GAH, sorry I've been so absent. I'm the worst blogger ever. I don't even deserve to get paid to write this thing. Which I don't, so that's fitting.
But guess what, Y'ALL?! (Oh that's right, I said y'all so you know something big is coming.) I actually AM going to be paid to blog! Because I just got a contract-to-hire job offer for a small start-up, and among other things I would blog for them! I wouldn't get to be as nonsensical there as I am here, which, let's face it, is better for all of us. But I do still get to write in a fun voice that has some 'tude. Oh god, I just said 'tude like some kind of teen magazine quiz. I'M A LITTLE OVEREXCITED; NOTHING MAKES SENSE ANYMORE!
So. What does this mean for you? I will tell you. It means that I'll still blog around here, and hopefully still semi-regularly as long as my new work gets done and doesn't drain me of wanting to write anything ever again. Doubtful. I have too many opinions about exfoliating face wash left to share. It also means that I'll have some money to go on adventures, which of course means blogging about awkward interactions with strangers and falling down a lot! The possibilities are ENDLESS!
In conclusion, things are looking up for you and me both. Stay tuned about the face wash. Am I serious? Only time will tell.
Showing posts with label Emily Needs To Breathe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Emily Needs To Breathe. Show all posts
Monday, January 9, 2012
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Oh, A Post About Sarcasm. That's REAL Creative.
Laura and I used to joke (in a "no but really" kind of way) that we loved nothing better than making a group of people laugh. We'd come home from class and shrug off our coats, beaming from the class we just had.
Example Conversation:
"How was class?"
"Oh my God it was AMAAAAZING. I tripped walking in, I failed the test, had no idea what the professor was saying the entire time, and on the way out I made a joke about Fergie being not-so-licious and like SEVEN people turned and laughed!"
"Ugh, you are so luckyyyyyy!"
We will also admit, point blank, that we often like people based solely on the fact that they think we're funny. "Oh, she's great. I love her. She thinks I'm hilarious." "Say no more."
Not that you have to laugh at every thing I say in order to be my friend. In fact, the always-laughers can get a bit annoying. All I said is that I want soup! There is nothing funny about that!! Unless it's Monkey Ninja Zombie Pirate soup, you should not be laughing!
And I'm not trying to be like, "Oh, I'm SOOOO funny, everyone loves me SOOOOOO much, this blog is SOOOOOOOO perfectly humorous." I'm just saying, sometimes I make jokes. And sometimes they're funny. And I enjoy when people laugh at said jokes.
So it will come as no surprise to you that people who think Laura or I are markedly NOT funny make us...uncomfortable. My freshman year of college, there was a girl in our group who, for some reason, never heard anything I said. I would make a joke, people would laugh, and she would turn and say, "What?" I would repeat it and she'd just say, "Oh." Even when I said regular things, for some reason she always acted like she didn't hear me. I swear, if the two of us were in a vacuum (shut shut up work with me here) and I was enunciating every word perfectly, and she became some kind of magic lip reader, as soon as I would finish speaking, the girl would probably say, "What?" It infuriated me. She was my first adult nemesis.
Since this girl, I have met a number of people who haven't found my brand of humor particularly alluring. Obviously this is not MY fault. Either they have been raised incorrectly, or they must not get it. There is no possible way that there are people out there who just don't like me. Right? RIGHT?!?!
Anyway, I don't know if you guys know this, but I'm SLIGHTLY sarcastic. And there are some people who just can't grasp it. Like, I'll make a joke that I think is just painfully obviously a joke, and they look at me like I'm from outer space. Which makes me have to do the "Just kidding!" paired with the arm touch. Which, for me, is the sarcastic person's equivalent of "JK LULZ!!!!!!~~~!<3<3<3<3<3 ;-) ROFL :-* LYLAS KIT!!!!"
And it is EQUALLY as painful.
I'm not even one of those dry British humor types who can pull off something that COULD be serious with a straight face. Mine is exaggerated and with a smile. Something you should EASILY understand.
EXAMPLE OF DRY HUMOR I DON'T DO:
(To be said in a Ricky Gervais accent, it helps drive the point home) "Oh, I wouldn't go over there, there's a dead cat over there." *straight face, straight face, straight face* "I'm only joking."
EXAMPLE OF HUMOR I DO DO (tee hee):
"Let's just forget about work and become squirrel mimes!" *smiles, eye roll*
See the difference? But lately I'm starting to think I've accidentally crossed over to the serious, straight-faced humor. Because there are some people who, no matter what I say and how I say it, are NEVER aware that I'm telling a joke. And they look at me like I'm crazy. EVERY. TIME. I'm trying to find it in my soul to still like these people. To go on with the show. To turn the other cheek. You know, like Jesus would do. But I'm finding it harder and harder to feel comfortable in my own skin. As I see it, I can either think of a hilarious joke but then let it just stew inside me like The Bog Of Eternal Stench, or saying the funny thing, watching the "Huh??" reaction, and risk it being the straw that breaks the camel's back and me exploding in a "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT WAS A JOKE! IT WAS A JOKE! WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOUUUUU?"
So I try to tread lightly. Pick my battles. Say only the jokes that are SURE to be funny. Problem is, you never really know what's going to get a good laugh until you say it. So for now, I'm trapped in humor limbo. Possibly forever. JK LULZ!!!!!!~~~!<3<3<3<3<3 ;-) ROFL :-* LYLAS KIT!!!!
Example Conversation:
"How was class?"
"Oh my God it was AMAAAAZING. I tripped walking in, I failed the test, had no idea what the professor was saying the entire time, and on the way out I made a joke about Fergie being not-so-licious and like SEVEN people turned and laughed!"
"Ugh, you are so luckyyyyyy!"
We will also admit, point blank, that we often like people based solely on the fact that they think we're funny. "Oh, she's great. I love her. She thinks I'm hilarious." "Say no more."
Not that you have to laugh at every thing I say in order to be my friend. In fact, the always-laughers can get a bit annoying. All I said is that I want soup! There is nothing funny about that!! Unless it's Monkey Ninja Zombie Pirate soup, you should not be laughing!
And I'm not trying to be like, "Oh, I'm SOOOO funny, everyone loves me SOOOOOO much, this blog is SOOOOOOOO perfectly humorous." I'm just saying, sometimes I make jokes. And sometimes they're funny. And I enjoy when people laugh at said jokes.
So it will come as no surprise to you that people who think Laura or I are markedly NOT funny make us...uncomfortable. My freshman year of college, there was a girl in our group who, for some reason, never heard anything I said. I would make a joke, people would laugh, and she would turn and say, "What?" I would repeat it and she'd just say, "Oh." Even when I said regular things, for some reason she always acted like she didn't hear me. I swear, if the two of us were in a vacuum (shut shut up work with me here) and I was enunciating every word perfectly, and she became some kind of magic lip reader, as soon as I would finish speaking, the girl would probably say, "What?" It infuriated me. She was my first adult nemesis.
Since this girl, I have met a number of people who haven't found my brand of humor particularly alluring. Obviously this is not MY fault. Either they have been raised incorrectly, or they must not get it. There is no possible way that there are people out there who just don't like me. Right? RIGHT?!?!
Anyway, I don't know if you guys know this, but I'm SLIGHTLY sarcastic. And there are some people who just can't grasp it. Like, I'll make a joke that I think is just painfully obviously a joke, and they look at me like I'm from outer space. Which makes me have to do the "Just kidding!" paired with the arm touch. Which, for me, is the sarcastic person's equivalent of "JK LULZ!!!!!!~~~!<3<3<3<3<3 ;-) ROFL :-* LYLAS KIT!!!!"
And it is EQUALLY as painful.
I'm not even one of those dry British humor types who can pull off something that COULD be serious with a straight face. Mine is exaggerated and with a smile. Something you should EASILY understand.
EXAMPLE OF DRY HUMOR I DON'T DO:
(To be said in a Ricky Gervais accent, it helps drive the point home) "Oh, I wouldn't go over there, there's a dead cat over there." *straight face, straight face, straight face* "I'm only joking."
EXAMPLE OF HUMOR I DO DO (tee hee):
"Let's just forget about work and become squirrel mimes!" *smiles, eye roll*
See the difference? But lately I'm starting to think I've accidentally crossed over to the serious, straight-faced humor. Because there are some people who, no matter what I say and how I say it, are NEVER aware that I'm telling a joke. And they look at me like I'm crazy. EVERY. TIME. I'm trying to find it in my soul to still like these people. To go on with the show. To turn the other cheek. You know, like Jesus would do. But I'm finding it harder and harder to feel comfortable in my own skin. As I see it, I can either think of a hilarious joke but then let it just stew inside me like The Bog Of Eternal Stench, or saying the funny thing, watching the "Huh??" reaction, and risk it being the straw that breaks the camel's back and me exploding in a "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD IT WAS A JOKE! IT WAS A JOKE! WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOUUUUU?"
So I try to tread lightly. Pick my battles. Say only the jokes that are SURE to be funny. Problem is, you never really know what's going to get a good laugh until you say it. So for now, I'm trapped in humor limbo. Possibly forever. JK LULZ!!!!!!~~~!<3<3<3<3<3 ;-) ROFL :-* LYLAS KIT!!!!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
TBD
Well, I've been trying for two full days to write a blog post about the end of the year and the future of the next one, but I can't seem to do it without crumbling into a bunch of tiny pieces and declaring the end of western civilization.
Three problems:
1. There are newly discovered issues with work.
2. They have nothing to do with my personal performance.
3. I can't talk about it, because apparently this is the internet.
So all I can do is spout crytic messages to those who'd get it, which is zero fun for those who don't. I have also discovered that I can create Venn diagrams and quote Natalie Merchant songs I forgot I knew existed. Other than that, I have very little to show for two days and three coffee shops.
But in the end, all I really wanted to say is that this last year has been really awesome. I worked hard and it paid off. Next year has some pretty big question marks, but I'm thinking positively.
And since I have nothing more to give you, I leave you simply with this:
Three problems:
1. There are newly discovered issues with work.
2. They have nothing to do with my personal performance.
3. I can't talk about it, because apparently this is the internet.
So all I can do is spout crytic messages to those who'd get it, which is zero fun for those who don't. I have also discovered that I can create Venn diagrams and quote Natalie Merchant songs I forgot I knew existed. Other than that, I have very little to show for two days and three coffee shops.
But in the end, all I really wanted to say is that this last year has been really awesome. I worked hard and it paid off. Next year has some pretty big question marks, but I'm thinking positively.
And since I have nothing more to give you, I leave you simply with this:
Monday, December 13, 2010
Hot Chocolate
Last week I bought something that looked magical: Trader Joe's peppermint hot chocolate, with little bits of real chocolate.
And how could I resist? From the adorable canister to the word "shavings," this thing didn't just call out to me, it taunted like a child who doesn't understand that their parent is ignoring them on purpose. "Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy--" "For the love of GOD WILL YOU BE QUIET, MOMMY IS ON THE PHONE."
So I bought it. Brought it home. Tasted it.
And it was spearmint.
SPEARMINT? REALLY?? Really, Trader Joe's. I TRUSTED you. When you said pumpkin butter was good and I didn't believe you, who was right? YOU were. When you said I wouldn't notice how bad $3 wine was, who was right? YOU were. When you said chicken sausage should be available for the masses, who was right? YOU were. But now? Now I don't know what to think anymore. Will that box of organic vegan cookies be filled with worms? MAYBE! Nothing is right anymore! Up is down, left is right, PEPPERMINT IS SPEARMINT AND MY WORLD IS CRASHING AROUND ME.
Here's my other problem (I know, you're so amazed that I have this many things to complain about when it comes to cocoa): I have become unimpressed by powdered hot chocolate--NOW HEAR ME OUT. I recognize that if I melted down a bar, mixed it with some cream and called it cocoa, that it would be delicious.
But I'm talking regular ol' run-of-the-mill Swiss Miss. Is it me, or is it just not the same as it was as a kid? I mean, maybe it was the insane amount of marshmallows my mom added. Or maybe it was the fact that the cocoa was given to us after we came in from "hours" of "sledding" (aka "minutes" of "dragging my sister around on the sled like a dog because it's Illinois and our only hill is the converted landfill on the other side of town") but it seems like hot chocolate was just a million times more delicious than it is now.
I mean, hot chocolate used to be the saving grace in a world full of chaos. Adults got coffee at every turn, but what did we have to lift our spirits? A can-do attitude? Hardly. Because when your Indian Princess tribe (Another day. Another day.) is trying to sell Christmas trees to raise money for their next father-daughter bonding retreat and you can neither a) Pick up the trees because you are too little, b) Sell the trees because you cannot subtract yet, nor c) Play hide-and-seek amongst the trees because SOMEONE is an enormous party pooper, coughDADcough, you have one option: sit in the warm trailer and drink powdered hot chocolate through a coffee stirrer. It's not fancy, it's not made with a mother's loving care, but it does the trick. And it's why, whenever I burn my tongue, I hear the soft sound of Jingle Bells playing in the recesses of my mind.
But powdered hot chocolate just doesn't do that for me anymore. It doesn't entertain in the way that it used to. And even the Trader Joe's cocoa with its chocolate shavings, which sounded like the cure to my hot chocolate blues, seemed only okay.
Is it just me? Am I the only one who feels this way? Where has my childhood gone? Is it trapped, like a chunk of globbed chocolate powder in the coffee stirrer...of life?
And how could I resist? From the adorable canister to the word "shavings," this thing didn't just call out to me, it taunted like a child who doesn't understand that their parent is ignoring them on purpose. "Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy me? Want to buy--" "For the love of GOD WILL YOU BE QUIET, MOMMY IS ON THE PHONE."
So I bought it. Brought it home. Tasted it.
And it was spearmint.
SPEARMINT? REALLY?? Really, Trader Joe's. I TRUSTED you. When you said pumpkin butter was good and I didn't believe you, who was right? YOU were. When you said I wouldn't notice how bad $3 wine was, who was right? YOU were. When you said chicken sausage should be available for the masses, who was right? YOU were. But now? Now I don't know what to think anymore. Will that box of organic vegan cookies be filled with worms? MAYBE! Nothing is right anymore! Up is down, left is right, PEPPERMINT IS SPEARMINT AND MY WORLD IS CRASHING AROUND ME.
Here's my other problem (I know, you're so amazed that I have this many things to complain about when it comes to cocoa): I have become unimpressed by powdered hot chocolate--NOW HEAR ME OUT. I recognize that if I melted down a bar, mixed it with some cream and called it cocoa, that it would be delicious.
But I'm talking regular ol' run-of-the-mill Swiss Miss. Is it me, or is it just not the same as it was as a kid? I mean, maybe it was the insane amount of marshmallows my mom added. Or maybe it was the fact that the cocoa was given to us after we came in from "hours" of "sledding" (aka "minutes" of "dragging my sister around on the sled like a dog because it's Illinois and our only hill is the converted landfill on the other side of town") but it seems like hot chocolate was just a million times more delicious than it is now.
I mean, hot chocolate used to be the saving grace in a world full of chaos. Adults got coffee at every turn, but what did we have to lift our spirits? A can-do attitude? Hardly. Because when your Indian Princess tribe (Another day. Another day.) is trying to sell Christmas trees to raise money for their next father-daughter bonding retreat and you can neither a) Pick up the trees because you are too little, b) Sell the trees because you cannot subtract yet, nor c) Play hide-and-seek amongst the trees because SOMEONE is an enormous party pooper, coughDADcough, you have one option: sit in the warm trailer and drink powdered hot chocolate through a coffee stirrer. It's not fancy, it's not made with a mother's loving care, but it does the trick. And it's why, whenever I burn my tongue, I hear the soft sound of Jingle Bells playing in the recesses of my mind.
But powdered hot chocolate just doesn't do that for me anymore. It doesn't entertain in the way that it used to. And even the Trader Joe's cocoa with its chocolate shavings, which sounded like the cure to my hot chocolate blues, seemed only okay.
Is it just me? Am I the only one who feels this way? Where has my childhood gone? Is it trapped, like a chunk of globbed chocolate powder in the coffee stirrer...of life?
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
IMPORTANT DISCOVERY
As I was searching through IMDb for actresses I could reference for an ad, I came across this pretty little number.
THAT'S RIGHT. Future Husband John Krasinski (and some other people but who cares) is going to be in a movie called "Everybody Loves Whales." [EDIT: It's now called "Big Miracle". That does not change the horror I feel.]
WHALES, people.
a) WRONG. EVERYBODY DOES NOT LOVE WHALES.
b) After I found this, I typed the word "what" so many times, that the word lost all meaning and I literally had to google it to make sure I was still spelling it correctly.
I don't know how to feel or what to do. I need to think about this. Carry on. Carry on.
THAT'S RIGHT. Future Husband John Krasinski (and some other people but who cares) is going to be in a movie called "Everybody Loves Whales." [EDIT: It's now called "Big Miracle". That does not change the horror I feel.]
WHALES, people.
a) WRONG. EVERYBODY DOES NOT LOVE WHALES.
b) After I found this, I typed the word "what" so many times, that the word lost all meaning and I literally had to google it to make sure I was still spelling it correctly.
I don't know how to feel or what to do. I need to think about this. Carry on. Carry on.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Not A Hot Time In The Old Town
Last night I was woken up by our fire alarm at 2 am.
Joe, who was just about to go to bed (he was studying) still had the clarity of mind of a person who had NOT been jolted out of REM into a cacophony of horror.
His reaction: "I'll grab Regina." *Puts Regina in her carrier* *Puts on shoes and jacket* "Ready?"
My reaction: WHAT IS THAT WHAT DID YOU DO WHERE AM I WHY IS THERE NOISES??????? THE FIRE ALARM?! ARE WE GOING TO DIE? IS THIS BECAUSE I BAKED COOKIES LAST NIGHT? WHERE'S THE CAT? SHOULD I BRING MY BABY BLANKET? SHOULD I BRING MY ALARM CLOCK? *Grabs mis-matched flip-flops* ......Okay I think I'm ready.
We walked down all 8 flights of stairs, Regina meowing all the while as though this was something that perhaps we were doing on a LARK, and could let her out if she just reminded us loudly enough that she was still in a cage. I sat by her as others filed out, strategically shielding her eyes from the St. Bernard. Soon, a fire truck came, nothing was found, and we all went back inside and upstairs. So...fun adventures for all.
Between last night and the night before, when I was scared the impending storm was going to rip the I'm-sure-very-stable roof off our apartment, It's become very clear: I need some renter's insurance.
I meant to get some. A few years ago. When I lived on the 1st floor in a sliiiiiightly ghetto part of Ghettoville, USA. I remember attempting to get a quote online. But they kept asking me all these questions, like if I had a smoke detector or a fire putter-outer thing. And they asked me to estimate how much my stuff was worth.
And I ask you, how the hell do you even start to guess that? I mean, you can figure out the big things I guess, like the TV and the couch and the bed. But how do you start measuring your old Ninja Turtle figurines' worth? Or howabout your VHS tapes you refuse to let go of? What about the clothes you've acquired over dozens and dozens of trips to Target for "necessary things only"? What about the drawers of lotions and shampoos? And how do you measure the worth of the contact lenses that I JUST picked up under great stress and hardship to me? How does my insurance give me those 45 minutes back??
In the end, I gave up. I decided to take my chances with the stealthy security system we already had: owning very little. But after the stress of the past two days, and the thought of seeing all my precious, precious stuff either flung to hither and yon by a tornado, burned into tiny piles of ashes and melted plastic by someone's renegade shrine candles, or drenched by the dangling water spigots that I just KNOW are ready and willing to ruin all the time I've spent slaving over Ikea catalogs, I think it's time for some renter's insurance.
So I'll get right on that. Right after I light all these candles on my bed.
Joe, who was just about to go to bed (he was studying) still had the clarity of mind of a person who had NOT been jolted out of REM into a cacophony of horror.
His reaction: "I'll grab Regina." *Puts Regina in her carrier* *Puts on shoes and jacket* "Ready?"
My reaction: WHAT IS THAT WHAT DID YOU DO WHERE AM I WHY IS THERE NOISES??????? THE FIRE ALARM?! ARE WE GOING TO DIE? IS THIS BECAUSE I BAKED COOKIES LAST NIGHT? WHERE'S THE CAT? SHOULD I BRING MY BABY BLANKET? SHOULD I BRING MY ALARM CLOCK? *Grabs mis-matched flip-flops* ......Okay I think I'm ready.
We walked down all 8 flights of stairs, Regina meowing all the while as though this was something that perhaps we were doing on a LARK, and could let her out if she just reminded us loudly enough that she was still in a cage. I sat by her as others filed out, strategically shielding her eyes from the St. Bernard. Soon, a fire truck came, nothing was found, and we all went back inside and upstairs. So...fun adventures for all.
Between last night and the night before, when I was scared the impending storm was going to rip the I'm-sure-very-stable roof off our apartment, It's become very clear: I need some renter's insurance.
I meant to get some. A few years ago. When I lived on the 1st floor in a sliiiiiightly ghetto part of Ghettoville, USA. I remember attempting to get a quote online. But they kept asking me all these questions, like if I had a smoke detector or a fire putter-outer thing. And they asked me to estimate how much my stuff was worth.
And I ask you, how the hell do you even start to guess that? I mean, you can figure out the big things I guess, like the TV and the couch and the bed. But how do you start measuring your old Ninja Turtle figurines' worth? Or howabout your VHS tapes you refuse to let go of? What about the clothes you've acquired over dozens and dozens of trips to Target for "necessary things only"? What about the drawers of lotions and shampoos? And how do you measure the worth of the contact lenses that I JUST picked up under great stress and hardship to me? How does my insurance give me those 45 minutes back??
In the end, I gave up. I decided to take my chances with the stealthy security system we already had: owning very little. But after the stress of the past two days, and the thought of seeing all my precious, precious stuff either flung to hither and yon by a tornado, burned into tiny piles of ashes and melted plastic by someone's renegade shrine candles, or drenched by the dangling water spigots that I just KNOW are ready and willing to ruin all the time I've spent slaving over Ikea catalogs, I think it's time for some renter's insurance.
So I'll get right on that. Right after I light all these candles on my bed.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Fears and Facts
First, I must start this post with a little about podcasts, although that has nothing to do with what I want to tell you.
In iTunes, there is a whole “podcast” section. Click on it. There are, like, 80 billion (rough estimate) awesome podcasts out there for all your podcast needs. I mean, really it’s like recorded XM radio. And I think they're all free. So go there.
WHILST you are there, specifically look for This American Life and Stuff You Should Know (or click those links and get there faster.) These are two amazing podcasts. The former is like what this blog would be like if it were informed and written by someone who took AH Journalism class and had connections and were much, much better.
The latter, Stuff You Should Know, is basically like nerdery for the non-nerds. AKA me. Examples of podcast titles:
1. How Food Cravings Work
2. How The Hells Angels Work
3. How Kleptomania Works
4. How Braille Works
And the list goes on. Practically forever, and/or at least until 2008. SO! Why am I telling you all this?
I am telling you all this because I recently listened to a Stuff You Should Know podcast about quicksand, and I feel like my entire life is turned upside down right now.
Yes. We almost have a “making ends meat” situation on our hands here, people.
Turns out, it’s basically impossible to die in quicksand. Amongst all the reasons is that quicksand is never as deep as a human being. And even if you stepped in it, you’d basically just float at the top, not get sucked into it.
The thing is, besides having the malady of a weak bladder, I was also a fairly paranoid child. And after a few movies where people got stuck in quicksand (OR WORSE, ATREYU’S HORSE DROWNED IN THE MUCK AND OH MY GOD I STILL CAN’T HANDLE THAT) I was convinced that I would some day die from falling in a pit of quicksand. I didn’t know how or why, but the idea terrified me to my very soul.
But no one ever brought me the facts of quicksand. They just said “Oh, Emily. You won’t die in quicksand.” And left it at that, with no substantial evidence to change my mind! And just telling me that there is no quicksand in Illinois would have helped not at all because NO ONE SUSPECTS THE QUICKSAND INQUISITION.
It reminded me of my fear of robbers. I was scared to go to bed at night because I knew a Bad Guy would break into our house and steal all our things and kidnap me and my siblings. And you know what convinced me otherwise? My mom told me that since she and my dad’s bedroom is in the basement, that the robbers would come in those windows and she and my dad would just beat them up.
Bam, end of that fear. I mean, when you’re four, who’s more badass than Mom and Dad?
As I walked around Chicago, listening to the podcast, I had to keep pausing it in order to reflect on the MANY things I was scared of, if only someone had given me good reason not to be.
Like fire. I was sure that a fire would start in our hallway and none of us would be able to get out. And all I really needed was someone to stick a fire detector up there, assure me that a fire would start in the kitchen far away from us, and I would have slept like a baby.
Or escalators! I had a late fear of escalators, spawned from the 90’s show, “Rescue 911.” The thing is, I didn’t realize that a show with the word “Rescue” in it might possibly mean that everything would be okay. So of course I turned it off right in the middle of the reenactment, here
Instead of watching the last two minutes (which I just did thanks to the wonder of YouTube. By the way, STILL SCARY.) when the boy looks all healthy and rosy-cheeked again:
But, see, if someone had just told me, “That boy was fine, and it won’t happen to you because you are not SITTING on the escalator” then the fear would have evaporated in seconds!
Cold hard facts. That’s all I ever needed. Or, really, looking at all of these fears, all I actually needed was the internet. SO GET ON THAT, 1992.
In iTunes, there is a whole “podcast” section. Click on it. There are, like, 80 billion (rough estimate) awesome podcasts out there for all your podcast needs. I mean, really it’s like recorded XM radio. And I think they're all free. So go there.
WHILST you are there, specifically look for This American Life and Stuff You Should Know (or click those links and get there faster.) These are two amazing podcasts. The former is like what this blog would be like if it were informed and written by someone who took AH Journalism class and had connections and were much, much better.
The latter, Stuff You Should Know, is basically like nerdery for the non-nerds. AKA me. Examples of podcast titles:
1. How Food Cravings Work
2. How The Hells Angels Work
3. How Kleptomania Works
4. How Braille Works
And the list goes on. Practically forever, and/or at least until 2008. SO! Why am I telling you all this?
I am telling you all this because I recently listened to a Stuff You Should Know podcast about quicksand, and I feel like my entire life is turned upside down right now.
Yes. We almost have a “making ends meat” situation on our hands here, people.
Turns out, it’s basically impossible to die in quicksand. Amongst all the reasons is that quicksand is never as deep as a human being. And even if you stepped in it, you’d basically just float at the top, not get sucked into it.
The thing is, besides having the malady of a weak bladder, I was also a fairly paranoid child. And after a few movies where people got stuck in quicksand (OR WORSE, ATREYU’S HORSE DROWNED IN THE MUCK AND OH MY GOD I STILL CAN’T HANDLE THAT) I was convinced that I would some day die from falling in a pit of quicksand. I didn’t know how or why, but the idea terrified me to my very soul.
But no one ever brought me the facts of quicksand. They just said “Oh, Emily. You won’t die in quicksand.” And left it at that, with no substantial evidence to change my mind! And just telling me that there is no quicksand in Illinois would have helped not at all because NO ONE SUSPECTS THE QUICKSAND INQUISITION.
It reminded me of my fear of robbers. I was scared to go to bed at night because I knew a Bad Guy would break into our house and steal all our things and kidnap me and my siblings. And you know what convinced me otherwise? My mom told me that since she and my dad’s bedroom is in the basement, that the robbers would come in those windows and she and my dad would just beat them up.
Bam, end of that fear. I mean, when you’re four, who’s more badass than Mom and Dad?
As I walked around Chicago, listening to the podcast, I had to keep pausing it in order to reflect on the MANY things I was scared of, if only someone had given me good reason not to be.
Like fire. I was sure that a fire would start in our hallway and none of us would be able to get out. And all I really needed was someone to stick a fire detector up there, assure me that a fire would start in the kitchen far away from us, and I would have slept like a baby.
Or escalators! I had a late fear of escalators, spawned from the 90’s show, “Rescue 911.” The thing is, I didn’t realize that a show with the word “Rescue” in it might possibly mean that everything would be okay. So of course I turned it off right in the middle of the reenactment, here
Instead of watching the last two minutes (which I just did thanks to the wonder of YouTube. By the way, STILL SCARY.) when the boy looks all healthy and rosy-cheeked again:
But, see, if someone had just told me, “That boy was fine, and it won’t happen to you because you are not SITTING on the escalator” then the fear would have evaporated in seconds!
Cold hard facts. That’s all I ever needed. Or, really, looking at all of these fears, all I actually needed was the internet. SO GET ON THAT, 1992.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Jinx!
I’ll be straight with you guys. I’m not the most religious person to have walked the planet. It’s not that I’m anti-God, I’m just anti-people who think they know anything about the guy.
But I will tell you one religion I believe in and adhere to steadfastly. It is a religion that any ad Creative worth a dime bows down to every day.
It’s the religion of jinxes.
In the crazy world of professional advertising, where up is down and right is wrong and boring ads sell quicker than a burrito at 2am in Champaign-Urbana, jinxing is a way of life.
Which ad do you like best? Tell ANYONE, and that ad will not sell.
Which ad do you recommend to the client? They will hate that ad.
You sold an ad and you’re so excited, you tell all your friends and family? Sorry, that ad just got killed.
But for some reason, I just haven’t been able to stay true to the Jinx Religion. I always doubt it. I get cocky and I decide that jinxes don’t apply to me. My ads are so good, they’ll break through the jinx and shine on through.
No! Bad Emily. Bad! You go in your corner and you think about what you did. Jinxes don’t care about your race or gender or salad dressing preference. They attack from all sides, and they especially love to attack when you least expect it. In fact, the more people who love your ad and tell you how good it is, the LESS likely it is to sell.
And when your occupation revolves so heavily around keeping your mouth shut when things go well, just in case a jinx will come and take it away, it’s seeped into my real life, too.
I realized recently that I’ve stopped talking about when things go well. I mean, I still tell everyone general life-changing things like getting a job or living with Joe…those I can’t avoid telling people or else they start wondering if I’ve become a Mole Person.
But the thing is (and my palms are sweating because I am about to tell you this), things are going REALLY well for me right now. To the point where I feel like I’m bragging. But like…I have a job, I have a boy, I have friends, I feel good about my weight, I have a cat…I have all five basic things you need to be happy. And honestly, I should be REALLY happy about it.
But I’m terrified of jinxing it all. And isn’t that just sad? I mean, life goes in circles. There are ups and downs. I’m bound to go into a few more downs here and there. Hopefully not TOO down, but I’m sure downs are out there. But what’s the point of even…I don’t know, of even EXISTING, if I can’t be happy when things are going right?
What I’m saying is: I’m doing well right now. REALLY well. And whether or not I say it out loud, things might not always be great. But I can’t go around worrying about acting “too happy” when I actually am, just because I don’t want to jinx it and have it all taken away.
So watch out. I may be happier than normal nowadays. Not like obnoxiously cheery and optimistic. I mean, I DID just see a man hock a loogie on the top of the INDOOR STAIRS at the gym yesterday. And really? REALLY?!?!?! All I mean is, I need to count my blessings more often.
But also, if I die in a horrible, fiery accident today...I’d be careful what you say from now on if I were you.
But I will tell you one religion I believe in and adhere to steadfastly. It is a religion that any ad Creative worth a dime bows down to every day.
It’s the religion of jinxes.
In the crazy world of professional advertising, where up is down and right is wrong and boring ads sell quicker than a burrito at 2am in Champaign-Urbana, jinxing is a way of life.
Which ad do you like best? Tell ANYONE, and that ad will not sell.
Which ad do you recommend to the client? They will hate that ad.
You sold an ad and you’re so excited, you tell all your friends and family? Sorry, that ad just got killed.
But for some reason, I just haven’t been able to stay true to the Jinx Religion. I always doubt it. I get cocky and I decide that jinxes don’t apply to me. My ads are so good, they’ll break through the jinx and shine on through.
No! Bad Emily. Bad! You go in your corner and you think about what you did. Jinxes don’t care about your race or gender or salad dressing preference. They attack from all sides, and they especially love to attack when you least expect it. In fact, the more people who love your ad and tell you how good it is, the LESS likely it is to sell.
And when your occupation revolves so heavily around keeping your mouth shut when things go well, just in case a jinx will come and take it away, it’s seeped into my real life, too.
I realized recently that I’ve stopped talking about when things go well. I mean, I still tell everyone general life-changing things like getting a job or living with Joe…those I can’t avoid telling people or else they start wondering if I’ve become a Mole Person.
But the thing is (and my palms are sweating because I am about to tell you this), things are going REALLY well for me right now. To the point where I feel like I’m bragging. But like…I have a job, I have a boy, I have friends, I feel good about my weight, I have a cat…I have all five basic things you need to be happy. And honestly, I should be REALLY happy about it.
But I’m terrified of jinxing it all. And isn’t that just sad? I mean, life goes in circles. There are ups and downs. I’m bound to go into a few more downs here and there. Hopefully not TOO down, but I’m sure downs are out there. But what’s the point of even…I don’t know, of even EXISTING, if I can’t be happy when things are going right?
What I’m saying is: I’m doing well right now. REALLY well. And whether or not I say it out loud, things might not always be great. But I can’t go around worrying about acting “too happy” when I actually am, just because I don’t want to jinx it and have it all taken away.
So watch out. I may be happier than normal nowadays. Not like obnoxiously cheery and optimistic. I mean, I DID just see a man hock a loogie on the top of the INDOOR STAIRS at the gym yesterday. And really? REALLY?!?!?! All I mean is, I need to count my blessings more often.
But also, if I die in a horrible, fiery accident today...I’d be careful what you say from now on if I were you.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
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?
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?
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Near to Heart Attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack
Welp! I'm all moved out! Have I told you all how great my family is? They are pretty great. Even the ones who didn't help. But really, mostly just the ones who did. Sorry Hannah.
So today is cleaning day. I have a suitcase, some random things, and an air mattress left in my apartment. I am not officially gone yet because frankly, I'm paying for the gas bill and damn me if those pilot lights burn for no one.
Hey, you know what's not awesome? Having a billion tiny Charlie cuts while using cleaning supplies. If I die, someone please tell them it was probably the ratio of Scrubbing Bubbles:blood in my veins.
Sigh... I think I've breathed in too many cleaning supply fumes. But at least this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building.
Also I've been singing Hard Knock Life while scrubbing.
Okay yep. I'm going to stop typing things now and let my nose breathe in some real air.
also this
So today is cleaning day. I have a suitcase, some random things, and an air mattress left in my apartment. I am not officially gone yet because frankly, I'm paying for the gas bill and damn me if those pilot lights burn for no one.
Hey, you know what's not awesome? Having a billion tiny Charlie cuts while using cleaning supplies. If I die, someone please tell them it was probably the ratio of Scrubbing Bubbles:blood in my veins.
Sigh... I think I've breathed in too many cleaning supply fumes. But at least this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building.
Also I've been singing Hard Knock Life while scrubbing.
Okay yep. I'm going to stop typing things now and let my nose breathe in some real air.
also this
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tom Hanks. Prom Hanks. Blarg.
I am so sad at this moment.
So the place that I am a volunteer tutor at? The one through which I did the mustache-a-thon with Adrienne? They are hosting a dance of some sort. A fundraising thingy. And they themed it. The theme? Prom Hanks.
Prom.
Hanks.
And despite the fact that I want to take that name to the nearest courthouse and have a civil ceremony with it...I can't go. I've known I can't go for a while because I've known about it for a while and known that it was this weekend, where I am going to go see Michelle. Which is still great, and I am totally looking forward to. I was just going to chalk it up as "Huh. Cute name. Oh well. I don't really know any of the other tutors anyway." and I was prepared to move on. Even if my guy-friend crush was going to be there. I had made my peace with it.
But I just found out that the real Tom Hanks found out about the dance and he sent a bunch of signed things for a silent auction, including a signed Wilson volleyball.
(this isn't the ball, but it's the only proof they sent me that it's true)
There are tears welling up in my eyes right now and I wish I was joking.
Pop quiz: When I watched Cast Away and Steel Magnolias in one day, which part did I cry at?
A) Julia Roberts dying, or
B) Wilson floating away?
I will give you one guess. Hint, it's not a.
My Facebook profile lists "Tom Hanks" as one of my favorite movies. Tom Hanks is...he's more than an adopted uncle. He is an adopted stepfather. But the kind of stepfather that you grow to love as a member of your own flesh-and-blood. He is the Liam Neeson to my Creepy Blonde Kid from Love Actually. This is who Tom Hanks is to me. When Tom Hanks is sad, I am sad. When Tom Hanks has a Russian accent, I have a Russian accent. When Tom Hanks wants to write, direct, and star in a movie, I want to give him a bear hug and thank him for bringing Steve Zahn into my world.
Okay, I need to pull myself together. I really am going to have a great weekend with Michelle. And who's to say I could have afforded any of the silent auction things? Plus, you all know how it would have ended. It would have been me rushing over to the table of Tom Hanks memorabilia like a kid who is told they can have anything they want from the candy counter. They would end up dragging me away because I was rubbing my face against all the items, And I would be reaching toward the signed volleyball screaming "WILSOOOOOOOOOON!!! WILL!!!! SONNNNNNNNNN!!! WAAAALT--i mean--WILSONNNNN!!!!!"
It's better this way.
So the place that I am a volunteer tutor at? The one through which I did the mustache-a-thon with Adrienne? They are hosting a dance of some sort. A fundraising thingy. And they themed it. The theme? Prom Hanks.
Prom.
Hanks.
And despite the fact that I want to take that name to the nearest courthouse and have a civil ceremony with it...I can't go. I've known I can't go for a while because I've known about it for a while and known that it was this weekend, where I am going to go see Michelle. Which is still great, and I am totally looking forward to. I was just going to chalk it up as "Huh. Cute name. Oh well. I don't really know any of the other tutors anyway." and I was prepared to move on. Even if my guy-friend crush was going to be there. I had made my peace with it.
But I just found out that the real Tom Hanks found out about the dance and he sent a bunch of signed things for a silent auction, including a signed Wilson volleyball.
(this isn't the ball, but it's the only proof they sent me that it's true)
There are tears welling up in my eyes right now and I wish I was joking.
Pop quiz: When I watched Cast Away and Steel Magnolias in one day, which part did I cry at?
A) Julia Roberts dying, or
B) Wilson floating away?
I will give you one guess. Hint, it's not a.
My Facebook profile lists "Tom Hanks" as one of my favorite movies. Tom Hanks is...he's more than an adopted uncle. He is an adopted stepfather. But the kind of stepfather that you grow to love as a member of your own flesh-and-blood. He is the Liam Neeson to my Creepy Blonde Kid from Love Actually. This is who Tom Hanks is to me. When Tom Hanks is sad, I am sad. When Tom Hanks has a Russian accent, I have a Russian accent. When Tom Hanks wants to write, direct, and star in a movie, I want to give him a bear hug and thank him for bringing Steve Zahn into my world.
Okay, I need to pull myself together. I really am going to have a great weekend with Michelle. And who's to say I could have afforded any of the silent auction things? Plus, you all know how it would have ended. It would have been me rushing over to the table of Tom Hanks memorabilia like a kid who is told they can have anything they want from the candy counter. They would end up dragging me away because I was rubbing my face against all the items, And I would be reaching toward the signed volleyball screaming "WILSOOOOOOOOOON!!! WILL!!!! SONNNNNNNNNN!!! WAAAALT--i mean--WILSONNNNN!!!!!"
It's better this way.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
WORDS THERE ARE NO WORDS
BAH! Why can't I function when real things happen in my life?!
Okay prepare yourselves because this post is about to make you wonder if you speak English. And if you don't speak English, well...you're screwed.
I started freelancing at a place and it's great and it's what I want and it's only for a few weeks which means I have a few days to prove myself and if I can't then I probably am back to unemployment.
SO. Yesterday after spending all my time actually working and not just checking my email (seriously) we finally had a big meeting at the end of the day and I was told that I was not quirky/witty/tongue-in-cheek enough.
ME.
ME.
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Life, over. I need to rethink my priorities. I need to rethink my...everything. Words...there are no words anymore. Only...ellipses.
If you are wondering, YES. This is my post for the day. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME
Okay prepare yourselves because this post is about to make you wonder if you speak English. And if you don't speak English, well...you're screwed.
I started freelancing at a place and it's great and it's what I want and it's only for a few weeks which means I have a few days to prove myself and if I can't then I probably am back to unemployment.
SO. Yesterday after spending all my time actually working and not just checking my email (seriously) we finally had a big meeting at the end of the day and I was told that I was not quirky/witty/tongue-in-cheek enough.
ME.
ME.
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
Life, over. I need to rethink my priorities. I need to rethink my...everything. Words...there are no words anymore. Only...ellipses.
If you are wondering, YES. This is my post for the day. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Strings of Thoughts, Loosely Pulled Together Into Sentences.
Are we all familiar with the story of the cheese knives? Well I'd take the time, if you're looking for something to fill your day with sunshine and rainbows.
I bring it back up because I used the Dreaded Knives. Not the ones Joe got; those are in my possession. The other ones. The ones purchased by the Man Boy. And after using said knives, I immediately cut myself on them. THEY'RE CURSED, I TELL YOU. And I even cut myself on a terrible spot- right on the tip of my thumb. What kind of band aid adheres to the tip of your thumb, you ask? No band aid. The answer is no band aid. So thank you, ex-whatever. A year after I so ruthlessly decided I wanted a relationship with someone who actually acted interested in me, you have still managed to annoy the hell out of me. Fantastic.
Anyway, now that that's off my chest...
Sorry about no post yesterday. Blame Jane; she needed me to act like I enjoy dogs (difficult) for an ad-type thing with an ad-type agency for a client-type place.
Yeah, if I ever become employed again, expect that kind of obnoxious anonymity on a daily basis.
I also managed to break one of Joe's mugs yesterday (I was seriously on a roll yesterday. I haven't even gotten to how I spilled red wine all over Jane's food...am I allowed to blame clumsiness on PMS? Because I might. Is that one of the symptoms Midol covers? I should look into this.) so today we're going to a pottery studio to make new ones, which feels very barfy couply, but also will hopefully be cathartic. Not actually because of the clumsiness, but for another reason:
I haven't been to decorate pottery since I took the boys I used to nanny during the summers in college. And it was TORTURE then. Because I didn't get to paint anything, only they did. And what a lovely job they did, too, as 4 and 5 year-olds. I'd be in the corner, biting my nails and trying to control my eye twitching as they colored the rabbit's ENTIRE head--eyeballs and all--black. That's...you can't...that looks....*breathe, Emily, breathe. Don't stunt their creativity as your teachers did you...*
So now I get to go and paint something myself with my very own hands. And it will NOT all be black. So there. Take THAT, 5-year-old boy with a heart of gold who is only trying to make something nice for his mother! TAKE. THAT.
I bring it back up because I used the Dreaded Knives. Not the ones Joe got; those are in my possession. The other ones. The ones purchased by the Man Boy. And after using said knives, I immediately cut myself on them. THEY'RE CURSED, I TELL YOU. And I even cut myself on a terrible spot- right on the tip of my thumb. What kind of band aid adheres to the tip of your thumb, you ask? No band aid. The answer is no band aid. So thank you, ex-whatever. A year after I so ruthlessly decided I wanted a relationship with someone who actually acted interested in me, you have still managed to annoy the hell out of me. Fantastic.
Anyway, now that that's off my chest...
Sorry about no post yesterday. Blame Jane; she needed me to act like I enjoy dogs (difficult) for an ad-type thing with an ad-type agency for a client-type place.
Yeah, if I ever become employed again, expect that kind of obnoxious anonymity on a daily basis.
I also managed to break one of Joe's mugs yesterday (I was seriously on a roll yesterday. I haven't even gotten to how I spilled red wine all over Jane's food...am I allowed to blame clumsiness on PMS? Because I might. Is that one of the symptoms Midol covers? I should look into this.) so today we're going to a pottery studio to make new ones, which feels very barfy couply, but also will hopefully be cathartic. Not actually because of the clumsiness, but for another reason:
I haven't been to decorate pottery since I took the boys I used to nanny during the summers in college. And it was TORTURE then. Because I didn't get to paint anything, only they did. And what a lovely job they did, too, as 4 and 5 year-olds. I'd be in the corner, biting my nails and trying to control my eye twitching as they colored the rabbit's ENTIRE head--eyeballs and all--black. That's...you can't...that looks....*breathe, Emily, breathe. Don't stunt their creativity as your teachers did you...*
So now I get to go and paint something myself with my very own hands. And it will NOT all be black. So there. Take THAT, 5-year-old boy with a heart of gold who is only trying to make something nice for his mother! TAKE. THAT.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
8 Rush Hour Rules for Your Sanity
Short-time freelancing out in the burbs! Work! Driving! Sentence fragments!
Things I learned during rush hour:
1. The love between you and the car in front of you during your arduous trip is a bond that can never be broken. Except by that damn Ford Taurus that cuts in between you. WE HAD A BOND, TAURUS. AND YOU RIPPED IT APART.
2. When your car reaches 10 MPH, do NOT gain hope. If you gain hope, Satan wins.
3. Remember when you thought your lane was the slowest lane? Remember how you switched lanes so you'd go faster? *SLAP!* Remember that pain. Remember THAT.
4. Yelling doesn't help. Stern, sarcastic lecturing does. Say it with me: "Oh, NOW you're getting over? NOW you are? REALLY?"
5. When no one is in your lane any longer, it isn't luck. It's because the lane ends in two seconds, but you were too busy reading the side of that truck to notice.
6. Would you like to hear about fun for the whole family at Great Wolf Lodge? No? How about Lady Gaga? I'm sorry, those are your only two options.
7. Your iPhone is a great tool for finding where you are on the map...two blocks after you should have turned. Slash, never.
8. The El is the most wonderful invention of all the inventions. And next time I ride it, I will kiss it. Even the grimy, gum-stained, homeless-smelling, pee-soaked part. Mmmm....public transportaaaaaaation.
Things I learned during rush hour:
1. The love between you and the car in front of you during your arduous trip is a bond that can never be broken. Except by that damn Ford Taurus that cuts in between you. WE HAD A BOND, TAURUS. AND YOU RIPPED IT APART.
2. When your car reaches 10 MPH, do NOT gain hope. If you gain hope, Satan wins.
3. Remember when you thought your lane was the slowest lane? Remember how you switched lanes so you'd go faster? *SLAP!* Remember that pain. Remember THAT.
4. Yelling doesn't help. Stern, sarcastic lecturing does. Say it with me: "Oh, NOW you're getting over? NOW you are? REALLY?"
5. When no one is in your lane any longer, it isn't luck. It's because the lane ends in two seconds, but you were too busy reading the side of that truck to notice.
6. Would you like to hear about fun for the whole family at Great Wolf Lodge? No? How about Lady Gaga? I'm sorry, those are your only two options.
7. Your iPhone is a great tool for finding where you are on the map...two blocks after you should have turned. Slash, never.
8. The El is the most wonderful invention of all the inventions. And next time I ride it, I will kiss it. Even the grimy, gum-stained, homeless-smelling, pee-soaked part. Mmmm....public transportaaaaaaation.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Adventures in Gas Pumpery
I love living in the city. I do. Mostly because there are people EVERYWHERE. I grew up in a small house filled with people. So, while this bothered me growing up ("Emily, here's your first bra. Please try it on while your six-year-old sister sits and watches.") I've come to realize that I can no longer live without people constantly bumping into me. I don't even like when my roommates are gone. What, the TV all to myself?! What am I supposed to do with that, watch whatever I want? Laaaaaame.
But here's the other thing. I hate living in the city. There are people EVERYWHERE.
I borrowed Monica's car yesterday to go to my interview (and thank you all for your non well wishes, it went well) so last night when I got home, I went to fill up the tank. As soon as I got out of my car, another car pulled up behind mine. That's weird, just seconds ago, there had been open fuel stations all over. But I try not to think about it and get going on my gasoline adventures.
I swipe my card, it asks for the zipcode, and of course, it doesn't read my frozen fingers' 666001112266 as a proper zip code. So I cancel and start over. Then it doesn't read it. Then it reads it, but the nozzle won't fit right into Monica's gas tank. And it's cold as shit so I'm talking to all of these items as if they are my misbehaved children. "What's wrong now? You don't want to fit? Come on, I don't have time for this. I am telling your father about this when he gets home." etc etc etc. So finally all is going well...and a man walks up behind me.
"Excuse me, Miss." I turn around. The man is showing me his drivers' license and some other card. Oh, God. I'm trapped. But I'm also highly on edge from the whole commute + misbehaving gas experience. So I interrupt him and just say, "No. Please don't talk to me." in a very authoritative, I-didn't-know-I-could-be-that-aggressive kind of way. Which was pretty stupid because, as previously stated, I'm trapped. The man does a bit of a double take. I don't think he was expecting guff from the white girl with the Sebring. "Whoah, girl, is everything alright?" So at this point I almost want to apologize because I really didn't mean to come across that cruelly. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, take whatever you want. My iPhone? Here. I have some whole wheat crackers you can nibble on as well. Would you like my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly?"
But I've got a whole act going, and it seems like it might get him to go away, so I just go with it."No, I'm just having a REALLY bad day so if you could please just leave me alone."
"I'm sorry, Miss, something something two-year-old something something so if you could just help put a few dollars worth of gas in our car something something."
"No, sorry." So the man leaves. ICE COLD. That's me. ICE. COLD. All this nonsense about me being a good person because I volunteer? FALSE. I am a bad person who wishes harm upon 2-year-olds in the dead of winter.
So at this point I am dying to get out of there. I had put five dollars worth of gas in the car, which is about how much I had used, so I put the nozzle back, screw the thing back in, and I'm set to go. And the little credit card reader thing tells me, "Cashier has receipt." Oh HELL NO. I am not leaving this car. There are spurned people behind me and I don't know what they are like when spurned. Luckily, the words change to "Welcome" and I get my ass out of there. Then I irrationally start hyperventilating, thinking these people could follow me! They could break my bones! They could steal my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly! That's when I look down and realize--Monica's gas gauge has not changed AT ALL. I might as well have put nothing in it. That puppy is in the exact same spot it was when I got there.
And all of a sudden, I am sobbing. Just sobbing. The stress from the interview, plus the commute, plus that man, plus an earlier incident I saved you from involving my period--it all just came out in one giant sob fest while I turned Monica's car onto our street and attempted to parallel park through the snow banks.
Luckily, the night ended with Joe, Lost, Girl Scout cookies, and me singing "Chin Up" from Charlotte's Web, complete with dance moves and lunges.
So...pretty normal day, all in all.
But here's the other thing. I hate living in the city. There are people EVERYWHERE.
I borrowed Monica's car yesterday to go to my interview (and thank you all for your non well wishes, it went well) so last night when I got home, I went to fill up the tank. As soon as I got out of my car, another car pulled up behind mine. That's weird, just seconds ago, there had been open fuel stations all over. But I try not to think about it and get going on my gasoline adventures.
I swipe my card, it asks for the zipcode, and of course, it doesn't read my frozen fingers' 666001112266 as a proper zip code. So I cancel and start over. Then it doesn't read it. Then it reads it, but the nozzle won't fit right into Monica's gas tank. And it's cold as shit so I'm talking to all of these items as if they are my misbehaved children. "What's wrong now? You don't want to fit? Come on, I don't have time for this. I am telling your father about this when he gets home." etc etc etc. So finally all is going well...and a man walks up behind me.
"Excuse me, Miss." I turn around. The man is showing me his drivers' license and some other card. Oh, God. I'm trapped. But I'm also highly on edge from the whole commute + misbehaving gas experience. So I interrupt him and just say, "No. Please don't talk to me." in a very authoritative, I-didn't-know-I-could-be-that-aggressive kind of way. Which was pretty stupid because, as previously stated, I'm trapped. The man does a bit of a double take. I don't think he was expecting guff from the white girl with the Sebring. "Whoah, girl, is everything alright?" So at this point I almost want to apologize because I really didn't mean to come across that cruelly. "I'm so sorry, sir. Please, take whatever you want. My iPhone? Here. I have some whole wheat crackers you can nibble on as well. Would you like my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly?"
But I've got a whole act going, and it seems like it might get him to go away, so I just go with it."No, I'm just having a REALLY bad day so if you could please just leave me alone."
"I'm sorry, Miss, something something two-year-old something something so if you could just help put a few dollars worth of gas in our car something something."
"No, sorry." So the man leaves. ICE COLD. That's me. ICE. COLD. All this nonsense about me being a good person because I volunteer? FALSE. I am a bad person who wishes harm upon 2-year-olds in the dead of winter.
So at this point I am dying to get out of there. I had put five dollars worth of gas in the car, which is about how much I had used, so I put the nozzle back, screw the thing back in, and I'm set to go. And the little credit card reader thing tells me, "Cashier has receipt." Oh HELL NO. I am not leaving this car. There are spurned people behind me and I don't know what they are like when spurned. Luckily, the words change to "Welcome" and I get my ass out of there. Then I irrationally start hyperventilating, thinking these people could follow me! They could break my bones! They could steal my subscription to I'm Awkwardly White Weekly! That's when I look down and realize--Monica's gas gauge has not changed AT ALL. I might as well have put nothing in it. That puppy is in the exact same spot it was when I got there.
And all of a sudden, I am sobbing. Just sobbing. The stress from the interview, plus the commute, plus that man, plus an earlier incident I saved you from involving my period--it all just came out in one giant sob fest while I turned Monica's car onto our street and attempted to parallel park through the snow banks.
Luckily, the night ended with Joe, Lost, Girl Scout cookies, and me singing "Chin Up" from Charlotte's Web, complete with dance moves and lunges.
So...pretty normal day, all in all.
Monday, February 15, 2010
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)
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)
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Emily Show
The cat's out of the bag. You can all stop pretending. I've figured it out, all on my own.
I am on The Emily Show, and you are all actors, paid to interact with me. CUT. HOUSE LIGHTS UP, PLEASE. SHE FIGURED US OUT. Yeah, that's what I thought.
Seriously, though, do you guys ever get that feeling? Like the other day, I walked into the gym and just a FEW too many people stopped and looked at me. And, trust me, this wasn't like a "whoah, she's hot" kind of issue. If you've ever seen me at the gym, you would understand this. I mean, I'll admit when I look hot. Last Friday? Smokin'. Every boy in the bar should have wanted to have my babies. But at the gym? Nooooooot so much. I mean, an oversized shirt with sweat stains, bright red nose and dark circles under my eyes? Helloooooo fellas.
Where was I? OH! The Emily Show. So anyway, I feel like this happens a lot, where people are paying just a LITTLE too much attention to me when I absolutely don't deserve it. It's like they know. It's like they just watched me this morning, dancing in my room with Charlie to Bad Romance, but they know they aren't allowed to recognize that fact to me. Because they are only supposed to be the person in front of me at Wendy's who ordered the Baconator Triple so the director can get a good shot of my horrified face.
Or whenever I raise my hand to ask a question, I feel like an absurd amount of people turn to look at me. I guess I know how to make my voice carry, which catches people off guard. OR they are all excited to have an excuse to turn and stare at the STAR OF THE EMILY SHOW.
And, come on now. WHO gets dumped in Paris? Me. I do. I get dumped in Paris. Because it made for a great season finale, perhaps?!?!?!?! You people are SICK. I'm going to steal a boat and float away from you all, despite the fact that my father was killed in the ocean and then brought back to life.
All I have to say is: wouldn't it be a GREAT ratings boost if I got a job? Aren't Sweeps coming up or something?
I am on The Emily Show, and you are all actors, paid to interact with me. CUT. HOUSE LIGHTS UP, PLEASE. SHE FIGURED US OUT. Yeah, that's what I thought.
Seriously, though, do you guys ever get that feeling? Like the other day, I walked into the gym and just a FEW too many people stopped and looked at me. And, trust me, this wasn't like a "whoah, she's hot" kind of issue. If you've ever seen me at the gym, you would understand this. I mean, I'll admit when I look hot. Last Friday? Smokin'. Every boy in the bar should have wanted to have my babies. But at the gym? Nooooooot so much. I mean, an oversized shirt with sweat stains, bright red nose and dark circles under my eyes? Helloooooo fellas.
Where was I? OH! The Emily Show. So anyway, I feel like this happens a lot, where people are paying just a LITTLE too much attention to me when I absolutely don't deserve it. It's like they know. It's like they just watched me this morning, dancing in my room with Charlie to Bad Romance, but they know they aren't allowed to recognize that fact to me. Because they are only supposed to be the person in front of me at Wendy's who ordered the Baconator Triple so the director can get a good shot of my horrified face.
Or whenever I raise my hand to ask a question, I feel like an absurd amount of people turn to look at me. I guess I know how to make my voice carry, which catches people off guard. OR they are all excited to have an excuse to turn and stare at the STAR OF THE EMILY SHOW.
And, come on now. WHO gets dumped in Paris? Me. I do. I get dumped in Paris. Because it made for a great season finale, perhaps?!?!?!?! You people are SICK. I'm going to steal a boat and float away from you all, despite the fact that my father was killed in the ocean and then brought back to life.
All I have to say is: wouldn't it be a GREAT ratings boost if I got a job? Aren't Sweeps coming up or something?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Say What You Whale, Cetaphobia is Real.
I'm sure you are dyyying to know. I gave you the little teaser, but with no true explanation. You're baffled. You're suspicious. You're hurt.
Who the hell is scares of whales?
I am, my friends. I am. I have self-diagnosed cetaphobia, or the fear of whales. Let me make something clear: a phobia is not the same as a normal "fear." I'm also afraid of large spiders, sharks, and car accidents. So are you. That's because those things are scary.
Phobias are marked by their irrationality. There are people with phobias of clouds. Of butterflies. Of the color yellow.
Of whales.
There isn't a legitimate reason that I can give you for my fear. You fall from high places, snakes bite you, you suffocate in tight spaces. These are obvious fears that make sense. I understand that you may never fathom my phobia.
Let me get something straight: I'm not in a constant state of panic about whales. I'm not currently afraid a whale will eat me. And I'm not worried a whale will walk into my living room and shoot me. But seeing whales (realistic ones, not cute ones) on tv or in movies nearly always gives me a heart attack. I never suspect it-- they're so damn sneaky!!
Why whales are scary:
The only good reason I can give is their size. Whales are enormous and in my head, they're even bigger. I also get slightly nervous about submarines, but it's not the same. I guess just the fact that whales are massive AND have thoughts is a little nerve wracking. I mean, if a submarine went past you, it's not like it's the sub's fault. But that whale swimming beside you knows you're there and--HOW DO YOU NOT GET SICK THINKING ABOUT A WHALE SWIMMING NEXT TO YOU?! ROBOTS!!
I have a clarification at this point: because my phobia centers around size, I am not afraid of Beluga whales (Hello?! Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea?! What is scary about that?) and I am also not afraid of Killer Whales which, yes. The irony. Ha ha...ha...ha. But Killer Whales are whales in the same way that tomatoes are fruit. You can classify them all you want but are you about to mix them up with cantelopes and strawberries? *shudder*...okay I might have a new phobia now.
I hope you all appreciate how scary this next part is for me. This is up there with Google image searching "large spider" or "herpes"...you know whatever you get is going to be the worst thing ever. But here are the most terrifying whales, in order:
1) Pinocchio.
My theory is that this movie spawned my fear. Specifically, the part where Pinocchio swims past the whale and he opens his eye. HOLY JESUS SAVE ME. You are as big as that whale's eye. AN EYE. AN EYE THAT FOLLOWS YOU. AND IS ANGRY.
2) Finding Nemo.
When Dory starts speaking whale and slowly...slooooowly the whale comes out of the murky shadows toward you. Are you SERIOUS. I was clutching the arms of the movie seat like I was preparing for electric shock therapy. I probably should have had one of those bars to bite down on, too.
3) The Lightning Whale from Prince of Egypt. As already stated here, this whale comes with two terrifying factors: The element of surprise via the lightning and also the element of size comparison via the people walking past it.
4) Fantasia 2000
I have yet to watch this movie, but i remember the ads. Ohhhh do I remember the ads. Whales. Flying. That's all I need to say.
AND THIS COMMERCIAL. This thing ALWAYS sneaks up on me. Last time it was on, I was in a sports bar, where there were enormous screens on every wall. Imagine if "It" was on every wall of a restaurant. This is my situation.
I'm willing to laugh about my fear. I know people find it weird (although I cannot admit in honesty that I think it is. IT'S NOT WEIRD, THEY ARE SCARY.) But I joke about it anyway. Today I bought Adrienne a heart-shaped box of chocolates that says "Whale you be my valentine?" with an adorable whale with big googly eyes. See? I can laugh! I can joke! I can cry quietly when I get home.
EDIT: As I was writing this, Andrea, who is sitting next to me, showed me this video. Congratulations, you now have cetaphobia, too.
Who the hell is scares of whales?
I am, my friends. I am. I have self-diagnosed cetaphobia, or the fear of whales. Let me make something clear: a phobia is not the same as a normal "fear." I'm also afraid of large spiders, sharks, and car accidents. So are you. That's because those things are scary.
Phobias are marked by their irrationality. There are people with phobias of clouds. Of butterflies. Of the color yellow.
Of whales.
There isn't a legitimate reason that I can give you for my fear. You fall from high places, snakes bite you, you suffocate in tight spaces. These are obvious fears that make sense. I understand that you may never fathom my phobia.
Let me get something straight: I'm not in a constant state of panic about whales. I'm not currently afraid a whale will eat me. And I'm not worried a whale will walk into my living room and shoot me. But seeing whales (realistic ones, not cute ones) on tv or in movies nearly always gives me a heart attack. I never suspect it-- they're so damn sneaky!!
Why whales are scary:
The only good reason I can give is their size. Whales are enormous and in my head, they're even bigger. I also get slightly nervous about submarines, but it's not the same. I guess just the fact that whales are massive AND have thoughts is a little nerve wracking. I mean, if a submarine went past you, it's not like it's the sub's fault. But that whale swimming beside you knows you're there and--HOW DO YOU NOT GET SICK THINKING ABOUT A WHALE SWIMMING NEXT TO YOU?! ROBOTS!!
I have a clarification at this point: because my phobia centers around size, I am not afraid of Beluga whales (Hello?! Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea?! What is scary about that?) and I am also not afraid of Killer Whales which, yes. The irony. Ha ha...ha...ha. But Killer Whales are whales in the same way that tomatoes are fruit. You can classify them all you want but are you about to mix them up with cantelopes and strawberries? *shudder*...okay I might have a new phobia now.
I hope you all appreciate how scary this next part is for me. This is up there with Google image searching "large spider" or "herpes"...you know whatever you get is going to be the worst thing ever. But here are the most terrifying whales, in order:
1) Pinocchio.
My theory is that this movie spawned my fear. Specifically, the part where Pinocchio swims past the whale and he opens his eye. HOLY JESUS SAVE ME. You are as big as that whale's eye. AN EYE. AN EYE THAT FOLLOWS YOU. AND IS ANGRY.
2) Finding Nemo.
When Dory starts speaking whale and slowly...slooooowly the whale comes out of the murky shadows toward you. Are you SERIOUS. I was clutching the arms of the movie seat like I was preparing for electric shock therapy. I probably should have had one of those bars to bite down on, too.
3) The Lightning Whale from Prince of Egypt. As already stated here, this whale comes with two terrifying factors: The element of surprise via the lightning and also the element of size comparison via the people walking past it.
4) Fantasia 2000
I have yet to watch this movie, but i remember the ads. Ohhhh do I remember the ads. Whales. Flying. That's all I need to say.
AND THIS COMMERCIAL. This thing ALWAYS sneaks up on me. Last time it was on, I was in a sports bar, where there were enormous screens on every wall. Imagine if "It" was on every wall of a restaurant. This is my situation.
I'm willing to laugh about my fear. I know people find it weird (although I cannot admit in honesty that I think it is. IT'S NOT WEIRD, THEY ARE SCARY.) But I joke about it anyway. Today I bought Adrienne a heart-shaped box of chocolates that says "Whale you be my valentine?" with an adorable whale with big googly eyes. See? I can laugh! I can joke! I can cry quietly when I get home.
EDIT: As I was writing this, Andrea, who is sitting next to me, showed me this video. Congratulations, you now have cetaphobia, too.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
If Old People Had It Their Way:
I would announce my engagement to a doctor today.
The doctor and I would be married tomorrow. All of their friends would be there. A few of mine would sit quietly in the corner.
A week after the honeymoon, my husband and I would announce that I am pregnant.
In a month, I give birth to a healthy baby boy who never cries, with a batting average of .350.
A month later, I announce I am again pregnant.
Another month. A baby girl. And she LOVES ruffles, pink, and hand-made blankets.
A few more months, a few more babies.
My family becomes plump-but-firm because we always want seconds (and thirds!) and we never miss a day of church.
In a few years, I innocently ask my daughter why she doesn't have a boyfriend. My daughter, at the ripe old age of three, announces her engagement to The President of The United States (Not that one, the new one--whose platform is social security and animal adoption).
We celebrate at Cracker Barrel.
The doctor and I would be married tomorrow. All of their friends would be there. A few of mine would sit quietly in the corner.
A week after the honeymoon, my husband and I would announce that I am pregnant.
In a month, I give birth to a healthy baby boy who never cries, with a batting average of .350.
A month later, I announce I am again pregnant.
Another month. A baby girl. And she LOVES ruffles, pink, and hand-made blankets.
A few more months, a few more babies.
My family becomes plump-but-firm because we always want seconds (and thirds!) and we never miss a day of church.
In a few years, I innocently ask my daughter why she doesn't have a boyfriend. My daughter, at the ripe old age of three, announces her engagement to The President of The United States (Not that one, the new one--whose platform is social security and animal adoption).
We celebrate at Cracker Barrel.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Feminism, from The Talkgirl to Facebook Ads.
I have been against pink electronics for as long as I can remember. My first memory of it was at age 8. I watched Home Alone 2 just like everyone else. And, like everyone else, I was DEEEEESPERATE for the Talkboy that Christmas. It was amazing. You could change your voice to trick your sister from behind the couch!! You could record things! You could play them back! What lonely, deranged middle child WOULDN'T want such a device? FINALLY! The attention I deserved!
Imagine my chagrin when, not long after the Talkboy came out, Mattel (or whoever) put out what they believed to be an equal opportunity electronic: The Talkgirl.
Ohhhhhhhh, The Talkgirl. You haunt my nightmares.
Now this was nearly twenty years ago, so the details might not be totally exact, but if I recall, the Talkgirl was exactly like the Talkboy in every way.
But it was pink.
Oh, and the dot on the "i" was now a flower. How precious.
My outrage was clear. When I was younger I considered myself a tomboy. I requested short hair at the salon. I owned nothing with ruffles. I refused to play run-from-the-boys and instead played my own version, hip-check-the-boys. And I hated--HATED--the color pink.
At the time, I didn't really know why I hated it. All I knew was that it was girly, and anyone who embraced it also seemed to be embracing an attitude of "I'm too dainty for that" which annoyed me to no end.
I found myself confused: adults everywhere were proudly telling me that girls can do whatever boys can do. But then they were laughing at my short hair, rolling their eyes when I complained that lace is itchy, and handing me electronics that had been specially created for my daintiness.
I told you about a few of my asinine pet peeves back here but this one is my I'm Going To Change The World pet peeve: indoctrinating children into their socially afflicted gender roles.
Okay, and I've officially gotten too SOC 101. I'm going to take a step back.
Yes, I hate that kids are told how to be since birth. But the reason for this post actually came about because of Facebook ads. See, I thought that all this indoctrinating had stopped by now. That I am able to see sexism and point it out. But, indeed, I cannot. And I have learned this harsh reality through Facebook ads. Here was a random group of ads from today, one that is not atypical:
I don't know WHY Facebook continues to think that I am a mother, nor why they give me ads for Sorority Life. No matter how often I check the x and tell them "Irrelevant," here they are, day after day, informing me of who I SHOULD be...which is apparently a single mother in a sorority whose debt is piling so high she is willing to exploit her children.
Now before I show you the next set of ads, I must explain who these are for. They are for a cat. I needed another facebook account for (NERD ALERT) a flash game I play. So I made an account for my roommate's cat, Charlie. He has no other friends but me [EDIT: The Charlie in real life has many, many more], and his page has no use but to cheat at this game. However, Facebook requires certain information in order to have an account. Namely, age and sex. Charlie Cat is a male. And he was born the same year that I was, making him also 25. So, given the simple fact that these ads are for an imaginary 25 year old male, here are his ads:
I'm not sure which gender should feel more outraged: the girls who get "Tee hee! I'm a girl! Babies and chocolate and lipstick!" Or the boys who get "Rawr! I'm a boy! Burgers and war and babes!" All I know is, as a feminist I feel insulted. And as a human, I want that damn brownie.
Imagine my chagrin when, not long after the Talkboy came out, Mattel (or whoever) put out what they believed to be an equal opportunity electronic: The Talkgirl.
Ohhhhhhhh, The Talkgirl. You haunt my nightmares.
Now this was nearly twenty years ago, so the details might not be totally exact, but if I recall, the Talkgirl was exactly like the Talkboy in every way.
But it was pink.
Oh, and the dot on the "i" was now a flower. How precious.
My outrage was clear. When I was younger I considered myself a tomboy. I requested short hair at the salon. I owned nothing with ruffles. I refused to play run-from-the-boys and instead played my own version, hip-check-the-boys. And I hated--HATED--the color pink.
At the time, I didn't really know why I hated it. All I knew was that it was girly, and anyone who embraced it also seemed to be embracing an attitude of "I'm too dainty for that" which annoyed me to no end.
I found myself confused: adults everywhere were proudly telling me that girls can do whatever boys can do. But then they were laughing at my short hair, rolling their eyes when I complained that lace is itchy, and handing me electronics that had been specially created for my daintiness.
I told you about a few of my asinine pet peeves back here but this one is my I'm Going To Change The World pet peeve: indoctrinating children into their socially afflicted gender roles.
Okay, and I've officially gotten too SOC 101. I'm going to take a step back.
Yes, I hate that kids are told how to be since birth. But the reason for this post actually came about because of Facebook ads. See, I thought that all this indoctrinating had stopped by now. That I am able to see sexism and point it out. But, indeed, I cannot. And I have learned this harsh reality through Facebook ads. Here was a random group of ads from today, one that is not atypical:
I don't know WHY Facebook continues to think that I am a mother, nor why they give me ads for Sorority Life. No matter how often I check the x and tell them "Irrelevant," here they are, day after day, informing me of who I SHOULD be...which is apparently a single mother in a sorority whose debt is piling so high she is willing to exploit her children.
Now before I show you the next set of ads, I must explain who these are for. They are for a cat. I needed another facebook account for (NERD ALERT) a flash game I play. So I made an account for my roommate's cat, Charlie. He has no other friends but me [EDIT: The Charlie in real life has many, many more], and his page has no use but to cheat at this game. However, Facebook requires certain information in order to have an account. Namely, age and sex. Charlie Cat is a male. And he was born the same year that I was, making him also 25. So, given the simple fact that these ads are for an imaginary 25 year old male, here are his ads:
I'm not sure which gender should feel more outraged: the girls who get "Tee hee! I'm a girl! Babies and chocolate and lipstick!" Or the boys who get "Rawr! I'm a boy! Burgers and war and babes!" All I know is, as a feminist I feel insulted. And as a human, I want that damn brownie.
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