Reer City, Population Reer.

No time for a real post today, although I need to write later about how I don't hate account people (Advertising nerd alert!), and another one about organ donation.

But for now, this.



Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer.

That is all.

Emily Go Sleep Nowwwwwzzzzzzz.....

I'm writing this post on Monday night for you all because I have a "meeting" tomorrow from 9-2:30. Free pastries and lunch--what whaaaaaat. But also being in a "meeting" for over five hours...mehhhhh.

Today I went on my first out-of-state client presentation. Our client is a tad out of Chicago. And in preparation, I took a Dramamine. Because, you guessed it, I get motion sickness like no one's business. I say "you guessed it" because by now you should know that if it causes a slight obstacle to living normally but is otherwise non-life threatening, my body is all over it like a drunk chick on...something slutty.

GOD I am officially failing at this blog post. See, I mentioned the Dramamine because, despite claiming a less drowsy formula, it is HELLA drowsy. And I guess I never really noticed it because I just fall asleep on the car or plane. But seriously, they should call it Dramamine: Still Pretty Freaking Drowsy Formula. I almost fell asleep about 5 times in the car, AND DURING THE PRESENTATION in which they were talking DIRECTLY to me. And now my muscles are all over-relaxed and I'm laying on the couch with Oreo crumbs covering my neck and hair because I don't have the muscle capacity in my arms to brush them away. (Note that I did have the capacity to pull them down from their high cabinet shelf. It's that survival adrenaline rush that kicks in when you know you're in a life-or-death situation)

All this to say, no. I don't have a 'real' post for you today. But really, with this blog, what is real? Whoah, I feel all Descartes right now.

Mmkay I think it's time for me to read other people's blogs. I suggest you do the same.

Date Night Lessons: Tacos Are Bad, Pixar is Good.

This Friday Joe and I had our first Date Night as a cohabiting couple.

Question: Don't you see each other every day?
Answer: Um, yes?

Question: Ohhh, but going to the gym and making curry chicken and falling asleep does not a romantic couple make?
Answer: Correctamundo.

Question: What if you watch a few episodes of Gilmore Girls while you eat? Is it a date then?
Answer: Oh, YOU.

So! First we decided on a restaurant: a nice Mexican joint with a name that is similar to "zapatos" but is not. I keep calling it Zapatitos, which really just means "little shoes." Which is ADORABLE and the future name of my awesome Mexican restaurant for toddlers. It'll be a hit.

But once we got to Zapatitos, we discovered it was INSANE. I mean, yeah. Friday at 7, I guess you can expect that. But it was craziness. Our waitress explained that there was a group of 80 off behind the curtained area, hence the added chaos. Whatever. We ordered fancy tacos. Later, a bunch of emergency trucks pulled up and casual firemen (suspenders, muscles, that kind of thing) walked in. The waitress decided we were cool enough to let us know that the party of 80 was ACTUALLY Ashley Simpson and her husband, Fallout Boy. Or whoever. And the emergency vehicles were because one of her friends passed out and had to be hooked up to an IV.

And OF COURSE she did.

I'm sorry, but is there anything surprising to you about the sentence, "Ashley Simpson and her posse are creating a low-key annoyance on my life."

No, there is not. I can tell you right now that there is not.

So whatever. The steak/bacon tacos were good, the chicken ones were eh, we paid and made our way to the theater for the most mature date night movie ever: Toy Story 3.

NO SPOILERS TO BE ALERTED FOR. I PROMISE TO BE GOOD.

I don't have to tell you that the movie was amazing. I mean, Pixar. Come on. And I don't have to tell you that Stepdad Tom Hanks turned in a magnificent performance. Don Rickles was hilarious, Ernest Becomes A Slinky Dog was confusing (BUT! BUT! You died?!...wait, right? No wait, you're alive. No wait....you're dead.)
Really, the whole gang was great. And oh, the hijinks!

The important thing was, like after ANY Toy Story movie, I completely freaked out that I didn't appreciate my toys enough when I had them, that I didn't treat them well when I became older, and that whatever happened to them, they are sad to feel unloved and without their friends.

Which, I understand, it's all a made-up concept by the people of Pixar. And there are plenty of other people whose idea was to make toys come alive and kill you in the night. But I grew up with Toy Story. When the first one came out, I was at the perfect age. I was in the fifth grade. I was becoming jaded and growing up. And my toys were becoming less of a play-thing and more of a pile in a corner. HOW COULD I?!?!?! I remember the day I saw that movie, I took all my stuffed animals and set them up with me in the bed. There was juuuuuuust enough room for me.

This is what Toy Story has done. Okay, maybe I have an extended imagination. Or maybe that's why I'm a copywriter. Either way, Joe and I are currently up to our necks in He-Man, Ninja Turtles, and teddy bears (the Turtles are mine, by the by.) All of whom I feel the need to apologize to, just in case I took away all their friends--OR MY MOTHER DID--*glare, glare*

So yes. That was my weekend. I spent the majority of my time making sure that all my toys were comfortable and among friends. The rest of my weekend was spent in the bathroom, as a direct result of those damn Ashely Simpson-ruined tacos. Something ain't right at Zapatitos.



PS. I encourage comments. I GREATLY enjoy them. Always. Please leave some and be my friend. But please no TS3 spoilers. Especially don't mention the *wink wink* or the *nudge nudge, say no more, say no more*.

It Was a Dark And Stormy Rush Hour

Sorry about that outburst yesterday, folks. But I was holding onto that anger for a solid 3 hours and my face was getting red and there was smoke coming out of my ears--and not in a Bugs Bunny way. In a dry ice way...like smoke seepage.

So tonight was fun! And by fun, I of course mean terrifying and horrible.

For those not in the Chicagoland area, there was a teeeeeeny storm. Some might call it "Satan's Revenge." I call it "WHERE IS MY FAMILY WHAT ARE THEY DOING WHAT ABOUT THE DOG WHERE IS JOE IS HE ALIVE WHY DOESN'T MY PHONE GET RECEPTION FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!!!!!1"

Honestly, my largest concern was Joe driving home with barely-existent windshield wipers. My second was my mother living in the town where The News had decided was ground zero, and my third concern was the nerves of my family's dog. And don't even tell me that you wouldn't be concerned about this puddin' face:



Note that I'm not in any way concerned about Wally, the family cat. The thing is roughly the size of Massachusetts. He probably spent the storm outside like this:


I had my own mini adventure during the storm. It was ALMOST enough for a comic strip.

So right when I decided to hunker down in my room (away from the windows,) the sirens started going off. And hi, I'm on the top floor of my apartment building. It's only the 8th floor, granted, but still. When the rain on the roof doesn't sound like rain so much as straight-up flowing water, you listen to the tornado sirens. So I went to the underground parking lot. Except being downstairs, I couldn't get reception. And God forbid I go four seconds without Gmail. So I found a stairwell and worked my way up. And, well, yadda yadda yadda, I ended up locking myself outside under a doorway awning. And I got majorly splashed with alley water by a passing car. Eventually I had to run around in the crazy rain until I got to an open door. It was a whole thing.

But I survived, slightly wet and smelling like muffler fluid (is that a thing?) and all ended well. I think. I mean I haven't gotten an official word back from my mom to tell me that she's okay (and that the dog hasn't imploded from nervous shaking.)

So Joe and I are officially drinking red wine and watching Gilmore Girls (I'm not saying it was his choice. Did I say that was his choice? I don't think I said it was his choice.) so I'm going to go ahead and stop typing because the wine is officially kicking in.

Hope you're all okay! Unless you didn't get hit with Satan's Revenge, in which case, hope you had some other horrible thing happen to you. What can I say? Misery loves company.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I love you all. Vote for me! EJS '010

Reclaim THIS.

Your feminism rant for the day is brought to you by the letter A. A stands for Angry! Can you say angry, boys and girls?

....

Good!

Okay here is the story: Today at work we talked about a case study where it was discovered that men aren't feeling like men anymore, and they needed to reclaim their manhood.

And why don't men feel like men anymore? Why, because women are getting degrees and going to work and earning money.

HOW DARE THEY?! WHERE DO THEY GET OFF?! WOMEN WORKING?? WHERE DID THIS NEW-FANGLED CONCEPT COME FROM??!?!?!1*&^(*&^

I guess I fail to see the true point. Men don't feel "like men" anymore, meaning men aren't as "manly" as they were decades ago. Because they don't bring home the bacon and retreat to their dens in a cloud of cigar smoke anymore?

When did men's dominance in the world come to be known as "the good ol' days"?

And since when are women sympathetic to this cause? I'm sorry, I like the next broad-shouldered sweat factory as much as the next chick, but I also like my men to actually care about who I am as a person and respect that I want to earn my own living regardless of my gender. And I want ALL men to feel this way. And if that means that men don't feel like they're the same TYPE of man that existed in the 1800s or 1950s or 1970s then SO BE IT.

The Brawny man doesn't have a mustache anymore. TIMES CHANGE.

In what way do we ACTUALLY suggest men reclaim their manhood? Forcing their wives to stay home and cook every meal? Taking out clients to strip clubs? Refraining from swearing around the "girls" in the office because it might offend their soft little ears?

Screw that. Screw reclaiming manhood. Let's reclaim HUMANITY and leave the gender roles where they belong: in our past.

My Father's Day Memories

Well Father’s Day has come and gone, but I have yet to weigh in on the subject. And is it really a holiday until I ruin it with my blathering? No it is not. In fact, did Arbor day REALLY feel like Arbor day without my help? I didn’t think so.

So in honor of Father’s Day, I thought I’d give you guys a few memories of mine. I think it’s pretty necessary, considering when people who know me finally meet my dad, the response tends to be, “Ohhhhhh.” Follow me, and perhaps you’ll see why.

First of all, one of my personal favorites: Most people will agree, it is a father’s job to tell you lies to scare you into being good, a-la George Bluth’s armless friend.
And who among us hasn’t heard the phrase, “Be careful. If you swallow those seeds, a plant will grow in your stomach.”

My father’s story was a little different. When we asked him if it were true, if a plant really could grow in your stomach, he said, “Sure! All you have to do is drink a lot of water, swallow a lot of dirt, and walk around outside like this,” and he’d lean back and open his mouth as wide as he could. I have to say, I was never afraid of swallowing seeds. Although he really took a gamble assuming I wouldn’t try to consume spoonfuls of dirt. That’s faith.



I think the thing my dad is most famous for are his voices. When I was in Elementary school, we would have these “Read-In” days once a year. I have no idea if this is a nationwide thing, or if it was just our school, but basically we’d get to come to school in our pajamas and read the whole day. And throughout the day, parents would come in and read to us, too.


I am not saying this as an exaggeration; my dad was the Rock Star of the Read-Ins. I had some internal anguish because, on the one hand, everything your parents do is without question extremely embarrassing. But on the other hand, every kid in my class thought my dad was the coolest dad ever. He’d come in to read us The Twits, complete with Evil British Woman voice for Mrs. Twit (think The Queen but more gargly) and Evil British Man voice for Mr. Twit (think Brad Garrett playing a chimney sweep.) And it was awesome! Teachers would come from down the halls asking what the blazes was going on, possibly because a grown man was cackling in a woman’s voice that she just fed her husband worms. But I knew they were jealous. They were allllll jealous.

One final story. This one has become a family staple around Easter. The way we dye eggs in my household is the typical, Paas-endorsed way. You drop a tablet into some vinegar and then soak those puppies. And if you want to get fancy, you draw something on the egg with a white crayon first, which the die doesn’t touch and leaves the egg white in that spot.



Well one year, I had come home from college for the holiday and we decided to dye some eggs. We gave one egg to my dad to decorate. He picked up a crayon, scribbled something, and left the egg to soak in green.

A little while later, he took out the egg and, giggling, showed it to us all. It said something, but I couldn’t make it out.

“Zackary? Zeppelin?.”

Finally, Hannah guessed it. “…Zakly?”

My dad: “Yep!...Egg-zakly!”

Groans all around. And yet, memorable enough that we talk about it every year since. So you tell me: genius?

So Happy Father’s Day to all. And here’s hoping, no matter who or where your dad is, that you have some good memories of your own to look back on.

Crush Them

People often ask me: "Emily, how have you been so lucky in love? You always seem to be in a relationship. Tell me your secret." Well today is your lucky day, my friends. Because I am here to give you a run down of all my childhood crushes. Perhaps there is something to it. A pattern that you can learn from.

We'll start at the very beginning.



Preschool: John R.
John is my husband. How do I know this? Because I very vividly remember getting married to him. I wore a veil (my baby blanket) my brother was the ring bearer (he used his own bed pillow) and my sister was the master of ceremonies (she held a children's picture book Bible for us to lay our hands on.) We got married on my mini trampoline in the middle of the living room.

John and I were soulmates. We each had big wheels. I don't think I need to explain anything further. And just because he moved to the other side of the world (1/2 an hour away) doesn't mean that we aren't still meant for each other.

Kindergarten: Kevin L.
The only thing I remember about my crush on Kevin L. was that I always tried to stand in the same place in the girls' line as he was in the boys'. Not to talk to him. Not to touch him. Just to stand there pretending like his large ears weren't making my insides all squishy.

My mother tells me that I sent Kevin L a love letter. It was quite literally, "Roses are red, violets are blue, sugar is sweet and so are you." First of all, where the hell did I learn this poem when I was five? Secondly, no hilarious puns? No bait-and-switch? Just a plain, boring poem? I'm disappointed in you, Mini Emily. You're better than that.

From here there was a bit of a breather from boys when I considered them gross and dumb (probably true.) But then one day I woke up to realize who my true love really was:

4th & 5th Grade: Mike D.
Mike. Was. Hilarious. He could quote SNL. I'm almost positive the whole school knew of my secret admiration, even though the only move I ever made toward him was picking him to go to the library with me instead of my best friend, Tiffany. Tiffany was...(how to put this?)...displeased.

6th Grade: Lenny N.
Lenny was the first boy that I could talk to like a normal person. About what, I couldn't say. God knows it certainly wasn't about my new braces or the fact that I was the mortified owner of a new forest green AA sports bra.

Lenny moved at the end of the school year and Tiffany convinced me to call him and ask for his new address. When I finally got up the courage (it took a few days) I forgot to get the zip code. And in a time before Google, I had no idea how to find it without admitting to my parents why I needed it. I spent the summer pining and listening to sad Disney songs. True story.

7th Grade: Jeremy M.
Jeremy was funny. And a little mean. And weird. And he parted his gelled hair to the side. And I couldn't have wanted him more. I tried to ask him out once. This was how I did it:

Emily: Hey, have you seen Titanic yet?
Jeremy: God, no.
Emily: You should.

Um, helloooo? Could I have BEEN more obvious? I can't believe he didn't pick up on my subtlety.

8th Grade: Teenage Boyfriend.
TB was not my "B" yet, per say. But this was my first encounter with him and I was SMITTEN. He had a bowl cut, which was hott with two t's. I will never forget the first words he said to me. I asked him what grade he was in. He said, "8th. I skipped the 7th grade because I'm so smart." And then he ran into a glass door.

It was love. But it took a year or so for him to succumb to my wiles. In the meantime, there was--

8th Grade: Scott N.
Scott is the boy of this fame. I have no more to say on the matter. 8th grade was a busy time for me, crush wise. For there was also--

8th Grade: Kevin W.
Kevin was very weird. But he amazed me-- he didn't seem to give a damn about what people thought. He wore a neon green shirt and had hair the shape of broccoli. I had a fantasy about him where we'd make cookies and end up in a flour fight. I had high aspirations as a fourteen-year-old.

I actually called Kevin from our kitchen phone (Michelle listening intently nearby) and asked him to be my boyfriend. Straight up asked him. None of this Titanic nonsense. I believe his response was "Uhhhhh....sure." What a dreamboat.

We went on one date to see Notting Hill, and then he left for the summer to live with his dad. When he came back, we didn't speak for four years. It's a damn shame because when we finally became friends again at the end of high school, it turns out he was pretty much awesome and I had been right all along about how cool he was. Also, he trimmed the broccoli hair. Another damn shame.

High School: Wes Z.
Most of my high school career was spent in the arms of Teenage Boyfriend. But there was a time without him. That time was spent thinking lovingly of Wes Z. Wes was one of those boys who you think is hot, but you don't think anyone else has figured it out. Let me tell you a little story.

In my senior yearbook, after I had put him behind me, Wes had written a little blurb, and at the end it said, "I put my signature by my picture on pg 78 so you'll have it when I'm a famous golfer." and then quickly scribbled after that, "Who wrote 'hottie' by my pic? haha...call me."

I furiously flipped to page 78 and Monica, God love her, had drawn little purple hearts and flowers all over Wes' picture with "hottie!" and an arrow. Oh, Mon. You wonderful girl, you. Too bad this was way after my crush, and Teenage Boyfriend and I were back in action. Otherwise, who knows? I may have become Mrs. Emily Z.


And there you have it. Hopefully it is now obvious to you how high above I soar than everyone else. I have been a love master since the beginning, clearly. I hope you can all use my experience to better your own.

Good luck, and God bless.

New Family Member Induction

Michelle and I have discussed it, and we would like to welcome a new adopted family member into our homes!

Everyone please give a big hug and a glass of chardonnay to Great Aunt Betty White!

We decided she's a little too spunky for Grandmother status, but she'd make a great addition to family parties, especially in the way of being uncomfortably honest in only the way an old great aunt can. Here's to hoping Great Aunt Betty White outs a cousin or announces how ugly the new baby is!

*Cheers*

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

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

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

GOD my life is SO HARRRRRD.

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

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

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

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

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

Why The Circus Is Scary

Wednesday I went to another one of those poetry things I told you guys about a while ago. It was great. Each month they base every act/poem/reading around a theme. This time it was the Circus.

Creepy.

The Circus is scary for multiple reasons. The first, of course, is clowns. I never really had a good way to explain WHY clowns are scary except for their use in the movie IT.

*PAUSE*

The clown in IT was played by Tim Curry. YEAH.

*UN PAUSE*

But last night someone wrote a line which I thought really put it in perfect perspective: "You painted a face on your face." BAM, my mind was blown. I mean, that's it, isn't it? There's no more to it than that. OH WAIT, there's one more thing to it: white clown face paint. It is crazily white. And it's so white, no matter how healthy you are, it ALWAYS makes your teeth and eyes look yellowed and sickly. And no one wants to take a balloon from Consumpto, the coughing clown.

The second reason the circus is creepy is because of all the old-school pictures of circuses during their heyday. Pictures from the turn of the century are scary. They are blurry, they look weathered, and no one is smiling. Everyone is upset and sad. Then add to the fact that these are castaways before the time of equal opportunity and safer surgeries, and you have some freaky shit going on.

And the third reason is John Wayne Gacy. I have been traumatized by the story of this man for a seriously long time. He was executed when I was nine, and his story was all over at the time. Of course, it was the first I'd ever heard about serial killers. Which helps. I'd just gone through my first loss (Lucy, my sister's hamster) and now I have to deal with the idea of a murderer. A murderer who is being murdered. Anyway, I knew he drew pictures of clowns, so I wasn't surprised when one girl did a poem about him.

Let me tell you...you have never heard a poem that will give you such nightmares. (Unless you've read Beowulf--BA DA BING!) She even had this creepy sing-song weaved throughout it to the tune of that classic circus song:



So there's that. I was so creeped out/intrigued by this girl's poem that I had to do some Wikipedia-ing into the man's life just to get some closure.

Did I get closure? Yes, closure of the brain. I am traumatized further. WHY. WHY did I feel the need to research a man who murdered dozens of people in Chicago? Why was that necessary? Oh, he dressed as a clown and is quoted telling the police "You know... clowns can get away with murder" before they ever found anything on him.

Why.

Why.








Why.

Anyway, now I'm sufficiently creeped out. My clown=serial killer quotient has been filled for the day. I'm ready for things that are slightly less scary.

Like whales.

3 Things Currently Consuming My Life Right Now

1. Living with my boyfriend

Living with Joe is going well. We're clean. We're courteous. And there was a snort-laughing incident last night. So if that's any indication, you know. Soul mates. There is one thing that's hard for me, and that's remembering that Joe is a person.

I know. Difficult.

What I mean is, it's nice to have someone around who generally does what I ask him to do and offers to give me back massages on a regular basis. But this also means that sometimes I get a bit carried away and later realize that I just spent the day ordering him to do my crazy-person bidding, like finding the pancake mix (that requires milk [but NOT eggs {and has some fiber}]), and then I get annoyed when he doesn't do it exactly like I would have. Sometimes you have to remember that your boyfriend/roommate (broomate? boymate? royfriend?) is a human being who is not you. And they might put the detergent in at the COMPLETELY WRONG TIME but...sometimes you need to live and let laundry.

2. My phone

My phone has become a complete mystery to me. One which I must solve. I'm like freaking Sherlock Holmes over here, mustache and all. So, I understand that AT&T is crap. We all know. I've come to terms with the fact that I get no signal as soon as I enter a store. Maybe AT&T has an aversion to coffee shops and/or clearance sales? But now they have gone too far.

It's not that I get NO signal (in the middle of the third largest city in the US, b the w.) It's that I get RANDOM signal. My phone will go--while not leaving my seat--from full bars to three to one to none. Back to three. Down to none. All while I stay perfectly still. And sometimes if I restart my phone completely, the signal will come back.

It makes NO SENSE. I could understand if I just lived in a node where AT&T couldn't reach. But this is borderline poltergeist. And it is consuming my life. And apparently my phone. I mean, I rarely call anyone anyway, but what is the point of having a phone if not to text people immediately after seeing a pug in a rain coat? What, I ask you??

3. What time I should leave work each day

I understand that the life of an advertiser isn't always 9-5. You work when you work, and you work until it's done. Fine. But sometimes I don't have anything pressing due the next day and at 5 o'clock I'm hungry and annoyed. And I'm ready to go home.

But yesterday we had an intern orientation and we were told specifically NOT to go home at 5pm, and if we are leaving at 5pm, we will not be asked to come back when our internship is over.

WHAT IN THE WHAT?!

I'm scared to go home now! Every day I wonder if people are watching me pick up my jacket at 5:35, shaking their heads in shame at how little I care about this industry. I'm an intern! You asked me to write ONE headline today! I wrote three pages of different ways to say "scratch n'sniff!"

Maybe other Creatives aren't like this, but at some point in the day, if I don't let myself go home and drink a Hoegaarden, you will have to try WRINGING the headlines from my lifeless brain, because that's just how I personally work.

Mmm, thinking about the image of wringing a brain made me think of this picture book I had as a child where Mickey and The Gang go on a picnic (or possibly reenact Jack and the Beanstalk...I can't remember) and for some reason Mickey wrings out this huge ball of cheese. It was awesome. NO WAIT! He was proving how strong he was because he lied and said it was a rock but really it was cheese. Man, what WAS that??

Oh my God, where am I?

I'm A Hipster, You're A Hipster, We Get It. Now Stop That.

Oh my God, I just took a step back and examined my night last night.

I went to Millennium Park tonight to see She & Him and spent the night trying to catch a glimpse of Zooey Dechanel (the lead singer.) Then I came home, took off my skinny jeans, and looked at the new iPhone before writing in my blog.

THIS IS THE PERSON I HAVE BECOME. I wouldn't have believed it either, to be honest. But these are the facts. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go watch Metropolis, drink some PBR and read a little Hemingway.

Not really, but at this point I wouldn't put it past me. #accidentallyhipster

The thing is, I love hipsters. They are the most fun to look at. There's just so many versions! Gay hipsters! Skinny hipsters! Dirty hipsters! Skinny hipsters! And they were all at the She & Him concert. It was a magical amalgamation of hipsterdom.

Mostly, I'm okay with hipsters being a little weird and owning big headphones and such. They keep to themselves. What actually bothers me is a specific breed of hipster: the hipsters who hide behind their weirdness.

Otherwise known as WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR HAIR/FACE/ETC?! CUT THAT SHIT OUT, YOU LOOK LIKE A WEIRDO.

Otherwise known as Marilyn Manson syndrome. Not that Marilyn Manson is a hipster, but you'll see what I mean.

You have seen these people. They are possibly not very attractive people. But instead of owning this and maybe having a great personality or winning smile, they decide to just wear their hair in the weirdest way possible, maybe grow out their goatee until they can braid it, possibly pierce their forehead.

And the thing is...we all still know that you aren't very attractive. No, it's not the first thing we notice anymore. What we notice first is that your earlobes touch your shoulders. But what it says to ME, at least, is that you have no confidence in who you are as a person. You hide behind a shield of weirdness so that no one ever takes a step near you. Either that, or you just crave attention in a way that your parents never gave you. And that's not "bucking convention"...that's sad. (And a little LOST if you ask me.)

Basically, unless you are Lady Gaga and have a legitimate need to look certifiably crazy, cut that out. You aren't fighting the man. You are fighting infection from the tattoo you just got on your cheekbone.

Mustache Thanks: Aunt Margaret

WHAT? What is this girl talking about? "Mustache thanks"?! This blog makes no sense. I’m leaving.

STOP! Turn. Come back.

Lemme ‘splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up: I did a thing for charity (involving mustaches) back a few months ago and promised anyone who donated that I would write a blog post about them. And then I didn’t write a post about my aunt, who donated bravely along with the rest of them. And the children appreciated her dollars just as much as the next person. And yet I did not post.

And time went by. And I did not post.

And more time went by. And- wait, what was that? Oh right, I did not post.

The thing is, I was waiting for inspiration. But none came. See, from what I can gather from the stories my mom has told me, back in the day, Aunt Margaret was kind of a badass.

I haven’t gotten the chance to hang out with my aunt because she’s always lived very far from me. So I can only base my knowledge on stories my mom told me a long time ago. And since I have no memory whatsoever, even those stories are pretty skewed in my mind.

SO! What’s a girl to do?! Why, a girl is to make up a fake story about her lovely Aunt Margaret, that’s what!

Here goes.

Margaret was raised in The Good Ol’ Days. Back when women consulted Good Housekeeping before they fluffed their pillows. When they rationed their use of butter because men needed it to fight the Nazis, who were renowned for their aversion to the stuff. They spent their days lamenting over pot roasts and recovering from the vapors, which they were overcome by each time they were forced to look at anything unseemly.

Not Margaret.

Margaret was born in a pair of skinny jeans and a leather jacket. When she was three, an older boy pulled her pigtail, so she turned around and put her cigarette out on his chest. When my grandparents tried to tell Margaret what to do, she blew that popsicle stand and hitchhiked her way to Vegas, where she took a lover named Alfonzo. From there, she spent her days skinning chickens by day and making hooch by night.

Okay, I’m already out of ideas for what to tell you about Fake Aunt Margaret. So I guess I just have to tell you that the Real Aunt Margaret as I know her is really great. She’s super supportive of me even though she hardly knows me and has a mysterious, badass past. And from what I can tell, she’s very interested in helping you tend your Farmville garden, if anyone needs some help.

So here’s to Aunt Margarets, both Real And Fake: Two very awesome ladies (though I think I’m partial to the real one to be honest), who helped some inner city Chicago kids take a few steps closer to being rock star students.

My First Internship Day: Pizza, Sun, and General Lunacy

Okay. FINALLY I can tell you about my first day as an intern. Besides the fact that I spilled scalding hot tea down my shirt on my way in (typical, and in no way surprising) my first day was quite sunshiny! Literally. Because I actually have a window. A WINDOW. Do you understand my level of happiness? I, Emily. Have a window. Aaaaand a cubicle the size of a hermit shell. BUT ALSO A WINDOW, which is WAY better than personal space. I don’t need space. I have OUTER space. Or...okay I’m going to move on.

Also, I work in the “multicultural” section, aka the Spanish language ads section. Which I thought would be cool because, uh hello? Expanding my horizons. Also I can tune people out a lot more easily when they aren’t speaking my first language. Except I can’t tune them out AT ALL, it turns out. I just end up getting distracted trying to translate everything everyone is saying. “Hello...and then...that...with...face...DAMN IT, TALK SLOWER, PEOPLE!!”

The only thing that went slightly wrong today was pretty much what goes wrong for me on the 1st day of anything. A normal person on their first day is super quiet. They are unsure how to act, so they default to being nice. I, on the other hand, get nervous and therefore try to crack inappropriate jokes to the sound of crickets. I actually made a joke about "see you next Tuesday." On my first day of work. I also spent ten minutes discussing the pros and cons (but really just pros) of Chicago-style pizza to a girl from LA who clearly could care less. Why am I the way that I am? Tell me. Why.

For some reason I get louder and more obnoxious as people become more quiet. Overcompensation would probably be my superhero quality. “Look! Super Emily forgot to kill one of the bad guys! So now she's killing every human on earth! Yaaaaaay!”

So basically, first day of work list:

Good Things:
-I have a window
-I had free deep dish pizza

Bad Things:
-Everyone thinks I am psychotic (possibly true)
-Everyone thinks I slobber (definitely true)
-The shift key on my keyboard sticks.

I think if your shift key is amongst the things you have to complain about, then things are shaping up to be pretty swell.

Hip Hip?

Hump Day? More Like SCHLUMP Day.

No, I don't know what that means, either. I think I am trying to insinuate that I am a schlump. Because I make promises I can't keep and I tell you I am back to regularly blogging and then I sneak away and crouch under a table, rubbing my hands and laughing maniacally because I've FOOLED YOU AAAAAALLLL!

Turns out there are technical issues with me posting something real. The issues are boring, so I won't bother you with it. But feel satisfied that it has to do with zip drives and "digital training" meetings, and revel in the fact that you aren't dealing with either today. (unless you are, in which case l'chaim.)

But tomorrow! Tomorrow I'll post something real. It's punishment for making empty promises.

I promise.

Our Move-In Day: A Story In Pictures