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

Hey guys, hey guys, hey guysguysguys.

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

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


Oh my God, STOP BEING ME.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Things That Make Me Happy Right Now

Moving is stressful. Two days of moving in the middle of the week? All I can say is, thank God I have two parents who don't work 9-5 jobs (When I needed a nepotism-fueled internship during college like my friends, I was not happy about that fact. But it's helping me out right now.) Then add the fact that at the end of all this moving, Joe and I are being ripped from each other's arms, and I need a little happy in my life right now. That's why I plan on focusing on these things today.

1. The Chew.

It's a new daytime show coming this fall. I know very little about it, but hi, Mario Batali AND Clinton Kelly? Of "Stacey and Clinton"?? YES AND YES. NOW. GIVE. GIVE NOW.


(Edit: Hmm, that video is not embedding properly. Damn you, ABC! Check it out here if you're interested.)

2. Tom Hanks dancing on Univision

I gather that Tom Hanks remembers about as much Spanish as I do, considering his reactions to people speaking Spanish with him: "...........Como?" I find it adorable that he had the courage to go on a Spanish-speaking show in the first place, and DOUBLY adorable when he just gives up. In a different clip, he's supposed to help with a recipe, but just regresses to eating a raw jalepeño. Amazing. This one takes the cake, though.



I love that Tom Hanks, in his age, wisdom, and earned respect has just said "F--K IT, I'M DOING WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT."


Tom Hanks on WhoSay
(Courtesy of Tom's own Twitter)

3. Lonely Island

I'm sorry, but how can these songs not make you feel totally amazing?





If there was a nuclear explosion and the only artists left were Akon and Ludacris and they sang every song for the rest of my life....well that'd be just fine.


4. Gay Boyfriend, Purple Shorts
As always, a little bit of Party In The FIP to top it off.

I Lied. Here's A Post.

Looking through my stats on my blog today and discovered this gem (click to view larger):



These are the keywords people searched for that led them to my site so far this week. The top three (cetaphobia, ends meat and man thigh) are extremely typical and tend to be some of my highest viewed posts at any given time. I didn't realize when I wrote it, but my man thighs one consitently gets the top hits because of the photos I stole and apparently the number of people perusing the internet for them. #accidentallypornfriendly

The "fired from volunteering" one was a joke title but I'll take it. The bottom two are unsurprising, I wrote a post not long ago with an extremely Search Engine Optimized title (on purpose...I wanted to see what would happen.)

But "let me lick this pretty doll".

LET ME LICK THIS PRETTY DOLL?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? AND WHY DID MY BLOG COME UP AS AN OPTION? WHY? WHY?












WHY?

Whoops

I had a whole post written for today and then realized right before bed that it would probably get me fired. NO POST FOR YOU. Sorry.

Box of kittens?

The Tragic Tale of Mold-A-Rama Lincoln

Joe and I went up to the Sears--GAH! WILLIS!!--Tower on Saturday. This is his last weekend in Chicago before he moves to San Fran for the next four months, and he's never been up to the top of the Sears--WILLIS!--Tower. So we decided it would be a fun, quick touristy thing to do. We actually live only a few blocks away, so it was a fast walk. And it was really cool to be able to look at the place you live from up above. Turns out Target is shaped weirdly.

Since I've last been there, they've added these glass boxes that jut out on the west side of the building, so you can basically step out and be 5/6 suspended in mid-air. When I first heard about it, I swore to the high heavens that I would absolutely 100% never go.

Sigh. Here I am, giving in to the peer pressure.



Once we circled the top and went back down, we walked through a bunch of touristy things. Mugs, snowglobes, we walked past them all. But then! *Fanfare music* Photo booths, penny-flattening machines and two, COUNT EM, TWO Mold-A-Rama machines.

For those who do not know about the majesty that is Mold-A-Rama, here's the deal: they're these retro-looking things that make wax figurines. The only other place I can remember seeing them is at the zoo. Near the dolphins, you can get a dolphin. Bears, bears. Rhinos, rhinos. Etc etc, ditto ditto, and so on and so forth.

Here's an example of another one I found on Google.



Up in the top left they show you what the figurine would look like. Then there under the glass is the mechanism: two halves of the mold, which come together and fill with wax after you put the money in. After a minute, the mold is done, and a little arm comes down and pushes it down into the hole where you can get it, vending-machine style.

Well. I got pretty excited about this particular mold, a bright blue Abraham Lincoln with "The Land Of Lincoln" written underneath. It just sounded so kitch, I couldn't resist. Here's what he would look like.



Joe put in the $2 it costs, the two metal arms came together as they should, we heard the noise of the mold coming in, aaaaaannnnnd something weird happened.

Blue wax started dripping out the bottom.

Now, I have a pretty bad memory, but I've also made my way around a Mold-A-Rama before. And I couldn't remember ever seeing the wax come out the bottom of the mold. Confused but hopeful, we waited for the mold to open so we could see what would happen.

Abe was there, all right. But it looked like the mold had filled with twice the amount of wax, and it had plastered him to the bottom. The little arm came out and tried to shove him into the hole (ooer) but only got him slightly loose, thus moving him off his track but not far enough for him to drop.




I'm a true Illinoisian so I have to say, it's the first time I've ever been disappointed in Abraham Lincoln.

Refusing to give up hope, I sent Joe to get help as I stood guarding Honest Abe. I had to explain to quite a few tourists why it was broken and why I was keeping them from attempting to get their own.

Joe came back with some 20-something ticket vendor kind of guy. The guy scratched his head, shook the machine (genius thinking at its best with this one) and confirmed what I said, he'd have to call the Mold-A-Rama people and they'd refund us our $2.

NO! NO. This was simply not good enough. I was invested in my Abe now. I wanted my mold. At the very least, I wanted to see the machine squish my Abe and remelt it and see what happens, because I think melted wax is ever-entertaining. (I'm often called a pyro because I play with lit candles all the time, but it's not actually because I like fire. I fear fire, unless Tom Hanks is stranded on a deserted island and desperate to create it. [Oh my God, Wilson.][Oh my God did anyone else see Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig is watching Castaway and it's only about 5 seconds long but it's the part where he realizes Wilson is gone and he's sobbing and screaming "I'M SORRY WILSON!" and Kristen Wiig is crying and I'M crying because I remember that part in the movie VIVIDLY and it is seriously more heartbreaking than when actual PEOPLE die in movies and you just want to cradle Dirty Tom Hanks in your arms, even though technically you are watching Bridesmaids and then you remember how every time you see that part in Love Actually where Liam Neeson watches Titanic, they play it for just long enough that you forget you're watching Love Actually and when they stop it you get really upset because you were kind of getting into the scene and you kind of just want to watch Titanic now?])

Whoah. Where am I?

Oh, right. So Lincoln is off-kilter and I wanted to know what would happen if we put in two more dollars. I'm not going to lie, I was really hoping for doubled up, conjoined twin Lincoln. So we asked the guy if we could do it and see what would happen. Of course this guy wasn't about to say no. He was two bakes past half-baked. He said he'd turn his back.

So we put in the money, and of course what happened was this:



The already formed figure was keeping the two sides of the mold from coming together, thus none of the wax stayed in the mold and it all started dripping everywhere. When it opened, it looked like this:



"NO! NO! OH MY GOD, LINCOLN!! WHAT HAVE I DONE? Joe, we need to go. No, we need to get out of here right now. Run. Leave the money, I WILL NOT STAND AROUND AND BE FORCED TO PAY FOR A BROKEN MOLD-A-RAMA MACHINE."



We left the Sears--SCREW IT. SEARS.--Tower with nothing more than a flattened penny and a shamed look.

Confessions of a Weddingaholic

So I'm pretty serious about this Joe guy I'm dating. He lets me lick his neck before work...how could I not be serious about him?

We're not engaged, but we talk about it for our future. I only stick around in relationships if I can look at a guy and go, "Yeah, I think I'd like to sit awkwardly in a restaurant with you for a couple decades."

I'm not engaged, but I have a confession to make: I'm a wedding planner.

Not in a horrible JLo movie way, but in the "I already know what kind of dress I want" way. Weird, right? It surprises me, too, considering my long-standing opposition with pink and frills. But when Michelle and I were little, we'd pore over two kinds of magazines: American Girl Doll and wedding. We'd plan our dream wedding with Anonymous Handsome Husband, discussing everything from the clothes to the hair to the clothes to the clothes. (We didn't really know what all went into a wedding, to be honest. But people got dressed up and we were into it.)

I decided I would wear an off-the-shoulder dress a-la Princess Jasmine, I would hold red roses, my bridesmaids would wear red dresses, and the groomsmen would wear red bow ties and red cummerbunds.

YEAH. What can I say? It was 1994, I was nine, and I had a bowl cut. Style was not really in my direct line of vision.

But the point is, I've basically been thinking about wedding details since I knew what weddings were. To me, it's a lot less about wanting to be married and a lot more about planning something pretty. It gives me the same euphoric feeling as a new Crate and Barrel catalog. "Look at THIS decanter! And THIS one! LET'S BUY ALL THE DECANTERS!!!!1"

My best defense for being the Weird Girl Planning Her Fake Wedding is that thinking about those happy little details helps me sleep. I don't know about you, but laying there in the dark is my brain's favorite time to either stress about work, or play out disastrous ways for everyone I love to die. Something about darkness really brings out the worst in my subconscious. And centerpiece planning helps. But now the details are way funkier than red cummerbunds. They look more like this:








I finally confessed all of this to Joe a few days ago. He didn't leave a Joe-shaped hole in our door, so I got a little excited. And I told him one idea I had: no bartenders. Buy booze ourselves and let our friends pour their own drinks like the adults they are. But instead of telling me that I was a freakin' genius, Joe had the AUDACITY to be rational and say that a lot of venues probably don't let you do that. And our friends might be peeved that they'd just come all the way to a wedding just to do all the grunt work. I huffed quietly and then went about my day.

And it stewed.

And finally, after Joe had left town for Detroit, I let it all out in an email.

A) Our friends would NOT be upset that they weren't waited on. They'd be happy they could have as much booze as they'd want and they'd be happy to celebrate with us and if they didn't like it then they could shoveituptheir--BREAAAAATHE, Emily.

B) I told him (because I am a CRAZY PERSON) that when he turned down my idea, he was backing my fake wedding dreams into a corner. And if I'm ever going to fall asleep thinking about flower arrangements, I'm going to need my fake wedding to flow freely.

That night on the phone, he apologized (What a great guy. Apologizing in the face of Crazy.) and said he wanted to hear more ideas. I let another one fly: For the Save The Dates, we take pictures of ourselves wearing Bill Murray masks and have it say "We're getting murray'd!"

Joe told me it was a great idea.

And that was the moment I realized....it really wasn't. It was a HORRIBLE idea. It was weird and creepy and made no sense and was a terrible pun besides. But if Joe had actually told me the truth, I would have sharpened my nails into points and then slashed him across the chest. HOW DARE YOU RUIN MY BILL MURRAY PUN DREAMS!

What I realized is this: Sure. Sometimes we need someone there to give it to us straight. To smack us across the face and tell us we're wrong. But sometimes we just need support. We need someone to be there for us when we make decisions and nod along so we can come to our own conclusions without the blinding rationale-blocker that is the Defense Mechanism. And that relates to partners as well as parents, friends, even work-associates. We all just need someone who knows when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. When to walk away and when you run. You never count your money when you're sitting at the table. There'll be time enough for counting when the dealing's done.

So...comments anyone? Am I the only one pre-planning her dream wedding/who has horrible thoughts before bed/who emails her boyfriend because she's bad at live conversation sometimes/who gets crazy defensive about really bad ideas sometimes? I'd really like to hear your thoughts. I promise not to lash out in email form...well, I'll try.

I Think I'm Alone Now

Oh heyyyyy guys. How've you been? How was your weekend? What have you been up to lately?

Sigh, I'm sorry. I feel like I've been gone/absent for a while and now we've gotten to that point like when you haven't seen a good friend for an awkward amount of time, you know? And you feel weird asking them about their life because they're supposed to be a good friend and you should KNOW if they have a boyfriend/job/car but you don't, but you also feel weird making small talk because they're your good friend and you refuse to discuss the weather. You know.

You do know, right? Please tell me you know. Don't tell me I'm the only one out there who gets that awkward. Although God knows I'm capable of it.

Anyway, I'm avoiding it now. Here's the skinny. The nub. The gist. The low-down. STOP IT, EMILY.

Joe has accepted a 4-month contract job in San Francisco. He'll be gone from the 4th of July to Halloween. I will be alllll alone. I'm moving to a studio on the (extremely) north side. I will be a sad, lonely, destitute old hag, with no one to comfort her during the cold, dark nights but her mustachioed female cat named after an obscure Friends reference.

Thing is, though...I'm actually really excited. But like, REALLY excited.

Not so much excited that Joe is going to be gone. That part makes my insides feel like burning. But I'm excited to have my own place for a little bit. I've never lived alone in my entire life. I've never blasted my music in the middle of a living space for hours. I've never been able to constantly pick my own movies and tv shows without consulting someone else (why HELLO, marathon of old Grey's Anatomy episodes. And how are we this evening? Anyone object to a Miranda Bailey lecture once every 40 minutes? Regina Phalange? Refrigerator? No one? Excellent, let's begin.)

Dishes will be done WHEN I SAY THEY'LL BE DONE. Everything in the fridge is mine, MINE! ALL MINE!! BWA HA HA HA HA HA!! What's this goo on the bathroom sink? Who knows, but I created it and therefore I won't get the Black Lung by scraping it off. THE FREEDOM IS ENDLESS, PEOPLE.

I'm also looking forward to forcing myself to do more alone-time things. I'm going to go to a movie by myself for the first time. I'm going to go out to eat by myself. I'm going to go to movies in the park by myself. Rent roller skates at the beach? Maybe! You never know what kind of kooky adventures I'll find myself in.

It's not that I couldn't have done these things earlier. I just...never did. I guess I never really thought to. Even when I was unemployed and had all the alone time in the world, the whole pesky "lack of paycheck" thing was keeping me from reaching my true adventuresome potential.

So what does this mean to you? Because, let's great real. The world revolves around each and every one of you. Separately. What it means is that you get nonstop complaining for the rest of the month as we pack up our stuff and put it in storage until Joe's gig is done and we know what we're doing next. HOW FUN FOR YOU! Also, you get to hear about the adventures of a single girl who is not really single. Read: no posts about awkward first dates BUT INSTEAD posts about how I broke my pride falling into the lake while roller skating. Yippee!

Lick

This morning:

Emily: Okay, going to work.
Joe: Wait!
Emily: What?
Joe: Kiss my neck sensually for five minutes first.
Emily: WHAT?! I can't. I'll be late.
Joe: Sigh, Okay.
Emily: Fine, I'll do it.
Joe: YESSSSSS.
Emily: *Lick*Lick*Lick*
Joe: What are you doing?!
Emily: I'm licking your neck sensually for five minutes.
Joe: Stop that! It feels weird.
Emily: Shh, turn your head. This is happening.
Joe: GO TO WORK!
Emily: Okay, bye!

Book Smarts vs. Street Smarts

As I see it, my life so far looks like this:



What I'm trying to say is, you get smarter over time. To a degree.
For a while there, I was learning just as much at school as I was at home. I was learning cursive AND not to take candy from strangers. I was learning fractions AND how to say no to drugs (I still have yet to use the Broken Record strategy and I'd really like to, so if one of you guys could repeatedly offer me the marijuana cigarettes so I can turn you down over and over while using eye contact and a firm stance, I would appreciate it. And so would Officer Kveton.) And later I was learning about Pavlov at the same time I was learning that if you twist your ankle and then go out all night, you will not be able to fit socks onto your feet for a week.

And then I graduated. And I'm not exactly sure what happened. How much do I tip a cab driver? It gives me HIVES every time I have to do it. Drunk and it's a crapshoot. He either gets a 20 or nothing. THERE'S NO TIME FOR SUBTRACTION AT 2AM. When do you use a comma in grammar? I still, have no, idea.

But ask me about life situations. Relationships. Friendships. World events. Where are the good restaurants. And I'm your lady. Because that street smarts part just keeps on trucking. And thank God it does. Because, while the only time I use geography is to figure out which way is north, I'll be damned if I can't tell you the fastest public transportation route from Lakeview to Big Star. And yes, using fractions to figure out how many servings were in my tub o' yogurt was haaaarrrrrd. But I could walk through Trader Joe's blindfolded in order to get it.

So I guess it's okay that I'm not so much with the book learnin' any more. Because the longer these old bones age, the more I learn about life.

Speaking of which, do not sit on your ankles your whole life or you'll have the knees of an 80 year-old by the time you're 26.

Also take off your makeup at the end of the day or you'll have to fill your eye wrinkles in with caulk.

The Truth Behind the Tootsie Pop Wrapper Star

I wish that title was actually "Tootsie, the Pop Rapper Star". But alas, I'm speaking of this:



Let me tell you all about a little girl named Emily. This little girl had a dream. And that dream was to discover that she had won a prize.

Rumor had it, back in the Olden Days of Yore, Tootsie Pops used to print the star on different places around the wrapper. If you found one with the star, consider yourself Charlie Bucket, because you just won an amazing prize: whatever the star was next to. That's right. Kids roller skating? You won roller skates. Kids playing baseball? You won a baseball set. Kids swimming in a lake? You win a lake. No matter what, you see a star, you win a prize. Just like God intended it. But sadly, by the 80s when I was ready for my free lake, Tootsie pop had discontinued the prizes and just used one standard wrapper, the star forever next to the bow and arrow (of which I should have won at least fifty by now.)

Turns out, apparently I am the only nut job to have heard/believed this story.

If anything, you all heard the rumor that if you find the star, you get a free Tootsie Pop. And some stores even did it. So it wasn't even a rumor, it was actually a thing that happened. Lucky for me, I had a know-it-all big sister who liked to mess with me for FUNZIES and told me a totally different rumor. GOD. This is just like the time in kindergarten when she told me to say "X" a million times fast and I was DUPED into saying a DIRTY WORD ON ACCIDENT. ARGH.

Apparently there was NEVER a rule for when you find the star even when the company put out the sucker in 1931. Tootsie just wanted to mess with our heads by making a kid dressed as a chief shooting a boldly out-of-place star. WELL WHAT THE HELL, TOOTSIE? What. The. Hell.

Anyway, I have no end to this story but to say how vastly disappointed I am to finally learn the ultimate truth.

And to say this: "A one? A two-hooooo! Tha-ree. *crunch* Tha-ree."