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.

This Is My Life!

Happy Valentine's Day Everybody!

As someone whose first kiss was the day before Valentine's Day, self-started and off-centered, here's to every movie that raises first kiss expectations to an unattainable level.

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.

Johnny Depp Is Not Attractive.

I've mentioned it before on this blog, but I've decided it needs it's own post.

It's true: I do not like Johnny Depp. Here--take this paper bag and breathe into it. Put your head between your knees. Everything's going to be ALL RIGHT, just CALM DOWN. Go take a nap. Come back when you're ready.

Yesterday I saw a brief interview on some Hollywood gossip show in which they talked to Johnny Depp.

Let me describe a man for you:
-unwashed hair
-tinted glasses inside
-goatee
-orange



Which of these qualities EXACTLY, is the one that everyone flocks to? I JUST. DON'T. GET IT. Except for his strange, milky orange glow, the man is colorless. All washed out and bland-looking. He has no personality as a human. His voice is as unilayered as his skin tone. He looks like he is on drugs. If that is attractive, then Jim Bruer is the next Hollywood hunk.



And yet YOU ALL find him hummina-hummina-hummina gorgeous. Women AND men! Johnny Depp is the only man that I consistently hear from straight guys that they find him attractive. It's as if all straight dudes in the world got together and said, "we have to maintain our heterosexuality in the eyes of others, but HOT DAMN that grey-skinned man and his unwashed hair is just the sexiest fella we've ever seen. Can we all agree to publicly call him hot but still act weird about it being gay if we sit next to each other when we watch his movies?"

At the very least, it just irks me that people consider him to be universally attractive. As if, OF COURSE the man is hot, and everyone everywhere thinks so.

I've been asked, "Okay, so then who would you consider to be universally attractive?" And I find myself flabbergasted. "I don't know...just about anyone ELSE in Hollywood?" I want to shout. But instead I give them Brad Pitt, Harrison Ford, Robert Redford, Tom Cruise, Patrick Swayze, Denzel Washington, George Clooney.

"Yes," they reply, "but those were all in their heyday. Who, right now, might be YOUR Johnny Depp?"

And I realize that I can't answer them. Do we have no household name, A-list, Universally Attractive Man anymore? Ryan Reynolds was People's Sexiest Man Alive for 2010. Is that it? While I agree the man is good-looking, he's not really buzzed about at the water cooler. His name is not synonymous with Attractive Male. Like, no one ever says, "I know I'm no Ryan Reynolds, but we belong together."

Next in line may be Hugh Jackman. But while he seems sweet, there's something about him that makes him not quite Ken doll-like. Patrick Dempsey? McMaybe.

I'm looking for someone who is UNDENIABLY attractive to every single person he meets. And while I love ya, Future Husband John Krasinski, that is a schnoz.

Or is my issue something deeper? Maybe it's to do with Depp's total lack of off-screen interest. I'm very critical of attractiveness when it doesn't come with a great personality to match it. Leonardo DiCaprio was a Hollywood hunk since Titanic. But the man has always dated models, which to me just screams "pretty but boring."

Maybe the reason I can't think of the Universally Attractive Man is because I don't CARE about those men. Thing is, that guy is also 100% unattainable. I'm not going to see him in a bar and win him over with my sarcastic arm punch and self-plucked eyebrows. So why bother to get weak in the knees for HIM?

I suppose I've just always been realistic. Why fall for the guy because he looks like Stretch Armstrong? (Ooh, speaking of which, maybe Aaron Eckhart? Hmm. Too blond.) Why not look for the guy with his head out of the clouds? After all, that's the only way he'd ever see me.

Oh no wait. WAIT. Jon Hamm. Jon Hamm, everybody. Nevermind, it's Jon Hamm.

10 Steps To Making A Man Fall In Love With You

Okay, fine. I’m no expert. I have no degrees or training in relationships. Hmm, what would that look like? Girlfriend 101: Be Nice...Girlfriend 350: Dealing With Farts?

But I do think I have some idea about how to snag a fella. Not only have I done it, but I have also done it WRONG many, many times. Which means I have learned. I have done just about everything that ACTUAL relationship experts tell you not to do. And I have taken those learnings and put together my own list of the ten basic things you need to be able to do if you want to make your man fall desperately, madly, slightly embarrassingly in love with you.

Of course, this is assuming you’ve found a guy who’s worth falling in love with. Don’t just pick some schmo off the street and try these tactics out. That’d be creepy. I don’t want any of you citing me on Cops, because I will NOT defend you.

All I’m going for here is this: maybe you’re really good at snagging guys. Whether they fawn over you at the bar, or you have some kind of award-winning OK Cupid profile, you’ve figured out how to make a gentleman raise one eyebrow and stroke his beard. But maybe you have a harder time holding onto them. For some mysterious reason, they just don’t make it past the 1 or 2 or 6 month mark. Well, here’s what I’m thinking:


10 STEPS TO MAKING A MAN FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU
By Emily

1. Don't make him do lame stuff.

Don’t take him shopping. Don’t drag him to movies with Jennifer Aniston or Ashton Kutcher. Don’t make him sit in the corner while you and your girl friends scream “Girls Just Want To Have Fun” at karaoke. Go do your girl thing and leave him at home. You’ll both be happier.


2. Speak up.

If there is one phrase that is unanimously hated among boys, it is “I don’t know, what do YOU want to do?” Buck up. Make a decision. The great thing about guys is, they don’t have secret hidden layers like girls do. They tell you what they want, and they tell you what they don’t want. I know, right? It’s baffling. As the great Kelly Kapoor once said, “I mean, who says exactly what they’re thinking? What kind of game is that?” But it’s not a game! They’re just that low-maintenance! And all they want in return is for us to be blunt and honest when we know that we want to get a burrito and go dancing. Or eat a burrito, buy some Maalox and rent Ace Ventura 2: When Nature Calls.


3. Make him a sandwich, woman.

I’m not saying you should be his slave. But when he’s at your place, be a good hostess. Offer him a soda. Grill him up some cheese. Show him that you’re a giver. Then when you’re at HIS place, he can make you things. Because relationships are a give and take. Just because you make him a meal does not mean that you’ve lost the Women’s Rights battle. If you expect him to always bring YOU presents and give YOU massages and buy YOU meals, you’re going to see a boyfriend-shaped puff of smoke where he once stood. So grab a palm frond, peel some grapes, and show some love.


4. Realize when you've been talking for an hour.

The easiest way to figure out how much you’ve been talking is at a restaurant: If he has practically finished his chicken carbonara and your meatballs are untouched and cold, maybe you need to slow it down there, lady. Take a breath. Ask him a question and shove a little food in your gob. Don’t you love those people who you see after a long time apart and they seem legitimately interested in the things you’ve been up to? You could be one of those people! How was his day? What are his thoughts on Palestine? Whatever! Just ask!


5. Take care of him when he’s sick.

This one’s a little tricky because you have to wait around until he’s under the weather. But when he is, SWEEP IN! Let those mothering instincts take over. Cold compresses, chicken soup, medicine. Read a book nearby while he sleeps. And importantly: ask nothing in return. Don’t be that girl who’s like, “Back massage, Baby? Try not to get any phlegm on me this time.” Basically, be the person you wish you had when you were sick.


6. Stop complaining.

Honestly, I am taking this one out of Men Are From Mars. But here’s the deal: women bring their problems to other women because we like to share. That’s how we show love. But dudes only bring their problems to other dudes when it is A Problem That Needs Fixing and he can’t do it on his own. So basically, when you spend half an hour talking about your terrible experience at The IHOP, all he hears is “Help me with my strawberry syrup problem! What can I do? What did I do wrong? Fix it!” And if you keep riding that complaining train, he’s not going to stay on it for very long because it’s grating and stressful. You’ll end up at Alone Junction. And probably DoubleStuffOreoville.


7. Get a good-fitting bra.

Nothing makes you look sloppier than a bra from Victoria’s Secret. Go to Nordstrom and do it now. This actually won’t make him fall in love with you, it’s just my personal quest. But you know what? No. It WILL make him fall in love with you. Because you’ll look better, you’ll feel better, and he’ll want to be around someone who looks and feels like a million bucks. Which you will. If you go to Nordstrom. Stop it, Emily, you’re scaring them.


8. Learn how to do something for yourself.

Like change a tire. Or unplug a toilet. Whatever self-help level you’re at is fine. It's amazing how impressed guys can be by the littlest thing that girls ‘aren’t supposed’ to do. “Whoah, you aren’t afraid to kill spiders? You’re so cool.” “Whoah, you can chop wood? You’re so cool.” “Whoah, you built a house using nothing but hair ties and a can-do attitude? You’re so cool.” Whatever it is. Guys want a girl who can hitch up her pants and get things done.


9. Have a conversation with his friends when he’s not around.

Whether your boyfriend’s in another state or just in the bathroom, show his friends that you can be a cool person without him backing you up. The thing is, his friends just want to know if their bud’s gf has his best interests in mind and makes him happy. So be the supportive, fun person you are, and hopefully you’ll win a few hearts over.


10. Be interested in the stuff he loves.

I mean, you don’t have to become a die-hard Lakers fan or learn the ins and outs of the Lamborghini or pick up the keytar. But if he’s a woodsman, go camping with him for a weekend. Watch a couple soccer games. Go see his band play. Be supportive! And if you hate the stuff he loves? Um...why are you dating him?



Really all I'm saying here is to be the other-half you wish you had for yourself. Do you want a mean, complaining, uncaring boyfriend? No. And he doesn’t either. So please, ladies, take my advice: be the person you’d want to date. Be nice. And deal with farts. I’m just saying.

Emily And A Drunk Guy: A Conversation

On Friday all the interns at our agency got treated to a Cubs game. As I strolled back to our spot with a beer and a hot dog (as God intended it), I was confronted with a group of standing Reds fans. All standing there like a bunch of standing things. So I say in my cutest, flirtiest, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way-this-hot-dog-won't-eat-itself voice,

"Excuse me, boys (they are all around 40), I've got to get through here."

And that's when it starts. Some drunk guy, taking what I'm sure was astute note of my skirt and boobs, decided to be hilariously interactive. While all his friends move out of my way, he says, "It'll cost ya!"

Oh yeah? Really? Will it? ...SEE? Even now, I CANNOT come up with a good comeback to that line! What do I say? WHAT? So of course, asking me to think of one on the fly was a total disaster. Add the immense amount of sunlight, the already-consumed beer, and the sheer number of people around me waiting for a response, you can imagine how it all went down, I'm sure. But just in case you can't, here's the play-by-play.

Drunk Guy: I'll cost ya!
Emily: Okay...well...yeah. Pffssh.
DG: So what is this? [noting my plain gray shirt] Are you a Reds fan or what?
Emily: No, I'm a Cubs fan. Kind of. I just, I had a shirt, er, a blue shirt. But I lost it! And who loses a shirt?!
DG: Maybe someone stole it.
Emily: Yeah, probably some Cincinnati...jerk!
DG: Alright...
Emily: I'M SORRY I'M BAD AT COMEBACKS NOW LET ME GO BACK TO MY SEAT WITH MY $6.50 CUP OF BUD LIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

It was disastrous. Not unlike the game (zzzzzZZING!)

Anyway, that's all I have for all y'all right now. Got a bit of a work...thing...the next few days. I'd explain it but it's TOP SECRET!!!1 (not really, it's just kinda boring to explain) So I might be kinda MIA for a bit. But in the meantime, won't you become a fan of this blog? Look on over to the right-hand margin. Click the ol' thumbs up sign there and you're good to go! Ta!

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?

Crush Them

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

We'll start at the very beginning.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Good luck, and God bless.

Post-Valentine's Day Rewind!

I spent a little time yesterday looking through my old journals from junior high and high school, hoping for some good Valentine's Day memories. Sadly, I found none. But I did find a gem from the day AFTER Valentine's Day.

Let me set the scene for you. It's the 8th grade. I'm fourteen. I look (more or less) like this girl here. My best friend, Emily H, and I spend all day writing notes to each other about boys. When we get home, we immediately get online. To talk about boys. I am currently in love with a boy named Scott N. I have never spoken a word to him, nor do I know a thing about him except that he is gorgey beyond all--in a quiet, blonde and mysterious kind of way. Valentine's Day has come and gone, and I received zero Secret Admirer cards. So it's time to lay it on a little thicker. Here is the email that I sent to Emily that day (which I then printed out and put in my journal.)

2/15/99
FROM: Mily55
TO: Piper767
SUBJ: re: P.S.

ohmygosh. Here's what I've decided. I am not going to sit around on my fat butt anymore. I will get Scott to notice me if it's the last thing I do. Here's my plan: since I still don't think it would be right to just go up to him and start talking, I'm going to look at him. "Oooh, look at him," you say. But wait! There's more! Sometimes when I am looking at him (which is usually one HECK of a lot because I am NUTS) I catch him looking at me. Usually I turn away really fast cuz I'm the biggest chicken in the world. Next time it will be different I tell you! I'm going to take one giant leap. I will look at him, he will look at me, and I will smile. Yes smile, ladies and gentlemen, smile. I can do it, I know I can. It may take some practice, but I've got 3 pictures of him to work with, so by tomorrow I'll be ready.

I hope. Sigh. I can't do it. I need help. You know how crazy I am? I went as far as wishing I was in the hospital for some reason or another, and our homeroom had to send me cards. So he would have to give me one. And then I could treasure it forever. EMILY H. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?!?! I WISHED BODILY HARM UNTO MYSELF SO I COULD GET A DUMB CARD FROM SCOTT N! This could be it! I may have just gone past the line! I'm way out of wack! I may be at the point of no return! Help! I'm slipping away to a mere nothing! There is a boy at school who I know nothing about (except every inch of his physical features and clothing,) and I am becoming obsessed! I need help! I can't even DREAM about him any more because I think about him so much at night, my brain no longer feels the need to dream about him! I have to dream, instead, about gold jewelry and relay races (don't ask)! Emily H, you are my last hope. This is my final cry before I go fully insane. DO SOMETHING!

ES OMOTE

(That's Emily S, Official Member Of The Emilys)

Super Bowl Ads 2010: Naked Men. ...thanks?

"Emily," you are wondering, "you are the end-all be-all in the advertising world [how true]. What did you think of the Super Bowl spots?! We HAVE to KNOOOOWWWWW!"

I'm glad you guys asked. Overall, I actually thought they were well done. Some ads were hilarious or moving (I give sole credit to the copywriters) and some ads fell flat (I blame clients and clients only.) But in the end, everyone tried their darnedest. I've gotta say, it's not easy to make a good ad, no matter how much money you throw at it. Especially after you hear, "Okay, it's gotta be great, and it's gotta be seriously funny. Oh, and millions of people will criticize it when you're done...even the ones who know nothing about it."

Of course, my favorite ad was done by the best agency in the whole wide world: Goodby, Silverstein and Partners *cue angelic music*. They did the Denny's spots:



Aren't they the best? I want to take GSP to a romantic location, whisper "I love you" in their ear, brush their hair back, and softly kiss them.

Anyway. This season I noticed the ads leaning in two ways: Men who hate women, and men who love men.

First of all, men who hate women. There were at least four ads this year that were based around emasculation. I guess it's true, that some (maybe most) women are just the worst. They're annoying, they make you do things you don't want to do, they try to change you. And that would suck. So...I'm with you. Women are terrible and we'd be better without them. Got it.

Then there was the plethora of half- to mostly-naked men this year. What a crazy, random happenstance. The thing is, I read this Twitter post during the game: "It's official. Theme for this yrs SB Commercials: Men in their underwear. #brandbowl (Suppose it's time after years of half dressed women)"

So...here's the thing. After years (meaning "decades," right?) of half-dressed women who look like, I don't know, THIS perhaps?


You're saying we should feel vindicated by ads that look like THIS?


Yeah, that's the same. That's exactly, exactly the same. Now, this guy just tweeted that really quickly, and I'm not going to start putting all of women's rights on his shoulders. All I'm saying is--I'm all about men in their underwear. All about it. Even when they look weird, at least it's funnier than weird-looking men in clothes. But come on now. The men in their underwear clearly weren't for us women and gay men. So they must have been for you. You touchdown-dancing, chest-bumping, crotch-grabbing, pile on-inducing, butt-patting, women-hating...

...straight men?

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?

Do you want to be my guy-friend? [ ] Yes [ ] No

Phew. I have survived The Illness. Now on to more important matters.

I have a very serious guy-friend crush. Not a crush crush, not a girl crush, not even the mystical gay crush. I am talking guy-friend crush. Which I'm not sure I've ever had. And I have no idea what to do with myself.

I know how to flirt. I'm practically a professional flirter. Wiggle wiggle, smile, smile, fake hit, hair flip...repeat. If I could have been paid to flirt back during the height of of my hair flippitude, pleeease. I would have been able to pay off my student loans before I even owed them.

But I can't flirt my way into guy-friendship! He'll get all kinds of wrong ideas via my wiles. It's this boy at my volunteer tutoring place. And he is so smart and...okay I actually know very little about him. He's...tall? Look, all I know is, I want to sit in a coffee shop and listen to him tell me things. French revolution, how to change a tire, Socrates... I don't know, I bet he knows it all. It does make for a problematic friendship, though. I imagine us like those dogs from Looney Toons with the little dog yipping and running around the big, cool dog.

Basically, our conversations thus far have sounded more or less like this:
Him: *says something witty to a group of people*
Me: ggggllhhhhh...I KNOW EVERY LINE IN ARMAGEDDON!!!

But every once in a while I get one of those almost-laughs from him. Like when you reverse sniff? I consider those moments some of my greatest accomplishments. Next accomplishment: actual conversation. Crap, I better brush up on my Socrates.