Reer City, Population Reer.

No time for a real post today, although I need to write later about how I don't hate account people (Advertising nerd alert!), and another one about organ donation.

But for now, this.



Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer.

That is all.

Emily Go Sleep Nowwwwwzzzzzzz.....

I'm writing this post on Monday night for you all because I have a "meeting" tomorrow from 9-2:30. Free pastries and lunch--what whaaaaaat. But also being in a "meeting" for over five hours...mehhhhh.

Today I went on my first out-of-state client presentation. Our client is a tad out of Chicago. And in preparation, I took a Dramamine. Because, you guessed it, I get motion sickness like no one's business. I say "you guessed it" because by now you should know that if it causes a slight obstacle to living normally but is otherwise non-life threatening, my body is all over it like a drunk chick on...something slutty.

GOD I am officially failing at this blog post. See, I mentioned the Dramamine because, despite claiming a less drowsy formula, it is HELLA drowsy. And I guess I never really noticed it because I just fall asleep on the car or plane. But seriously, they should call it Dramamine: Still Pretty Freaking Drowsy Formula. I almost fell asleep about 5 times in the car, AND DURING THE PRESENTATION in which they were talking DIRECTLY to me. And now my muscles are all over-relaxed and I'm laying on the couch with Oreo crumbs covering my neck and hair because I don't have the muscle capacity in my arms to brush them away. (Note that I did have the capacity to pull them down from their high cabinet shelf. It's that survival adrenaline rush that kicks in when you know you're in a life-or-death situation)

All this to say, no. I don't have a 'real' post for you today. But really, with this blog, what is real? Whoah, I feel all Descartes right now.

Mmkay I think it's time for me to read other people's blogs. I suggest you do the same.

Date Night Lessons: Tacos Are Bad, Pixar is Good.

This Friday Joe and I had our first Date Night as a cohabiting couple.

Question: Don't you see each other every day?
Answer: Um, yes?

Question: Ohhh, but going to the gym and making curry chicken and falling asleep does not a romantic couple make?
Answer: Correctamundo.

Question: What if you watch a few episodes of Gilmore Girls while you eat? Is it a date then?
Answer: Oh, YOU.

So! First we decided on a restaurant: a nice Mexican joint with a name that is similar to "zapatos" but is not. I keep calling it Zapatitos, which really just means "little shoes." Which is ADORABLE and the future name of my awesome Mexican restaurant for toddlers. It'll be a hit.

But once we got to Zapatitos, we discovered it was INSANE. I mean, yeah. Friday at 7, I guess you can expect that. But it was craziness. Our waitress explained that there was a group of 80 off behind the curtained area, hence the added chaos. Whatever. We ordered fancy tacos. Later, a bunch of emergency trucks pulled up and casual firemen (suspenders, muscles, that kind of thing) walked in. The waitress decided we were cool enough to let us know that the party of 80 was ACTUALLY Ashley Simpson and her husband, Fallout Boy. Or whoever. And the emergency vehicles were because one of her friends passed out and had to be hooked up to an IV.

And OF COURSE she did.

I'm sorry, but is there anything surprising to you about the sentence, "Ashley Simpson and her posse are creating a low-key annoyance on my life."

No, there is not. I can tell you right now that there is not.

So whatever. The steak/bacon tacos were good, the chicken ones were eh, we paid and made our way to the theater for the most mature date night movie ever: Toy Story 3.

NO SPOILERS TO BE ALERTED FOR. I PROMISE TO BE GOOD.

I don't have to tell you that the movie was amazing. I mean, Pixar. Come on. And I don't have to tell you that Stepdad Tom Hanks turned in a magnificent performance. Don Rickles was hilarious, Ernest Becomes A Slinky Dog was confusing (BUT! BUT! You died?!...wait, right? No wait, you're alive. No wait....you're dead.)
Really, the whole gang was great. And oh, the hijinks!

The important thing was, like after ANY Toy Story movie, I completely freaked out that I didn't appreciate my toys enough when I had them, that I didn't treat them well when I became older, and that whatever happened to them, they are sad to feel unloved and without their friends.

Which, I understand, it's all a made-up concept by the people of Pixar. And there are plenty of other people whose idea was to make toys come alive and kill you in the night. But I grew up with Toy Story. When the first one came out, I was at the perfect age. I was in the fifth grade. I was becoming jaded and growing up. And my toys were becoming less of a play-thing and more of a pile in a corner. HOW COULD I?!?!?! I remember the day I saw that movie, I took all my stuffed animals and set them up with me in the bed. There was juuuuuuust enough room for me.

This is what Toy Story has done. Okay, maybe I have an extended imagination. Or maybe that's why I'm a copywriter. Either way, Joe and I are currently up to our necks in He-Man, Ninja Turtles, and teddy bears (the Turtles are mine, by the by.) All of whom I feel the need to apologize to, just in case I took away all their friends--OR MY MOTHER DID--*glare, glare*

So yes. That was my weekend. I spent the majority of my time making sure that all my toys were comfortable and among friends. The rest of my weekend was spent in the bathroom, as a direct result of those damn Ashely Simpson-ruined tacos. Something ain't right at Zapatitos.



PS. I encourage comments. I GREATLY enjoy them. Always. Please leave some and be my friend. But please no TS3 spoilers. Especially don't mention the *wink wink* or the *nudge nudge, say no more, say no more*.

It Was a Dark And Stormy Rush Hour

Sorry about that outburst yesterday, folks. But I was holding onto that anger for a solid 3 hours and my face was getting red and there was smoke coming out of my ears--and not in a Bugs Bunny way. In a dry ice way...like smoke seepage.

So tonight was fun! And by fun, I of course mean terrifying and horrible.

For those not in the Chicagoland area, there was a teeeeeeny storm. Some might call it "Satan's Revenge." I call it "WHERE IS MY FAMILY WHAT ARE THEY DOING WHAT ABOUT THE DOG WHERE IS JOE IS HE ALIVE WHY DOESN'T MY PHONE GET RECEPTION FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!!!!!!!!1"

Honestly, my largest concern was Joe driving home with barely-existent windshield wipers. My second was my mother living in the town where The News had decided was ground zero, and my third concern was the nerves of my family's dog. And don't even tell me that you wouldn't be concerned about this puddin' face:



Note that I'm not in any way concerned about Wally, the family cat. The thing is roughly the size of Massachusetts. He probably spent the storm outside like this:


I had my own mini adventure during the storm. It was ALMOST enough for a comic strip.

So right when I decided to hunker down in my room (away from the windows,) the sirens started going off. And hi, I'm on the top floor of my apartment building. It's only the 8th floor, granted, but still. When the rain on the roof doesn't sound like rain so much as straight-up flowing water, you listen to the tornado sirens. So I went to the underground parking lot. Except being downstairs, I couldn't get reception. And God forbid I go four seconds without Gmail. So I found a stairwell and worked my way up. And, well, yadda yadda yadda, I ended up locking myself outside under a doorway awning. And I got majorly splashed with alley water by a passing car. Eventually I had to run around in the crazy rain until I got to an open door. It was a whole thing.

But I survived, slightly wet and smelling like muffler fluid (is that a thing?) and all ended well. I think. I mean I haven't gotten an official word back from my mom to tell me that she's okay (and that the dog hasn't imploded from nervous shaking.)

So Joe and I are officially drinking red wine and watching Gilmore Girls (I'm not saying it was his choice. Did I say that was his choice? I don't think I said it was his choice.) so I'm going to go ahead and stop typing because the wine is officially kicking in.

Hope you're all okay! Unless you didn't get hit with Satan's Revenge, in which case, hope you had some other horrible thing happen to you. What can I say? Misery loves company.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I love you all. Vote for me! EJS '010

Reclaim THIS.

Your feminism rant for the day is brought to you by the letter A. A stands for Angry! Can you say angry, boys and girls?

....

Good!

Okay here is the story: Today at work we talked about a case study where it was discovered that men aren't feeling like men anymore, and they needed to reclaim their manhood.

And why don't men feel like men anymore? Why, because women are getting degrees and going to work and earning money.

HOW DARE THEY?! WHERE DO THEY GET OFF?! WOMEN WORKING?? WHERE DID THIS NEW-FANGLED CONCEPT COME FROM??!?!?!1*&^(*&^

I guess I fail to see the true point. Men don't feel "like men" anymore, meaning men aren't as "manly" as they were decades ago. Because they don't bring home the bacon and retreat to their dens in a cloud of cigar smoke anymore?

When did men's dominance in the world come to be known as "the good ol' days"?

And since when are women sympathetic to this cause? I'm sorry, I like the next broad-shouldered sweat factory as much as the next chick, but I also like my men to actually care about who I am as a person and respect that I want to earn my own living regardless of my gender. And I want ALL men to feel this way. And if that means that men don't feel like they're the same TYPE of man that existed in the 1800s or 1950s or 1970s then SO BE IT.

The Brawny man doesn't have a mustache anymore. TIMES CHANGE.

In what way do we ACTUALLY suggest men reclaim their manhood? Forcing their wives to stay home and cook every meal? Taking out clients to strip clubs? Refraining from swearing around the "girls" in the office because it might offend their soft little ears?

Screw that. Screw reclaiming manhood. Let's reclaim HUMANITY and leave the gender roles where they belong: in our past.

My Father's Day Memories

Well Father’s Day has come and gone, but I have yet to weigh in on the subject. And is it really a holiday until I ruin it with my blathering? No it is not. In fact, did Arbor day REALLY feel like Arbor day without my help? I didn’t think so.

So in honor of Father’s Day, I thought I’d give you guys a few memories of mine. I think it’s pretty necessary, considering when people who know me finally meet my dad, the response tends to be, “Ohhhhhh.” Follow me, and perhaps you’ll see why.

First of all, one of my personal favorites: Most people will agree, it is a father’s job to tell you lies to scare you into being good, a-la George Bluth’s armless friend.
And who among us hasn’t heard the phrase, “Be careful. If you swallow those seeds, a plant will grow in your stomach.”

My father’s story was a little different. When we asked him if it were true, if a plant really could grow in your stomach, he said, “Sure! All you have to do is drink a lot of water, swallow a lot of dirt, and walk around outside like this,” and he’d lean back and open his mouth as wide as he could. I have to say, I was never afraid of swallowing seeds. Although he really took a gamble assuming I wouldn’t try to consume spoonfuls of dirt. That’s faith.



I think the thing my dad is most famous for are his voices. When I was in Elementary school, we would have these “Read-In” days once a year. I have no idea if this is a nationwide thing, or if it was just our school, but basically we’d get to come to school in our pajamas and read the whole day. And throughout the day, parents would come in and read to us, too.


I am not saying this as an exaggeration; my dad was the Rock Star of the Read-Ins. I had some internal anguish because, on the one hand, everything your parents do is without question extremely embarrassing. But on the other hand, every kid in my class thought my dad was the coolest dad ever. He’d come in to read us The Twits, complete with Evil British Woman voice for Mrs. Twit (think The Queen but more gargly) and Evil British Man voice for Mr. Twit (think Brad Garrett playing a chimney sweep.) And it was awesome! Teachers would come from down the halls asking what the blazes was going on, possibly because a grown man was cackling in a woman’s voice that she just fed her husband worms. But I knew they were jealous. They were allllll jealous.

One final story. This one has become a family staple around Easter. The way we dye eggs in my household is the typical, Paas-endorsed way. You drop a tablet into some vinegar and then soak those puppies. And if you want to get fancy, you draw something on the egg with a white crayon first, which the die doesn’t touch and leaves the egg white in that spot.



Well one year, I had come home from college for the holiday and we decided to dye some eggs. We gave one egg to my dad to decorate. He picked up a crayon, scribbled something, and left the egg to soak in green.

A little while later, he took out the egg and, giggling, showed it to us all. It said something, but I couldn’t make it out.

“Zackary? Zeppelin?.”

Finally, Hannah guessed it. “…Zakly?”

My dad: “Yep!...Egg-zakly!”

Groans all around. And yet, memorable enough that we talk about it every year since. So you tell me: genius?

So Happy Father’s Day to all. And here’s hoping, no matter who or where your dad is, that you have some good memories of your own to look back on.

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.