What Ever Happened To Predictability?

Okay, I thought I'd share with everyone what I've been up to since arriving in San Francisco. But since we are a visual people, let's do it in PICTURES! YEAH! PICTURES! LESS! READING! MORE! SEEING! LESS! READING! MORE! SEEING! WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

I don't know...I'm in a weird place right now. A weeeeird place.

So just a bit of overview: I haven't been doing anything extremely touristy. One, because I did those things when I was here the first time. Two, because I'm unemployed and have to conserve my money. And three, because I have a life to live and internet to catch up on, and I can't spend my days riding a trolley all day.

But if you are curious about what my life is currently looking like, here it is:

First and most importantly, I discovered that I live about half a mile from Robin Williams during my run this morning.

....

I'm just giving you all a little moment to let the majesty of that sentence grip your hearts.

I made a nifty little map for you. The orange star is where I live. The kooky neon green star is where Robin Williams lives.


And yes, you heard right. I am running again. I have to run now. I'm a runner. Way far away from the dock, with the, with the wind and the sky and everything. Ahoy. I am not amused. There are no gyms near me because APPARENTLY it's nice weather all year and there is a giant park nearby and SOME people think that is reason enough to forego my precious, precious ellipticals for "fresh air" and "free exercise" and "scenery." WHATEVER.

So anyway, yesterday I ran south to Golden Gate park. There were hills involved. It was not awesome (The hills, I mean. The park is, in fact, quite awesome.) Today I decided to run north to the ocean and see what that was all about. Now, I knew Sir Williams lived in San Francisco, but I didn't know where. Once I got into the neighborhood I started thinking about it, though. Every house was gorgeous, and if you were in the right place you got a view that looked something like this:


I wasn't actually looking for his house or anything...but then I saw this one.


Bigger than the others, with actual space around it (rare in this city), an enclosed basketball hoop, and the best view of the Golden Gate Bridge. THEN, across the street from the house was a bench with this on it:



Whoa. When I got home, I googled it to be sure and YEP. That is the one!

Question: Do you now play out different scenarios in which you run into Robin Williams to varying degrees of interaction, from hand wave to “You’ve got a lot of spunk! Why don’t you play my daughter in my upcoming feature film?”
Answer: OF COURSE.
Question: Do you realize how silly that is?
Answer: OF COURSE.
Question:…But you can’t stop, can you?
Answer: OF COURSE.
Question: Also, that's not how Robin Williams talks.
Answer: Quiet, you.

So that happened. Anyway, here are a few more things about where I live.

This is my apartment building.



Here is what is directly next to it.


Here is the sole piece of furniture in our apartment right now. It is a borrowed air mattress.


Here is Regina sitting awkwardly in the sunshine. She will be even happier when our furniture arrives than I will be.


OH! Speaking of Regina, here she is in her carrier (BEFORE she wriggled out.)




These are the two canned meals I had bought in preparation for easy, cheap dinners. Then I remembered we don't have a can opener yet.


Here is how we eat our meals. On the floor. Next to a cat toy because...of course.


Once we get furniture I will take you all on a virtual tour of our apartment. Until then, there's not much to see, obviously. Although there are a lot of windows and closets, which is pretty awesome.

Anyway. San Francisco composts. Like, as a thing. Hippies.


My first day I went on a grocery store hunt. I found one, which sold these. I obviously thought of Michelle.


Then I went past this. I obviously thought of Adrienne.



Then I walked past this church. I obviously thought of Jane. JUST KIDDING. I thought of Monica. Who is St. Monica? The patron saint of being a badass? I’m pretty sure.


This is an authentic Irish bakery that I think Joe will enjoy, next to a pub. I'm excited to bring his family there when they visit. (Oh, and I forgot to take a picture of the burger joint called Bill's Place which I will OBVIOUSLY take my father to when they visit. Because it is absolutely "Bill's place".)


And finally, apparently San Francisco is littered with Whomping Willows.



So that about sums it up. Everything I haven't pictured is me sitting in various coffee shops looking for a job or watching Hulu+ on my phone (Mother Necessity, where would we be?) or Joe and I running through our endless To Do lists. We spend the majority of our relationship compiling lists and schedules. It's our way.

Two Unrelated Things That Are Too Pointless For Their Own Blog Posts But Too Long For A Facebook Status Message

1. You know the saying "dress for the job you want, not the one you have?" Well I read somewhere long ago (likely YM or Seventeen Magazine) that you should dress as though you'll run into your ex that day. It was probably some article about how to move on after a break up, but I think about that concept every day that I ACTUALLY feel cute enough to run into my ex.

I especially think about it now because Monica told me that Teenage Boyfriend works within a few blocks from me. I don't know exactly where or what his schedule is, but I know he takes the Water Tower Express Bus, because she sees him on there all the time after work. I'm going to be straight with you: one day I was looking particularly awesome and I could have taken that bus, although a different route was shorter. I sat at work for like half an hour pondering if it was worth it. I finally decided to NOT be a crazy person--possibly for the first time in my life--and went with the other bus.

The thing is, I would LOVE to look cute enough at all times and feel confident enough to run into my ex. But that would be exhausting. I just can't be arsed (YEAH, I SAID IT) to care that much about how I look at all times. And sometimes, even when I'm trying to look good, I just don't. Sometimes my hair is doing a thing. Or I thought the shirt didn't have pit stains but in natural sunlight it most DEFINITELY does.

It is my lot in life that when I look in the mirror and think, "Daaamn, grrl. MMMMMnnn!" I will see no one of consequence that day. But the day when I go to the gym with no makeup, in bike shorts and a shirt from our college newspaper barcrawl where we decided it would be hilarious to write "Putting Out For Free 5 Times A Week" on the back...THAT is the day I will run into my ex. Him or Future Husband John Krasinski.

GOD, that shirt. WHY DON'T I JUST THROW IT AWAY?!?!?! (Oh right.)




2. I hurt. And I don't know if it's because I'm getting old or if it's some medical condition where my muscle is slowly all turning into bone like that one lady on Grey's Anatomy/House/whatever the hell doctor show that was on. But seriously, I cannot sit on a picnic blanket anymore. Actually, really, I cannot sit in any position that isn't either 90 or 180 degrees.

What the what?

I'm 26. And YOU ALL keep telling me that I'm in the prime of my life! I'm young! I'm healthy! I should be skydiving off of cliffs whilst doing jumping jacks! And yet...half an hour sitting cross-legged and I'm pretty sure all the cartilage in my knees have left and moved to my lower back. Also, I have an eerie amount of grey hair. I'm talking ER-era George Clooney, and in the same place, right at the temples. On him? Sexy. On me? Wirey and awkward. It used to be funny, all, "oh haha! A grey hair?! That's crazy because I am ever so young." Not anymore. It's time to start dying. And I do not have the money for this crap. I'm too young to have to constantly dye my hair! I don't even have a stable job yet!

Is this the way our society is moving? We'll finally have steady jobs and be moved out of our parent's basements and ready to have kids at 60? WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?! *shakes fist at neighborhood kids and puts dentures back in*

Honestly, if I'm supposed to be as malleable and springy as people older than me keep assuring, I think I may have a CONDITION. Like, I should go to the doctor or a masseuse and DEMAND that they make all these ailments go away. I bet Beyonce doesn't have to deal with this kind of thing. Then again, she run the world.

That Is Not Art.

I just watched the scariest music video known to man: A mash-up of Justin Bieber's "Baby" with Slipknot's "Psychosocial". It is so scary, I kept turning around and looking over my shoulder toward the door, until I finally just situated myself so that no one could sneak up behind me with a butcher knife. I am 100% serious.

It's weird, because the actual Slipknot song is not that scary. Possibly because their brand of music makes me automatically dismiss the band as crazy-suburban-screwups-with-daddy-issues (whether or not it's true doesn't matter, it's just what I tell myself so I can move on)(But they ARE from Des Moines)(Just saying) and I don't feel so affected.

But the video combined with the pop beat and the innocent, flaxen Justin just makes my skin absolutely crawl. I'm going to embed it here, but I warn you: if you're the kind of person who, like me, has to shut your eyes during horror movie previews, you're going to want to skip it and I am in no way joking.



RIGHT?!!?!?!? JESUS.

The problem I have with heavy metal is the same as with modern and contemporary art: It's that whole, "THAT IS NOT ART/THAT IS NOT MUSIC" mentality. I have a really hard time accepting that you GROWLING into a microphone is still allowed to be called 'music.'

I guess this happens through every period of time. A new wave of music comes out, and everyone scoffs. My mom loves telling us about the time her grandma heard Bob Dylan and demanded, "Who told that man he could sing?"

So I guess that's it, is it? Just because a lot of people probably hated "I Am The Walrus" once, I'm supposed to accept that screaming into a microphone is classified as music now? And if so, how about the guy with the portable mic outside Old Navy, informing us that God hates when we put things in our butts? (Yes, I have actually heard him say that.) Is that music too, now?

I actually consider myself pretty open-minded about what classifies as art or music. Sometimes things are more about experimenting or about ruffling up your ideas, not about emulating beauty or realism. I get that. Monica, who works at the Museum of Contemporary Art, has had to educate me now and again in WHY something is art. And I think I generally get it.

Why I believe weird modern/contemporary art can be defined as "art":

1. The Overly simple
You created a completely green canvas and sold it for millions of dollars. You showed that you can put paint evenly on other stuff. ART.

2. Social commentary disguised as art
You put a dress in the middle of a room and shellacked newspapers to the wall. I didn't think to do that exact thing, so it must be original. ART.

3. Found items you didn't make
You put a toilet in an art gallery, forcing thousands of snotty people who think they know everything about art to harrumph (like this: "rubrubrubrubrubrub"). ART.


And so in that same vein:

4. Yelling instead of singing
I can't imagine being able to do that for more than 5 minutes, let alone doing this for an entire concert multiple times a week. You have vocal chords of steel...ART.


It's the only thing I can think of. It's the only thing that makes it acceptable in my mind. I guess to me, in order for you to create true, popular, notable music, you have to be able to do something that I couldn't do. And I couldn't yell that much.

Unless maybe someone forced me to watch that mash-up again. Because I think that might make me scream for a REAL long time.


(I'd love to know: What do YOU think? Art majors and Slipknot fans, I know I'm wrong. But just HOW wrong am I?)

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?

Crush Them

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

We'll start at the very beginning.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Good luck, and God bless.

I Need Packing Advice

I need some advice, and I am serious this time. Not like those other times when I ask for advice and then start daydreaming about cheese.

No. I need packing advice. See, Monica and I are moving out of our lovely apartment by the end of this month. She is moving back with her fah-shah for now and I am going to dump all my stuff with my loving parents and live the life of a nomad for a month until Joe's lease is up. And then I HAVE TO LIVE WITH A BOOOOOOY! (Friends quote, people. Keep up.)

So really, we could pack up and move right now if we wanted to, since parent's houses are not time sensitive. But frankly, we paid good money to squat here for the rest of the month. However, people keep referring to the fact that I should have things in boxes already.

And I don't. I have nary a box. Everything is just as sprawled out as usual. The only thing I've done so far to get myself closer to moving out is to stop cleaning the bathroom, since we just have to clean it before we move out anyway. Baby steps.

The way I usually pack is, unsurprisingly, the way I do everything in life. I start in one corner, forget what I was doing, start something else, realize I need to sweep, do that, come back to the original box, discover old love letters I forgot I had, read those, throw them away, have a sandwich, call it a day. I don't know why I do it this way. I guess when your attention span hinders on the question of Is there, or is there not, something shiny over there? your packing skills are slightly erratic. This may also explain why I haven't started packing yet. Because once I start, there are just forty half-filled boxes in every room, and the pan I need to cook my rice in is currently under my Ninja Turtle figurines.

So what I want from all of you is advice. Packing advice. Things you have learned in your own personal packing journeys. Should I not put all my books in one box because it's too damn heavy? Where should I start? Where should I end? How should I label? And do YOU think I should be packed already, even though I have a week left in this apartment?

I Hate Quentin Tarantino.

There. I said it. And now you're just going to have to deal with it.

Hating Quentin Tarantino now puts my list of Things I Hate That Everyone Else Loves up to three. We all have our own lists. Adrienne hates peppers.

My own list:
1. Sushi
2. Johnny Depp
3. Quentin Tarantino

Here's the thing: I don't have a good reason to hate Johnny Depp. More, my feelings are really those of indifference. But it's the fact that everyone else wants to make out with the boy so furiously that makes me hate him so.

But my hatred for Quentin is true, and it is deep. I came to my realization about QT only Saturday night after having watched Pulp Fiction for the first time (Joe is catching me up on my list of Guy Movies It's Weird I've Never Seen. And, yes, Kill Bill is also still on that list.) After watching Pulp Fiction, Joe and Monica started expounding on what is supposed to be in the briefcase, and it might be the one guy's soul, and such-and-such is supposed to be God and that part's Heaven, and this guy's an angel and blah blah whatever.

I didn't want to hear it. And not because I don't think movies can have deeper meanings. PLEASE. I took film classes in college. I know what's up. But I just. Hate. Quentin. Tarantino. And I don't think that he had a deeper level of meaning. I think he just made the briefcase mysterious because he likes to mess with people's minds. Done.

Here is why I hate Quentin Tarantino:

1) The permanent snarl. I want you all to look through this series of pictures and then not punch the person next to you in the face.






It's like a mix between "Someone at the gym farted but it wasn't me so I'm going to make it obvious that I find that smell repulsive" and the look people give in movies when the Asshole says something funny-but-mean so the hero smiles ironically for a second and then roundhouses them in the face.

2) The snark. Now, I know as the Queen of Snark I shouldn't be upset by this, but you guys have to watch this.



How does this man not make you grit your teeth? Specifically, listen at about 1:20 (try not to get distracted by Jeff Bridges' majesty like I did) when the interviewer is all "everyone wants to work with you" and Quentin Tarantino's response is, "Oh really, bitch?! I hadn't noticed that people think I'm great. Why don't you get out of my FACE." Also, REALLY you DJed an Oscars pre-party? YEAH? REALLY?

I will cut you.

3) His general douchey/dude-bro/entitled attitude. I mean, come on! He acts like a Cubs fan at the Cubby Bear after a win! Isn't that enough for you people? Was Kill Bill realllllly that amazing that you're willing to just forgive the man for being LIKE A CUBS FAN AT THE CUBBY BEAR AFTER A WIN?

Well? ARE YOU?

Charlie's Memoirs

Argh! Last night I woke up at 4am and my brain was like, "Oh, you're awake! Good, let's think about all the stressful things that are going on in your life that you can't change because it's the middle of the night. So how 'bout them taxes, hmm? WHAT are you going to do about THOSE?"

That has nothing to do with today's post, I just needed to vent. It was obnoxious.

Today's post is actually all about Charlie! Yay! For those who do not know Charlie, he is Monica's cat. And he is a notorious cat-hater converter. Even my roommate was anti cat when she went to the Humane Society for a rabbit for her friend. But when Charlie walked over, curled up in her lap and fell asleep, I believe her exact words were, "And I shall name him Charlie."

I've been living with Charlie for over a year now, and it has been a lovely time. Charlie is full of very odd quirks, including the fact that he loves the taste of tape, and he loves to hide little things under the rug. His favorite thing to hide under the rug are pens. It was quite a mystery to us. Why pens? Why the rugs? Until I figured it out: he is hiding the pens for safekeeping so that when we leave, he can write his memoirs.

And what would you know? This morning when I woke up, I discovered those memoirs! It's quite a thick manuscript, so I thought I'd share with you some excerpts.

Ahemahemahemahem:

My Life: Meow
By Charlie Cat



Today was sunny. My friends the birds were out in full force. I meowed at them to come play with me, but they twittered obnoxiously and flew off. Typical.



Found a bottle cap today. Put it away for Mom. If she ever needs it, it'll be where she can find it, under the couch.

Emily tried to pick me up, so I climbed on her back. Did you know there are things on top of the counters? Astounding.



Travis tried to push me over, but I showed him. That's the last time he'll rub my belly without permission.

What a great day. Found a new sunbeam.



Emily's arm hair was especially dirty earlier. It's a thankless job, making sure she's properly groomed each day. I had to give her a few nips to remind her who's in charge.

Tried to keep everyone from leaving by rolling on the carpet and being completely adorable. Sigh...they'll be back.



Ate too much cat food, had to work off the extra calories by running from the living room to the kitchen and back four times. Note to self: show Mom the place I puked when she gets home.

Did NOT fall off the couch on accident today, and anyone who says otherwise is lying.

Someone left out scotch tape! On a separate note, stomach feels a little weird.



Chapter 6: Things That Are Mine: The dresser is mine. The fridge is mine. The computers are mine. The DVDs are mine. The lamp is mine. All shoes are mine. Emily's nose is mine. The door frames are mine...

Helped Mom put the sheets on her bed and fold laundry. There was a mouse in the sheets, I'm sure of it, but it got away. Next time. Next time.



Walked into the living room and ignored everyone. Next time maybe they'll remember to save the tuna juice for those in need.

Whoever this Trader Joe is, he makes a quality cat cave.



Bounding skills in tip top shape. May have left claw marks on Emily's stomach.

Brought Mom two balls and a glove last night. She didn't even seem impressed. Better meow louder tonight.

Found a box. Sat in it. Tasted great.

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.

Friend Week: The Rambunctious Roommates

Day four of Friend Week is a DOUBLE WHAMMY!!

"But, Emily," you might say. "Isn't that cheating?"

Yes. Yes it is. But the more I thought about these two girls, the more I realized how much they have in common, in relation to my life.

Today I introduce you to Sara and Monica!

Things that make Sara and Monica the same:
- They are my two roommates since college (Sara the former, Monica the current)
- They are both "high school friends."
- They both went to the same college and came out as snooty arteests.
- They are both social butterflies.
- They are both badasses who lift heavy things and screw them into walls.
- Um...what else? They both like tall, hairy men? Okay, out of ideas.

LET'S START WITH SARA!!


Sara is, what you call, a Theater Nerd. This picture is the first image that comes up when you google her name, which I did out of curiosity. Joe and I are going to see her play on Saturday. I am terrified. I mean, look at that picture! LOOK AT IT!!!

Sara and I had gone to the same school since kindergarten, but didn't become friends until her family started going to the same church as ours around 6th grade. Then we were BFF^maxpowerextreme. We were in every junior high play together (we even played the same part in a double-casted Annie. Extraneous orphans wut wuuuuut) and in Algebra Trig, we wrote musical parodies about how much we hate--what else--Alegbra Trig. Good times/worst class ever.

Sara and I parted for college (are we getting a theme here with my besties? I tend to hold on to them for a while.) Sara became a Theater Jack-of-all-trades. She acted her pants off--literally once, ooer--and became a badass drill-wielder backstage.

Soon after college, she called me just to catch up, and we realized we were moving into the city at the same time and both needed a roommate. And voila! Since Sara was still in PA, it was my job to find us a nice, cheap apartment. Which I did. It was lovely. It was huge, it had TWO bathrooms (count em, two), new appliances and a washer/dryer IN UNIT. Aaaaaaaaaaand it may or may not have been directly under the el. YIKES. But it was cheap, and they guaranteed me you wouldn't notice it after a while. And it's true. After a while, I didn't hear my wine glasses clattering every five minutes. But I DID have to sleep with earplugs. So after our lease was up, Sara and I hiked out of there and found new places; hers close to the theaters she works at, and mine near some of my newly-acquired friends. And that is when I moved in with Monica.

MONICA BACKSTORY TIME!


Monica and I met in Biology, Freshman year of high school. I believe the first thing she said to me was, "Your name is Emily? HER name is Emily! *points to another Emily*" And I'm pretty sure we were best friends ever since. It doesn't take much.

Monica and I bonded over boys. There's no way around that statement. Monica knows every crush/semi-crush/obsession that I had in high school *coughWescough*. And, likewise, I knew hers. We passed notes to each other every day, giggling about how That Boy looked at me and This Boy said this, and plotting our next plan of attack. We visited them where they worked. "Oh, you work here? That's so weird! We were just thinking how much we were craving...prescription drugs...SO what are you doing this weekend??"

It was a bond that could not be broken. Except by college. (DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING, DID YOU?!) No, no, college didn't break us. In fact, we stayed pretty close throughout it. And when she told me she was moving into the city, it was perfect timing, for I was looking for someone to live with me in Wicker Park!

Monica is in grad school, learning how to be a Museum Goddess: planning exhibits, installing things, commanding others to plan and install...you know. Things Museum Goddesses do. She works at the Museum of Contemporary Art. That's where that picture up there comes from. She has managed to convince me that not all modern and contemporary art is bullshit, and that a wall covered in moss is actually possibly the coolest thing ever. And that it IS art.

Sara and Monica are both amazing people, and seriously badass. And everyone else knows it, too. That's why they are always busy, always with something to do or somewhere to be or someone to meet up with. Which I am always visibly jealous of. They are also every boy's dream: Sara, who is gorgeous beyond all AND plays bloody video games in her spare time, And Monica, who turns heads on the street but will join your midnight game of dodgeball at a moment's notice.

They are fun, they are spunky, and they are genuinely great people who care. ALSO they will kill my spiders for me. And you've always gotta have one of those around.