When I Believed In Santa Claus

I remember exactly where I stood in my kitchen as I told my friend, Courtney, "Well I don't believe in the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, but I'm not sure about Santa Claus."

My parents are notorious for forgetting that our teeth were hiding anxiously under our pillows. I had taken to writing notes on scraps of paper and taping them--facing out--onto the window. You know, just in case she just happened to fly by. Then there was the fact that all the richer kids in my school bragged about getting twenty dollar bills under their pillows. I hadn't even SEEN a twenty dollar bill, let alone owned one. Suddenly my excitement over having my very own silver dollar seemed silly. I couldn't even buy a Ninja Turtle with it. It didn't take long to put two and two together: a real fairy would be more scrupulous.


The Easter Bunny took a little longer. Easter had been my favorite holiday. It had the early morning excitement of gifts and surprises, with the creativity of dying your own eggs just the way you want them and not sharing them with your siblings, with the shrewdness-showboating of finding things someone had meant to hide from you. Also, there were Cadbury eggs. Santa and his plain ol' walnuts just couldn't compare. But slowly, the excitement began to erode. A bunny? Carrying all this heavy stuff? And how could he get an egg on top of the clock? And how does he get in, anyway? Problem was, there weren't a jillion movies, books, and old-timey newspaper articles to reassure me, give me insider knowledge, or promise that the non-believers can't hear the sleigh bell. That's all saved for Christmas. So Easter was a slow dwindling. I don't remember going from believing to not. Reason just kind of seeped its way in.


But Christmas was different. Each knock-down of Santa Claus was like a little slap to the brain, strong enough that I remember those little moments even now. Like the conversation with Courtney. Or the time I pulled my older sister, Katie, into the bathroom, closed the door, and demanded to know if she believed in Santa Claus. "No," she said. "Phew. Okay. Neither do I," I exhaled. Finally, the truth from someone reputable. I had been lied to for so long by all the people I thought I could trust, I didn't know where to turn. Yet I also knew to keep my mouth shut about it. This was private conversation, not meant for the impressionable ears of John or Hannah who still had a chance at believing. While still unsure myself of the truth, I understood that this was an okay lie, a fun lie, a lie meant for the smallest among us. It never upset me to find out that I'd been lied to. Maybe because I was happy to be on the other side with the adults. The Truth-Knowers.

It feels like a decade later, although it was probably just the following year, my mom came into my room and asked to borrow my green pen "for signing Santa's presents" she said. "You're old enough to know by now," she said, smiling. I smiled back. Of course. Of course I knew. Duh. Pff. Silly. And even though I thought I did, even though I'd already gotten the confirmation from Katie, it was that moment that made it reality. There was no chance now that, like the movies said, I had simply stopped believing. Tim Allen would never give me the weenie whistle to make be believe again. It was a fact: there is no Santa Claus, and my mother was responsible for the swirly green handwriting on all my favorite presents.


There is a magic lost that you never get back when you stop believing. Waking up that morning with proof--tangible proof--that magic exists (and it ate your cookies) is an amazing feeling. It might even be the first strong emotion I ever remember having. The four of us would sit at the top of the stairs of our split-level, surveying the gifts now overflowing from under the tree. Trying to guess whose gifts were whose, and who was the lucky duck to get the one enormous, wrapped present inevitably laying there. Finally, after 25 days of my eyes playing tricks on me, my stocking was definitely full this time. And look! He gave Rudolph the carrot we left, and he even left a note! I'm not sure what kept us from running down immediately. It might have just been our parents demanding we stay there until the coffee had brewed. Whatever it was, I never minded sitting there for a few minutes. After all, we'd been waiting for this moment all year; why let it pass by so quickly?


Of course, it's always nice to get presents, even when you know who really gave them to you. But those first few years have something special to them. It's the only time when you know--for a fact, with proof--that someone is out there who knows you intimately, and is watching over you. It's an innocence you never get back, and a feeling that many people spend their whole lives striving to find again.

Is That All You Get For Your Money?

Okay! Time for a quick catch-up. I moved everything out of my studio on Saturday and into a storage unit. Then Sunday the movers came and took it all away. (And I fly out on Tuesday, just to make sure we're all following along here.)

As you would expect, a million things went wrong (well, or like a few but work with me) because it is me and this is my life. All of these things could be detailed but you would likely die of either boredom or panic attack. Maybe both. So here's the summary:

1. My family was 3 hours late.
2. My mom couldn't come so we were down a car.
3. Construction workers were in the way of us moving.
4. The freight elevator stopped working.
5. I lost the key to the storage unit and had to have the lock cut off.
6. I GROSSLY underestimated the amount of stuff we owned, to the tune of 100 cubic square feet. (Whoopsie!)
7. I have to go back to the studio for the run-through because the landlords were gone by the time I was moved out.

In the end, it all worked out and my family pulled through without an ounce of complaining--AGAIN. Seriously, you are jealous of my awesome family (especially my parents) and their car-packing abilities.

But there was one thing that went wrong that you need to hear about.

We had to pay the movers about a grand yesterday (DO NOT TALK TO ME ABOUT THE COST OF THE MOVE IT IS ALREADY MAKING MY HEART DO THIS) and in cash or money order. I had the cash in my wallet. My mother assumed I would pull a Monica and stashed $500 in her coat "just in case." Thanks, mom. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.

Yeah...I left my wallet at home. So we had half the money. On a Sunday.

I know every stand-up comedian in the world has talked about this, but HOW ARE BANKS NEVER OPEN WHEN THE PEOPLE NEED THE MONEYS. Also while we're speaking of worn-out subjects that never change no matter how often Louis CK discusses them, what's with dentists being like, "See? When I slice open your gums they bleed! You need to floss!"

BAH. Where was I? Oh, right. The bank. It was closed. So we went to the ATM and took out $400 more, the max the ATM would allow. This was still not enough money to cover all the charges we would incur. So we did the next logical thing: we scammed my mother's own debit card.

We took that debit card to the grocery store self-check out aisle. We bought a pack of Altoids. $102. We walked to a different self-check out. We bought some water. $103. We bought some heavenly sandwich pinwheels. $104 dollars. Voila! We had the money we needed, and the bank was none the wiser! SUCKERS!!

I just need you to imagine my mom and I in the store, looking around all shifty-eyed like we had figured out how to beat the system and someone was going to come and arrest us at any moment. There was nervous giggling. Of course, this was the South Loop and there is so much more shifty activity happening that absolutely no one paid attention to the two pasty white ladies and their pinwheels. But there we were, cackling in the morning sun over our sweaty wad of money.

That is, until we got in the car, closed the door, and my mom said, "Wait. Why hasn't the bank called me by now?" "Huh."

So that's all. My mom and I will be entering a life of crime any day now. If any of you lose your debit card and then see purchases on your account for a wheel of cheese: $107...you likely have me to thank.

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.

Emily's 4th Grade Journal: Excerpts

(Prequel: No, this is not an April Fool's joke. Y'all know how I feel about those.)

Wow. Let me just say, wow.

When I went home a few weeks ago and found my fourth grade journal (which was a class-enforced activity), I knew there'd be some gems. But I've landed on a goldmine here, guys. Originally I was hoping for some hilariously baffled Mini Emily entries about "A Wrinkle In Time." But it turns out, I was probably so embarrassed by said bafflement that I hardly mentioned it at all. And what I did say was, frankly, pretty smart. NOT FUN, EMILY. NOT FUN AT ALL.

Luckily for you, me, and the state of this blog, there are other entries in here that are RIFE with comedic gold. I don't want to delay you any longer. Here we go.

Oh but first, assume [sic] for any journal misspellings.

Here we go for real this time.

8/31/1994
If I could go any where in the world I would go to Florida because I could go to Disney World and I could get a good tan. Or I would go to London but I don't have a reason why.

(Good God, I'm just imagining poor little 9-year-old Emily...bowl cut, wire-rimmed glasses as big as her face...laying out among the palm trees drinking a Shirley Temple.)

9/6/94
This weekend I went to a polo game with my friend. We did everything we could do exept watch the game. We colleted beer bottle caps, looked at the horses, watched around a week-old puppy and shared a cheeseburger & fries.

(I remember that entire day. That. Entire. Day. And can I say? Those are STILL my preferred pastimes to polo.)

9/7/94
If money grew on trees, every one would want one. When they got one they'ed all go shopping. Then the stores wouldn't have anything so we'd starve. Everybody would move, then those stores wouldn't have any thing. Soon the whole world would starve and the world would come to an end sooner than we thought. THE END.

(Wow, Mini Emily. Get a little more pragmatic, could you? Christ, I feel like I need an antidepressant now. But also...spot on. BUT ALSO, kudos for already knowing then vs. than. That's m'girl!)

9/9/94


(I'm showing you guys this one to prove WHY I am an advertising copywriter. That is me, scrutinizing a car based on the words in its TV ads. See?)


(I was an advertising whore, even before I knew was a whore was. Or what advertising was, actually.)

9/20/94
If Santa Clause came every day, my family would suddenly become poor, I wouldn't have any room too put my toys (I barely have any room now)and I'd be spoild.

(For a kid with a rampant imagination, I'm really hitting them out of the park with these "what if" prompters. Also, Mom and Dad, I hope you're seeing the responsible, selfless child you raisd.)

9/29/94
Last night we went to pick up my dad at the airport. My mom is just as near-sided as I am, so she wore my glasses. I couldn't see that the man in the gray jacket was my dad until he was 1 foot away from me! On the way home my sister and I started spitting at eachother.

(HAR!!!1 I don't remember this at all. And how surprised am I to learn that my mother used to steal my glasses in order to drive? I'll give you one guess.)

10/4/94
If there was no elavators, it would be very tiring and it would take alot more time. They wouldn't have one of the "Perfect Strangers" shows either.

(PRIORITIES.)

10/25/94
Red Ribbon Week is,
To teach you the're erresponsable.
If you're old enough, limit them,
(If you're not don't do them.)
To tell you the're not cool.
They won't help you relax.
It could give you cancer.

What are:
the're
them
they, and
it?
DRUGS! (don't do them)

(Well move over, Walt Whitman. Also..."LIMIT them"? Wh...)


Seriously, guys, I could do this all night. But I imagine I should span these bad boys out. But I PROMISE there is more to come if you want more.

Fears and Facts

First, I must start this post with a little about podcasts, although that has nothing to do with what I want to tell you.

In iTunes, there is a whole “podcast” section. Click on it. There are, like, 80 billion (rough estimate) awesome podcasts out there for all your podcast needs. I mean, really it’s like recorded XM radio. And I think they're all free. So go there.

WHILST you are there, specifically look for This American Life and Stuff You Should Know (or click those links and get there faster.) These are two amazing podcasts. The former is like what this blog would be like if it were informed and written by someone who took AH Journalism class and had connections and were much, much better.

The latter, Stuff You Should Know, is basically like nerdery for the non-nerds. AKA me. Examples of podcast titles:

1. How Food Cravings Work
2. How The Hells Angels Work
3. How Kleptomania Works
4. How Braille Works

And the list goes on. Practically forever, and/or at least until 2008. SO! Why am I telling you all this?

I am telling you all this because I recently listened to a Stuff You Should Know podcast about quicksand, and I feel like my entire life is turned upside down right now.

Yes. We almost have a “making ends meat” situation on our hands here, people.

Turns out, it’s basically impossible to die in quicksand. Amongst all the reasons is that quicksand is never as deep as a human being. And even if you stepped in it, you’d basically just float at the top, not get sucked into it.

The thing is, besides having the malady of a weak bladder, I was also a fairly paranoid child. And after a few movies where people got stuck in quicksand (OR WORSE, ATREYU’S HORSE DROWNED IN THE MUCK AND OH MY GOD I STILL CAN’T HANDLE THAT) I was convinced that I would some day die from falling in a pit of quicksand. I didn’t know how or why, but the idea terrified me to my very soul.

But no one ever brought me the facts of quicksand. They just said “Oh, Emily. You won’t die in quicksand.” And left it at that, with no substantial evidence to change my mind! And just telling me that there is no quicksand in Illinois would have helped not at all because NO ONE SUSPECTS THE QUICKSAND INQUISITION.

It reminded me of my fear of robbers. I was scared to go to bed at night because I knew a Bad Guy would break into our house and steal all our things and kidnap me and my siblings. And you know what convinced me otherwise? My mom told me that since she and my dad’s bedroom is in the basement, that the robbers would come in those windows and she and my dad would just beat them up.

Bam, end of that fear. I mean, when you’re four, who’s more badass than Mom and Dad?

As I walked around Chicago, listening to the podcast, I had to keep pausing it in order to reflect on the MANY things I was scared of, if only someone had given me good reason not to be.

Like fire. I was sure that a fire would start in our hallway and none of us would be able to get out. And all I really needed was someone to stick a fire detector up there, assure me that a fire would start in the kitchen far away from us, and I would have slept like a baby.

Or escalators! I had a late fear of escalators, spawned from the 90’s show, “Rescue 911.” The thing is, I didn’t realize that a show with the word “Rescue” in it might possibly mean that everything would be okay. So of course I turned it off right in the middle of the reenactment, here



Instead of watching the last two minutes (which I just did thanks to the wonder of YouTube. By the way, STILL SCARY.) when the boy looks all healthy and rosy-cheeked again:



But, see, if someone had just told me, “That boy was fine, and it won’t happen to you because you are not SITTING on the escalator” then the fear would have evaporated in seconds!

Cold hard facts. That’s all I ever needed. Or, really, looking at all of these fears, all I actually needed was the internet. SO GET ON THAT, 1992.

Consider Me Miles Davis (Or: My Most Embarrassing Post Yet.)

I am not what you'd call a particularly outgoing person. I second guess myself and clam up in front of anyone who I find intimidating.

Sure, I have momentary spurts of outgoing insanity, generally leading to me embarrassing myself. Like in the 8th grade when we had a mock-discussion on the pros and cons of slavery, where I stood up and tried to shame everyone who was fake "pro slavery" with a heart-felt speech.

GOD. I relive that moment at least once a week.

But I'm really kind of shy most of the time. I don't tend to make friends with people until they come up to me and tell me, "We're friends now." "Oh...okay. Wanna watch Friends and write down all the funny quotes in a notebook for no reason?" "SURE!" *skip arm-in-arm into the sunset*

My shyness was especially apparent as a kid. I was terrified of authority. TERRIFIED. And of course, by "authority," I mean anyone over the age of 12. When I still had spiked hair and dressed kinda like a boy, we had to line up in two boy/girl lines for our first ever trip to the library (EXCITING!!!) So of course, I got in the girl line. I AIN'T NO BOY. Before we left, the librarian noticed me. Thinking I was a smart-ass kid, she scoffed, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the boy's line. And I was too shy to correct her. Me, the one who had decided that I wanted a TAIL, was too shy to actually correct someone who thought perhaps I was not a girl. So what did I do? I shuffled back into the girl line, hoping she wouldn't notice. Of course she did. Again, she thought I was one of those, so she dragged me back to the boys line. Aaaaaand I slunk back. Finally, the entire class erupted, "SHE'S A GIIIIIRL!!!" And the librarian was embarrassed beyond anything. Poor, poor, permed lady.

This was a problem for me throughout elementary school. Not the tomboy thing, the shy thing. It was such a problem, that I peed my pants once a year for five years. OH YES. I am about to chronicle my bladder problems for you right now. ENJOY.

1. Preschool

Nap time. We had to sleep on these little mattresses they'd make us put down. But one day, everyone decided that they'd all have to pee during nap time. Followers is what they were. Damn followers. NONE OF YOU HAD TO PEE AND I'M SURE I MET YOU AGAIN IN HIGH SCHOOL AND NEVER KNEW THAT YOU WERE THE REASON FOR MY DEMISE THAT DAY. Buttons and Bows. 89. I will find all of you.

So there was a string of kids going to pee, and the teachers were rolling their eyes and dragging the kids off and I couldn't manage to get in there before another kid decided it was THEIR turn to go next. Well, you can imagine what happened. That mattress did not stay dry.

The traumatic part, though, is that when my parents came to pick me up, my teachers CORNERED me with them and demanded that I admit to peeing the mattress. Well eff that noise! I'm not embarrassing myself in front of God and country! I denied that accusation tooth and nail. Until they did their STARING DISAPPROVINGLY trick on me, and I'm pretty sure I crumbled.

2. Kindergarten

Gym class. We were all sitting on the yellow circle, learning how to play The Lone Ranger (aka free-for-all Dodge Ball [By the by, it is the fault of my gym teacher that I thought it was "Hi-Ho silver" and not "Hi-YO Silver", so please take it up with her.]) So we're sitting there and she's talking, and I've got my hand raised. She ignores it. I raise it higher--maybe she didn't see it. Ignores me. I flail. Ignore.

Finally, I ran out of the gym. But it was too late. Not only did I pee my pants, but I did it as my entire class watched.

That's right.

And people wonder why I never dated a boy from my school through high school. "Don't go to the dance with HER, she peed her pants in Kindergarten and I SAW IT."

AND IT GOES ON.

3. First Grade

T-Ball. Oh yes. The first and last time I ever played an organized team sport. T-Ball, where my team name was "The Gold Team." Where I threw the ball to whoever seemed like they wanted it more. Where they put me in left field where NO 1st grader could hit it except one time, when of course the ball hit me in the face and I cried until every coach and assistant coach came out to inspect my teeth.

THAT T-ball.

So I hit the ball. Which was quite an accomplishment for me, considering the ball was stationary in front of me. I ran and made it to first. Again, an accomplishment. Uh-oh. That's when I realized it. I had to pee. But I couldn't stop the game--then the adults would yell at me! And I couldn't just run to the port-a-potty like that kid on AFV. Sooo...dance around a little. Yeah, that's good. That's working. Dancing. Dancing. WHY ISN'T ANYONE HITTING THE BALL SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE?? Oh right, because there's no such thing as "strikes" in T-ball. Dancing, dancing, dancing, annnnnnnnd....peeing. Nothing I could do. The first baseman just looked at me in amazement. But otherwise, no one noticed. For the rest of the game, I sat there in my pee-pants, acting like nothing was wrong. It wasn't until we got our fig newtons and Mondo that I worked up the courage to tell my Mom. "Oh, Emily," she said. As if a) I had done it on purpose and b) as if it was like you couldn't just throw the pants in the wash. JEEZ, MOM. There ARE strikes in "making your child feel bad for her bodily functions" and YOU are on strike 2.

4. Second Grade

This one was a little different. See, while we were watching some Discovery Channel show, I started to feel a little woozy. Miraculously, though, whenever I set my head on the desk, I felt better. My evil witch of a teacher, MS. WIEAND, (God rest her soul) came around and told me to pick my head up. Now granted: this is the point in which I should have told her that I didn't feel well. Meh. I was terrified of her. And I'm pretty sure that I thought I could just SHAKE IT OFF. So I begrudgingly raised my head and watched the rest of the movie, my stomach gurgling all the while.

Later, when the movie was over, Ms. Wieand decided that now was the time for her to clean out her supply closet. You know, while she had minions to boss around. So she's up on a ladder, nose deep in construction paper, and it hits me. Things aren't sitting right, and I have limited time. So I try to interrupt her and ask to go to the bathroom, and she doesn't hear me. I sit back down. Nope. Nope. Back up. But at that point? Too late. *Blarg-larg-larg-larg!* Right on the orange reading rug.

5. 3rd grade

I've mentioned this one before. We switched class for Science. We were in Mrs. Barkley's class learning about the different kinds of clouds. You know, talking about RAIN and SPRINKLES. I raised my hand to use the bathroom, and she didn't call on me. And I was too shy to say anything. Her loss. Left a nice present for her on my red-orange chair. And a nice present for whoever's chair that usually was. Whoopsee.

Luckily, that was the last time (save an incident when I was 13 at summer camp, but that wasn't shyness. It was a very intense scavenger hunt.) I think in general, I've learned to speak up for myself to people I find intimidating. Why just today, I made a snarky comment to my boss that I absolutely should have kept to myself. So...mission accomplished?

Thanks for liking me and "liking" me, guys!

Making Ends Meat

I'm going to give you guys some free advice: Do not spend the day listening to old songs that remind you of your exes and then spend the evening reading people's wedding stories. Your dreams will be all kinds of crazy.

Now, as promised, I need to explain to you a little something. It is called "Making ends meat."



When you don't have a lot of money, you still need to buy food. So you go to the butcher with your pennies and you say, "What can I get with this?" The butcher chops off the ends of the salami, maybe gives you the gristly sides of some chicken. The green edges of the beef. Because that's all you can afford. You are making ends meat. We all know this saying. It makes perfect sense.

Imagine, then, me. Circa college. COLLEGE. I am in someone's office, discussing this and that. I look down and notice a book sitting on a pile on the floor. It is blue. There is a man in a suit with his arms crossed. And the title: "Making ends meet."

Hubba whaaa? HUBBA HUBBA WHAAAAAA?!

I go on as usual, pretending that the wheels in my head are not slowly cranking. "Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. Yes, I see." But in my head, I'm going "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS GOING ON?! MEET?! MAKING ENDS MEET?! WHAT ENDS? WHERE? HOW?"

I rushed home to my parents.

"Mother. Tell me right now. How. Do you spell. "Making ends meat"?

"M-a-k-i-n-g (space) e-n-d-s (space) m-e-e-t." She told me calmly. My face dropped. "Oh, Emily. It hasn't happened again, has it?

Yes, that's right. This situation is not uncommon to my life. It happens so often, in fact, that Michelle and I have dubbed it "having our world turned upside down." (It happens to her a lot, too.) The most traumatizing example of this was during my freshman year of high school when I got in a very heated discussion with Kim about the meaning of "having your work cut out for you."

I argued: well, it's been cut out for you. It's simple. It's almost done. It'll be easy, a breeze.

She argued...frankly, she argued the correct usage of the phrase. I had gone 15 years of my life misunderstanding a common English idiom. Oh, and not JUST misunderstanding it, but thinking it meant THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE OF WHAT IT ACTUALLY MEANS. Then there were of course the countless songs I have had explained to me over the years. Bopper Ann? It's not BOPPER ANN. Niether is it "She's my little two scoop, you know what I got."

And now in college, it happened again. But this time, I would not be pushed into a corner of idiocy. I went around to everyone I knew and I asked them how to spell the phrase. And what I discovered was this: I was not alone.

My friend, Kevin M, had the best reaction. When I told him it was "meet", his jaw dropped. He spent some time trying to convince the rest of our friends that it was "meat" and then ended it by backing out the door while pointing at everyone, yelling, "SCREW YOU! SCREW ALLLLLL OF YOUUUUUUU!"

There are a lot of people in the world who believe the phrase is "Making ends meat." In fact, I even started a DJ radio argument a few years later about it. They were asking for people to call or write in if they had "just discovered something." (The DJ had just found out you don't have to write www. before you search something. Child's play.) So I emailed in about my situation, and it turns out, the traffic girl also thought it was "meat." Then they asked people to call and weigh in on the subject and guess what? LOTS of people think that it's "meat." Adults. Grown, smart, useful adults.

Here is the thing: both phrases, in my mind, make just as much/just as little sense.

On the one hand, you have no money to make the ends of cloths meet to sew clothing.
On the other hand, you have no money to afford the good cuts of beef.

Therefore, I will concede and spell it "meet" from now on, as long as you recognize that it wasn't THAT stupid for me to have believed it to be "meat" for two decades. And to all those who scoff me and my meat/meet fiasco, I simply say good day to you.

I also have a few other phrases I want to throw out there for discussion, and perhaps to turn your world upside down like mine has been:

Did you know the word is "ulterior"? Ulterior motives. Not alterior, as I thought. You know how I leaned this? From a Sunday comic strip. THAT was a new low.

And two that I actually DID get right growing up:
1) The phrase is "all of a sudden." It is NOT "all the sudden." Neither make sense, I know. However, one is wrong.
2) Flesh it out. Flush it out. These are two different phrases. To flush something out means to reveal something that is concealed, like flushing something from its hiding place. But if you've gotta develop a plan. An outline. A genius idea. You flesh it out. FLESH.

So what else is out there? What have you learned slightly too late? I'm sure everyone's got one. Don't make me feel like a huge, lonely loser. Let's hear them in the comments!

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.

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.

Bon Appétit!

Right before writing this post, I looked down at my finger and realized that I had a large (though painless) cut right at the tip. It took me a full ten seconds to remember how this had happened--somehow I had cut myself opening a jar. Five minutes ago. Yes.

This is a typical day in the life of Emily. 1) Hurt yourself doing something simple and everyday. 2) Forget that you did it because you have the memory of a wombat. (Wombat? What is wrong with me? *Sigh*, moving on.) I am constantly covered in bruises, not because I have a disease, but because I run into things. And then I forget that I did. I get at least one rather nasty, deep-looking bruise a year and when people see it I usually hear this: "*GASP!* Oh my gawwwwd! What HAPPENED?!" To which I reply, "Oh, uh...ran into a wall maybe?"

My forgetfulness and clumsiness also wrap quite nicely into another lovely quality of mine: a distinct lack of cooking elegance. And these qualities I blame on my mother. Not that my mom is a bad cook. She makes some KILLER dishes. And have I mentioned the Chex Mix? Ohhhhh, the Chex Mix. My stars. But my mom will be the first to admit, she is no Martha Stewart. Let me tell you about Saturday night.

I went home to spend some time with The Fam before my little sister, Hannah, went back to school. For dinner, my mom wanted to try a dish she had made once before, chicken wrapped in puff pastry.

The box of the pastry said to let it thaw for 40 minutes, but it just wasn't thawing fast enough. I suggested she defrost it in the microwave, because I was sure I had seen that suggestion on the box somewhere. I then walked away from the kitchen.

Next thing I know, my mom is cursing my name to the heavens because she microwaved the puff pastry while it was still rolled (note that I never told her to do THAT) so it had turned into a roll of goo and she couldn't unroll it anymore and what was she going to do noooooow??

So I start laughing and trying to pry the damn thing open with a butter knife, which just ends in further massacre. We're both covered in flour, uncooked chicken goo and (mysteriously) soy sauce, and the puff pastry, which is supposed to be a flat square, looks roughly like the state of Idaho.

While my mom is lamenting, "This would NEVER happen to Julia Child!" my dad comes home and starts mocking us. Lovely, Dad, thank you for the advice. He then pours us both a glass of wine and tells us it'll still taste fine. My mom tries to convince Hannah to go out into the cold and buy us more puff pastry, which she refuses to do because she is useless. Meanwhile, the pets need to be fed, so Wally the cat/horse is at our feet, reaching as high as he can. And yes, he CAN reach the counter top. So on this counter top (which is about two feet wide, by the way), we have the Idaho dough, flour everywhere, chicken/salmonella, vegetables, multiple spoons, sauce, cat food, groping cat paws, and two glasses of wine.

Ahh, home.

Perhaps anticlimactic, but in the end, we rolled it out to an acceptable shape and you couldn't tell which was the batch we'd messed up and which we hadn't. Which makes me love puff pastry THAT much more.

And thus, my family (and my clumsiness) lives another day.

Writer's Block Cure: working the brain AND butt muscles

I think I may have a cure for writer's block, and that cure will also get me rocking glutes. I just might do my best thinking while working out. Blech. Kill me.

I am not a, how you say, "gym rat." I am the girl who does ten minutes on the elliptical, falls over and promises to do weights 'next time.' I am the girl who may or may not giggle every time the cute boy at the front desk remembers her name. I am the girl who started doing crunches four days ago.

I mean, I'm healthy. I am of a healthy weight. I'm not walking down a runway anytime soon, but whatever to that. Gone are the days when I aspire to zero flab. I'm only getting older and there will soon come a day when I look at my skinny jeans longingly and cry. As my mother told me on Christmas Eve, "You're so skinny!...You should take a picture." And take a picture I did.

What I'm saying is...what am I saying? Oh, the gym. So I'm not a super fan of cardio. Sure, there are some days when I get on the elliptical, turn on a little Lady Gaga and run/subtly dance all my stress away. But there are some days when I get on the elliptical and immediately think, "this is the worst thing ever and if I continue for one more second, the Indian kid running in the jean shorts is going down."

But now I have a real reason to get on that spinning death machine: I become inspired. I have discovered that, despite having basic cable on every machine and a device that can pour thousands of songs into my ears whenever I want (God, can you imagine going to the gym with a Discman? Hehhh...) I am always insanely bored while I work out. There are few TV shows or songs that can significantly distract me from the viciousness of exercise. And so, with Cash Cab playing lovingly in the background, my mind drifts away to a happy place where my legs are not jelly and my boobs are steadfastly in one place.

I've only just realized how many of my ideas come to me while working out. I'm a little nervous that being aware of it, the power will be gone and I'll have to add it to the list of Places Where Sometimes But Not Always I Get Good Ideas.

Included:
-Walking to the bathroom, never from.
-Middle of the night (reread later, "what does 'we should be elves' mean??")
-In the shower, right before the water turns cold and I start crying.
-Coffee shops, unless I drink coffee

I'll have to test out my theory next time I'm at the gym. You'll know it works if I write a Super Awesome Blog Post soon. Anyone else have good places for inspiration?