I'm A Fraud

So, I haven't checked this blog's stats for a while. I had no reason to believe anything had significantly changed around here. I've been posting moderately, people have been not commenting as per usual. Everything was all good in EJS land.

OR WAS IT?

Today I did my monthly check-in to see what's been going on in the past month. usually I see a small spike on the days I posted to my personal Facebook wall, even higher for actual good posts. Nothing too crazy. Here is what I saw today:



What the WHAT?! How? Why? How and why and where and when and for good measure whom?!

Well, I did some sleuthing. Turns out, someone pinned a picture from here to Pinterest and it went Pinterest-level viral. Piral. Problem is, it wasn't an EJS original. In fact, it was flat out stolen by me and uncredited. It was the whale picture from this post.

Should I have credited this picture? Absolutely. Why didn't I? I don't know, probably because I assumed all of 5 people would see the damn thing and they'd all be my immediate friends and family. Not an excuse, though. At all. Whoever took that picture absolutely deserves credit. But for the life of me, I can't figure out where the picture came from. I don't remember if someone sent it to me, if I found it on my own, or if it creepily swam up next to me unsuspectingly. I JUST DON'T KNOW. All I know is, I'm getting a HELL of a lot of traffic for something that I did not produce, and I have no idea how to properly credit it.

So I'm asking all of you--if you know where the picture came from, or if you're the one who sent it to me, PLEASE tell me so I can credit it to the right place. Not that I mind the extra views, but I'd rather get them for the right reasons. And I vow from now on to give credit to pictures like that. It's not fair of me to steal traffic.

I'm going to go hide my head in shame/fear of that picture now.

Everywhere You Look (Everywhere)

Joe and I finally made a video of the new apartment! It's as finished as we could make it right now, although it still needs a few homey touches, like curtains and a new comforter and rug.

We figured the best way for all parties to see it would be here on the blog--but please feel free to pass it over if you're not into an 8 minute tour of my closets. If you do watch it, you may notice Joe talking in the second person. That's for his parents. Everyone else should NOT, in fact, recognize our coffee table. In case you thought you might be forgetting something.

And to anyone who doesn't know me personally, welcome to my voice! And to Joe. And to my home, you snoopy weirdos. And to my awkward Sunday garb. Also, I was unaware of how often I sing to fill awkward pauses, but am WHOLLY unsurprised.

Without further ado, the apartment!

But Waiting Just Around The Bend

I know! I know! I'm sorry! I have left you all on the edge of your seat, vis-a-vis The Great Move-In Of 2011. You don't know, maybe I was going for a season finale-esque cliffhanger. Or maybe I got caught up in reprogramming the TV.

Either way, consider my couch Ross and me Rachel because after months of "will they/won't they" we are finally reunited! JK, I'm totally the Ross in that relationship, let's not kid ourselves. Regardless, it didn't cost the nominal egg we thought it would. (TIME OUT to explain a Family Inside Joke: my mom knew a woman from Boston who thought the phrase was "a nominal egg" instead of "an arm and a leg" I would laugh but it hits a little close to home.)

Wow, I am WAY off topic right now. BACK TO THE MOVE IN. So we didn't have to pay for a shuttle because the truck made it to our apartment just fine, AS I TOLD THEM IT WOULD. And right before the truck was due, Joe and I stood guard over five parking spaces out front so the truck could take over all of them. We turned away the elderly and infirm and forced them to park far away and I'm not ashamed to stand here and say it right to your face.

The movers arrived, our stuff was moved in, Joe left for work and I spent the day agonizing over the extreme amount of mugs we brought along with us. Were we planning some kind of herbal tea party? Apparently yes. Regardless, everything is almost finished at this point. We have pictures to hang and rugs to lay out and boxes to toss, but we're mostly there. We have places to sit and a bed to sleep on and Regina is enjoying her options of places to hide in/lay on top of.

The question is: Now what? I've been aiming myself toward this move for so long, now that it's done, I can finally focus on what lies ahead. And what lies ahead is looking pretty good.

I've been on a professional roller coaster this year, including one very large dip. That happened a few months ago, when I was already questioning my abilities as a copywriter (I mean, come on. Laid off twice in two years? Everyone said it wasn't my fault but...it's hard to keep telling yourself that.) I went to a gathering with ex-coworkers who told me the agency was actually hiring already. That stung. When I got home, I had an email from someone I'd sent my work to. He told me that my book wasn't good enough to get a job in San Francisco.

So...it wasn't a GOOD day.

First, I did EXACTLY what Steve Carrell did in 40 Year-Old Version and walked through my apartment yelling. Then I tried looking for work in fields other than copywriting, like everyone had been telling me to do. Turns out, those jobs all require specialized knowledge in the writing topic, like parenting or healthcare or technology. The only thing it seems I can write for is How To Be Awkward and I think I already run that blog for free. That, or you need journalism experience. Which I don't have. So the only thing I was qualified for was a job that I was apparently bad at.

I don't know the right way to handle dark times. My way involved staring into space, getting back into Grey's Anatomy, and my cat laying on my neck. Now that I think about it, it is remarkably similar to the way I handled getting dumped in Paris. Except this time I had a boy who believed in me and supported me, who told me that I should do what felt right. Including staying in Chicago.

I had a lot of reasons to stay. And I weighed all of those reasons. But my gut still told me San Francisco. This was my next step. This was my new beginning.

Now that I'm here, I feel enormously good about it. Was it definitely the right decision? Hell if I know. Hell if I'll ever know. But the city is growing on me every day: the small shops, the crazy hills, the serious amount of Asian food. I like it a lot. And I've gotten more positive feedback about my portfolio, which makes me think that I may actually get a job at some point. And with a job comes more stuff that will make everything even better, including taking improv classes again, going on road trips, and buying a bike. Plus, it's mid-November and I went jogging in short sleeves today. Hard to complain about that.

So is everything perfect now? No. But it has potential to be. And for now I have a couch, my boy, and hope.

A Haircut Saga

I've determined there are two kinds of stress (now really I'm sure the medical community has determined this about 100 years ago but I'm only grasping it now so work with me here):

1. TOO MUCH TO DO AND NO TIME TO DO IT AND EVERYTHING'S HAPPENING AT ONNNNNNNNCE!!!!! stress.

2. Slow seepage stress. Aka, the stress of not knowing what you are doing with your life. Sure, you get 8 hours of sleep and your heart stays at a nice resting pace, but in the past week, this kind of stress has still caused me:
a. 3 pimples on my chin (and not the curable ones--the lurkers)
b. 1 canker sore (Which is different from a cold sore. From what I hear from cold sore sufferers, canker sores are much more painful, although infinitely less embarrassing.)
c. The kind of cold that, when you're healthy, you think only wimps would be affected by. But when you actually have it, you think you might die. Seriously, how do you have a stuffy nose, runny nose, and so-clear-it-hurts nose AT THE SAME TIME?! HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?
Okay. Calm down, Emily.
YOU CALM DOWN.
Juuuuuust breathe.
I CAN'T BREATHE BECAUSE OF THIS GODFORSAKEN NOSE.
Great now I have multiple personalities
YOUR MOM HAS MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES.
YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH ABOUT MY MOTHER!

So this is the state I was in when I went to the hairdresser yesterday.

In order for you to understand my story, I need to explain a little about my hair. Stay with me, this is key. Currently, I have a chin-length bob. Kind of like Rihanna here, but a little longer, brunette, and without the talent.



I've been needing a trim for about a week or two now--but not technically a trim. My hair was getting heavy at the bottom, kind of like in the late 90's, before layers. Like Claire Danes hair here:



All I needed was someone to use those *shink shink* scissors to thin it out. I have gone to this place before, and it should have been a 4-second fix, done for free to tide me over until I needed to come in for a full-on haircut.

Yes, I said SHOULD have. Walk with me.

So my hairdesser is a half hour walk, and it was drizzling outside. I wanted to make sure I wouldn't be walking there for nothing, so I called to make sure they weren't running around like chickens already. I tried to be as clear as possible that it should be a quick trim, in and out in a few minutes. She said "Our next available appointment is for 1:30." Again, I tried to emphasize that it should only be like a nothing, like not even a trim, just a quick fix. *Silence.* So okay, yeah, 1:30. 1:30 okay. Exactly 1:30. It's better. Thank you, Dr. M/lady on the phone.

When I arrived, there were two women at the front desk, one woman with tin foil in her hair reading a magazine, and me. (And Lady Gaga, but she was only there in sound.) I introduced myself, they had me take a seat while they...I don't know, discussed what they wanted for lunch, I think. Finally Rosa sat me down (I've never had her before) and I said hi. She said nothing.

Oh boy. Here is the next problem: I am intimidated by hair dressers for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I turn beat red as soon as I describe my hair and what it needs. Every time. No matter how well I know the person. Later, Joe told me "You practically act like they're celebrities! What if John Krasinski was cutting your hair?!" "I would die. I would actually have a heart attack and die." I don't know what it is, I just get so nervous around them! Maybe it's the fact that I'm looking in the mirror, watching myself talk that gets me so self-conscious. I don't know what it is.

Anyway, I tried to tell the woman that I just need a nothing, a little, just like it's getting heavy in the front and I want to take out some of the weight, or whatever, you know, it got kind of curly in the rain but like, I mean, and the weight, with my hair, like not the length, just like, with the--

Finally Rosa stopped me (THANK GOD or we would have been there all day) and said "okay so basically just some of the weight out of the bottom." YES. THANK YOU.

She said, "Okay, so what I want to do is shampoo you, blow dry, straighten it, and then we can see where we're at.

What I SHOULD have said was: "No."
What I DID say was "Oh....................kay."
See, the thing is, I had JUST washed it. Like an hour earlier. And all that work sounded like WAY too much for just the quick snip I knew this should be. But I was already beat red from trying to talk, and my brain just stopped functioning. I guess I figured: I had done all I can to explain that this was a quick, free trim I was looking to get, and if she wanted to wash my hair, I guess that was fine.

And then the woman washed my hair, blow dried my hair, and straightened my hair with such attention to detail, such care, that I realized: this was not a free cut. She even added the oils. THE OILS, PEOPLE. And you know what that means.

Finally, she got to the part I had wanted in the first place. She takes out her scissors and roughly ten seconds later, my hair is the way I want it. Of course.

So I walked up to the counter, realizing that this haircut was not going to be free. I told her I belong to Cheetah Gym which means I get a 15% discount. And I hoped that she realized how little hair she actually cut and not charge me full price.

"That'll be $52 dollars."
WHAT?!?!?!?!??!?! ARE YOU INSAAAANNNNNEEEEE!?!!??!?!?!?!? I DON'T EVEN PAY THAT MUCH WHEN I ACTUALLY GET A REAL HAIRCUT HERE!

...is what I should have screamed.

Instead, I handed her my credit card, while a single tear rolled down my face. I didn't know what to do. I am so not a confrontation person. You could serve me food at a restaurant with a cockroach in the middle of it and I would politely eat around it and go home. So.....*siiiiigh*....I still tipped the woman. In fact, I tipped her ten WHOLE dollars. What I'm saying to you is, I just got my hair styled for $62. I just got a $62 blow dry.

To prove to you guys how very very flustered I was by the whole thing, though, I put the $10 in one of those little envelopes for tipping (even though she was standing right there) and where it said "From" I wrote (and this is true): Emyl.

...E. M. Y. L. That was how I spelled MY OWN NAME.

The icing on the cake is, since it was rainy, as soon as I stepped outside, everything that woman had just done for the past hour was completely ruined. I had just paid $62 for a blow dry that lasted 2 minutes.

Finally, this morning I called the place to explain my situation. He said they usually give free cuts if it's to fix a problem from a recent cut, or to trim bangs. But not for that. And the woman I saw was apparently JUDO MASTER level, hence the steep price. So he couldn't do anything for me. Really, I'm the idiot who thought I could go in for a free haircut and should have just stuck it out with my heavy hair.

Well, what's done is done. My hair looks better now at least? I mean, I got what I wanted, I just paid a billion dollars for it. So if you see me in the next month or so, I'd appreciate it if you tell me my hair looks amazing and I should be a model. It's the only way I'll keep my stress level down and these zits off my chin.

Hitting-On Situation, Part 2

Every once in a while, my subconscious gets very guilty about not posting and sends me a dream to kick myself in high gear. Last night I had a dream that someone had written a review of my blog, giving it good reviews, but telling people to skip the ones about work, particularly all the posts about my former coworker (whom I have never blogged about and will likely never blog about because he is simply a nice man with whom I have no beef.) SO FINE. FINE, BRAIN. I WILL WRITE A POST THAT IS NOT ABOUT WORK. HAPPY?!

I was hit on again this weekend. And it could not have been further from my previous experience the week before. Check it, check it:

I was dressed and ready for the gym: no makeup, falling apart Nikes, headband, ugly old baggy tshirt from that team-building exercise '99...you know. The kind of clothes I will inevitably be wearing when I run into all my ex-boyfriends.

There was an old man power-walking past the door right when I walked outside. Rut-roh, another "walkward" situation. But this was an old man. He was over 70 if he was a day, with his shoulders permanently hunched and his socks so high they were touching the bottom of his shorts. I figured I would easily pass him and move on.

"Hi." He said.
"Hello." I smiled, and start walking. But here's the thing: that was one fast, old, hunchbacked man. He was keeping up.
"I used to live in this apartment. I paid $60 a month for a studio."
"Heh heh...wow..." I said. Because I don't know if I've mentioned this, I AM AWKWARD. "It's...I pay for...that's not what it is now..." I mumble, trying to remember how to be a functioning person and figure out how long I now have to keep up this conversation.
"How much are you paying now?"
"Uh, about $600 for a studio. So, a little bit more."
"Ah. Well if you ever need a roommate!"

BRAIN PAUSE! WHAT?! Wait, was that a joke? Or were you being suggestive? Moving on, moving on, he's just a dirty old man, moving on.

"You walking to work?" he said.
"No, I'm going to the gym right up there."
"Oh! I'll walk with you! I'm just parked up in Rogers Park, I've been walking around. Just sold my business so now I have time to just walk and walk and I'm just up this way so I can walk over a block with you."
"O....kaaaaay...uuuuurrrrhhhh, what business did you own?"
"Taxis. I just sold a bunch of my taxis to some Ruski. Bah, he seemed like a fine man. Strong, big shoulders. He's bought my taxis so now I just walk around here, getting in shape."
"Cool."
At this point we'd walked a few blocks. My gym is really close, and we were waiting at the light.
"Ah, I used to go to that barber." He said, pointing across the street. "Don't any more though. You know those Italians, they just talk and talk and talk." I smiled.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"I'm Emily."
"Emily! Hi, I'm Art Johnson, nice to meet you." He bulldozed through this next part like a pro. "So Emily, whaddya say I get your number, I can call you up we can go out sometime, we could go to a nice meal?"
"Oh, that's okay. I already have a boyfriend." (BRAIN PAUSE: "That's okay"?? What did he, spill water on me? PULL IT TOGETHER, EMILY.)
"Ah well. All the good ones are taken, am I right? Well Emily, I'm going to go on this way. You take care."
"Bye, you too."

I was totally blown away. This was by far the fastest I had met someone and been asked out, and by a septuagenarian no less. And it was glorious. I mean, weird and awkward and "REALLY?! with Seth and Amy" but still glorious. Because here's the thing: this man is old. He's doesn't have time to mess around. He sees a pretty girl (shut up shut up) and he goes for it. No time to ponder the 50 year age difference. Twinkies have gone bad between our births but WHO CARES, amiright?

It was such a stark comparison to last week, with a guy saying things like "yes it is difficult for me to work long hours because it means I do not have a girlfriend," to go to the old man saying "Hey nice to meet you why don't we go out sometime?" With an ACTUAL question that I could ACTUALLY answer. And then taking that answer, accepting it, and walking the hell away. I don't know if this is a generational difference or an age difference--if these men have never minced words, or if they grow out of it once they realize they're out of time and they should make the most of the few years they have left with their original teeth.

Either way, guys our age are not like that. Just the other day, I was talking to some friends and we agreed that an art show or art museum is a good place for a first date. I was thinking because it automatically provides conversation without dominating the night. But one guy friend said, "yeah and you have an out so it doesn't have to actually be a date." I imitated in my 'dude' voice, "No, I just meant we could go as friends, JEEZ" and he laughed and said, "Exactly!" *SIGHHHHHHHHHH*

I mean, I can't fault young guys for doing this. I'm guilty of it myself. I actually asked Joe out on our first date, via text (UGH, I know. Those youngins and their technology and their Pepsi and their Ninja Turtles and their Walkmans *Shakes fist*) but I didn't really specify if it was a date. I just said we should get food. I mean really, looking back, I should have assumed it was a date. Joe sure did. And we'd been flirting for weeks so it's not like it would be a surprise. But I was scared that he thought it was just some friendly pizza, so I spent a day in a dither about what to wear. Was this date-sexy or friend-casual? And it was lunch. And it was pizza. So I didn't know what to do. In the end, I wore my sexiest hoodie (no bleach stains) because I'm the kind of girl who has hoodies at different levels of sexiness.

While on the date, it became clear that it was actually a date and not two pals palling around, so I got off free without having to actually ask one way or the other. So what I'm saying is, I understand that it can be complicated. And scary, and an ego blow. But can't we all learn from Old Man Art and say what we mean just a little more often? Or at least learn to ask a girl out within 3 blocks or not at all.

Why Am I So Freaking Awkward?

Oh God, I had a hitting-on situation yesterday.

So I had to return my cable box to the cable company yesterday, and of course they were in the ass middle of Nowhere, Chicago. So from work I had to take two different buses to get there. It was one of those creepy, depressing business centers with nothing but street and one-story office buildings. If I had driven it would have been no big deal. But having to walk through it is another story. See, I'm used to my urban center. And suddenly I find myself unable to hold out my arms and feel a building at each fingertip and I am scared. Suddenly Chicago stops being home to hot dogs and blues and John Cusack. It is now home of murderers and gangs and Al Capone, the original Scarface.

Someone else got off the bus with me. A skinny guy in I.T. Business Casual (clothes that are too big, tucked into other clothes that are too big) and some kind of accent. Something middle easterny. I pulled out my phone to figure out exactly where to go next. He said, "Bradley Street is this way, yes?" And, having checked my phone and realized that was the street I was heading to as well, told him yes and then gave him a few feet of buffer so we didn't have to awkwardly walk next to each other or on each others' heels (Joe and I have coined this type of situation. We call it "walkward.")

But when we got to Bradley, he checked with me again to figure out where to go. I pointed to the building with the cable company's name on it in big letters, and the guy took this as a sign to start talking to me. Lovely.

He told me we had been on both buses together and mentioned something about how he remembered because he noticed how cute I was. Well that was nice, actually. I laughed awkwardly. It may have been a guffaw. Because what the hell should your reaction be when you are involuntarily hit on in the middle of your cable company's parking lot?

We both went inside where there were two glass windows with women behind them. We each returned the boxes we needed to return. He left and I slowly, sloooowwwwwwwwwwwwly put my wallet back in my purse. I slooooowwwwwwly zipped up my purse. I sat down at a chair and checked my phone for the directions home. All of this very timed. I figured by the time I got out the door, he'd at least be halfway back to the bus stop by then and I could avoid an awkward walk back.

He was waiting for me. Looking at his phone in the parking lot, but obviously waiting for me.

"I was waiting for you." He said.
"Mmmmff." I said.

He kept talking to me. I don't know what about. He went to school at DePaul I guess. I don't know what he was studying, it was hard to understand with the accent and with me so voraciously trying to ignore him. I tried to give as little input as possible. Yes or no answers. "Oh, okay." That kind of thing. GOD, WHY CAN BOYS NEVER TAKE A HINT?! Why do we have to be so PAINFULLY obvious with you people?! Do you REALLY need me to say "Listen, I'm not interested, please back off"? You're just being a nice guy, please don't make me be accidentally bitchy! And PS, I will tell you one thing right now: if we are interested in you, YOU WOULD KNOW. There would be a lot more eye contact, giggling, and arm grazes and a lot less "Uh huh, *text text*"

While we waited for the bus, I tried to bury myself in my phone. "Oh, reading a message from your boyfriend?" he said, laughing in a the-kind-of-guy-who-types-lol-after-every-sentence kind of way. Ah! The perfect out! All I'd have to say is, "Yes, in fact this is a message from my big strong muscular jealous linebacker with a gun boyfriend, Astronaut Mike Dexter," and I would be, as Blago would say, f*ing golden.

"No," I said.

WHAT?! WHY DID I SAY NO?! Why do I have to be so scared of lying?! And what was I going to say instead? The truth that I was just scrolling my Twitter feed to appear busy?

"Just reading a message from a friend."


..........................WHAT?!?!!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!?! WHY DO I BOTHER TO SAY WORDS?!?! GOD!!

Blech, so I failed the ultimate "leave me alone" tactic of bringing up the boyfriend who is NOT EVEN FICTITIOUS. Luckily the bus came quickly and I took the opportunity to walk briskly to a seat between two other people.

Here's the problem with other people: they are not there to be your personal buffer, and they often stand up and walk off the bus at a moment's notice. Jerks.

Cant Take A Hint McGee sat down next to me and said, "You know, I think I might go to the Target at Wilson so I would take the red line, too." WHY OH WHY had I told him I was getting off at the red line earlier?! Oh that's right because he already said he'd be taking a bus and I thought I'd be safe and home free. LIKE AN IMBECILE.

At this point I'd given up all hope of niceties. I raised my eyebrows and nodded and kept reading my book. At the next bus stop, someone else opened the back doors and saw my final glimmer of hope flash before my eyes. Without a second thought, I stood up and walked off the bus. Three blocks before my stop. Worried he'd gotten off with me but too scared to look back, I headed into the closest store. A 7-11. He was gone.

God bless you, 7-11. Bless you and your eight flavors of Combos.

I grabbed a cherry Slurpee (aka the nectar of the gods), paid my buck fifty and strolled out. It was the tastiest Victory Slurpee of Pathetic Awkwardness I'd ever had.

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!

Awkward, Bloated and Sarcastic. Hellooo, Fellas.

I am officially the worst person ever.

Today I was wearing jeans, a short-sleeve shirt, and a short-sleeve blazer which I believe I found in the back of my sister's closet.

My boss asked me, "Why are YOU so dressed up?"

First of all, it's a sad state of affairs when me in jeans and a frumpy blazer looks dressed up. I really need to try harder.

Secondly, I wore dresses all week last week, SIR.

Really, I think what he was implying was, "Well well. Blazer, eh? Someone have an interview at lunch perhaps??" (I honestly didn't. And God knows I wouldn't have worn this blazer if I had, but that's neither here nor there.)

So, considering all these factors added to the fact that work is currently at Threat Level Midnight over here and I have no time for pleasantness I said, "Well to tell you the truth, I don't really fit these pants anymore and this blazer covers it up nicely. So I'm not actually dressed up. I just feel fat."

********AWKWARD SILENCE ALL AROUND**************

"...Aren't you glad you asked?"
"Heh heh...*sweating*...No."

I should have thrown in a PMS reference in there just to really seal the deal. God.

Why I Am Leslie Knope from Parks and Recreation

I think Amy Poehler might be secretly watching me from the bushes and then recreating my life on Parks and Rec. It's becoming freakish.


EXHIBIT A.
I make this exact face to Joe at least seven times a day


EXHIBIT B.
Awkward when attempting accents


EXHIBIT C.
I got 100% when I sang Playstation karaoke for "Baby Got Back."
Leslie Knope rapped the lyrics to "Parents Just Don't Understand" without pause before Ron finally told her someone was on fire and she had to leave.

EXHIBIT D.
Friday night I was high on exactly ONE red bull and explaining to people how my new dance move was going to involve my feet firmly planted on the floor at my arms moving in awkward circular motions.


EXHIBIT E.
The more nervous I get, the faster and more nonsensical I become, before I am no longer speaking actual words. Also, the leader of our program at work is named Carl. I have called him Kyle, Craig, and Doug several times. Luckily not to his face. To his face, I stick with "you."
Leslie went on a practice date with her friend, Anne, and got so nervous she knocked over a vase and blanked on the word "bathroom," opting for the replacement, "wizz palace."

EXHIBIT F.
A few weeks ago, I accidentally drop-kicked my phone into a wall.


EXHIBIT G.
My senior year of college, my friends would ask me to tell them stories about my latest attempts at love for a good laugh. One story involved a guy putting on his favorite episode of Family Guy and then asking, "So, do you wanna make out?" (Hint: no.)


Really what I'm saying is: watch Parks and Recreation and you might as well just be watching a blonder, nicer me.

3 Reasons Why I Scared Everyone At The Super Bowl Party

When Joe and I first started dating and I met his friends, I was impressive. I'm not going to lie. I was the life of the party. I sparked conversation, I laughed at all the right places, I cracked jokes...I don't know what it was. Somehow I was not socially awkward. I thought maybe I had finally grown up and come into my own. Turns out? Nope. No, I'm exactly the same person I used to be. At the Super Bowl party with Joe's friends, I was super awkward to the extreme. Here's the breakdown.

1. Chevrolet

The commercials are going. I'm paying attention even though no one else is (As I expected would happen. The curse of being in Advertising.) People are laughing. Chatting. And then this ad comes on:



And I screamed. SCREAMED. Silence fell over the party. Everyone looked at me. I had my face covered and buried in the couch cushions. Joe whispered, "She has a phobia of whales."

You know what, Chevy? SCREW YOU. I was expecting a lot of things from this Super Bowl, including overeating, giggling at the phrase "ball control", and watching a ton of great ads without FEAR FOR MY LIFE. And you have RUINED those plans for me

2. Boy Parts

You guys know I'm not the biggest sports fan. But I'm willing to gather where ever there are people talking smack and eating bean dip. I've learned through years of training (aka forced viewings of sporting events) how to pacify my time. And that is by scrutinizing the players.

Who has the most stickers on their helmets? Who has a weird last name? What does that tattoo say? What did he just mouth to the other player?

I figure, if other people are analyzing the plays, I can analyze the players just as well, and become just as adept. And YES. I tend to call their uniforms "outfits." And YES. I know what color Gatorade they're drinking before I know what direction they're running. And YES. Sometimes I end up noticing their junk.

But come on. I mean, they're wearing the tightest lower-half clothing next to ballet dancers. Things are played in slow motion. Knees run into things. Can you REALLY blame me when, during a silent moment, I pointed at the screen and shouted, "PENIS!"


3. Ads

Like I said before, I was the only one with a vested interest in the commercials at this party. I was fine with it. It did mean that people thought I was a little bit nutty because as soon as the game stopped, I would completely zone out of any conversation, mid-sentence and stare at the screen. That wasn't really the worst of it.

I was getting food in the kitchen when the ads TOTALLY SNUCK UP ON ME, so I ran back into the living room. I'm standing there, deep in analytical thought, when the host just goes, "You ok, Emily?"
I had been staring, frozen. My brow furrowed, my lips moving, holding a pair of tongs with chicken still in them. While everyone sat, chatting happily around me. They all turned to stare. Joe whispered, "She's in advertising."



Oh well. So much for being impressive. At least Joe's friends know who they're really dealing with now.

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!

Voice Overs

So...I had an idea for what to talk about and then Joe made me look at a bunch of pictures from his summer internship and now I don't know what it was.

Apparently that is how important this blog is to me; easily forgettable at the sight of a self-service espresso machine.

OH I KNOW!...Nope, nope. Lost it.

Oh okay. Here it is. So I wanted to tell you about my Voice Over experiences as of late.

So my internship is going really well, but it's winding down. Looks like I'll likely be out of there in a week and a half and back to full-time skulking/blogging as a profession. And in true form of winding-downery, everything has turned to chaos. Of course, our last week includes about twenty thousand presentations. (Or five. But, you know. Still. That's a lot.) So we've been a bit on the busy side.

Today we spend a lot of time editing an animatic, which is something between a storyboard and a commercial, so we can see how timing will play out. We went into the recording studio and met the voice over talent for our impending ad. She was very nice, drove a minivan. Her voice sounded pretty normal, although you could tell it had a lot of layers to it when she talked. But then she got in there into the sound proof booth and just blasted us away. Like, "Oh, you think you wrote words? WA-BAM. Now they actually sound important." What was interesting, too, is that she put her whole body into it. Like, big smile, hand gestures, all that.

It's true that you can tell when someone is smiling without even seeing them. After the talent left, they asked me to go into the studio to record someone sniffing in, just a quick sound effect that they needed. First time I did it there was a bit of a snot situation, which was pretty embarrassing. But then the next time I was all clear. I thought I did fine--I mean, how hard is it to sniff? But they were like "Yeah, can you smile when you sniff this time?" So I did and they were like, "Perfect."

That kinda blew my mind a little.

Actually, before the talent came in, they asked me to read the voice over, for placement and timing's sake. I went in there and just read it through, and my Creative Director clicked his mic on and said into my headphones, "Yeah, you know how the voice talent does it? All breathy and sexy? Do it more like that." Which I did. It was awkward for multiple reasons and I'll tell you why.

A) My male creative director is telling me to be sexier and it is not cause for Human Services to come in and have a discussion with him.

B) The very idea of me trying to be sexy in the first place. I will tell you what I typically do to be sexy in real life: I attempt not to make weird faces, rub makeup in my eye, show my snaggle tooth, or fall down a flight of stairs. Easier said than done, my friends. Easier said than done.

But honestly, I have been told and thought myself that I could actually be a good voice talent before. Until I heard the direct comparison between my own attempts and a professional's. I mean, really. How does she get so many sounds into one word? There were little squeaks and laughs and general feelings in wonderment. And that was just in the word "the."

The woman's good. She's good. I've got to practice. I don't think Joe will mind if I walk around all day practicing my sexy voice. "Why, hello big boy. Mind if I join you? My teeth must also be cleaned within this bathing space."

They Like Me? They Really Like Me?

So I finally did it. I made this blog a Facebook fan page.

BLARRRRGGGG.

I've been avoiding this day for a while. It just felt so narcissistic--making a little homage to myself and then telling everyone to like me? I couldn't bring myself to do it. I mean, I haven't felt this desperate since the 6th grade, when I got braces and decided that all the boys were going to like me because of how mature I was sure to look.

But what I COULD bring myself to do was constantly annoy people by posting blog updates on my regular profile, where everyone who I've had a conversation with in the past 7 years can see them. Not that I mind anyone reading my blog. I just figured there are some who might be a tad over me by now.

PLUS! There are people out there reading my blog who I don't even know! *looks at you all lovingly* and I wanted you guys to have a better way to keep up with what's going on. You know, so you have up-to-date knowledge about who I'm angry at RIGHT NOW.

So we're in experiment phase. And while I did not make the page in order to beg you all to like me, PLLEEEEEASE, PLEAASSSSEEEEE like me! Don't let it just be me sitting on there, updating to myself. Go over there to the right, click on the button and I can has fans?

Under the Influence of Awkward

Who got a Prom Hanks shirt today? I got a Prom Hanks shirt today. THAT'S RIGHT.

There was a volunteer thank you lunch today at Piece (also the site of me and Joe's first date. Joe and I's first date. Joe and my's first date. NOTHING IS RIGHT!!) And they were handing out free T-shirts to everyone for the event, with a chance to trade for a Prom Hanks shirt if desired. OH I DESIRE, sir. I desire.


The volunteer lunch in and of itself went...fine. I don't really know anyone so well as to start sitting down and having a convo. I mean, I recognized people. But I'm just not the kind of person who starts up conversations willy nilly. As you may recall, I am usually talked TO. Not the other way around. So when confronted with a large group of people I don't know, I AM that girl from a 50's prom who came alone to stand in the bleachers and look sad. That is me.

Eventually I managed my way into a group conversation by mentioning that being unemployed is actually great at first until you realize you're spending your days watching Gilmore Girls. Which then turned into a conversation about Lauren Graham, which then turned into how much boys like her, which then turned into how hot Zooey Deschanel is, which turned into me coming across as SLIGHTLY more lesbionic than I am.

The conversation spiraled out of control from there and I again found myself alone and staring silently at a few limp pieces of salad on my plate that I had decided weren't worth stabbing with my fork. So I decided to go. I stuck it out for over an hour. I think that's pretty good for me.

OH! I didn't mention, too, that Dave Eggers was there. He's a writer and he wrote the screenplay for Where The Wild Things Are and Away We Go (which I stupidly packed away for the month! GAH!) So once I decided to leave, I accosted him with my damn Wild Things DVD and an enormous permanent marker (the only one I could find) to get him to sign it. And that's when things get awkward. GOD, why do I get so clammed up around Z-list people? What hope do I have of becoming one myself some day?! Anyway, I walked up to him and shoved the DVD in his face. He shook my hand (Oh right, that's what you do when you meet someone, I thought.) Then I handed him the marker and said, "Sorry all I have is a huge thing."
"What's that?" he said. And for a second I considered That's-What-She-Saiding Dave Eggers, writer of Where The Wild Things Are screenplay. But instead I just stumbled over myself.
"All I have is..this...uh, uh...whatsit. Marker." GOD. For once I would like my brain to remember the names of COMMON HOUSEHOLD ITEMS. So he signed it, and I'm pretty sure I made him anxious because he almost misspelled the word "stay" in "Stay wild, Dave Eggers" He handed it back and I bolted.

So I think that's all the awkward I can handle for today. OH BUT WAIT!! I'm meeting more z-listers today! I'm seeing Avenue Q and might get to meet the puppeteers afterward. Yikes, it's going to be deadly.

I need to watch more Gilmore Girls to calm the nerves.

Highlights from St. Louis

INSTABILITY!! (If I yell it, it makes it easier to deal with.) Blech. My idea of an appropriate level of instability is taking a shower at a different time of day. Not uprooting myself, casting my things to the four corners of the globe (aka my parents house in the suburbs) and living out of a suitcase and a few boxes of face wash.

So what is one thing that I CAN do that is stable? Blog. I can blog. I can blog and ignore the fact that I have one box left and it is a shoebox, into which needs to go all pillows, blankets, and a jewelry box. Oh and everything in my kitchen. Hmm.

Where was I? Oh...blogging. SO! How was my weekend in St. Louis, you say? Wow, that is very kind of you to ask. I'm so glad you did. Because I ALMOST DIED. MULTIPLE TIMES.

First, I almost died of awkwardness. On Friday we went to hear the author, Bart Ehrman speak. This was technically the reason for my trip (besides just general visiting with Michelle.) He was great. And before we left, we went up to get Michelle's book signed, which he did. We turned to leave and he looked at me and smiled. I smiled. Did I say anything? PLEASE. What kind of socially acceptable person do you think I am? No, I just kept smiling and staring, as Michelle turned and walked away. Finally, sensing the awkwardness, Bart said, "Hi." I smiled. He said "Great question." (I had managed to spew one out during the Q&A. That part had, miraculously, gone normally.) I smiled. I turned. I walked away. Well, it's good to know that I do so well in front of non-celebrities. If face-to-face with Future Husband John Krasinski, I'm sure I would be able to get out a gurgle or two before passing out/licking his face.

Second, I almost died a real, true death. We went to see Date Night on Saturday afternoon but during the preview for Letters to Juliet (Plot line: Why, this curmudgeony-yet-attractive man is forced to travel through Italy with me! I'm sure this will not end in making out with him.) there was a tornado warning and we all had to hang out in the bathroom and wait it out. As much as I love sitting on the floor of public restrooms while people dry their hands over me, Michelle and I decided to just leave. It was only drizzling on us. OR WAS IT?! In the time it took us to walk from the theater to the car, the rain started coming down in bullets. By the time we got to the first stop light, there was so much water on the street, you could have body surfed through the turn arrow. And Michelle's all, "oh it's just water!" and I'm having flashbacks to my elementary school days when the movie Twister convinced me that I would someday lose my entire family to a tornado ripping past our cellar door. And we didn't even have a cellar door. We had a split level. In the end, we turned into Kohl's and shopped around until the rain slowed. I may have bought an adorable shirt endorsed by Britney Spears for $20. I may not have. You'll never know.

Third, I almost died of alcohol poisoning. Not really at all, but it does sound dramatic that way. After we came home (having not seen Date Night and without even a rental because, between the two of us, we had seen every chick flick in existence. #moviefail) I brought a bottle of wine for us to partake in that night to go with some cheese I wanted Michelle to try. She'd never had goat cheese, brie, or smoked gouda, so I thought we'd make a festival out of it. Well she wasn't into the goat cheese, brie, OR wine. And damn if I'm going to have to lug that bottle all the way home OR let my hard-earned 4 bucks go to waste. So I did what any sensible woman with a state school-trained liver would do. I drank that bottle, so help me God. And I'm not going to lie to you. I took it like a champ. An entire bottle and I made it to church the next day. I-L-L!!

And fourth, I almost died of sheer and utter horror. Sunday morning, Michelle and I traipsed off to church. We started the morning off right, with free donuts and a Sunday School video (only thing missing was a coffee with amaretto creamer. Hey now. I have my vices, you have yours.) But I was ill prepared for what magic I was about to encounter through this video. I guess it's a series of VHSs from the 90s with some interviews of talking heads, explaining about how to read the Bible and pray and stuff like that. WELL. There was one old man who was totally adorable. He soothed me. Not sure what he said, but it felt comforting. Until he said one thing that made me almost shoot straight out of my chair. He informed the lovely viewers that when he read the Bible and came to God, he looked at it as the bride, coming to the "bridegroom," asking how best to please him.

There's so many...I don't even...I can't even...

I'm not sure if anyone saw my face. For those of you who know me (or read this post) you know how terrible I am at concealing facial expressions. I wear my emotions on my sleeves--or rather, on my eyebrows. I think they might have shot up so high this time, they became part of my hairline.

All this to say, this weekend won. It won hard. And at the end, I got to spend an entire train ride eating double-stuffed EL Fudge cookies and reading Harry Potter. So yeah. All potential deaths aside, I quite enjoyed myself.

The Conversationalist

Just kidding! Here's a post right here!

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

I have yet to reach that goal.

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

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

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

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

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

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