10 Differences Between San Francisco And Chicago Which I Have Noticed Since Moving Here

1. People are serious about this "Bay Area" business. From what I can tell (aka, what Wikipedia says), The Bay Area--which also includes cities like Oakland, Berkeley, and San Jose--is about 7,000 square miles. The Chicago metro area is about 11,000. But whether you're from Skokie, Hinsdale, or I'd venture to guess Rockland, if you take one step outside of Illinois, where are you from? Chicago. It's just allllllll Chicago. But Christ forbid you say you live in San Francisco if you do NOT. I mean, these other cities have their own SPORTS TEAMS. That is how serious they are about being from the "Bay Area" and not from "San Francisco". I think it has to do with this whole limiting bodies of water thing they've got going on.

2. We live near the ocean. I mean, EVEN NEARER than other people in the Bay Area. Which means, when it's foggy, foghorns keep us awake at night. CORRECTION: foghorns keep ME awake at night, because Joe falls asleep if you so much as say the word "pajamas". The problem is, the foghorns keep me awake because then I start thinking of Angel Marie's foghorn noises on Muppet Treasure Island.


Every time. Also, our windows don't keep out much sound because they are possibly the thinnest windows ever created. They might actually just be tightly stretched Saran Wrap. It makes sense: if there's never an insane winter, why bother spending money on stormproof glass? Because of the foghorns. THAT'S WHY.

3. To rival Luna, I present to you: Sleep Train Mattress Center. Jingle: "Sleep Traaaaain! (*train whistle*) Your ticket to a better night's sleeeeep!" And what image do you see while this jingle is rolling? Why, a VAN, of course. Apparently proximity to Los Angeles does not make for better local ads.

4. San Francisco is some kind of magical Mecca for restaurants. The combination between small-business love, hipsters, transplants from around the country/world, and young people with money creates a cesspool of creative, amazing restaurants. And you will never go to all of them. You just won't. There is always a slightly different experience you haven't had yet, and they all have descriptions to rival Stefon's. It's like that thing, where you sit outside with heating lamps and eat gourmet curry fried chicken while you watch a movie on a giant brick wall?

5. The weather. So listen. I know Chicago winters are eyeball-numbingly cold. I'm not going to stand here and gloat. But San Francisco is not southern California either. Basically, if you wear close-toed shoes, a scarf, and a medium-weight pea coat, you'll be fine almost every day of the year. And I'm okay with it.

6. Some of these buses are HIT. Like, Mickey Rourke-level hit. Graffiti everywhere. They look like how I imagine all of New York looked in the 80's. The double-length accordian buses have seen the worst of it, because the bus driver can't see people back there. It's become so bad, they have a special announcement on the bus that tells you how to report vandalism--in 3 languages, no less. I even witnessed it, too. I did what the announcement said and texted in the bus number, but nothing happened. I really wanted to be there when a squadron of police kicked open the back doors and dragged the guys away (how I imagine cops handle light vandalism). I could even bear witness because I took pictures of them IN THE ACT. But for nothing. Just so I could have pictures of two idiots ruining a bus.

7. On the bus, you don't notice the hills. In a taxi you DO. I guess because the bus is going slower and pulling over every second, and a taxi is careening through time and space. But I really almost forget about the hills until I'm in a taxi.

8. I have never smelled pot so often in my life. I guess it's the mixture of hippies and easily-attainable legal mary jane. But SERIOUSLY. Probably every day.

9. Homeless San Franciscans are on a whole different level than Homeless Chicagoans. See, people in Chicago are homeless because stuff has gone down in their lives. They've seen things. The homeless people of San Francisco have only seen things because the people in their head TELL them so. Sure, there are crazy people in Chicago, too. But more often than not, Chicagoans are just cold and hungry and quietly smelly. The homeless people in San Francisco are of a louder, more rambunctious seed. One guy just stands on the corner blowing raspberries into the air to make himself laugh. They do not claim doorways to hide from the wind. They move freely and with gusto. And it requires a serious ability to ignore those around you, which my little sister simply does not have.

10. I do not get tired of Joe.This isn't actually a difference between San Francisco and Chicago, it's just something I've noticed of my San Francisco experience. Before I moved, I was curious--when we moved to a new land with few distractions to keep us apart, could we survive on nothing but each other? The answer, so far, has been yes. I just don't get tired of him. EVEN when he calls laundry, "Laundo Calrissian" (Which he does. Every time.) I mean, maybe talk to me in 50 years when we're yelling at each other in Walgreens because neither of us can see to read the cough syrups any more (or perhaps did we witness that from an old couple last weekend). But for all the time I spend with the guy, and it's a LOT, I don't find myself planning his untimely demise. All in all, it's been pretty smooth sailing.

We'll Have A Brain Fart Time

So I know I promised I'd still be blogging, and I totally am, but I'm having a bit of a brain fart time of it right now. I keep trying to say something insightful about how things are starting to look up, but it gets RULL boring, RULL quick. Either that, or I become one of the people that I hated only a week ago--the people who are too damn happy for their own good and need to quit making the rest of us Normies feel bad.

Side note: I'm SUPER into the non-word "Normies" right now. I'm considering using it until it catches on. It'll be so fetch, just you watch.

So anyway...brain farts and all that. I'm not sure what else to write about at the moment, but I promise I'll be around.

Also, since the Golden Globes were last night, can we talk about Aunt Meryl for a moment? Well, less of talking about her and more just...let's just acknowledge her existence with a moment of silence.

....

Also, Colin Firth. As I tweeted, that man is a dapper son of a bitch. We all know he is on the short list of men I would marry, but despite his growing age and/or jowls, I think he might be climbing to the top of the list, even past Future Husband John Krasinski, who, despite my best efforts, is still married to that damn British chippy.

But let's consider both of these things:







I mean...that's just...come on, now.

Anyway, this is really all I have for now. Quotes from Colin Firth. Sorry. Maybe an update this week about the job and how it's going? OH! Also, Joe and I just bought tickets to see a screening of The Dark Crystal in February and WHO is going to be there? Oh that's right, Dave Goelz--NO BIG DEAL, HANNAH.

When I Believed In Santa Claus

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

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


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


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

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


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


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

UPDATE

Remember a month ago when I has forgotten some great word to share with Hannah? ANOTHER MYSTERY SOLVED, MY FRIENDS.

KERFUFFLE.

I was so close with my guesses of "hullaballoo" and "brouhaha"! If only I'd followed that instinct! And I was close with "F". The word does have THREE of them, afterall.

The funny thing is, the first time I thought of the word was while I was folding laundry. Then I told you guys about it. Then a few weeks later, WHILE FOLDING LAUNDRY AGAIN, I remembered it AGAIN. That is some crazy psychology stuff going on right there. Of course, when I remembered it, I didn't have the presence of mind to write it down. *punches myself in the face*

BUT THEN! At work, a middle-aged curmudgeony British guy actually used the word in context, and I audibly GASPED. Because, yeah. I'm the awkward girl who makes noises when she remembers things, THAT'S HOW OFTEN IT HAPPENS.

Anyway, besides the fact that "kerfuffle" is just an outstanding, outstanding word in and of itself, here is another reason to love it: these are a few of the images that come up when you Google the word:


If PeeWee comes up in an image search, you're doing something RIGHT.


WAY better than EGOT.


What?! Sure. I accept.


I assume this picture was under the idea of "how to knit your own slutty Halloween costume" but seriously, I want this to just wear AROUND. Like, "Hey guys, thank you for coming to this meeting. Let's take a look at the brief--oh, this? This is my hamburger dress. So anyway, the brief..."


Am I the only one who has a hard time suspending reality because CLEARLY this snowman would be more careful about putting hot things to his lips? And would he really go inside to a coffee shop in the first place? He'd start melting right away. Come on, Shelly.


This one is anybody's guess, but I really wish I had been asked to be the guy on the very right making the awkward pointing motions. I'm really good at those.


ALWAYS.


Anyway, just an update on the important things in life. Hope I didn't create a kerfuffle.

Potential Life Changes

I haven't really talked about what is going on in my life recently. This is because it is so MIGHTILY up in the air right now.

The deal is, Joe graduates in a few minutes (or like a month or two but you get it) and he's looking for work. And APPARENTLY the job market is a little touch-and-go at the moment OR SO I HEAR. So it's not a very stress-free process. And then throw ME into the mix and what do you get, boys and girls? Seven ulcers. That is what you get.

In my opinion, we've both been really good about taking each other into account when it comes to next steps for his job. Open-minded. I told him that if we have to move, we can. I'm not going to keep us cooped up in Chicago if that's not the right option--just because I'm afraid to leave. And in exchange, he gets to continue to date me. NO, no. ...Yes. NO! In exchange, he has to make sure we both approve of the city, and that it has good Advertising gigs so I don't have to become the next Real Housewife of Boise or something.

At first, the motto was "Chicago first, but if we must, maybe another city." But the more and more we talk about it, the more the motto changes to "F*ck it, let's do this."

Obviously nothing is set AT ALL. And Joe is trying hard for Chicago-based places. But if it has to happen, here are some of our current options, and why I'd be happy to move to any of them:

SAN FRANCISCO:


1. Francisco! That's fun to say.
2. Apparently the weather is constantly 50-70 degrees. SIGN. ME. UP. Plus, I can rock the light jacket like no body's BEESWAX.
3. It seems really laid back. And everyone I know there is really awesome. It must have some connection to the weather. People don't get cooped up for months on end, nor do they get irritated by constant boob sweat.
4. I do not have a Sassy Gay Friend. Maybe I could finally find one in San Fran.

SEATTLE:


1. Again with the laid back attitude.
2. I see your "it rains too much" and I raise you "It rains while you sleep or while you enjoy a nice cup of tea and a book on a lazy Sunday afternoon." Game set match.
3. Two of my aunts live near or around there. My aunts are super adorable.
4. Fresh fish at the fish market MIGHT mean I am able to choke down seafood.

PORTLAND:


1. I feel like Portland is like Seattle, but with less water and more hipsters.
2. In preparation for a potential move, I watched all the Portlandia episodes on Hulu and I have to say, Portland might just be the rich man's Wicker Park. And I love Wicker Park.
3. I could get a bike. I could get a bike and ride it around everywhere. And since everyone else has a bike, it would be way cooler and I would not fear for my life because people actually WATCH for bikers unlike SOME cities coughCHICAGOcough.
4. Joe and I could recreate the Oregon Trail and, as always, Hannah would get dysentery.

LOS ANGELES:


1. The constantly nice weather means I could get a scooter instead of a car and be like Jason Segal in I Love You, Man or like Zooey Deschanel in Yes Man. Basically any movie involving a scooter and ending in Man? That could be me.
2. I would be SIGNIFICANTLY closer to Future Husband John Krasinski. A plus for me, a negative for Joe. But these are the sacrifices we must make.
3. Higher potential for becoming famous. I assume everyone who lives in LA is famous, right?

So that's it. That's what's going on right now. Yes it is crazy. Yes it is frustrating not knowing for sure what city I'll be in within a few months. Yes I would be moving far away from my family and friends. Yes I have never lived outside Illinois. Yes it is creeping dangerously close to the end of our lease. Yes I need to go chug some Maalox right now.

Why I Love The Thesaurus

I thought of a hilarious word that I needed to share with Hannah (we do this now and again) but for the life of me, I can't think of what it was. I keep coming back to "hullabaloo" or perhaps "brouhaha" but neither feel quite right. So of course I have resorted to the internet, which entails scrolling through lists of unusual words, hoping a synapse will explode in my brain and I'll remember what it was. Nothing is coming to me, although I have found some awesome words in the meantime. Here are a few:

frowst: to luxuriate in hot stuffiness and stupefaction
fructuary: person enjoying the fruits of anything
fulvous: dull yellow

Which is quite the coincidence because as I currently frowst, I have become a fructuary of fulvous citrus.


The root of this problem is, of course, that I have a terrible memory for words. BREEEEH, correction: a terrible memory for the CORRECT word at the CORRECT time. Which may make you curious (you see), because I am a writer by profession and quasi-maintain a word-filled blog. True. But what is constantly open in my other browser? What is the first thing I bookmark at a new job? What is my lifeblood, my lover, and my friend?

That's right. Thesaurus.com.

Because there are times when the only other synonyms I can think of is the Spanish translation. And there are times when I forget how to spell the world "what." And there are times when the only word I can think of is "matriculate" and I'm pretty sure no normal person knows what that means. Oftentimes including me.

Usually what trips me up is...actually, myself. Because I get one thing stuck in my brain, and for some reason I just CAN'T let it go. "What's that guy's name? Is it Danny? No, that's not it. OH! I got it. Danny. No. How about Danny. No. Danny? No.

......


.....


....


...Danny? GOD!!!"

So if you were wondering why I'm not signing my name up to start asking Akex Trebek the questions to his answers, that is why. I'd be the one screaming 'BABY FISH MOUTH!!!!!1' for every answer.

Is it brouhaha? Brouhaha? Howabout brouhaha? Maybe brouhaha? Let me think about it brouhaha.

50 Finger 'Stache Official Results

Welp! Adrienne and I FINALLY presented our 50 finger 'staches yesterday. It was supposed to be last week but The Storm Of Insanity (not to be confused with The Cliffs of Insanity) kept us all in our houses.

Here's the entire thing. Look how pretty!!


And here are the winners. *Awkward Michael Scott Drumroll*
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrr....brrrrrr....rrrrrrr....

RUNNER UP:


SECOND PLACE:


FIRST PRIZE:



AND SECRET ASSISTANT TO THE FIRST PRIZE (brought to you by Regina Phalange):


Sadly, our efforts did not win us a prize, but you guys should have SEEN the great stuff people brought in. The winner made an entire (BOUND) coloring book. Someone else made pins. Someone else made 50 drawings that were good enough that Adrienne and I both bought one off of her at $5 each. That does NOT, however, mean that we don't appreciate the effort that you guys put into your finger 'staches, and we thank you VERY much. Wow, I'm really into the CAPS today. I regret nothing.

Of course, if you can donate a bit (a dollar, five...a million, whatever) to the cause, which is a tutoring center in inner-city Chicago, that makes you even more splendorrific. Go to "Collabostache" and donate your heart out.

It’s The Most Wonderful Time of The Year

Breathe it in, guys. It’s October. It is the fall. It’s time for spices and blankets and brisk strolls and moderate-sized scarves. It’s time for everything to be flavored like pumpkin. Here is where I was going to insert something funny that pumpkin would be gross in, but I honestly can't think of anything. Pumpkin vitamin water? Might be delicious. Pumpkin mustard? Potential.

Squash, guys. Squash.




Squash.

There are two distinct camps of people in Chicago: those who are like me, and crave nothing more than a light jacket and a cup of hot apple cider, and those who actually like the beach and the evil, evil sun. These people see fall as the gateway drug to winter. And, admittedly, winter in Chicago is what Hell would be, if Hell were cold. It gets so cold your eyeball goo freezes. Sometimes it starts in November, and lasts all the way into April. Admittedly, it’s terrible.

But it’s Chicago. No one will tell you to move here because of the weather. You live here. You know what will happen. Buy some long underwear and a real hat that doesn’t have large knitted holes in it.

And in the meantime, IT’S FRICKEN FALL. Open a window (but only a little) and enjoy it.

Joe and I have so much planned this fall. It’s awesome.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I started writing this post while watching last season’s Grey’s Anatomy finale, and I was so shaken up, I had to stop writing and focus all my nervous energy on watching the show. LOVE ME FOR WHO I AM, NOT WHO YOU WANT ME TO BE.

So but the thing I wanted to say is: I’ve realized that the best way to enjoy fall and possibly enjoy winter (besides the hat thing. Seriously, buy one of these and also ask Hannah to buy you a scarf for winter, because I swear by the one she gave me. I’m sure she’d oblige) Where was I? Damn me and my incorrect parenthetical asides. Ummmmm, OH! The best way to enjoy these things is to PLAN. Make a list of all the things you want to do this fall/winter/holiday season and then try to check them off a week at a time. Have I mentioned that I am an insane to-do list maker? Fact: I have two separate to-do lists in my phone. And really, these to-do lists need to be broken up into categories. But I’m resisting the urge.

On my personal fall/winter to do list:
1. Make a chili that is actually good. I’ve only made one once and it was terrible. Way too sturdy. No mush. I like my chili like I like my oatmeal: indistinguishable.
2. Go to a Second City show. Because I’ve lived in Chicago for 25 years and I’ve never done this. Hubba wha? I know. What’s wrong with me.
3. Go to the Detroit cider mill. It’s one of Joe’s yearly traditions and I have to say…apple flavored everything? Yes and yes.
4. Drink hot chocolate. Because if I don’t put things on a to-do list, sometimes I forget to do them. I’m amazed I don’t have to put “eat food” on a to-do list.
5. String cranberries for Christmas decoration. I live on the 8th floor in the middle of the city with a picky cat. This may be my only year to put fruit on a tree and leave it for a month without worry of varmints.
6. Make homemade stuffing for Thanksgiving. Here’s the thing: I judge people who use canned cranberry. Yeah, I said it. And you should be ashamed. Because real cranberry sauce is as easy as heating soup and WAY more fun. BUT. I am a Stove Top girl. So no, I have no place to judge. And yet I still do. Welcome to Emily.
7. Eat Turkish food. Never done it. Don’t know why. Especially if they are one of the wonderful groups of people who make good baklava.
8. Mmmmmm...baklavaaaaaa...
9. See more stand up at the Vic. Why? Because I have an entry-level job now. So I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams and I can afford frivolous things like figs and $20 stand up routines by moderately famous comedians.
10. Go to the zoo. “Did they go to the zoo? Supposebly...”

So this is all I’m saying. If you want to survive the fall and winter—even potentially ENJOY it, dare I say, you should make a list. Get a hat, and make a list. And whatever you do, don’t watch the final two episodes of last season's Grey’s Anatomy without someone to clutch.

Something "Special"

I know I've been discussing my childhood with you guys a lot lately, but I promise you will be happy you read this one.

A week ago, my parents brought me a little present. It was a "book" I wrote in the 1st grade for school. And as you'll see, it's Something Special.

Ahem ahem ahem...




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
The front and back cover, a portrait of our family with our house in the background. There's Dad, Mom, Hannah (age 1), Katie (age 10), Emily (age 7), and John (age 4)

NOTES:
1) I would like to apologize to Katie for giving her such girth, although the side pony tail might have been accurate for 1991, apologize to Hannah for my crayon ineptitude which resulted in her turtleneck onesie and lack of nose, and to John for forgetting to give him pants. Although, again, that might have been accurate for 1991.
2) I'm also concerned that this happened:
Teacher: "Now, kids, this is an important book you're writing. So make sure you title it something special."
Emily: "Got it. *writing* Somethiiiiing....speciallll..."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is a bird's eye "vew" of me, as a baby, standing on the scale in my parent's bedroom and weighing the feather-light baby weight of 20 pounds. I assume, as a baby, I would need help standing by myself, so my mother is helping me. To the side, you can see the top of the light, which I had clearly asked how to spell, considering my random stab at "drassor."

THE TEXT:
"If I could... ...be a baby I wood be light."

NOTES:
I don't really know what to tell you on this one. I clearly phoned it in. That, or I had spent all my time getting a mental grasp of my parent's bedroom from a bird's eye view that I didn't have time to properly explain my reasoning behind dedicating an entire page to such thoughts.




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
I am standing in a single file line outside before school. Jon O. is patting my then spiked hair and calling me "Spike." (Pure genius that one.) I am giving the kind of snappy comeback that truly comes after days of consideration, "Jon put a sok in it I meen you all redy got your underwer! not!"

THE TEXT:
"When I grow up I get funnyer and funnyer. I love being lughed at! I'm grat at being funny and I bet you now how funny I am!"

NOTES:
1) I remember being acutely aware that my example joke was not very funny, but I couldn't figure out how to MAKE it funny. Let's review the facts:

a) "Put a sock in it": Modern idiom I had recently learned. Always funny.
b) Reference to underwear in someone's mouth: I mean, how can you go wrong with that?
c) "Not!": Hi. My name is Emily, and my sense of humor spawns directly from Pee Wee Herman. It's nice to meet you.
I mean, based on that evidence alone, this joke just hit a home run--NAY, a grand slam. I don't know what I was so worried about.

2) My blatant disregard toward instruction.
Teacher: "Now this page will start with 'When I grow up...' and you'll write about what you'll be when you grow up!"
Me: "Yeah, eff that. I'm going to need an entire page dedicated to an underwear joke."
3) I clearly set this page up to draw myself in a long line of students, each with their own totally accurate caricatures. But once I had myself in there, I got through one more skirt before saying "Ehh, screw it. They get the point."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is Easter morning in our living room, as evidenced by the creepy painting of a marble splashing in oil we used to have. Katie is discovering the traditional egg-on-the-clock egg, and John has found one of the "easy" (read, BABY) eggs under the couch.

THE TEXT:
Ester is my vavrit thig. man I bet you don't know how special Ester is to me. espashle that Jesus rows.

NOTES:
1) Okay, I'm going to be straight up honest with you here. Ester had VERY little to do with Jesus rowing. And it had very MUCH to do with Cadbury creme eggs. But I knew, even then, that if you want to get in good with The Big Guy, you have to do all the right stuff. You can't call your brother "stupid," you have to pray before dinner and occasionally other meals, and you HAVE to appreciate religious holidays for religious reasons. Otherwise, as a 7 year-old who can think of nothing more wonderful in the world than finding various types of marshmallows in a colorful basket, you are going straight to hell.
2) Every time I read the word "espashle," I want to take little 1st grade Emily and squeeze her so hard, her eyes pop out of her little spiked head a little.
3) I must have just learned the phrase "I bet" from Katie or something. Clearly I was into it. I also like how I kind of sound like an old black man sitting on a bench telling my life story. "Man, I tell you what. You don't even KNOW."
4) Next to the marble picture is a little brown rectangle. I believe it is our doorbell, but to be honest with you, I STILL don't know what that brown box does. But isn't that a strangely specific thing to remember about my living room, considering I drew this at school? And how have I been so perplexed by something for almost 20 years without bothering to ask anyone about it?




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
My father and mother are playing a board game (My mom is cross-legged and in a dress. Scandal!) and Katie and I are playing cards on our living room floor.

THE TEXT:
It's fun to play at or house but, we never have time! You know, mom gos to work dad to School we go to School and the little ones go to the baby sittirs.

NOTES:
1. I have to say, for someone who clearly didn't understand the concept that CRAYONS CAN'T BE ERASED JUST BECAUSE YOU MADE YOUR OWN HEAD ENORMOUS, it was a good effort for the commas on this page. I mean, 1 out of 2 ain't bad.
2. I 100% blame my father for the fact that I referred to someone 3 years younger than me as "the little ones."
3. That blue couch, man. I remember the day we got that couch. And I have to say--my rendition of it? Spot on. Spot. On. The thing is, though, that nothing else in that house even exists. We had no family portrait in which Hannah is falling into a small pit (I WISH) and we had no small windows with red curtains. So I ask you, tiny Emily: why the random attention to detail? Hmm?
4. Note that Hannah and John are no where to be found. That's because this picture embodies a happy place full of happy people, playing games and laughing into all hours of the night, as all the useless family members sleep.
5. I like that spelling and grammar were still just a shot in the dark at this point. I imagine myself like Pollock, just filling in blank space with splotches, hoping to appease the masses. "Capitalize here, lower case here...let's add some punctuation over here...that'll do, pig. That'll do."




WHAT THIS PAGE IS:
This is a white stretch limo with a red top pulling up to the red carpet, where throngs of smiling photographers await my appearance.

THE TEXT:
When I get older I hope too be the prasadint!

NOTES:
1. GOD I hope that's how Bush spells "president."
2. Okay clearly I never wanted to be president. Honestly, I think I saw someone else write that and just wrote it, too. At this point, I had no idea that I wanted to be a Muppeteer. I really just wanted to be important and famous. And who doesn't want that, ever? Can you blame me?
3. Also, can you blame me for being an annoying show-off who knows what the Big Dipper looks like?




Like me? "Like" me! --On Facebook, that is! (wakka wakka)
And don't be afraid to share or comment. That's what blogs are for.

10 Reasons You Never Considered Why Cats Are Awesome

With the looming promise of getting my very own cat (I'm waiting until I feel financially stable again. Kitty's gotta get fed, son.) I've been thinking about what attracts me to those frisky felines.

Now, as I stated here when discussing the idea of going to Greece in order to experience CATS EVERYWHERE, I'm pro-fuzzy things. I like cats AND dogs. And chimps and chipmunks. Not so much horses, because they are mildly terrifying...but that's another story for another day.

What I'm saying is, I am not trying to convince anyone that cats are BETTER than dogs. I'm just saying, y'all have to learn to appreciate.

We've all heard the they're cleaner and easier to take care of mumbo jumbo. You know that. You can see that by looking at them. But if you've never taken the time to really get to know a cat, you wouldn't see those little things. And those, my friends make all the difference.

1) Their Meows sound like questions. Questions you can answer.
"Meow?" "I don't know. What do YOU think Mel Gibson will say next?"
"Meow?" "We might. Check the refrigerator."
"Meow?" "HOW DARE YOU, SIR. You know I'm sensitive about that."

2) There is nothing funny about a person sitting in the middle of an empty room. There is EVERYTHING funny about a cat sitting in the middle of an empty room.



3) They are cuddle-factories.
I think some people are anti-cat because they've really only experienced the kind of cat that just sits in a corner and hisses. Those cats are lame. But I can tell you right now, Monica's cat, Charlie is renowned for breaking down those stereotypes. He is like Martin Luther Kitty. And when you find yourself in the middle of a snugglefest with the likes of him, you might find it a lot harder to fight against their power.



4) Pest Control.
A few years ago, Sara and I fostered two cats for a summer. We had a good amount of bugs just from living on the first floor. One day, there was a TERRIFYING spider in my bathroom. The foster cat took one look at it and *WHOMP!* One paw came down on that son of a b.

Conversely, my family's dog, Sugar, once befriended an entire army of ants.

5) You know the phrase, "You always want what you can't have"? Well, cats know it, too.
They know how to keep you wanting more by being aloof. And that's a good thing. I mean, have you ever thought that someone was really attractive and mysterious, and then when you actually talked to them, you found out that they weren't actually a cultured Italian man, but another stupid Chicagoan with a nasally accent and all that time you spend oggling him at the train station was totally wasted?

No? Just me then?

Okay well you know what I mean. Sometimes a little mystery and distance is a good thing. Sometimes your cat doesn't want to hang out with you. And you know what? Sometimes your best friend doesn't want to hang out with you, either. But at least your cat has the decency to be honest and hang out in the dining room.

6) The adorable noise they make when they drink their water.

lick lick...
lick lick lick lick....
lick lick lick lick lick lick lick.....

[Editor's note: #7 and 8 comes from Laura]
7) I will never accidentally send an email again.
As many of us know, cats enjoy computers. They especially enjoy computers/laptops when you are using them. I have come very close to sending some very weird emails to people with 900 Ws and 70 backslashes. So I started waiting to put the recipients name in until after I've typed and edited the email. I also do this at work even though I'm pretty sure my cat has never been there. Either way, I consider it a good thing. My cat was just protecting me from embarrassing myself.

8) They remind you to pick up after yourself.
I'll admit it. I don't enjoy cleaning. And I also have ADD. So often when I do clean or try to organize something I get about halfway through and then wander over to something else. Recent example: I recently realized that I'm an adult. And being an adult means you have important documents. So one afternoon I sat down to organize all those documents. When I was done, I straightened them into a nice pile, and left the pile in the middle of the living room floor because I decided that was the exact moment I needed to go take a nap. (Organizing is hard.) When I returned to the living room I was faced with the following scene. So now I know not to leave anything in the middle of the floor unless I want it messed with. She was just being helpful.




9) Being licked by their tongues is like receiving a free sand exfoliating mask.

Seriously, my arm hair has never been smoother.

10) They keep you on your toes by stalking you wherever you go.
And when you look back, they freeze as if by staying still you won't notice them. Like perhaps we have the brain and eye capacity of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. And it's never not hilarious to watch.



SECRET REASON #11! is this.


Special thanks to Laura, Adrienne, and Hannah for their contributions to the list.
Comments welcome! Any other reasons why cats shall not be overlooked?

Mustache Thanks: Keith P; The Man, The Artist, The Legend.

Today is another thank-you day for those who donated to the Mustache cause. I bring to you two wonderful people: Keith P and my younger sister, Hannah. Keith and Hannah went to high school together. When I found out Keith had donated, I immediately got to work inventing a really great post about him. I started with a poem:

Keith, Oh my Keith. You wonderful boy.
You fill up my days with such bountiful joy.
'Twas on that fine day within Luscombe we met
You thought I was Hannah, and started to fret.
Why won't she say hi? Why won't she look here?
But soon you saw differences, though they were mere.
For, my hair was shorter, my eyes bit more round.
At once a new kinship was formed, I have found.
I know you know Hannah, but I'm so much better.
It's just that it's been some more time since you met her.

...Which is true, Hannah does know Keith better. And with that reasoning, I decided to introduce my first guest blogger, my sister Hannah. Take it away, Han!

What can I say about Keith P?

First of all, let me preface this post by noting that my family does (and always will) love Keith P. more than me, and that is just an established fact.

“But Hannah!” you say, “That can’t possibly be true. WHERE are the facts?”

Step into my office, stay a while.

On the day of my graduation, the day that I was meant to be honored and adored by all family near and wide, there was one picture taken of me while I crossed the stage to be handed my diploma. Fine. Good. Grand. I had no problems with this. I wasn’t exactly looking my best in a floor-length bottle-green robe (Harry Potter reference? Anyone?) And cardboard cap.

But there were THREE PICTURES taken of Keith P. by my family. And damn him, does the boy know how to pull off a bottle-green robe.

Second of all, Keith P. is an unstoppable musical machine and I am painfully jealous that he plays piano and cello and sings and acts and can do handstands while juggling and plays the harp with his toenails, blindfolded. (His eyes are blindfolded of course. His toenails aren’t blindfolded. That’d be cool, though.)

Where was I? Ah. Talent. The boy is talented in every way. This scored him major points with every freaking teacher in high school. Every time a play was coming up Keith would be summoned to the front of the class:

Mr. Schoenburg: “Oh KEITH (*gush gush*) (EDITORS NOTE: I SAID *GUSH GUSH* IN MY LAST POST! IT'S LIKE WE'RE SISTERS!!) I hear you’re going to be playing the part of Male Lead #1 and might I just say that you are perfect in every way and you smell like what I imagine Jesus must use as aftershave. By the way, Hannah is spreading a vicious rumor that you play the harp with your toenails. Any truth to that?”

But I digress…

Keith P. had talent in one much more important area. An area I like to call: Speech Team. Lets all take a moment of recognition for the fact that I was a big major nerdlinger in high school and absolutely loved speech team (as did Keith).

Boiled down to the essentials: in speech team you wear a suit and memorize an eight-minute speech that is written by you, or by someone else. Some are funny, some are dramatic, and some are serious. Some are done with a partner, and some are done by this terrible chick in the pink suit who thought she was all that but she wasn’t and GOD who fake cries during dramatic interpretation and REALLY?! A PINK SUIT?!?!

But I digress. Again.

Keith and I balanced our time at tournaments between performing our speeches, and stalking the people who we thought were good/terrible/wore pink suits and therefore had no reason to live.

How many "speech boyfriends" did I have? Lets conservatively say five.

How many of them knew who I was? Zero. Possibly one.

How many of them knew who Keith was? All. And they loved him. They would all go out on weekends and pick out matching china patterns.

And now Keith P. is a roaring success with reviews on his plays that would knock your socks off. He is going to be on Broadway and I’m going to show up with flowers, which he will politely accept and then add to his pile of gifts (including, I would have to assume, some sort of priceless antique china patterns that his old speech team buddies brought him...curse them.) And we will reminisce about the days of old when we would hang out in the music lab, and laugh at the gym teachers as they foolishly beg that we run at least one lap, and write wildly inappropriate notes in psychology, only to be discovered later by Mr. Reddel, the famed crazy man from crazytown. (EDITORS NOTE: DON'T YOU TALK THAT WAY ABOUT MR. REDDEL.)

So here’s to you, Keith P. I wish you success in everything you do.

P.S. Have you heard the rumor that Keith P. has nasty long toenails that he uses to play the harp? Spread it.

Say hello to your new Big Brother.

I don't know why people keep telling me that they are "stalking" me by reading this blog. That was the point of my writing it...for people to read. These are not my innermost thoughts. My innermost thoughts are WAAAAAAAAAAAAY more boring. They sound something like this:

"Dear Diary: The locker room in the gym smells like poo. It's terrible. Chicken sandwich was good today. Put ranch on it."

That's why this thing is public. To encourage me not to talk about my chicken sandwiches. Which, seriously...it was pretty good.

But anyway, no need to worry about whether or not you are stalking me, for I am stalking you right on back. PHEW! That feels good to get off my chest. See, I finally started to track my blog last week and I have found so many ways to interpret my visitors, it’s taken internet time wasting to a whole new level for me.

I mean, mostly I don't know who you are because all it tells me is the city you are in, and then a bunch of other pretty useless facts. Unless, that is, you were wondering just what version of Javascript most people have. Because I've got some cold hard facts about that. But obviously I don't have your names or email addresses. Because then any website could know those things. And if that were true, every time you went to badgerbadgerbadger.com, you'd start getting emails about legalizing marijuana.

I do like that I can clock you by city, though. Because sometimes I know who you are. Well, rarely. But my big sister is (I’m pretty sure) the only one who lives in her town. I think it’s just her, the hubs, Libby, and the cat. So I know when she reads my blog.

Mostly, I get excited when I DON'T know who you are. Who cares if Hannah reads my blog? Not me! (Just kidding, Hannah. I care.) But someone out there in Kentucky is reading me and I can’t figure out who--yet I love you regardless. I've even got international readers! Someone in England from Warwick, Warwickshire looked at my blog once! Of course, I mostly share that because COME ON. That’s like being from Yemen Road, Yemen. That is a made up place, my friends.

Also, occasionally, Canadians read my blog and it makes me nervous. Am I proving to them that Americans are lazy, uncultured, embarrassing idiots? Or am I showing them our negative side?

Zzzzzing. Kidding.

There is one way to analyze things which consistently manages to blow my mind, and that is by "referral," or, the website that people clicked on to get to my blog. And almost always this is either Facebook or "unknown" so it really does nothing. But then sometimes it's a total mystery that makes no sense!! One time, someone got to my blog from an Always Sunny episode on Hulu. What? I mean, I'm flattered to be somehow connected to the magic of Danny DeVito, but I just don't understand how this happened. Which could also be because I don't understand computers.

Anyway, I just thought you all aught to know, there is mutual stalking going on. So feel free to read. Especially you, visitor #685 from Allendale, Michigan with the Mac OSX whose monitor has a resolution of 1280 x 800.