Right before writing this post, I looked down at my finger and realized that I had a large (though painless) cut right at the tip. It took me a full ten seconds to remember how this had happened--somehow I had cut myself opening a jar. Five minutes ago. Yes.
This is a typical day in the life of Emily. 1) Hurt yourself doing something simple and everyday. 2) Forget that you did it because you have the memory of a wombat. (Wombat? What is wrong with me? *Sigh*, moving on.) I am constantly covered in bruises, not because I have a disease, but because I run into things. And then I forget that I did. I get at least one rather nasty, deep-looking bruise a year and when people see it I usually hear this: "*GASP!* Oh my gawwwwd! What HAPPENED?!" To which I reply, "Oh, uh...ran into a wall maybe?"
My forgetfulness and clumsiness also wrap quite nicely into another lovely quality of mine: a distinct lack of cooking elegance. And these qualities I blame on my mother. Not that my mom is a bad cook. She makes some KILLER dishes. And have I mentioned the Chex Mix? Ohhhhh, the Chex Mix. My stars. But my mom will be the first to admit, she is no Martha Stewart. Let me tell you about Saturday night.
I went home to spend some time with The Fam before my little sister, Hannah, went back to school. For dinner, my mom wanted to try a dish she had made once before, chicken wrapped in puff pastry.
The box of the pastry said to let it thaw for 40 minutes, but it just wasn't thawing fast enough. I suggested she defrost it in the microwave, because I was sure I had seen that suggestion on the box somewhere. I then walked away from the kitchen.
Next thing I know, my mom is cursing my name to the heavens because she microwaved the puff pastry while it was still rolled (note that I never told her to do THAT) so it had turned into a roll of goo and she couldn't unroll it anymore and what was she going to do noooooow??
So I start laughing and trying to pry the damn thing open with a butter knife, which just ends in further massacre. We're both covered in flour, uncooked chicken goo and (mysteriously) soy sauce, and the puff pastry, which is supposed to be a flat square, looks roughly like the state of Idaho.
While my mom is lamenting, "This would NEVER happen to Julia Child!" my dad comes home and starts mocking us. Lovely, Dad, thank you for the advice. He then pours us both a glass of wine and tells us it'll still taste fine. My mom tries to convince Hannah to go out into the cold and buy us more puff pastry, which she refuses to do because she is useless. Meanwhile, the pets need to be fed, so Wally the cat/horse is at our feet, reaching as high as he can. And yes, he CAN reach the counter top. So on this counter top (which is about two feet wide, by the way), we have the Idaho dough, flour everywhere, chicken/salmonella, vegetables, multiple spoons, sauce, cat food, groping cat paws, and two glasses of wine.
Ahh, home.
Perhaps anticlimactic, but in the end, we rolled it out to an acceptable shape and you couldn't tell which was the batch we'd messed up and which we hadn't. Which makes me love puff pastry THAT much more.
And thus, my family (and my clumsiness) lives another day.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Writer's Block Cure: working the brain AND butt muscles
I think I may have a cure for writer's block, and that cure will also get me rocking glutes. I just might do my best thinking while working out. Blech. Kill me.
I am not a, how you say, "gym rat." I am the girl who does ten minutes on the elliptical, falls over and promises to do weights 'next time.' I am the girl who may or may not giggle every time the cute boy at the front desk remembers her name. I am the girl who started doing crunches four days ago.
I mean, I'm healthy. I am of a healthy weight. I'm not walking down a runway anytime soon, but whatever to that. Gone are the days when I aspire to zero flab. I'm only getting older and there will soon come a day when I look at my skinny jeans longingly and cry. As my mother told me on Christmas Eve, "You're so skinny!...You should take a picture." And take a picture I did.
What I'm saying is...what am I saying? Oh, the gym. So I'm not a super fan of cardio. Sure, there are some days when I get on the elliptical, turn on a little Lady Gaga and run/subtly dance all my stress away. But there are some days when I get on the elliptical and immediately think, "this is the worst thing ever and if I continue for one more second, the Indian kid running in the jean shorts is going down."
But now I have a real reason to get on that spinning death machine: I become inspired. I have discovered that, despite having basic cable on every machine and a device that can pour thousands of songs into my ears whenever I want (God, can you imagine going to the gym with a Discman? Hehhh...) I am always insanely bored while I work out. There are few TV shows or songs that can significantly distract me from the viciousness of exercise. And so, with Cash Cab playing lovingly in the background, my mind drifts away to a happy place where my legs are not jelly and my boobs are steadfastly in one place.
I've only just realized how many of my ideas come to me while working out. I'm a little nervous that being aware of it, the power will be gone and I'll have to add it to the list of Places Where Sometimes But Not Always I Get Good Ideas.
Included:
-Walking to the bathroom, never from.
-Middle of the night (reread later, "what does 'we should be elves' mean??")
-In the shower, right before the water turns cold and I start crying.
-Coffee shops, unless I drink coffee
I'll have to test out my theory next time I'm at the gym. You'll know it works if I write a Super Awesome Blog Post soon. Anyone else have good places for inspiration?
I am not a, how you say, "gym rat." I am the girl who does ten minutes on the elliptical, falls over and promises to do weights 'next time.' I am the girl who may or may not giggle every time the cute boy at the front desk remembers her name. I am the girl who started doing crunches four days ago.
I mean, I'm healthy. I am of a healthy weight. I'm not walking down a runway anytime soon, but whatever to that. Gone are the days when I aspire to zero flab. I'm only getting older and there will soon come a day when I look at my skinny jeans longingly and cry. As my mother told me on Christmas Eve, "You're so skinny!...You should take a picture." And take a picture I did.
What I'm saying is...what am I saying? Oh, the gym. So I'm not a super fan of cardio. Sure, there are some days when I get on the elliptical, turn on a little Lady Gaga and run/subtly dance all my stress away. But there are some days when I get on the elliptical and immediately think, "this is the worst thing ever and if I continue for one more second, the Indian kid running in the jean shorts is going down."
But now I have a real reason to get on that spinning death machine: I become inspired. I have discovered that, despite having basic cable on every machine and a device that can pour thousands of songs into my ears whenever I want (God, can you imagine going to the gym with a Discman? Hehhh...) I am always insanely bored while I work out. There are few TV shows or songs that can significantly distract me from the viciousness of exercise. And so, with Cash Cab playing lovingly in the background, my mind drifts away to a happy place where my legs are not jelly and my boobs are steadfastly in one place.
I've only just realized how many of my ideas come to me while working out. I'm a little nervous that being aware of it, the power will be gone and I'll have to add it to the list of Places Where Sometimes But Not Always I Get Good Ideas.
Included:
-Walking to the bathroom, never from.
-Middle of the night (reread later, "what does 'we should be elves' mean??")
-In the shower, right before the water turns cold and I start crying.
-Coffee shops, unless I drink coffee
I'll have to test out my theory next time I'm at the gym. You'll know it works if I write a Super Awesome Blog Post soon. Anyone else have good places for inspiration?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Poetry and Grammar, your two faves
I didn't blog yesterday. Or, really, I couldn't. I couldn't, because I went to a poetry thing. Poetry slam. Whatever. SEE?! I CAN'T WRITE ANYMORE! IT IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE!!
So the deal is, I went to this poetry whatever with Adrienne and it was AWESOME. (Check it out here) I know nothing about poetry, but I assume that it has to do with rhythym? And not putting a lot of words on one line? Question mark? Clearly I don't know how to write them. But I'm not going to lie, I am pretty awesome at the 3rd grade version of poems.
There once was a dog named Roof.
Upon his small tail was a poof.
Case closed, I am awesome at it. But these poems with their symbolism and their anger and their humor and their...moving your arms when you read them... it was incredible. It was like Robin Williams in What Dreams May Come when he dies and he's all "What IS this magical place?" and then he finds out it's actually familiar, because it's all from his mind and the hot Asian girl is his daughter and it's weird.
It was like that. And when I got home, I was a bit over-inspired. All I wanted to do was write symbolic poems about gay rights and childhood memories. So instead I watched tbs and went to bed. And now I need to get back on the writing horse.
My bout with poetry yesterday and my other bout with trying to be an editor have made me realize that I am not a real writer. I can call myself a writer. My occupation even has "writer" in the title. But the last time I got a grammar lesson was my Sophomore year in high school, and that's only because my teacher was appalled at how bad our grammar was. Do I actually know where commas go? Clearly, no, I do, not. And when I freelanced over the summer and a REAL editor went over my work, I was mortified to learn all my wretched writing mistakes. Did YOU know there are rules for what kind of hyphen to use, AND what kind of spacing to use around them? I didn't. I still don't really know, which just makes me jittery every time I use one now.
Really, being a copywriter means I'm not good at any kind of writing except writing how I speak. Which isn't always helpful because I say things like, "Okay but no because it's like super awesome and stuff" on a daily basis.
Oh, and copywriters are supposed to be able to write concisely.
*blinks*
So I raise my glass today to the real writers. The ones who know what the hell they are doing. To you I say, will you write a poem about me?
So the deal is, I went to this poetry whatever with Adrienne and it was AWESOME. (Check it out here) I know nothing about poetry, but I assume that it has to do with rhythym? And not putting a lot of words on one line? Question mark? Clearly I don't know how to write them. But I'm not going to lie, I am pretty awesome at the 3rd grade version of poems.
There once was a dog named Roof.
Upon his small tail was a poof.
Case closed, I am awesome at it. But these poems with their symbolism and their anger and their humor and their...moving your arms when you read them... it was incredible. It was like Robin Williams in What Dreams May Come when he dies and he's all "What IS this magical place?" and then he finds out it's actually familiar, because it's all from his mind and the hot Asian girl is his daughter and it's weird.
It was like that. And when I got home, I was a bit over-inspired. All I wanted to do was write symbolic poems about gay rights and childhood memories. So instead I watched tbs and went to bed. And now I need to get back on the writing horse.
My bout with poetry yesterday and my other bout with trying to be an editor have made me realize that I am not a real writer. I can call myself a writer. My occupation even has "writer" in the title. But the last time I got a grammar lesson was my Sophomore year in high school, and that's only because my teacher was appalled at how bad our grammar was. Do I actually know where commas go? Clearly, no, I do, not. And when I freelanced over the summer and a REAL editor went over my work, I was mortified to learn all my wretched writing mistakes. Did YOU know there are rules for what kind of hyphen to use, AND what kind of spacing to use around them? I didn't. I still don't really know, which just makes me jittery every time I use one now.
Really, being a copywriter means I'm not good at any kind of writing except writing how I speak. Which isn't always helpful because I say things like, "Okay but no because it's like super awesome and stuff" on a daily basis.
Oh, and copywriters are supposed to be able to write concisely.
*blinks*
So I raise my glass today to the real writers. The ones who know what the hell they are doing. To you I say, will you write a poem about me?
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
I can Muppeteer and so can you.
I have found no greater joy than in this moment.
You can make a Muppet.
Or, well, you can have one made. But it's authentic Muppet material, by authentic Muppet-making hands. Supported by authentic Muppet frogs and pigs. I'm peeing. Or I might be. I'm not sure, because I think I've lost all feeling in my body due to overwhelming happiness.
So I heard about this a while ago through the podcast Stuff You Should Know (which is awesome, by the way. And free.) and I got very excited until I found out that you actually had to go to the FAO Schwartz in NYC in order to make one. And so this post was going to be me explaining how I need to go to New York again so that I can go make one. But then I went to the website and VOILA!
And, yes, the Muppets do cost $130. PENNIES. Mere pennies compared to the joy it would bring me. I mean come on. You spend that much on a fancy meal for two. And just look at this little puddin' face!!
Look into those eyes and tell me that that guy is not your new best friend.
Maybe I should tell you guys that I'm a bit of a Muppet fan. Oh, you already figured that out? Huh. Anyway, my Muppetlove started with a little wolf named Rosco, and a little cow named Lucy. Walk with me, won't you?
In elementary school Spanish, we were introduced to two puppets: Rosco and Lucy. Rosco and Lucy told us all about the colors of the rainbow and asked us how the weather was today. Hace mal tiempo, Rosco. Hace MAL tiempo. Now, the issue that I had was not really with these puppets. It was with the other students in my classroom. Apparently I was a puppet snob, even then. I just never understood how hard it was to say words and move your hand at the same time. This isn't like rubbing your stomach and patting your head. It is the SAME MOVEMENT. But I cannot tell you how many times I watched in bitter resentment as this transpired:
"Como te llamas?" *moves hand furiously*
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!
And so I decided to become a Muppeteer and show them all. I went to the public library searching for books about how to get into Muppeteering. And--something that still boggles my mind today--they actually had some. Here was the problem: I was nine. All that I'd ever been told was that I could be whatever I wanted to be. Marine Biologist? Sure! Who cares that you hate fish, sharks and whales! Screen actress? Of course! You'll probably get over your fear of cameras someday! But this book about Muppeteering was for people who were not nine. It was for people who were serious. And the book was honest and said that it was a hard thing to get into, that most people don't, and that you'd have to move to New York in order to do it. Well screw that. I'm nine. My parents still pour my cereal for me. I am not moving.
And thus, my dreams of Muppeteering were squashed. But now they have become reborn! For, if I cannot hang out with Old School 70's Gonzo all day (my true life dream) at least I can create a Muppet and use it to annoy people by giving them Muppet responses to their serious questions.
"Emily, is the house on fire?" "I don't know, I have a banana in my ear!!" Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
So what I'm trying to say is, can I borrow $130 for a business investment?
You can make a Muppet.
Or, well, you can have one made. But it's authentic Muppet material, by authentic Muppet-making hands. Supported by authentic Muppet frogs and pigs. I'm peeing. Or I might be. I'm not sure, because I think I've lost all feeling in my body due to overwhelming happiness.
So I heard about this a while ago through the podcast Stuff You Should Know (which is awesome, by the way. And free.) and I got very excited until I found out that you actually had to go to the FAO Schwartz in NYC in order to make one. And so this post was going to be me explaining how I need to go to New York again so that I can go make one. But then I went to the website and VOILA!
And, yes, the Muppets do cost $130. PENNIES. Mere pennies compared to the joy it would bring me. I mean come on. You spend that much on a fancy meal for two. And just look at this little puddin' face!!
Look into those eyes and tell me that that guy is not your new best friend.
Maybe I should tell you guys that I'm a bit of a Muppet fan. Oh, you already figured that out? Huh. Anyway, my Muppetlove started with a little wolf named Rosco, and a little cow named Lucy. Walk with me, won't you?
In elementary school Spanish, we were introduced to two puppets: Rosco and Lucy. Rosco and Lucy told us all about the colors of the rainbow and asked us how the weather was today. Hace mal tiempo, Rosco. Hace MAL tiempo. Now, the issue that I had was not really with these puppets. It was with the other students in my classroom. Apparently I was a puppet snob, even then. I just never understood how hard it was to say words and move your hand at the same time. This isn't like rubbing your stomach and patting your head. It is the SAME MOVEMENT. But I cannot tell you how many times I watched in bitter resentment as this transpired:
"Como te llamas?" *moves hand furiously*
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!
And so I decided to become a Muppeteer and show them all. I went to the public library searching for books about how to get into Muppeteering. And--something that still boggles my mind today--they actually had some. Here was the problem: I was nine. All that I'd ever been told was that I could be whatever I wanted to be. Marine Biologist? Sure! Who cares that you hate fish, sharks and whales! Screen actress? Of course! You'll probably get over your fear of cameras someday! But this book about Muppeteering was for people who were not nine. It was for people who were serious. And the book was honest and said that it was a hard thing to get into, that most people don't, and that you'd have to move to New York in order to do it. Well screw that. I'm nine. My parents still pour my cereal for me. I am not moving.
And thus, my dreams of Muppeteering were squashed. But now they have become reborn! For, if I cannot hang out with Old School 70's Gonzo all day (my true life dream) at least I can create a Muppet and use it to annoy people by giving them Muppet responses to their serious questions.
"Emily, is the house on fire?" "I don't know, I have a banana in my ear!!" Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
So what I'm trying to say is, can I borrow $130 for a business investment?
Monday, January 4, 2010
My Travel Plans
I’m not partial to New Years Resolutions. I tend to be in the when-I-want-to-I’ll-change camp. But this year, I just so happened to go to a yoga class right before the New Year and discovered how sadly sad sad my abs are. So I’ve resolved (and it just so happens to be at the New Year) to do a couple crunches. You know, here and there. And today as I listened to my Songs I Should Know By Now mix, Free Bird came on. At my first crunch I heard the lyrics, “Lord knows you cannot chaaaaange!”
Screw you, Lynard Skynard. No one asked your opinion.
Another thing I’ve been thinking about that is very New Years Resolution-y is travel. While unemployed, these travel plans are all put on hold. But I also assume that I WILL have a copywriting job in the near future and will not be forced to go back to school to become a Kindergarten teacher (which, despite my surly exterior, I honestly think I would be good at). So once I get back to Corporate America, I have a few places I’ll be flying to. In no special order...
New England:
I’ve seen New York and DC and Pennsylvania, but I have never been to true New England. I’m talking lobster-catching, sand-dollar-finding, old-women-who-smell-of-the-sea New England. And for some reason, I am dying to go.
Reasons Why This Is Ridiculous:
1) I hate all food that comes from the sea. (EVEN CUCUMBER SUSHI?!?! Yes. Stop judging me.)
2) Is my biggest reason for going that I once read a charming tween book about a girl who visits her grandmother who lives in New England and she gets her first kiss from the shy blue-eyed neighbor? Yes. That is my biggest reason.
3) Is my second biggest reason syrup? Yes. That is my second biggest reason.
California:
The fact that I have never stepped foot on California soil is a horrible injustice. Why?
More Lists:
1) Many (if not most) ads are shot in California. I have produced many ads, and have yet to go on an ad shoot. It’s embarrassing.
2) One of my best friends from college is from southern California. Her family is rolling in it, and her mother has told me that if I ever want to come to California, whether to visit or, you know, live indefinitely, I can take up residence in their home. And they would give me delicious food and possibly a Jag. And yet I have never been.
3) My favorite ad agency is in San Francisco, so it is my goal to become worthy enough to work there. Although I am really bad with hills. This might pose a problem; I hear San Fran has a few.
Scotland:
I am more or less a mutt, heritage-wise, but I always just tell people I’m Scottish. My family has a Scottish crest, a plaid, a castle, my great uncle plays the bagpipes, and the only semi-close relative who is 100% anything was my great-grandfather, last name: MacBeath.
So I want to go to Scotland, visit my castle, maybe plant a flag, and then drink Scotch with the locals until I understand what the hell they are saying to me.
I was very close to Scotland a number of times when I dated The Irishman, but he refused to take me there because he didn’t want to spend his money travelling to a country that is basically the same as the one we were already in. So instead we went to Mainland Europe. Which brings me to my next destination—
France:
I am not going over the entire story. But yes, the man dumped me in front of the Eiffel Tower. So I am determined to go back to France and have it not be the worst experience of my life. Because I think France deserves as much. Certainly their cheese does. And their crepes. And their crème brulee. And their scarves.
Greece:
I used to really want to go to southern Italy, just for the fact that it was distant and warm. But I have changed my mind. I must go to Greece. And I will even endure the fact that you can’t flush toilet paper (I hear.) I will endure it for this reason:
CATS EVERYWHERE
(photo courtesy of Erin C)
I know a couple that went to Greece and whenever they sat outside to eat, they were barraged with cats. Just cats, flying in from everywhere to eat their yogurt and baklava.
I know most people are of the cats-are-evil persuasion, so the idea of CATS EVERYWHERE makes them want to curl up and die a little. Not me. Cats are awesome. So are dogs. So are hamsters. So are rabbits. Summary: if you have fur, you are awesome. (Another reason why I'm with Joe.)
So *jump* <-- That’s me, jumping on the Greece train.
These are my top places to visit. Not for 2010 necessarily, but hopefully within the next five years. Howabout all y’all? Where do you want to go?
Screw you, Lynard Skynard. No one asked your opinion.
Another thing I’ve been thinking about that is very New Years Resolution-y is travel. While unemployed, these travel plans are all put on hold. But I also assume that I WILL have a copywriting job in the near future and will not be forced to go back to school to become a Kindergarten teacher (which, despite my surly exterior, I honestly think I would be good at). So once I get back to Corporate America, I have a few places I’ll be flying to. In no special order...
New England:
I’ve seen New York and DC and Pennsylvania, but I have never been to true New England. I’m talking lobster-catching, sand-dollar-finding, old-women-who-smell-of-the-sea New England. And for some reason, I am dying to go.
Reasons Why This Is Ridiculous:
1) I hate all food that comes from the sea. (EVEN CUCUMBER SUSHI?!?! Yes. Stop judging me.)
2) Is my biggest reason for going that I once read a charming tween book about a girl who visits her grandmother who lives in New England and she gets her first kiss from the shy blue-eyed neighbor? Yes. That is my biggest reason.
3) Is my second biggest reason syrup? Yes. That is my second biggest reason.
California:
The fact that I have never stepped foot on California soil is a horrible injustice. Why?
More Lists:
1) Many (if not most) ads are shot in California. I have produced many ads, and have yet to go on an ad shoot. It’s embarrassing.
2) One of my best friends from college is from southern California. Her family is rolling in it, and her mother has told me that if I ever want to come to California, whether to visit or, you know, live indefinitely, I can take up residence in their home. And they would give me delicious food and possibly a Jag. And yet I have never been.
3) My favorite ad agency is in San Francisco, so it is my goal to become worthy enough to work there. Although I am really bad with hills. This might pose a problem; I hear San Fran has a few.
Scotland:
I am more or less a mutt, heritage-wise, but I always just tell people I’m Scottish. My family has a Scottish crest, a plaid, a castle, my great uncle plays the bagpipes, and the only semi-close relative who is 100% anything was my great-grandfather, last name: MacBeath.
So I want to go to Scotland, visit my castle, maybe plant a flag, and then drink Scotch with the locals until I understand what the hell they are saying to me.
I was very close to Scotland a number of times when I dated The Irishman, but he refused to take me there because he didn’t want to spend his money travelling to a country that is basically the same as the one we were already in. So instead we went to Mainland Europe. Which brings me to my next destination—
France:
I am not going over the entire story. But yes, the man dumped me in front of the Eiffel Tower. So I am determined to go back to France and have it not be the worst experience of my life. Because I think France deserves as much. Certainly their cheese does. And their crepes. And their crème brulee. And their scarves.
Greece:
I used to really want to go to southern Italy, just for the fact that it was distant and warm. But I have changed my mind. I must go to Greece. And I will even endure the fact that you can’t flush toilet paper (I hear.) I will endure it for this reason:
CATS EVERYWHERE
(photo courtesy of Erin C)
I know a couple that went to Greece and whenever they sat outside to eat, they were barraged with cats. Just cats, flying in from everywhere to eat their yogurt and baklava.
I know most people are of the cats-are-evil persuasion, so the idea of CATS EVERYWHERE makes them want to curl up and die a little. Not me. Cats are awesome. So are dogs. So are hamsters. So are rabbits. Summary: if you have fur, you are awesome. (Another reason why I'm with Joe.)
So *jump* <-- That’s me, jumping on the Greece train.
These are my top places to visit. Not for 2010 necessarily, but hopefully within the next five years. Howabout all y’all? Where do you want to go?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Friday, January 1, 2010
The Bittersweet Smell of Changing Winds.
The day I turned 25 (which was like ten days ago), people asked me if I felt different. And I told them no, because I've acted like a late-twenty-something for a while ("But why do they have to play their music SO LOUD? Can't a girl chew her antacids in peace??"). Plus I've been calling myself 25 for months, partially because it's a nice, stable-sounding number, and partially because I'm too lazy to remember how old I technically am.
But within ten days, all that has changed. Now I feel like an old, oooooooold person. I feel...thirty.
Two days ago, this conversation transpired:
Jane: "My boyfriend's mother keeps hinting at babies. Blech!"
Monica: "My dad is the same way! All he talks about is grandchildren! I'm like, NO, Dad! Not for a looooong time, IF AT ALL!"
Me: "Thank GOD my sister had a baby, so no one bugs me about it! Phew!"
Carla: "I'm pregnant."
*Screaming*
So Mozel Tov to Carla and her husband! I believe they are 1-part excited, 3-parts terrified, and that sounds about right to me. But the conversations that have transpired since The Announcement have revealed so much change in such a short period of time. Someone call Daniel Faraday, because I'm going to start getting nosebleeds.
This is the ever classic "Faraday Concerned Face." My niece, Libby, is great at it, too:
And this is basically the face I've been walking around with since Wednesday.
In a nutshell, I've realized that nearly everyone is moving out of the city/state. And Joe and I are planning on living together in the spring. So, by this time next year, given that things go well, I'll have a whole new group of friends, a new job, and I'll be living with someone who has to shave their face.
I suppose I'm mostly excited, because I'm really rooting for some quality new friends and job and apartment. But thinking about losing the people who have gotten me out of the Hell that is post-college...well, it makes me want to curl up in the fetal position under a fuzzy blue blanket and blog, specifically. And non-specifically, it makes me feel lost. In the same way I felt when they stopped making my favorite kind of cracker so I walked around aimlessly for months, eating sweet pickles from the jar.
MAN those crackers were good. I don't know who made them, but they came in a blue box and they were covered in magical southwest flavored red powder and they were thin and shaped in Navajo blanket patterns. Anyone? ANYONE?!
Where was I? Oh, sadness. Meh, I think I've said what I need to about current sadness. My new focus is the crackers. You all need to help me find those crackers. STAT.
But within ten days, all that has changed. Now I feel like an old, oooooooold person. I feel...thirty.
Two days ago, this conversation transpired:
Jane: "My boyfriend's mother keeps hinting at babies. Blech!"
Monica: "My dad is the same way! All he talks about is grandchildren! I'm like, NO, Dad! Not for a looooong time, IF AT ALL!"
Me: "Thank GOD my sister had a baby, so no one bugs me about it! Phew!"
Carla: "I'm pregnant."
*Screaming*
So Mozel Tov to Carla and her husband! I believe they are 1-part excited, 3-parts terrified, and that sounds about right to me. But the conversations that have transpired since The Announcement have revealed so much change in such a short period of time. Someone call Daniel Faraday, because I'm going to start getting nosebleeds.
This is the ever classic "Faraday Concerned Face." My niece, Libby, is great at it, too:
And this is basically the face I've been walking around with since Wednesday.
In a nutshell, I've realized that nearly everyone is moving out of the city/state. And Joe and I are planning on living together in the spring. So, by this time next year, given that things go well, I'll have a whole new group of friends, a new job, and I'll be living with someone who has to shave their face.
I suppose I'm mostly excited, because I'm really rooting for some quality new friends and job and apartment. But thinking about losing the people who have gotten me out of the Hell that is post-college...well, it makes me want to curl up in the fetal position under a fuzzy blue blanket and blog, specifically. And non-specifically, it makes me feel lost. In the same way I felt when they stopped making my favorite kind of cracker so I walked around aimlessly for months, eating sweet pickles from the jar.
MAN those crackers were good. I don't know who made them, but they came in a blue box and they were covered in magical southwest flavored red powder and they were thin and shaped in Navajo blanket patterns. Anyone? ANYONE?!
Where was I? Oh, sadness. Meh, I think I've said what I need to about current sadness. My new focus is the crackers. You all need to help me find those crackers. STAT.
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