went home to my parents house this weekend to hang out with my family, because Katie had come from Indy with the Liberator (who, by the by, finds me hilarious. I told you, the babies. They love me.)

While there, my mom pointed out something I had completely forgotten about: on the inside of one of the bedroom closets, I had left my mark. And I have that to share with you all now.



For those without the ability to read legible 2nd grade handwriting, here it is:

March 31, 1993
Emily

(I hope I
can show
my kids
this!?)

Emily J__
S______
and now
---> __________
Last name marryed!


First of all, yes. That is officially what ejs stands for. I considered blurring it and then realized that if you want to find me on the internet, it would take you about four seconds, whether or not you knew my full name. Feel free to steal my identity and use it as your own. It might get you unemployment checks (CHA-CHING!)

Now let's go on to the analysis portion of this photo.

A) Clearly there is a sticky mark beside my date and name. Which means that I found something that was sticky and thought it would be awesome if I hid it somewhere and then found it decades later, and it would be important enough to gather my offspring around. "Come on kids! This is where I used to live. Let me show you the place where I spread gak on the wall with my finger."

B) Yeah that's right. Who has two thumbs, is eight years old and knows how to properly punctuate her dates and use an interrobang? This girl.

C) So the sticky substance you placed there because you thought it would last forever. And then you used pencil. And also tried to erase a mistake you made in your own signature. Sure.

D) I actually had considered writing a post about my thoughts on Ms. versus Mrs. and last name changing and more feminism things before I came upon this. But luckily now I don't have to; you all know my opinion. In the future, I WILL be getting married, and I WILL be changing my last name and I WILL be having children. Multiple. There is no other alternative. My 8-year-old self already had it planned out.

E) I also appreciate that this sticky substance wasn't just important for me as a second grader. It was to be important to me as a grown, "marryed" adult. For when I rediscovered the sticky thing in the closet, I could thoughtfully update it so that any future owner of the house would have a full, complete record of just WHO this girl was who was leaving important sticky things around their house.

In fact, I updated it once myself:



The old one fell off two years later. Well that's good to know. And I'm so glad that whatever it was I was sticking to the wall for eternity was still available to use again. And that I was keeping a proper record.

Anyway, that's all I have to say about my weekend at home. Unless you want to look at 8 thousand pictures of Libby? Oh you do? Oh I have them right here....

Mustache Thanks: The Mysterious Lisa

As you may recall, I made a promise. I said that if you donated money to the Mustache Cause, I would write a blog post about you.

Even if I don't know you.

Well, Emily, you now have permission to eat your words. I have in my possession the list of those who donated. And one such person is Lisa K. Lisa K, who I do not know, and have never met. As far as I know. And neither has Adrienne. The 'stache count says she is from Indy, so I first asked my Indy contacts if they knew her. They do not.

So Lisa K, I now owe you one kickass blog post, without ever knowing you. So for you I have a poem based on what I could discover via Google. I hope you enjoy it.

Lisa K. Lisa K.
What on earth do I now say?
Wait a second! Look here! Ooh!
This girl REALLY likes I.U.

She hangs out there and learns real things
Of blood and guts and arms in slings
At least that's what she prob'ly does
She's in med school. Or...well, she was.

Want to hear 'bout cells transgenic?
Hope you do! It's a pandemic!
But maybe not. It might not be.
Her paper's 10 p. long, you see.

Oh wait! She's not in med school! No!
She's in law school. Why? I don't know.
But, oh that Lisa. She likes school.
She must think it's pretty cool.

You know who I think's cool? Why, Lisa.
More than leaning tower of Pisa.
For she donated without knowing
How much she'll get those kids' smiles glowing.

Okay the end is Barf City, but hopefully Lisa will enjoy it.

Charlie's Memoirs

Argh! Last night I woke up at 4am and my brain was like, "Oh, you're awake! Good, let's think about all the stressful things that are going on in your life that you can't change because it's the middle of the night. So how 'bout them taxes, hmm? WHAT are you going to do about THOSE?"

That has nothing to do with today's post, I just needed to vent. It was obnoxious.

Today's post is actually all about Charlie! Yay! For those who do not know Charlie, he is Monica's cat. And he is a notorious cat-hater converter. Even my roommate was anti cat when she went to the Humane Society for a rabbit for her friend. But when Charlie walked over, curled up in her lap and fell asleep, I believe her exact words were, "And I shall name him Charlie."

I've been living with Charlie for over a year now, and it has been a lovely time. Charlie is full of very odd quirks, including the fact that he loves the taste of tape, and he loves to hide little things under the rug. His favorite thing to hide under the rug are pens. It was quite a mystery to us. Why pens? Why the rugs? Until I figured it out: he is hiding the pens for safekeeping so that when we leave, he can write his memoirs.

And what would you know? This morning when I woke up, I discovered those memoirs! It's quite a thick manuscript, so I thought I'd share with you some excerpts.

Ahemahemahemahem:

My Life: Meow
By Charlie Cat



Today was sunny. My friends the birds were out in full force. I meowed at them to come play with me, but they twittered obnoxiously and flew off. Typical.



Found a bottle cap today. Put it away for Mom. If she ever needs it, it'll be where she can find it, under the couch.

Emily tried to pick me up, so I climbed on her back. Did you know there are things on top of the counters? Astounding.



Travis tried to push me over, but I showed him. That's the last time he'll rub my belly without permission.

What a great day. Found a new sunbeam.



Emily's arm hair was especially dirty earlier. It's a thankless job, making sure she's properly groomed each day. I had to give her a few nips to remind her who's in charge.

Tried to keep everyone from leaving by rolling on the carpet and being completely adorable. Sigh...they'll be back.



Ate too much cat food, had to work off the extra calories by running from the living room to the kitchen and back four times. Note to self: show Mom the place I puked when she gets home.

Did NOT fall off the couch on accident today, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.

Someone left out scotch tape! On a separate note, stomach feels a little weird.



Chapter 6: Things That Are Mine: The dresser is mine. The fridge is mine. The computers are mine. The DVDs are mine. The lamp is mine. All shoes are mine. Emily's nose is mine. The door frames are mine...

Helped Mom put the sheets on her bed and fold laundry. There was a mouse in the sheets, I'm sure of it, but it got away. Next time. Next time.



Walked into the living room and ignored everyone. Next time maybe they'll remember to save the tuna juice for those in need.

Whoever this Trader Joe is, he makes a quality cat cave.



Bounding skills in tip top shape. May have left claw marks on Emily's stomach.

Brought Mom two balls and a glove last night. She didn't even seem impressed. Better meow louder tonight.

Found a box. Sat in it. Tasted great.

Why My British Teeth Have Kept Me Wise

In honor of St. Patrick's Day today, I'm going to talk about the obviously proper thing: how the British have wronged me. Specifically, my teeth.

I have a pretty good amount of English blood in me (ack! ack! I know.) which is constantly at odds with my Scottish blood. I often wake up in the middle of the night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, spreading blue paint on half my face.

The most obnoxious thing about my English heritage are my teeth. You know how those Austen-esque books say things like, "She's the most beautiful woman on the estate! And those teeth, my word!" Yeah. That's because what they say is true: the British are born with terrible teeth. One look into my mouth is enough to make an oral surgeon giggle with glee.

Don't believe me? The last time I was at the dentist, she said they only see my teeth in textbooks. Textbooks.

First, before you start judging me and imagining me like some kind of Chinese Crested, I did have braces. So most of my teeth are straight as an arrow. Except for one, which got out of place because I didn't wear my bottom retainer. And yes, if I could go back in time 10 years and slap my 15-year-old self in the face, I would. Trust me. 15-year-old Emily has a lot of reasons to be smacked in the face anyway. So, minus my one snaggle tooth, which the fellas don't seem to mind, I have lovely teeth.

OR SO I WOULD HAVE YOU BELIEVE.

I smile and the dentist thinks, "Ah, we've got a simple one here. I'll be in and out in five minutes." And then she asks me to open, and it becomes that scene from Psycho. She's clutching her cheeks and screaming, there are violins screeching, and the Dentist's helper is stabbing me with a knife (well, my gums anyway,) going, "See here?! AND HERE?! Can you believe this, Dr. Novocaine?"

The problem with my face is that I inherited a small mouth from my mother and my teeth from my father. Which essentially means I have teeth that need a lot of space, and a mouth that has none to give.

Since I've showed you my amazing Photoshop skills yesterday, and I feel like I'm on a roll, I'm going to do another one.



In case you don't know what you are looking at, That tooth on the far right is sideways. And it is ruthlessly pushing my molar in such a way that, try as it may, it cannot escape and break the gum line. So, clearly, the wisdom teeth have got to go. If not for my sake, for that poor little molar which has never seen sunlight. It's like the Harry Potter of molars.

*Pause for Harry Potter 7a in theaters this summer.*

Okay so some time in college, my mom and I finally made our way down to the oral surgeon to get that sucker out of there. He did some x-rays and came back with a worried look on his furrowed brow.

What he told me is:

1. The teeth are intertwined with a vital nerve. And if he tugs them the wrong way, I might lose feeling in my face. GOOD SWEET LORD. I started sitting up and gathering my things, saying, "Welp! Thanks anyway, Doc!", but my mom pushed me back down. "Wait, the doctor isn't done yet."

2. Those two teeth have never come up yet. So where they are now is actually embedded in my jaw bone. Which means if taken out, there will be very little jaw bone left. They would have to wire my jaw shut, and hope that my jaw would grow itself back.

Hope.






























Hope.

My mom and I pumped the oral surgeon's hand furiously and skedaddled out of there so fast, there were probably clouds of smoke in the shape of our bodies still left in the office.

When I went back to the dentist to tell him the news, he shook his head, rubbed his chin and said, "Yes, well, I still think you should get them taken out. I mean, if you lose one more tooth on that side, you're not going to have very many left to chew with."

SIR. I'm not sure if you understand what is going on here. There is a possibility of me walking around with a Hannibal Lector jaw trap for the rest of my life AND I might lose all feeling on one side of my face which will inevitably make people call me Droopy and cause my tongue to loll about my face, probably poking through my Lector Mouth Cage.

And you are worried that, just in case I am suddenly from rural Arkansas and teeth start dropping out of my face left and right, I might not be able to CHEW ADEQUATELY?!

I packed up my things, grabbed my free floss, snatched one of those rubber monster finger puppets with the wiggly arms, and marched out of there with my head held high. And I never went back.

Which was probably a terrible idea because now I have a much greater likelihood of one of my other teeth ACTUALLY falling out, having not been to the dentist in years.

Actually, I did go to a different dentist once after that. After my team was laid off, we all went over to the same dentist to get a teeth cleaning before our insurance ran out. This dentist was the one who told me that my teeth belonged in textbooks. When I told her what the oral surgeon said, she shook her head, rubbed her chin and said, "Well, it's dangerous to have your teeth below the gum line because if one of them cracks, it could get infected and then you'd have some REAL problems."

Oh, shit. Well, that actually sounds much scarier than "you'd chew weird." I asked the dentist how it might happen that I'd crack one of those teeth.

"Well, if you bite down on something too hard with that part of your mouth."

Everyone take a look at that picture I drew again. Those teeth are currently under the gum line. On what day am I going to start trying to GUM a jawbreaker back there? What the hell is WRONG with these dentists? Do they not understand the severity of WIRING A LIFELESS JAW INTO PLACE UNTIL THE DAY I DIE?!

This dentist said that she would ask her oral surgeon friend about my x-rays and get his opinion. Go for it, lady. But I'm sorry, the oral surgeon I went to was not from Tanzania. He was an accredited doctor in the suburbs of Illinois, with a VERY authentic-looking name tag. So I don't imagine that his opinion was some big crock. He wasn't telling me that Satan was coming for me and if I didn't drink this tea made of basil and elephant dung I would die. He was telling me that there are serious repercussions for removing some teeth that seem to be doing just fine where they are. And if there is one single surgeon in the entire world that is giving me that advice, I am going to follow it to the letter.

So you see, on this holy day of celebrating the patron saint of drinking, I wish to raise my glass to you, Oral Surgeon From God. For saving me from becoming a Droopy Hannibal Lector, yes. But also for forcing me to come to terms with my British heritage. Well, my British teeth anyway. May they stay in my mouth forever and ever. Amen.

As I Recall: Jonah And The Bile

I hope you people know what I go through for you. Because today, not only am I bringing you another Bible/Torah story, I am bringing you the story of Jonah.

AND THE WHALE.

If you remember, I have gone through some serious mental anguish in regards to googling whale pictures. And frankly, I don't think I have the wherewithal to do it again.

So for today's illustration, I've made something of my own:


That's right. It's Jonas And The Fail Whale.

Alright alright, enough stalling. On to the story!

Now if we did this as a true "As I Recall" with me just telling you the story as I remembered it, it would go like this: Once upon a time, there was a man named Jonah. He was eaten by a whale. Fin.

So once again I've gotta trust Ol' Soggy to lead me through this bad boy.

We jump right into this story with God talking to Jonah (And since they don't expand on where he comes from, I'm going to go with 123 Middle East Rd, Middle East City, Middle East.) So the Lord tells him to go to Nineveh which is referred to as both great and wicked. Make up your mind, God. Unless you mean wicked like, totally tubular?

Anyway, God wants Jonah to go to Nineveh and shake his fist wildly at it.

Jonah is not super into this idea. We don't really know the deal with Jonah, but apparently he is a huge coward. So he goes a-running off to Tarshish to try to find a place where God can't find him. Don't really know why he assumes Tarshish is a God-free zone, but the guy is dead-set on heading out there. So he finds a ship that's going there and climbs aboard.

Now you guys have read enough of these by now to figure out what happens next. If I know my Old Testament God (and I think that I do) when you cross him, SHIT. GOES. DOWN.

Not one to disappoint, God makes a crazy storm happen. Everyone on the ship is crying to their individual gods which is of course doing nothing without the exact invisible, almighty being in mind. But through all this, Jonah is sound asleep. Nothing like a mighty, death-creating storm to rock you gently in your dreams.

The captain of the ship comes down and freaks out and is all WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED AND PRAY TO YOUR GOD OUR GODS AREN'T LISTENING YELL YELL YELL.

Next, the sailors decide to cast lots to decide whose fault the storm is.

a. I'm still a little confused why anyone has to have caused this storm. At this point, I guess we're not-so-much with the science, and no one has figured out cold wind vs. hot wind yet.
b. What is a lot, you ask? And how do you cast one? Well, I asked this question, too. And the general consensus via the internet is: *shrug.* So I guess it's like rolling a die? Or flipping a coin? It's not that important. What's important is that casting lots causes them to start ganging up on Jonah.

The sailors are all "who are you? where are you from? what is your deal?" and they use the word calamity and I immediately started singing this Styx song:


So next I had a little dance party and forgot what I was doing and got up and made a sandwich and vacuumed a little and then remembered I was blogging so I got back to it.

Jonah tells the sailors that his god is the one that made the land and water and their knees start shaking and they get seriously freaked out. Not sure what their gods were supposed to have been in control of. My guess is sandals. The sailors ask Jonah what they could do to calm the storm, and he suggests that they throw him into the sea. At first the men still try to row themselves out of danger, bless their souls, but they are no match for The Wrath. So they pick Jonah up and throw him into the sea, and the storm immediately quiets down.

And here is where we pause, take a deep breath, calm....ommmm....ommmmmm...

God makes a whale eat Jonah.

Wait a second. Wait. A. Second. Hubba whhaaa? Ol' Soggy is telling me that it was not a whale. Or, well, it MAY not have been a whale. He actually calls it a "large fish." I'm sure it's one of those things where the original (Hebrew?) word could be translated to either "whale" or "large fish." Now, you may feel scandalized to realize such a fact. And you may feel scandalized if you are a big sciency nerd, because whales aren't even big fish, they are MAMMALS. But really, the man survived in the belly of an aquatic animal. Are we really going for scientific accuracy here? Let's move on.

Jonah hung out in the belly of the fish for three days and three nights. It is a gastric juices MIRACLE.

Jonah finally figures it out: there is no place where you are safe from God's Destructive Yet Apparently Loving Hand. So he sends up a prayer from the belly of the fish (why it took him 3 days to figure this out, I don't know. Maybe he spent the rest of his time fighting other swallowed sea creatures. *shudder*)

Finally, after hearing Jonah's prayer of thanksgiving, God tells the whale/fish to spit Jonah out into dry land and speaks to Jonah again with the same message: get your smelly fish ass to Nineveh and shake your fist at them.

So Jonah goes to Nineveh and tells everyone that if they don't shape up in 40 days, everyone is doomed (again with the 40. I'm telling you. I'm giving you serious Cash Cab knowledge here.) And amazingly, everyone believes him. And fasts. And puts on sackcloth. Again. What is the deal with sackcloth, honestly? Even the king hears Jonah's story, puts on a sackcloth, and sits in ashes, which is explained not at all. So...whatever?

Point is, everyone turns from their evil ways and God rethinks his plan of calamity.



The End.

Dammit, Jim! I'm a Copywriter. Not a Marketer.

I am very lucky to have two parents who always encouraged me in whatever job I wanted to do. Likewise, my parents are lucky to have four children who all want steady jobs and not the ability to program their guitar into an XBox controller.

So in high school, I decided I wanted to become a copywriter (aka, the person who writes the words for an ad.) When I told people this, they nodded their heads and said "Okay, okay...cool. Cool." and then slowly backed away. Which means either a) They don't know what a copywriter is but figure it sounds like something they SHOULD know and don't want to be caught in a web of lies or b) They DO know what a copywriter is and want nothing to do with the kind of people who write things like "It's CRUMBelievable!"

Cut to now. I have been searching for steady employment for what is becoming a nail-biting number of months. Turns out, all those times my professors warned me that companies think advertising is a waste of money and will cut it first during a recession? Those were times I should have been listening and not doodling pictures of bears. Who knew?!

So now all those people who cared enough to ask what I do (but not really enough to stick around and hear my theories on why Hefty could be doing SO MUCH BETTER) are trying to give me suggestions. And that suggestion tends to revolve around the idea of "Why don't you look for something in advertising besides copywriting?"

Let's take a time out. I need to ask you something. Are you a doctor? If yes, I have a question about ear infections; let's hang out in the comments. But if you are NOT a doctor, why not? My personal reasons are such:

1. Blood
2. Science

But that doesn't mean that I don't respect doctors. I'm damn glad that there are people in the world who DO want to be doctors, although I want nothing to do with the profession myself.

Okay, time in. That is how I feel about any form of Advertising job BESIDES being a Creative. I am SO SO SO glad there are people in the world who want to be Account Planners and Brand Managers and all those other lovely things. Those people are the reason why I, as a copywriter, get to write things. But HELL NO I do not want to do your job. NO.

The way I see it, here's what Creatives do:
- Come into work in jeans
- Sit in front of a Mac
- Peruse the Creative Brief for inspiration
- Furrow their brows until something awesome comes out
- Laugh at the funny things they write and draw
- Play with crayons
- Act superior to everyone in the office (Hey, I didn't say we're all good.)

And here's what I assume anyone else in Advertising does:
- Come into work in stylish but uncomfortable shoes
- Sit in front of a PC
- Write emails that say "verbiage" and "plus it up"
- Attend meetings where the Powerpoint has no pictures
- Stare out the window while a silent tear rolls down their cheek (I would.)
- Act appalled at anyone who thinks POS means "Piece Of Shit."

And that is just not my cup of tea. I didn't go into Advertising because I wanted to be an advertiser. I went into Advertising because I want to be a copywriter. I want to write things that make people laugh or cry or think. And I want that reaction to then make them go and buy the product I was writing for. I want to help people's business, yes, but not by sucking up or taking phone calls or playing my office politics right. I want to help people's business because I'm a good writer who can get a reaction out of people with just my words. And if I can't do THAT, I'd rather....hmm...more lists are in order, I think.


Things I'd rather be than be a Businessy Advertising Lady:

- Minimum wage kindergarten teacher
- Hooters waitress
- One-armed barista
- Receptionist again at the place where the old man rubbed my shoulders
- Perform off off Broadway on my one woman show, "The Cheese And I: It's Complicated. Or, Why I'm Not on ANTM"

And just for good measure, here are the things I would NOT do:

- Work at "Schubway" for 1 more second and smell like it for the rest of the day
- Cleaning bar bathrooms at 4am.
- Anything from Fear Factor, especially eating live spiders
- Ew ew ew ew...still thinking about the spiders
- Swim with a whale (because some things are just TOO SCARY)

Hopefully that clears things up. When people suggest I become something besides a copywriter, to me that's like suggesting that a marine biologist become a fisherman. It's not that fishermen are bad per se. I just had slightly more romantic plans than casting out nets for tuna.

LOL...creme.

Okay, I'mma get something off my chest righthererightnow. This is what I would like to know: What is WRONG with you people?

Yeah. I said it.

Seriously, why is it that when my boyfriend's guy friend comes in from out of town and I say "Sure, go have a good time!" That makes me an "awesome girlfriend?" How many of you are out there that legitimately have a problem with your boyfriend going out, drinking some beers, and stumbling home? Am I the only one who believes her grown-ass significant other is capable of holding himself responsible? (Also, why do I ALWAYS want to shorten significant other to "sig fig?" Is it because it's the only thing I learned in Chemistry? SO MANY QUESTIONS!!)

The real question here is: is it the ladies' faults for being overly protective? Or is it the dudes' faults for being assholes to so many of us, we no longer trust a-single one of you?

HMM?! I want answers.

In other news, one of the members of the band, 10cc is named Lol Creme.

Just hang out with that last sentence for a little bit. Cuddle with it. Hold its hand. I know I did. Now, because I am in a bit of a blogging slump at the current present, I'm just going to leave you with this:


And I'll catch you all back on Monday, when I am re-energized and ready to post about crazy things and crazy people and maybe a man getting swallowed by a whale. We'll see.

Strings of Thoughts, Loosely Pulled Together Into Sentences.

Are we all familiar with the story of the cheese knives? Well I'd take the time, if you're looking for something to fill your day with sunshine and rainbows.

I bring it back up because I used the Dreaded Knives. Not the ones Joe got; those are in my possession. The other ones. The ones purchased by the Man Boy. And after using said knives, I immediately cut myself on them. THEY'RE CURSED, I TELL YOU. And I even cut myself on a terrible spot- right on the tip of my thumb. What kind of band aid adheres to the tip of your thumb, you ask? No band aid. The answer is no band aid. So thank you, ex-whatever. A year after I so ruthlessly decided I wanted a relationship with someone who actually acted interested in me, you have still managed to annoy the hell out of me. Fantastic.

Anyway, now that that's off my chest...

Sorry about no post yesterday. Blame Jane; she needed me to act like I enjoy dogs (difficult) for an ad-type thing with an ad-type agency for a client-type place.

Yeah, if I ever become employed again, expect that kind of obnoxious anonymity on a daily basis.

I also managed to break one of Joe's mugs yesterday (I was seriously on a roll yesterday. I haven't even gotten to how I spilled red wine all over Jane's food...am I allowed to blame clumsiness on PMS? Because I might. Is that one of the symptoms Midol covers? I should look into this.) so today we're going to a pottery studio to make new ones, which feels very barfy couply, but also will hopefully be cathartic. Not actually because of the clumsiness, but for another reason:

I haven't been to decorate pottery since I took the boys I used to nanny during the summers in college. And it was TORTURE then. Because I didn't get to paint anything, only they did. And what a lovely job they did, too, as 4 and 5 year-olds. I'd be in the corner, biting my nails and trying to control my eye twitching as they colored the rabbit's ENTIRE head--eyeballs and all--black. That's...you can't...that looks....*breathe, Emily, breathe. Don't stunt their creativity as your teachers did you...*

So now I get to go and paint something myself with my very own hands. And it will NOT all be black. So there. Take THAT, 5-year-old boy with a heart of gold who is only trying to make something nice for his mother! TAKE. THAT.

Mustache Thanks: Older Sisters. Who needs them? Oh...me.

Look out!! It's another dedication post!

I was actually planning on doing some family posts coming up soon, but my older sister, Katie, ever on the ball, scooped up the opportunity preemptively and donated to the Mustache-a-thon, in which I promised any donators would receive their own post.

So here goes.



I dropped an f-bomb on Katie once. Once. And I never said I was sorry. I think I was in junior high/early high school. The hormones were raging. We were running out the door...and there was definitely something about shoes involved. I have no idea what Katie did to deserve it, but out it came nonetheless. And I've never forgotten it. There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: I managed to traumatize myself as a child.

So to Katie: I am sorry for throwing an f-bomb at you. And so haphazardly at that.

The thing is, and the reason Katie did not deserve such a jab is because she is 100% the most mature person you will ever meet, and is therefore above such childishness. When Katie got married straight out of college, I didn't blink. Now I'm like "JEEZ I'M ONLY 25 QUIT HARPING ON ME, PEOPLE." But for Katie, it was okay. Because she's mature and knowledgeable and always knows what she is doing. (Which I'm sure isn't technically true, but that's just the way it goes in my mind, like it or not.)

I do have proof of Katie's silly side, though. It's something that still makes me laugh to think about, and that is the way that Katie and I often chose to enter each others' bedrooms: butt first. It was more of a backwards, hopping/scooting way of entering a room. Really, it was quite dangerous if you didn't know who was in the room you were about to enter. And it was definitely Katie's invention. Don't ask me when it started. Just know that if you hear the staccato sound of feet rubbing on hardwood, expect an eyeful of jeans when you look up.

Despite such shenanigans, Katie is the oldest child of four and therefore the Leader of The Pack. She has always held herself to the highest standard--including an adorable story about her first day of Kindergarten: while walking to school, she stopped my mom abruptly:

"Mom, WAIT!! What's the capital of the United States?!"
"Oh, Honey, I'm sure they won't ask you that on your first day."
"BUT WHAT IF THEY DO?!"
"It's okay, I promise they won't."
"MOM! JUST TELL ME!!!!"
"...Washington DC."
"Okay. Washington DC. Washinton DC. Washington DC..."

I can safely tell you that on MY first day of Kindergarten, I was concerned about peeing my pants, missing my daytime stories, and little else. But that's how Katie always is: highly prepared. Before she had her baby in August, I think she actually read every book about children that existed in the world.

It's always been helpful to have someone boldly go where none of us had been before. Someone to test out the waters of all those scary things. Bike riding, junior high, boyfriends, prom dresses, college, weddings, kids...

I've never had a problem letting Katie skip on ahead of me. She's always been willing to turn back around, grab my hand, and show me how it's done.

Wicker Park Is For Babies.

Babies, guys. Babies.

No. I am not pregnant. JEEZ! FRICKEN BREATHE.

This weekend the sun was shining, the douchebags were in shorts, and people were frollicking outside. It was awesome. And I totally forgot...I want a baby. Not my own baby. Not a baby I need to take care of. Not one that requires that I be pregnant and get no sleep and breastfeed and all that nonsense.

I just want a quiet 1-year-old to walk around with. Possibly the baby can wear a sun hat. Maybe baby glasses. See, now that it's nice out, the babies are out in full force. Wicker Park is chock-full of first-time parents with adorable, alternative babies.

OH MY GOD. TIME OUT! I FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT THE BEST BABY OUTFIT I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE SO MUCH SO THAT IT REQUIRES ALL CAPS AND INCORRECT PUNCTUATION!!>!>!K"?!1.

It was an adorable young couple with a little Asian baby on the dad's shoulders wearing the outfit from this book.

She quite literally looked like this doll:

Including the foot-tall red peak standing straight toward the sky. I have never been so close to stealing a baby. And I have come seriously close before.

Anyway, in the winter I totally forgot how many babies and dogs there are in the world. But this weekend was a giant reminder that there are quite a few. And I want them all. If it weren't an issue of cruelty and cleanliness, I would become a baby and dog hoarder. I can see myself on A&E, trying to wade through the multitude I have built up. ("Emily, have you even SEEN this dachshund in the past year? Do you think you can let it go? Come on, Emily. Let's put down the dachshund." "But, but...I might NEED it...")

Joe is aware of my latent hoarding tendencies. It hasn't scared him away yet. I've done some pretty weird things around him, so screaming "REEEEER!" every time I see a dog smaller than my fist is probably the least of his concerns. And come on. Who DOESN'T make faces at smiling babies in strollers? It's human nature. There was a baby on the bus the other day who thought I was a comedic GENIUS. And I really was, I'm not going to lie. I mean, I'd look away--and then back. I should be some kind of baby stand up comic.

For now, my plan is to get my own cat. It will be my first pet since the time I sold my turtle to pay for a doll. We'll see if I can survive owning an animal whose primary life goal is to lay in the sun and lick his own thigh. Then I'll think about other possibilities.

Awkard City, Population: The Oscars

A few of my live Oscar thoughts:

THIS OSCARS IS SO AWKWARD ALREADY

WAIT! WHY IS NPH HERE?!?! Did they get him just because Alec refused to dance? Is there anyone I’m more glad had a comeback? No there is not. No there is not indeed. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but thank god for Harold and Kumar.

Oh, no. It’s awkward again. Oh wait, now it’s not. Okay, wait a minute. It’s awkward again. And it’s still awkward. Wait! It’s...oh, no. It’s just awkward.

Joe and I simultaneously: “…Ryan REYNOLDS?”

OH MY GOD WHY IS THIS THE MOST AWKWARD OSCARS EVER?!?

Monique. All of it. Every part.

DOM DELOUISE IS DEAD? WHY DON’T YOU PEOPLE KEEP ME INFORMED ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE IMPORTANT TO MY DAY-TO-DAY LIFE?

Yay, dancing to best original music! Oh, wait...it's just a Gap ad.

I’d like you all to meet my future husband: Colin Firth. Even if he is 100 years old, I will feed him apple sauce and roll him around in his wheelchair.

Oprah?! YOU get an Oscar! YOU get an Oscar! EVERY! BODY! GETS AN OSCAR!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSANDRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

So...I guess I need to see Hurt Locker?

Oh man! I forgot Alan Rickman is in this!! (Sorry, I switched over to Die Hard. Okay, no more writing my thoughts to my blog.)

The Conversationalist

Just kidding! Here's a post right here!

I’m always determined that the next place I go, the next thing I do, I will stop being so damn awkward.

I have yet to reach that goal.

I am seriously just the worst conversationalist, especially with new people. I actually know where I go wrong, too—I don’t ask questions. And for this, I blame my friends and my parents.

I have grown up around a series of people who have no problem telling their life story, whether solicited or not. So my repertoire of inquiries have always stopped at, “Hi, how are you?” No more questions needed. My dad could take that question and run with it until your ears fell off. Literally, if you let him, you would probably just whither away in the chair you sat. And the first to go would be the ears.

But, believe it or not, there are people in the world who will not just talk for hours on end without breathing. Weird, I know. And when I come across such people, I have no idea what to do. Atrophied from disuse, questions do not spill out of my mouth with an unwarranted flow of care and concern. They march out, like a red-coated army that you can see coming from across the battlefield.

“So where do you live, Emily?”
“Wicker Park.” *Pause. Pause. Pause. Pause.* “Where do YOU live?”
“Up at Belmont and Sheffield.”
“So like…that’s cool.” *Pause. Pause. Pause. Pause. “Have you lived there long?” (WHAT? You have twenty stories about that area! What about restaurants? El stops?! Getting locked outside there with two beagles and a Westie?!?!? Hellooo?)

Maybe it’s just that I hate small talk. I’d much rather get real with you. But when you just meet someone, you’re not allowed to say such things. I mean, how do you segue into the fact that you’d eat all your food by stabbing it with toothpicks if it were socially acceptable? How do you bring up your debilitating fear of one day having a daughter and not becoming the Laurelai to her Rory?

So I continue to bite my tongue, to the extent that I can’t let go of it to form simple sentences that will not scare people. I still think one day I will figure it out. One day I will be able to have a stimulating conversation with a near stranger. One day, when I’m a grown up.

Move it Along. Nothing to See Here.

Sorry, no post today. But check in over the weekend! I've got a feeling my adventures might bring about some good, awkward posts.

8 Rush Hour Rules for Your Sanity

Short-time freelancing out in the burbs! Work! Driving! Sentence fragments!

Things I learned during rush hour:



1. The love between you and the car in front of you during your arduous trip is a bond that can never be broken. Except by that damn Ford Taurus that cuts in between you. WE HAD A BOND, TAURUS. AND YOU RIPPED IT APART.

2. When your car reaches 10 MPH, do NOT gain hope. If you gain hope, Satan wins.

3. Remember when you thought your lane was the slowest lane? Remember how you switched lanes so you'd go faster? *SLAP!* Remember that pain. Remember THAT.

4. Yelling doesn't help. Stern, sarcastic lecturing does. Say it with me: "Oh, NOW you're getting over? NOW you are? REALLY?"

5. When no one is in your lane any longer, it isn't luck. It's because the lane ends in two seconds, but you were too busy reading the side of that truck to notice.

6. Would you like to hear about fun for the whole family at Great Wolf Lodge? No? How about Lady Gaga? I'm sorry, those are your only two options.

7. Your iPhone is a great tool for finding where you are on the map...two blocks after you should have turned. Slash, never.

8. The El is the most wonderful invention of all the inventions. And next time I ride it, I will kiss it. Even the grimy, gum-stained, homeless-smelling, pee-soaked part. Mmmm....public transportaaaaaaation.

Mustache Thanks: Keith P; The Man, The Artist, The Legend.

Today is another thank-you day for those who donated to the Mustache cause. I bring to you two wonderful people: Keith P and my younger sister, Hannah. Keith and Hannah went to high school together. When I found out Keith had donated, I immediately got to work inventing a really great post about him. I started with a poem:

Keith, Oh my Keith. You wonderful boy.
You fill up my days with such bountiful joy.
'Twas on that fine day within Luscombe we met
You thought I was Hannah, and started to fret.
Why won't she say hi? Why won't she look here?
But soon you saw differences, though they were mere.
For, my hair was shorter, my eyes bit more round.
At once a new kinship was formed, I have found.
I know you know Hannah, but I'm so much better.
It's just that it's been some more time since you met her.

...Which is true, Hannah does know Keith better. And with that reasoning, I decided to introduce my first guest blogger, my sister Hannah. Take it away, Han!

What can I say about Keith P?

First of all, let me preface this post by noting that my family does (and always will) love Keith P. more than me, and that is just an established fact.

“But Hannah!” you say, “That can’t possibly be true. WHERE are the facts?”

Step into my office, stay a while.

On the day of my graduation, the day that I was meant to be honored and adored by all family near and wide, there was one picture taken of me while I crossed the stage to be handed my diploma. Fine. Good. Grand. I had no problems with this. I wasn’t exactly looking my best in a floor-length bottle-green robe (Harry Potter reference? Anyone?) And cardboard cap.

But there were THREE PICTURES taken of Keith P. by my family. And damn him, does the boy know how to pull off a bottle-green robe.

Second of all, Keith P. is an unstoppable musical machine and I am painfully jealous that he plays piano and cello and sings and acts and can do handstands while juggling and plays the harp with his toenails, blindfolded. (His eyes are blindfolded of course. His toenails aren’t blindfolded. That’d be cool, though.)

Where was I? Ah. Talent. The boy is talented in every way. This scored him major points with every freaking teacher in high school. Every time a play was coming up Keith would be summoned to the front of the class:

Mr. Schoenburg: “Oh KEITH (*gush gush*) (EDITORS NOTE: I SAID *GUSH GUSH* IN MY LAST POST! IT'S LIKE WE'RE SISTERS!!) I hear you’re going to be playing the part of Male Lead #1 and might I just say that you are perfect in every way and you smell like what I imagine Jesus must use as aftershave. By the way, Hannah is spreading a vicious rumor that you play the harp with your toenails. Any truth to that?”

But I digress…

Keith P. had talent in one much more important area. An area I like to call: Speech Team. Lets all take a moment of recognition for the fact that I was a big major nerdlinger in high school and absolutely loved speech team (as did Keith).

Boiled down to the essentials: in speech team you wear a suit and memorize an eight-minute speech that is written by you, or by someone else. Some are funny, some are dramatic, and some are serious. Some are done with a partner, and some are done by this terrible chick in the pink suit who thought she was all that but she wasn’t and GOD who fake cries during dramatic interpretation and REALLY?! A PINK SUIT?!?!

But I digress. Again.

Keith and I balanced our time at tournaments between performing our speeches, and stalking the people who we thought were good/terrible/wore pink suits and therefore had no reason to live.

How many "speech boyfriends" did I have? Lets conservatively say five.

How many of them knew who I was? Zero. Possibly one.

How many of them knew who Keith was? All. And they loved him. They would all go out on weekends and pick out matching china patterns.

And now Keith P. is a roaring success with reviews on his plays that would knock your socks off. He is going to be on Broadway and I’m going to show up with flowers, which he will politely accept and then add to his pile of gifts (including, I would have to assume, some sort of priceless antique china patterns that his old speech team buddies brought him...curse them.) And we will reminisce about the days of old when we would hang out in the music lab, and laugh at the gym teachers as they foolishly beg that we run at least one lap, and write wildly inappropriate notes in psychology, only to be discovered later by Mr. Reddel, the famed crazy man from crazytown. (EDITORS NOTE: DON'T YOU TALK THAT WAY ABOUT MR. REDDEL.)

So here’s to you, Keith P. I wish you success in everything you do.

P.S. Have you heard the rumor that Keith P. has nasty long toenails that he uses to play the harp? Spread it.

As I Recall: Esther (But More Importantly, Eunuchs.)

I've taken on a new Bible challenge for this story. Since I have thus far failed in my search for a proper female lead (having tried once and given up...similar to my attempt at jogging) I took some advice from some of "my people" and set out in search of Esther, a Jewish Queen, and the reason behind Purim, which ended yesterday.



That's right. This chick even has a doll. A creepy, creepy doll

Now, even though I was able to deceive some into thinking I am Jewish (I can see how the brown hair and overwhelming love of matzoh might throw some people off) I can tell you now that I am not. I was raised in a stiff-upper-lip Protestant church, which still argues about whether or not the electric guitar is, in fact, a tool used by Satan to entrance us into Hell. My church valued the Bible, sure, but if you've read any of these recaps so far you know--either I didn't listen very often, or we just didn't hit on every story. Likely it's a little of both.

All this to say...I know NOTHING about Esther. Although I believe there is a Veggie Tales movie about her that I have not seen (Good Lord, there's no time to discuss Veggie Tales right now, people. Save it, SAVE IT.)

So, knowing nothing about Esther, I picked up my trusty Ol' Soggy and flipped laboriously though the stuck pages. And guess what?! The woman has her own book. Her own personal chapter, shall we say. All about her. And her awesomeness.

So this story begins with King Asomething, who commands his eunuchs to summon his Queen to his party so he can show off how hot she is.

AAAAAAAND TIME OUT. Eunuchs? Really? There are eunuchs in the Bible? I don't even know what the deal IS with eunuchs. Like, I know it has something to do with their bits. But is it that they have no bits? Born without bits? Mangled bits? Chopped-off bits? Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. I'm easily queasy. But I didn't even know they were part of the Bible Plot Line! I just have so many questions! Do eunuchs still exist? Are they really as zombie-like as we portray them? What is the point of making eunuchs do your bidding? Is the will of the testicled SO powerful that they make terrible slaves? It's time to wikipedia this nonsense.

So anyway, the king is all drunk from partying and slurs to the eunichs to fetch him his queen but she refuses. So just in case word gets out and all women start thinking for themselves, they banish the queen to somewhere else and take a new queen. Phew, problem solved.

This is where Esther, the orphan/virgin/Jew stepped up to the plate. She didn't tell anyone about that last little tidbit about being Jewish. See, her Jewish name was actually Hadassah, which, I swear to God, means "myrtle."

MYRTLE.

Okay, let's move on.

No wait. MYRTLE.

Okay, let's really move on this time. So that no one knows she's Jewish, she changes her name to Esther, a Persian name that means "star." Lo and behold, the king loved her more than any of the other poor saps, and placed the Queen's crown on her head. PARTY TIME!

While all this is going on, Mordecai, who was the cousin/father-figure to Esther, hears a plot by two of the eunuchs to murder the king. Sooooo, I guess that solves that mystery because they still have anger and emotions? Frankly, it only confuses me further. WHAT IS YOUR PURPOSE, EUNUCHS?!?! Anyway, Mordecai overhears it and tells Esther, who tells the king, who has the two eunuchs murdered. Bit of a random tale, but it comes back later.

Now, this guy Haman is the Head Official...who knows of what, but he's very important. When he walks by, all the king's servants bow down to him except for Mordecai. Haman is piiiiiissed. He decides that it would be silly to hurt Mordecai for not bowing. Childish, in fact. What would be better would just be to kill ALL the Jews in the entire world. He asks the king if it's okay. The king of course consents because, well, damn those Jews and their ways! *shakes fist*

So I guess there's a bunch of murder and confusion amongst the Jews, and Mordecai is ripping off his clothes and wailing and throwing things and...dressing in "sackcloth?" Don't really know about that one. Anyway, I imagine him like Steve Carell in 40-Year-Old Virgin when he just walks through every room of his apartment yelling. Eventually he gathers himself up enough to ask Esther to get the king to call off all the murdering. So Esther hitches up her royal suspenders and goes to the king. This is actually a pretty big deal because a) the king doesn't know she's Jewish, and by his decree, she should also be killed. But also, the king tends to kill people who come to him without being summoned. So DOUBLE LIKELIHOOD OF DEATH. But the needs of her people are just too great. So she goes before him and the king's all swoony and not in any kind of mood to kill her. Phew! Esther requests that the king and Haman come to a banquet that she will prepare the next day. The king's already like, "Yes, yes dear. Whatever you want shall be yours. I'd give you half my kingdom, *Gush gush gush*" so no problems there.

That day, Haman's all happy because he's been invited to this banquet. But when he passes Mordecai he's like, "BLARG! That damn Jew is still there and he still doesn't quiver at my feet!" So he gathered all his friends and wife and tells them that no matter how great and awesome and strong and rich and amazing he is, none of that matters, because that one dude doesn't bow to him. His friends and wife (who are thinking the same thing as I am) are like, "Uhhh, okay? You know you have the power to just kill him right? Why don't you quit being such a whiny bitch about it?" Haman drums his fingertips together with an "eeeeexcellent" and commands them to build some gallows in preparation.

That night, the king can't fall asleep so he calls a servant to read aloud from the boring book of records. During this, he finds out about Mordecai being the one to save him from eunuch murder (again...so weird) so he decides to honor him. He asks if anyone from the high court is around. It just so happens that Haman is outside his door preparing his speech. ("King, we SHOULD hang Mordecai. No, no. King, WE should hang Mordecai. We should HANG Mordecai. Yeah, yeah, that last one.") So the King lets Haman in.

The king asks him, "What should be done for someone I want to honor?" And Haman tells him to get a robe and a horse wearing a crown (Oh my god. My Little Pony existed in the Bible. All my dreams...) and to lead him around the town square proclaiming that this is what the king does to honor someone. I'm a little confused by this entire encounter because I'm pretty sure it said this king has been leading for 12 years. So why he has never had occasion to honor a single person in that time is beyond me. But he's also the one who was like "Kill the Jews for no reason? Why, sure! Here's my literal seal of approval."

So anyway, this was what Haman suggested the king should do, and the king's all, "Totally! Smart. Okay, go do that for Mordecai, and don't leave out a single detail." HAR!! Sucks to be you, Haman. Haman does everything he's told and then goes home to wail. His wife is no help. She's basically like, "Yeah, hun. If this guy's Jewish, you're screwed." Because I guess she knew that Jews are awesome?

The next day Haman, the king, and Esther sit down to dinner. And the king is once again all, "What do you want? You can have anything, before I even find out what it is." So Esther drops on them that she wants the lives of the Jews back and it is all VERY Inigo Montoya and the king is up in arms to learn that Haman has done such a thing (but...he did it, too...so...) then he finds out about the gallows that Haman had prepared for Mordecai and orders Haman hanged there. Ouch.

Next the king sends out new commands to turn everything around--but rather than tell people to just get along, he orders the Jews to defend themselves! Now they can kill anyone who might attack them, along with the women and children, and plunder all their goods! Oh, praise Adonai! The Jews are now so mighty that non-Jews are claiming Judaism because they're so terrified. Yippee! We win! We win!!


Eventually the Jews took a break from all the hanging, slashing, and plundering to celebrate their victory with a feast and a party. Thus begins the holiday of Purim, a day of great celebration, food, and giving to the poor.

So what have we learned? Well, we've learned that one of the great women of the Bible, one who gets her own book and her own holiday is...still not really that amazing. She stood up to a man who clearly already adores her. That's what she did. I'm beginning to lose faith in the idea that there is even one serious female role model in the Bible. That's not to say that, within the thousands of years that the Bible was written, there weren't some kick ass women. And it's very possible that Esther was one of them. But the men who told their stories just didn't give a rat's ass about them, which sucks. We get virgins and liars and whores. That's who we get. Where's our lion-punching, giant-killing, ark-building, crazy-faced women? I want a girl who bares her teeth and growls. I say we picket.

What do we want?
A GIRL WHO BARES HER TEETH AND GROWLS!!
When do we want it?
NOW (BUT ALSO FOR THE PAST 5,000 YEARS OR WHATEVER)!!!!!

Mustache Thanks: Mommy Dearest

As promised, those of you who donated to the mustache cause over the last few weeks will be blessed with your very own blog post. I won't do them all this week because I've got a few other ideas up my sleeve (including a new Bible post, huzzah!)

But today will mark the very first Thank You Post. And first up is my mother. Of course she gets first dibs; the woman had to put up with me from the very beginning. While she was pregnant, I stuck around for two extra weeks, which I'm sure she appreciated (What? It was warm in there.) And then generally wreaked havoc until I was about twenty. Last night, my mom told me that she used to buy me scotch tape to keep me entertained. Not going to lie, I'm pretty sure that's all you'd need TODAY. I'd be all, "Hmm, there's nothing on TV besides Meet The Browns...guess I'll just sit here and unroll some tape. Zzzzzzzip! Zzzzzzzip! *Tee hee!*"

Now, you've already gotten one Mom story here. And there are certainly many to come, I'm sure.

So for this post, I want to share a story of my Mom that my aunt told me. It might be my favorite story about her to date. (Oh no wait..there's one more. Okay, TWO mom stories today!) I'm sure she'll be thrilled by both of these.

Okay the first one takes place in the 50's. My mom is, say, three. I've seen pictures; she was seriously adorable: auburn pigtails, freckles, light blue eyes. Adorable, that little Susie. Now little Susie, being young and impressionable, knows only one song. Just one. And that song is the theme to the television show, Wyatt Earp.



And who says television is ruining children? Well, they were right. But it's been happening for decades.

Every Sunday, my mom would skip to church along with the rest of her family. But because Wyatt Earp is the only song that my mom knew, that's the one she sang. Every time. Meaning, while everyone else is singing, say, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"...



...Little Susie is belting out a song about the kindly cowboy from Kansas.

Well, as you can imagine, eventually the hymn ends. The organ echoes it's last note, everyone closes their hymn books and sits back down. Welp, sorry folks! But the Wyatt Earp theme song is still going strong! Everyone turns around to see this little girl standing on the pew, belting out, "Wyyyyyatt Earp! Wyyyyyat Earp! Brave, courageous and BOLD! Long live his name and long live his glory and long may his story be toooooold!"


The second story of my mom is much more recent. I think about five years or so. And once again, it's a story I can only relay because I wasn't there.

My parents and two younger siblings went to see a movie together. Afterward, they decided to go to Baker's Square for some pie. Yum. So they're in the elevator on their way to the car in the parking garage. And the conversation goes as follows:

Dad: Well I thought that movie was pretty good.
Hannah: Yeah, I really liked how the main character changed at the end.
John: And the soundtrack was really great.
*silence*
Mom: .........Pie.

I don't know WHY this story makes me laugh so hard, but despite not having been there, I cannot repeat that story without cracking up. It's one of those where I just start laughing in the middle of telling it before I even get to the punchline, so by the time I actually say the word "pie" I'm completely unintelligible and anyone listening is laughing just because I'm laughing, but really they have no idea what the hell is so funny.

So those are my two Mom stories! I guess thanking my mom by telling two mildly embarrassing stories about her is not EXACTLY a proper thank-you, but I just couldn't pass up the opportunity. Of course she was and is a magnificent mom, and I love her very very much. But in my defense, she has always been the greatest supporter of my creativity and writing.

......Pie.