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.

Fifty Mustaches

Soooooooooo, you know how Adrienne and I like to do weird things to raise money for the children?

Well we're at it again! This time, it's back to Mustache-a-thon, because OH YES, it's been a whole year since we did that. Time flies when you're keeping kids off the street. Am I right or am I right? Right? Right. Right. #groundhogdayreferences

So, for those new to the Emily's Blog Scene, the Mustache-a-thon is a fundraiser. Dudes grow mustaches, and people pledge money to them to keep them going and make them feel less like Stanley Tucci in Lonely Bones. And the money goes to a tutoring center in Chicago. It's a great idea...except it discludes (unincludes? uncludes? MOVING ON) half the world's population from being able to raise money. So they have a separate category for "prosthetic" growers, who have a mustache-related challenge to accomplish each week. And people can donate to them as well.

To extra complicate things, Adrienne and I formed a team called Collabostache and we try to raise money and awareness together. A little extra fun for us, a little extra money for the childrenz.

REQUEST TIME!!
Obviously if you would like to donate to the worthy, worthy, WORTHY cause, you can go here, find Collabostache (which, coincidentally is a picture of me holding a fake Adrienne that I constructed out of a pita chip, carrot, hummus, and pretzels because she had to work) and donate.

BUT! SOMETHING BETTER!!
If you have no money but still enjoy helping disadvantaged kids learn to read, you can do something that costs nothing but would help us out a TON. See, our challenge for next week is to collect/create/find 50 mustaches, in whatever way we see fit. Adrienne came up with the idea of finger mustaches. SO ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS: Take a picture of yourself holding up a finger mustache and send it to me. I have a handy-dandy email address over there to the right that'll work just fine. Or if you like Adrienne better (as we all truly do) you can also send it to her, given that you know her. Otherwise, please don't send her things. That'd be weird. Don't be like that.

So that's it. Money or mustaches. OR BOTH! GET CRAZY WITH IT!! Hey, I'll sweeten the deal. Best mustache gets a dedicated blog post. Here's mine; think you can beat it?

I tried to get Future Husband John Krasinski with "GOALS" written under it into this pic, but it was a no go. You'll just have to picture it in your minds. Also, we will discuss those bangs ANOTHER DAY.

The Single Most Stressful Day Of My Life

Well, Scrabble For Cheaters has come and gone. Dreams were crushed, PBRs were drunk in the middle of the day, and in the end,

WE GOT 2ND PLACE, JERKS!



AND!!! We all raised $10,000 total towards the impressionable minds of children! HUZZAH!!

So what does 2nd place mean? It means we played 4 games of Scrabble in 5 hours. And with only two minutes per turn, all of those games became down-to-the-wire, one-point-difference, oh-crap-is-FE-a-word-or-isn't-it-why-didn't-I-memorize-my-two-letter-words-better-quick-quick-just-play-something-for-the-love-of-GOD kind of games.

I think I gave myself about twenty ulcers on Saturday. I might as well have just stayed at home and chugged lemon juice straight from the bottle.

But NO! For then we wouldn't have raised all the moneys and helped all the childrens!

I have to give a special shout-out to my parents, who donated exactly enough money for us to purchase one of my favorite cheats: The Augment. The Augment lets you add 10 points to any letter. And how did we use it?

On the X in "EXITING." THAT'S RIGHT. All seven letters (50 points) plus a letter that's worth 18 points WHICH we were able to double up on another word. The word was worth almost 100 points and is absolutely the reason why we won that round.

*breathing heavily* Sorry, let me catch my breath from nerding out so hard just then.

.....

........

........... okay all better.

So anyway, Adrienne and I would like to say thanks to the contributors. You helped us and the tutoring center out immensely. But I would especially like to thank my parents. I'm sorry, I like them more than you and you need to accept that.

Clinky So They Can Thinky

Oh, hey guys. What's up? Nothing much over here. Just wondering if any of you could donate some money for Adrienne and I. We're playing Scrabble for Cheaters, and the more money we get, the more cheats we'll have, and the more glory will shine upon us. Our name is "Collabostache" and we have a picture of Bob Dole. Because, yeah. That makes sense. Every bit of the money goes to charity; tutoring inner city kids. Which is my #1 charitable passion. So please donate. There's a link around this blog plea somewhere...if only I could find it...

Words With Friends

Bout that time, eh chaps? Right-o.

It's time for another gathering offffffff *awkward Michael Scott drumroll* brrrrrrrrrrrr....brrrrrrrr...brr...

COLLABOSTACHE!!

"Hubba wha? Are you and Adrienne doing that mustache thing again that didn't really make sense because you are girls," you ask?

No. No we are not. But Adrienne and I are gathering again for another charitable fun day of fun through the same organization, CHI 826. This go around, we have entered ourselves in Scrabble For Cheaters.



The way it works is: We collect money from friends and loved ones, ALL of which goes to the after-school tutoring program for kids in Chicago. But what's FUN about the money we collect is that we get to use it to cheat at Scrabble and become the Ultimate Cheating Scrabble Champions Of The World.

Certain cheats cost certain amounts of money. The list is as follows:

$25: THE SWAP: Trade out a letter
$50: THE NON-CON: buy a vowel
$100: THE BLANK: Flip a letter over and make it blank
$150: THE AUGMENT: Add 10 points to any letter to increase its value
$200: THE ALSORANS: Add Q, Z, or X to any word
$250: THE KOSHKA: play a word in any non-English language
$300: THE CONFER: Consult the dictionary for one turn
$400: THE SPURN: Reject an opponent's word for no reason
$500: THE WEBSTER: Invent a word (must have definition)

Personally, I am a fan of "The Augment" because it's cheap and I am a KILLER at using the right letters in the right places. I didn't get a bazillion points on "equaling" because there was a "q" in it, people.

For her part, Adrienne is hoping to raise enough to get to use The Spurn because, and I quote, "It's the most dramatic cheat." I am imagining the two of us waiting patiently as someone puts down "quiz" in a triple word score. We look slowly at each other, our eyes squinting slyly. Simultaneously we stand up, pointing at the opposing team: "SPUUUUUUURN!!!!" we shout, probably accidentally knocking over the board and ruining everything, but it would all be worth it for the drama of The Spurn.

We've also decided to learn Polish and Italian between now and the tournament so we can use multiple Z's with The Koshka. And Adrienne has promised to brush up on her Yiddish (in truth, I don't know if she knows any) so we can use a million vowels if we have to, too. Oy vey....Mashugana? And I'm out.

So of course, I am asking for donations. Go here if you'd like to contribute (scroll down to Collabostache. You will know us by our Bob Dole picture.) If you're into supporting children with their doe eyes, do it for that. If you're into supporting me kicking some serious Scrabble ass (and some of you know from personal experience that it's possible) then donate for that reason. But no matter what, you are contributing greatly to a night of fun for me, and a lifetime of better grades for the kids.

Under the Influence of Awkward

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

10 Reasons Why Unemployment Rocks My Pants Off (Literally.)

Well, my freelancing gig is over for now. It was pretty awesome, though. I made connections, I got to write for money, and I think I proved that I actually deserve to be employed. Yippee!

But for now (and through until at least Monday), I am technically unemployed again. And, frankly, I'm pumped.

To explain this, let me take y'all on back to Emily circa February 2009. I spent the morning hopped up on Firing Day adrenaline, wringing my hands and being assured by everyone that there was no way I would be let go. I'm young, I'm hip, and they essentially pay me in shiny rocks.

Cut to that afternoon. Bloodbath. I am holding a neon yellow folder that holds a bunch of papers I've signed promising God-knows-what and a pamphlet with FAQs about Cobra.

Good times.

Our group packed up essentials (for me, that was four Ninja Turtles, my collection of flip flops and a stapler that was not stolen and definitely belonged to me.) We headed home to drink. AND DRINK WE DID. By dinnertime, I was feeling good. I was feeling REAL good. My parents called me once they heard my message and assured me I'd be back on my feet in no time. Jane's mother told her to get fat.

What I remember very distinctly, though, was the realization that I didn't have to go to work that Monday. And that led to the realization that I didn't have to go to work all WEEK. That project I was working on? Done. I am physically not ALLOWED to work on it anymore. And that led me to realize one very specific thing: I could READ. I could pick up a book and I could curl up on the couch, and I could read it. Any book I wanted. Just me, Mr. Darcy, and Charlie.

Since then, I have had a large amount of time to be funemployed. I have also had some good spurts of time to be regular ol' employed. And I have to say, as much as I do love being a copywriter, I am always pretty psyched for unemployment again. Let me break it down for you.

1. Pants.

Do I have to wear them? No I don't.
Do I wear them? Oh you, with your questions.

2. Sleep.

Do I get some? Yes I do.

3. Grocery shopping.

When I'm employed, I'm like the rest of society: I make a list, run in, get only the things I need, go home, realize I've forgotten three essential things, give up, and make myself a peanut butter & turkey sandwich in between two pancakes.

When I'm unemployed, going to the grocery store is an all-day event. I saunter down the aisles. I'm comparing prices, I'm picking out new brands of cheese, I'm taking the time to ponder how many flavors there are of Cheerios, I'm coming up with recipe ideas on the fly...basically, I'm an in-store marketer's dream. Why, what's this? A coupon for 5 cents off Jimmy Dean with any four dozen eggs? What a steal! Let me mosey on back to the meat section and...wait, not this meat section. It must be in another one. Hold on, why aren't the sausages with the bacon? Oh, they're over with the pre-cooked chicken. No, I was just over there. The DAIRY section? Why would they be in the dairy section? Weird.

4. The gym

Not only do I have time to go to the gym when I'm unemployed, I get to choose to go whenever the hell I want to. I don't wake up early, I don't have to plot out a spare hour or so when I can go. I just look at the clock, go "well about that time, eh mate?" pull on my Nikes and walk out the door. And do you know who else is there? No one. No one except a few other poor unemployed schmoes like myself. There are not scary muscle guys on my machines, I even get to choose which elliptical I want (near the front so I can stare out the window, but not too far front where I think people are watching me wiping my bra sweat. And when I realize that I just laughed out loud at something Wilson said to Al, it's okay. Because no one is around me to notice.

5. Charlie time

Question: Is Charlie currently spooning with me and also licking my chin for some reason?
Answer: Not anymore. He has now switched positions so that I am forced to smell his butt.

6 Joe time

This one is pretty key, of course. I figure when Joe and I move in together, I'll inherently see him more. Maybe work will even become a welcome break from seeing his mug. But for now, when I'm employed, I don't get as much face time with the man, which has therefore also equaled less back massages. Because I am dating a boy who gives back massages without asking. Yeah. He's pretty much amazing. You're jealous.

7. Me + TBS = BFFs 4 life

8. Me + internets x Adrienne = constant entertainment

9. Volunteering

I get to volunteer during the day when I am unemployed. Which is sometimes a pain in my ass, but really it's great getting to work with kids and feel like I'm helping things. Again, love copywriting, but am I really helping society in any way by convincing you to buy more shampoo?

10. Bloggery

And finally, I have all the time in the world to blog. Which is really quite nice, considering some of these posts have taken me hours to concoct. And you know what would be a great way to show your appreciation? Why, by clicking over there on the right and voting for this blog on the Blogger's Choice Awards! You can vote for as many as you want in each category--and seriously, you should also vote for 2birds1blog and Hyperbole and a Half. And read them religiously. But also vote for mine! Because, come on. I'm funnier than half those dumb blogs up there right now. Plus, all the cool kids are doing it.

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.

Whoring My Blog Out...For the Children.

Note: if you're not exactly 'the reading type,' I'd suggest scrolling on down to "RECAP" where the most important info lies. The rest is just life.

Happy Friday to all!

So check it, check it. BOY am I glad I got up the gumption to put on pants yesterday--TWICE, might I add.

Baby steps.

I'm glad because Adrienne and I pulled out a rock star performance yesterday at the weekly Mustache-a-thon meeting.

Summary of what the hell I'm talking about:

- I tutor at a place for inner city kids.
- To raise money, they are having a mustache-growing contest.
- We meet at a bar each week to check in.
- For the upper-lip impaired, a creative, mustache-related project is presented each week.
- Adrienne and I cheated slightly and have become "partners in mustache."
- Last week, we took pictures of cupcakes with mustaches traveling through the world.
- The point of us doing these projects is to inspire people to donate to this tutoring center. Yes, it does make a lot more sense to donate to someone's mustache-growing than two girls playing with cupcakes. But IT'S FOR THE CHILDREN.

SO! Yesterday was our second check-in with a whole new project. This time, they challenged us to make something mustache-related to sell in their store.

OH CRAP! BACK UP!

Forget what I said.
Let's start with this backstory:

When the first tutoring center opened in San Fran, they set it up in a storefront. Everything was going well until they found out that in order to be in a store, you had to actually sell things. So they did! They set up the tutoring center in the back, and created a Pirate Supply Store in the front. I imagine there were eye patches, fake parrots, lessons in "Yarr," etc.

Since then, they've set up tutoring chapters all over the US, with different-themed storefronts in each city. Chicago's theme is Spy Supplies. So it's actually called The Boring Store, but when you walk inside, you discover all kinds of spy supplies, like bananas to hide your cell phone in, sunglasses that help you see behind you, that kind of thing. Check it out. Cutest website ever.

Okay, now BACK TO WHERE I LEFT OFF.

Our challenge this week in the mustache-a-thon was to create something mustache-related that they could sell in The Boring Store. Adrienne and I came up with a Mustache Flowchart, to learn what kind of Mustache is right for you.

Voila.


Sadly, we did not win "1st place" and therefore the "prize" for the night, which was a copy of McSweeny's. But we did win the prize that is Winning At Life. The MC of the night, who is also in charge of The Boring Store, came up to us and asked if he could take the poster, because the store actually wanted to sell more posters, and he thought ours was a good idea. So that's all we know right now, but it means that in theory, I could have something I wrote (and Adrienne could have something she designed) for sale in an actual store! With a cash register! And price tags! And a website! Not too shabby!

So now I'm all hyped up on mustache endorsement. Which brings me to my next request: Sponsor us.

INCENTIVE: I've decided that it's not enough to just get a warm, fuzzy feeling from donating to tiny children who look like this:



You people need something more. And here is that reason:
If you donate $5 to the cause, I will write a blog post about you. And you alone.

Q: How will you know I donated?
A: These donations aren't exactly private. As long as you leave your name, I'll know!

Q: Emily, you do not know me.
A: Don't I?

Q: No, you don't.
A: Oh. Well, it's called Google, my friends. Or I will write a poem about you. Or you can tell me something about yourself in the comments here, and I will base a lengthy, made-up story about you and post that.

Q: What if you already wrote a post about me?
A: Well aren't you just the luckiest thing in the world. Tell ya what. I'll write another one. And it'll be better than the first! Eh? How's that for unachievable expectations?

Q: What if we haven't seen each other since high school?
A: In that case, PLEASE donate and I will give the world another magical post about my youth, your youth, and the weird, awkward things that happened during that time.

MORE INCENTIVE!
Adrienne, as a graphic designer extraordinaire, will also make you your very own logo if you donate $10. Think of it! $10 from you, and you have your own personal logo to sign off your emails! IT'S LIKE MAGIC! INTERNET MAGIC.

RECAP
Go here. Scroll down until you see Collabostache (which is now a picture of two cupcakes in front of the Epcot center...of course) and put in however much you want to donate.
Donate $5 to this place: Receive your very own dedicated blog post right here.
Donate $10 to this place: Receive your very own blog post AND your very own logo.

What have you got to lose?! ...I mean, besides ten bucks.

Cupcakes With Mustaches. It's For The Children.

So the other day I was walking to my gym and one of THOSE people was standing in my way. Looking at me. With a clipboard.

Oh, GOD.

Usually, these people are standing in groups in the middle of downtown, and they are easily ignorable because I am listening to my headphones and walking eighty billion miles an hour. But not this time, for I was fumbling to get out my membership card, take off my hat (so as not to appear unattractive to Cute Gym Worker Man) and turn off Britney Spears' Drive Me Crazy.

Suffice it to say, I was powerless. And then she caught me with a double whammy. She said, "Hello, do you have time to support same-sex marriage?" Why yes, ma'am. I always have time to support same-sex marriage. Especially because supporting same-sex marriage is something I usually do while also doing other things. Why, just the other day, I was eating a sandwich, watching TV, and supporting same-sex marriage all at the same time!

So I stopped. I figured: the woman had a clipboard, she wanted my support, I believe in all the same thing she believed...why, we may even become best friends. At best, I'd sign her little doohickey and then be on my way to Elliptical Hell.

This woman starts talking a mile a minute, and when I take a look at her little clipboard I notice--wait a minute. There is no list of signatures here! What have I gotten myself into? Oh my god, they're going to try to scare me straight. But I AM straight! Oh no wait...she just wants money.

I said, as nicely as I could, "Oh, do you want money?"
And, if I remember right, her response was something along the lines of "Blah blah at least $20 blah blah blah. PS. Blah."
And my response was, "Oh, heh heh....I don't have...well I mean I have, but I don't want...but I mean I support...but I just can't afford, but again with the support...well-wishes...proposition 8...my gym...money...unemployed...OKAY BYE! *Zzzzip!*" (That last part was me frantically running into my gym to get away from her.)

All this to say, I hate when people ask me to donate money. Even places where I know things are going to a good cause. Because on the one hand, giving money to people who need it is a good thing. Salvation Army at Christmas. Boys and Girls Club Toy Drive. Red Cross. ASPCA. This American Life podcasts. All good places to donate money. But with my bank account on a constant spiral downward, I just can't help that much--unless you want me to actually be one of the people ASKING for the money in about a week.

Thus, I give my time instead. Hence all the posts about volunteering. And lately, Adrienne and I have been involved with one such activity: a mustache-growing contest. Now, clearly since we cannot grow mustaches ourselves (if only...) we are given a weekly creative challenge while the natural growers do their thing. And the point of both is to get people to support your mustache growing/creating endeavors. This week, we were challenged to make a mustache out of any material we wanted and take pictures of it.

Adrienne and I are weird.

Let me get that out of the way right there, if you didn't pick up on that here. So instead of just cutting a mustache out of cardboard and taking pictures of it on statues, our cats, etc etc, we created a whole challenge for ourselves. We made little mustached cupcakes, and then sent them on adventures around the world.

Check it out.

Our goal is to be the most creative mustache team, have some fun, and also--you guessed it--to raise some money.

Any money donated to our cause goes to the place I tutor at. It's a non-profit writing and tutoring center. It's the place where a boy wrote this:


Which is, undisputedly, the single best piece of writing in existence.
These kids are from inner city schools, working off the public school system (which does not always do super well for them.) I've tutored a few kids now who come because they literally don't WANT to go home. Including a seven year old girl who had had a rock thrown through her living room window by a gang member. And yes, I tell you all that for pure and utter guilt factor.

What I'm telling you is this: I hate donating money. And I hate when people ask me to donate money. Because there are just so many good causes out there, I can't possibly give to them all. And anyway, I can't give money because I am piss-poor broke.

But maybe you are different. Maybe you have money. Or like to donate. Or just really like mustaches. Or cupcakes. Or...cupcakes with mustaches perhaps?

To donate money (any amount) you can go here. Scroll down, find Adrienne and I (second row, fourth column) and donate away! And remember: it's for the children.

You make me feel awkward. Let's get a drink.

Blarg, I think I have a serious problem.

So, like I told you, I'm a volunteering machine. And another thing I've been doing is TA-ing for a songwriting workshop for kids. Being a "TA" really just means I spent my Fridays corralling three 9 year-olds, forcing them to write lyrics to a song called "Pillow Fight." (And yes, it WAS adorable, athankyou.)

So the leader of this seminar was this guy who was...awkward. I don't even know how to describe HOW he was awkward. He just WAS. He was the kind of guy who you know is either married or very single, because I just couldn't see being that uncomfortable on a dating-basis. Like...he has short, curly hair. Are you with me now? Okay, just pretend you are and empathize with me while I tell you that I felt awkward around him as soon as there weren't a bunch of fourth graders nearby, jumping up and down and making confetti out of paper towels. He'd start talking to me and I'd be like, "Oh really?! That is soooo interesting..." while I'd run around, frantically trying to look busy by riffling through papers and matching pen caps to pens. ("These two don't match! This is red, and THIS is black! Oh, Emily..." etc etc)

So Friday was our last day, and this guy came up to me and was like, "So I was thinking about just grabbing a beer afterward with the other TAs and stuff, if you're not busy."

And in my head, I'm going, "You're busy! You're SERIOUSLY busy! Oh, man. The busy things you have to do. My my. Busy, busy, busy."

So I said, "Yeah, sounds good."

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?! EMILY!!!!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! But I honestly could not think of a single excuse. Because, in all honesty, no. I wasn't busy. But HOW HARD would it have been to lie?

"Sorry, I've got to get home." <---VALID. He wouldn't ask questions. I could have sprinted to the door and never looked back. Did I say those words? NO. And even when I realized that I actually DID need to get home to email my timesheet for my freelancing gig, I couldn't bring myself to tell him. I just went on acting like it was all cool and getting a drink is The Priority #1 Thing.

And that's when I looked around and realized--wait a minute. "The other TAs" he mentioned meant...ONE other TA. There should have been two, but one was out that day. Which means, if that ONE other TA had something better to do, I'd be "grabbing a drink" with Awkward Curly Hair--ALONE!! BAH!! Get out of it. Get out of it. Just put on your coat and walk out the door. No one will notice. Say you can't. Say you have that timesheet thing. SAY ANYTHING JUST GET OUT!!

"Okay, ready to go?"
"....Yep."

AAAAAAARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!

In the end, THANK GOD this other TA actually DID come along. And things were...1/3 less awkward. We talked about volunteering, and what we do for a living. And then went home. Ick, but not nearly the horribleness I was envisioning.

Although when I got home, I realized I was still wearing my name tag. And I know no one said anything because they didn't want to admit to looking at my boobs, but come on. I'm in a dive bar full of sneering old men, wearing a Harry Potter t-shirt and a name tag that says EMILY in thick, permanent marker. You gotta help a sister out.

I don't know why I am like that. Why I can't just say NO. I mean--Hey now. I've said no. I have never smoked a cigarette in my life. D.A.R.E. did teach me things. I'm not talking dangerous (or whorish) things. Just regular things. Like awkward songwriters inviting you out for a beer. But when there is technically no valid reason why I should lie, why I should just back up and walk away, I am putty in your hands. An innocent drink as a thank you? Why yes. I will go to that, no matter how mysteriously weird you make me feel. I can't stop it! Is it that I'm incapable of being a bitch? Is it that attempting to lie makes me EVEN MORE awkward than I already am? Little of both?

Why I Might Be Fired From Volunteering

I have been a volunteering machine these last few months, plugging along, not complaining and keeping a bright shiny smile on my face.

And really, I do love it. I volunteer with little kids all over the place, and I'm good at it. I swear. But now I need to get something off my chest. This is something that happened on Wednesday while I was tutoring.

So the way that this place works is: the tutors all come in at 3pm and sit at these large tables. As the kids filter in, one of the leaders bring them to a tutor that they think will be a good match.

I was tutoring this silent-but-deadly girl, we'll call her Jacki. Jacki was quiet. Hardly said a word. But she was really amazing at not getting any work done. She was like a freaking Houdini, too. I swear, I turned my back for one second and she managed to wriggle under the table and across the room. Freaking magical, this girl. So for an hour and a half it was me saying, "Okay, Jacki. What's next? Jacki. Howabout this problem? What's 2 times 4, Jacki?...Jacki...Where did you go? Jacki, get down from that light fixture."

When Jacki was almost done, they placed another student with me. We'll call him Alex. Alex is the nicest boy you'll meet. He hated me. Alex was a talker--the boy who always probably gets his name written on the board with a check mark after it. You know what I'm talking about. To Alex, tutors are just more people to talk to! Hooray! Oh, but here's forty mixed fractions I have to do.

So I've got the Talker on one side and Jacki Houdini on the other, and neither of them will sit still for one second without me breathing on them. Thank God I'd just brushed my teeth. I don't want to be THAT tutor.

I promised Alex that if he finished his fractions, I'd go steal him an Oreo from the back room. Because, yeah. I'm that cool. This got him back to work, so I turned to Jacki. When I turned back to check on him, Alex is at another table, talking to a tutor about cat hair.

Eventually, another tutor took it upon herself to try and harness Alex into working. She did this by asking him how to do the problem he was working on (the same problem he had been working on since he arrived, by the way). Alex showed her part of it, and then she finished the rest for him. So he copies her answer down in his workbook and she congratulates him. "Thanks for showing me how to do that problem! Here's a cracker."

WHAT THE HELL, LADY. Here I am, being a normal--albeit stressed--tutor, keeping Alex's nose to the grindstone and trying to get him through one answer. And now YOU come in, give him the answer and then usurp my prize?! Awesome. That'll really give me the points I need to--- Op. Oh, no. Jacki has broken free and is now dangling from a bookshelf.

Eventually it was time to go. Alex had done MAYBE two problems, but at least Jacki hadn't broken her nose?

I'm sorry, I'm aware this post is kind of lame and confusing. I just needed an outlet to share my frustration, since the entire situation was such a failblog dot com. Backslash volunteering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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