I Have a Hat

Launched!

2011-09-09T03:53:00.000-04:00

New venture: verbalinfusion.com

Goodbye, the Hat. I've loved you, mostly.

A Picture Story

2011-06-20T02:00:00.005-04:00

The greatest thing a father can do for his children.

Thanks, Pop.

Ich Bin Ein Nerd

2011-05-03T02:01:00.000-04:00

Nerddom: A Self Study

The way I see it, there are several categories that qualify one for nerddom, and there are several ways of attaining said status. You have your two basic types: the specialist and the bachelor of arts. The specialist excels in one category only, but because he is a colossus in his field, his qualifications for nerdity are unmatched. He is a the Hero of Minutia. Think of Bill Gates whose computer prowess propels him to the top of the nerd pyramid. I fear he has now become more machine than man. On the other hand, the man pursuing his bachelor of nerd arts might dabble in numerous categories, choosing to dip his toes in several pools (upon whose surfaces, we may only assume, lie viscous layers of grease and Cheetos). His involvement in one of the categories could never secure him a seat at the great nerd feast, but he could graze upon the bounty after the principles have had their fill.

After much soul searching, I have come to the conclusion that I hold a bachelor of arts in Nerd, and though I may never reach the great Comic-Con in the sky, I'll be able to tell you the names and handles of attending dignitaries. You might not know it from just looking at me (or maybe you would), but I shall prove it in eight paragraphs or less.

Nerd Category #1: Academics
From the moment I strapped my pink and purple backpack high upon my shoulders, waved to my mom, and marched to the old wing at Rivers Elementary for my first day of afternoon kindergarten, I was an unqualified academic nerd. Scratch that. My fate had been decided the year before when my mom taught me to read and introduced me to the magical land of libraries. Ahh, the scent of new, old books. I cared about grades from the moment I received my first A (in citizenship!), and even when I tried to slack off in high school, I broke out in waves of perspiration if I scored anything lower than a B on even paltry assignments. True, I am adept at perspiring regardless of the conditions, but you understand the sentiment. In third grade, I memorized poems in those old McGuffey Readers (which I owned because Anne of Green Gables owned them - duh), and, staring up at my teacher through prescription Coke bottles, I volunteered to recite the poems in class. My teacher, rather taken aback, responded with something like, "Um...ooook." Additionally, I have won two, count them, two reading contests in my life. I repeat: reading contests. I read more books than anyone else in kindergarten, and I read more hours than anyone in the entire school when I was in the fifth grade. I gave up hanging out with friends so I could win at reading. Furthermore, I create an outline for everything I ever write. I am currently working off an outline to write this blog. Academic nerd: check.

Nerd Category #2: Sci-Fi/Fantasy
Let's talk Star Wars for a moment. I LOVE Star Wars. Sometimes I forget how much I love it because my husband loves it so much more (to an uncomfortable level, really), but when I think back and try to separate my feelings from his, I remember watching it again and again as a child. I knew all the lines at an early age, and I can't remember a time when I wasn't familiar with it. I watched the Ewok movies too. Now, loving Star Wars doesn't automatically qualify one as a sci-fi nerd. Lots of people appreciate it; shoot, it nearly won best picture in '77. It is a cinema darling and a blockbuster dream. Nevertheless, I am a Star Wars nerd simply because two months ago, I won a game of Star Wars Trivial Pursuit while playing against an Imperial Command of SW Ph.Ds. These people were naming serial numbers on Wookie freighters, and I somehow came out with the W. You might argue that I was playing on a team and that I contributed only one answer (C-3PO), but let's all admit that I belong in the Star Wars nerd camp simply because I voluntarily played the game.

To add to my sci-fi/fantasy repertoire, I also freely admit my adoration of all things Harry Potter. The books are brilliant, brilliant, my friends, and I read them every two years, assuming I can withstand the impulse to chainread the entire series. I cannot always refrain. Jonny and I were both on a round of Potter when we got married - he on book 4 and I on book 5 - so naturally we took them with us on our honeymoon. On any given day of our honeymoon, you could have found us basking on the rocky, Mediterranean beaches, deeply engrossed in all things Hogwarts. Collectively, we made it through 5 1/2 books that week (see also reading contests above). As an aside, Jonny co-wrote a chapter with his dad for The Ultimate Harry Potter and Philosopy: Hogwarts for Muggles, much to his loving wife's great pride. You may purchase it on Amazon here, or you can pick it up at your local bookstore if that kind of thing strikes your fancy. This little post is not about Jonny, so let's get back to what is important: me. Me me me. Me too. See that? See how I just quoted a sci-fi movie in my paragraph about sci-fi?
Sci-Fi/Fantasy nerd: check.

Nerd Category #3: Video Games
My husband holds a terminal degree in video games. He subscribes to a video game magazine, owns nine gaming consoles, knows about CEOs and mergers and trends in the video game community, and is currently editing a book about the Legend of Zelda and theology. The man is a specialist. I do not have Jonny's expertise in video games, but I'm not claiming to be a professional here. I dabble in video games, and I was once more into Counterstrike than I should have been. (Speaking of which, Lyndee, I repeat my offer for a good old fashioned crowbar war whenever you'd like.) Due to my continued interest in video games in this, my twenty-eighth year, and my tolerance of the pedestal upon which Shigeru Miyamoto is placed in my household, I claim a broad video game category for myself. I may never wallow in a cave of empty soda bottles and chip bags after 72 hours of continuous WoW raids, but I can beat Super Mario Bros. start to finish in twenty minutes or less. I can even grab a hundred extra lives along the way.
Video game nerd: check.

Category #4: Limited Social Skills
Oh boy. This one is painful to admit. Socially, I'm...ok. I can engage in conversation with strangers. I can host parties. I can find interest in others' stories. I cannot always do these without effort, sometimes great effort. I am naturally timid, and though you might not believe it from all the "I"s in just this one blog post, I find it awkward to have eyes and focus on me. I can feel my face burn and redden if I am singled out among strangers. I fall into my natural rhythm once I am comfortable with a group of people. Sometimes I can find the cadence right away, but other times it can take a year to happen. In the meantime, I stare across the table and search the distant recesses of my brain - the same brain that seems to be galloping away from my head - in hopes of finding some topic of conversation to introduce. I don't necessarily say to myself, "I am interested in finding out more about this person and should therefore inquire into this part of her life." No, I say to myself, "Ok, what have you heard other people ask when they meet someone new? What do Lori and Angie say?" Seriously, that's what goes on in my head. This part of me, of course, has been there since the early, early days. I remember wanting to play dress-up with the other girls in preschool Sunday school, but I didn't know how to ask them.

This isn't as debilitating as it sounds - it's just a tendency. I have had loads of good friends, adequate popularity, relative comfort on stage, and countless meaningful conversations - sometimes with strangers. It more manifests itself in a proclivity to retreat with a good book during my lunch hour and to hum absentmindedly at work. Also, in fifth grade, I chose to crochet an afghan on the bus to space camp while my classmates, I am sure, challenged each other to daring deeds and misdeeds. I was sitting next to my very first boyfriend at the time, and I think we talked with each other for about four minutes of that six-hour drive. Despite a romantic and symbolic exchange of souvenir dog tags at space camp, the relationship, you'll be saddened to hear, did not last.

Now, it is well known that nerds the world over are never socially-adjusted persons. You show me a charming, devil-may-care nerd, and I shall show you a hipster impostor. Using a certain degree of social awkwardness as a litmus test, I must declare myself fit for service.
Limited social skills nerd: check.

I believe I have now proved through four simple checks that I am indeed a Nerd. You may never find me at Comic-Con dressed as a Twi-lek dancer and quizzing Captain Kirk about particle condensers, but you might very well find me translating passages of Potter into ancient Greek for kicks. By the way, I tried to study ancient Greek awhile ago, and the practice sentences the primer gave me were HI-larious. "The army of warriors plundered the burning village." "The battles were fearful." "We are not destroying the gates." Oh, you crazy, war-torn Greeks.

I have reached the end of my outline, and that, as you must know, means a stirring conclusion. Perhaps I can sum it up by saying that we all dance in the fountain of nerd, but few of us bathe eternally in its waters. Or maybe we all have a story to share; it's just that some of us share it through permanent retainers. I guess what I'm trying to say is: it's 1:00am and I have to get up in six hours. Goodnight.

Dear Oregon: It's not you, it's me

2011-02-01T15:30:00.011-05:00

Hey there, Oregon. I've been wanting to talk to you for awhile, but you know how these things go with our crazy schedules and just not getting the time. I've decided to write you a letter, but know that I totally wanted to tell you all this in person. This has to be said, and quickly, and I'm afraid that if I don't write it now then I'll never get the courage to tell you.

I think we should see other people.

Our relationship has had its ups and downs - I don't have to tell you that - but when I look back at all our time together, I just can't help but see lots and lots of downs. And tears. In fact, you cried for 10 1/2 of our 12 months together. I don't think there's anything you can say to convince me that you were happy in all that time. I tried to turn to you to talk, but you gave me the cold shoulder for six solid months. It wasn't until mid-July that you started to warm up to me. Sure, we had a great summer together - all six weeks of it, and we even had a handful of good times in the fall. Remember that day we went apple picking and then hiked on Mt. Hood? You were so full of life and promise then. That's what I'll think of when I look back at our relationship.

Now, I know what you're gonna say - "It was just a bad year, Emily, one of the worst of the century. Just give me another year." I know, and I totally believe you, really I do. But there's something else I haven't told you. One particularly bad month when you were sulking around a lot and I couldn't get a kind word from you, well, I started talking to your neighbor. He's the one in the apartment below you. You know - California? I don't know if you know this, but we used to date back before I met you.

When I was with California before, I thought it was just a fun flirtation and that nothing serious could ever come from it. I couldn't see myself committing to that relationship. But then this year when you were so unhappy, California and I started talking again. It was nothing serious at first, and I never thought it would go this far, I swear. He was just so nice to me. I remembered all the good times we had together spending lazy Sunday afternoons at the beach, seeing our favorite authors at book readings, playing movie pictionary with friends who correctly guessed obscure Italian films from the 1940's, and watching Inglourious Basterds in a completely silent crowd of moviegoers at a theater where the costumes from the actual movie were just hanging out in the lobby.

I have realized that I never really got over California. We had our problems, sure, but I know I can move past the traffic and smog if it means I get to go to a theater screening of Spaceballs where Bill Pullman does a Q and A afterward. (Curses! I just missed this.)

I guess what I'm saying is I can see a future with California where I couldn't really see a future with you. I'm willing to put in the effort to see where this relationship goes. He has a sparkle and flame that, when I'm being honest with myself, I never saw in you. You're a great state, really, and I know you'll make someone else very happy, someone else who - how do I put this? - enjoys being depressed all the time. You're just not my state.

Truly, I wish you all the best in the world. Let's still be friends.

- Emily

p.s. This has to be said: You are just the worst driver.

Top 5 Most Annoying Child Characters Ever

2010-10-05T11:11:00.000-04:00

Here is my list of the top 5 most annoying child characters ever. I've restricted my list to movies, human characters only. I dedicate this to Major Upton, and I begin without further introduction.

NUMBER 5: Gloria from Wait Until Dark
I happen to think that Gloria belongs at #2, but I'm keeping her at #5 because I know it's pretty irrational that she's on this list at all. Most people don't find her annoying; some find her sweet. Personally, I cannot stand the girl. She's just so stinkin' obnoxious to me. Don't you see it, people? She's got those stupid horn-rimmed glasses, and she's jealous of a blind lady. Jealous of the blind. Yes, Gloria belongs on this list. I don't have a real argument though, so let's move on to number four.

NUMBER 4: The Problem Child
This character is abhorred universally. I've never even seen the movie, but the child makes the list. The previews tell enough of the story. I think that theoretically the child is supposed to be mischievous but endearing, like a labrador puppy. Unfortunately, he turns out more like a grumpy, yappy, old chihuahua. Did you know they eat dogs in China? Fine country, that.

NUMBER 3: Francis from The Swiss Family Robinson
Oy, what can I say about Francis? If I were marooned on an island with him, I'd resort to cannibalism on the second day. The sniveling snot never listens to his parents, and how could anyone ignore Mother and Father? Father builds an intricate collection of tree rooms--skylights included--and Mother maintains elegance and ingenuity amidst desperate circumstances. Francis doesn't care about them. Francis is more concerned with catching his precious tiger and setting off coconut bombs near his loved ones. Is it too much to ask that the tiger capture Francis in the end? How 'bout it, Disney? The boy obsessed with imprisoning the cat is instead ensnared by the very tiger he hunts. Food for thought (and food for the tiger.)

NUMBER 2: Young Anakin from Star Wars: Episode I
"Folks, we at the Hat are pleased as punch to present to you today an exclusive interview with ten-year-old Anakin Skywalker, future terror of the galaxies and hero of evil. Before we begin, Ani--may I call you Ani?-- let's test that mic of yours. How's it doing?"

"It's working! It's wooooorking!"

"Great! I'm pleased to see the youth of today so enthusiastic about sound design, even if those youth eventually succumb to the seduction of the dark side. Now, let's jump right into it, as I'm sure our listeners are eager to hear the tale of Darth Vader's early days. Anakin, it is said that the Force has always been strong in your family. In fact, a recent test of your midichlorians (Force-wielding potential, in layman's terms) revealed off-the-chart numbers. Do you consider yourself truly gifted in Force-having, or is it possible the testing instrument is off base here?

"It's working! It's wooooorking!"

"Just as I always suspected. Not only do you believe in that "ancient religion," as Admiral Motti future calls it, you also strongly trust in your own talent. But tell me, young Skywalker, do you believe the future of the galaxy should rest in the hands of the Galactic Senate, or is it more appropriate for one man, say an unsightly, grotesquely wrinkled emperor with an electrifying personality [chuckles] to rule all from a swivel chair? In short, do you believe the senate is fine as is?"

"It's working! It's wooooorking!"

"Mmhmm. Well. [shuffles papers] I'll be interested to see how your views on this subject shift in the coming years. Switching gears for the fashion conscious in our audience, would you say that black is the signature color of the dark side, or will you wear it for its slimming effects? Will you ever consider wearing, say, sunshine yellow for comic irony?"

"It's working! It's wooooorking!"

"That doesn't really answer my...but well... [clears throat] Ok, Anakin, what about male pattern baldness? Does it run in your family?"

"It's working! It's wooooorking!"

"What about Jedi mind-tricking officers of the law? Is there an ethical dilemma here or is it a simple matter of survival of the fittest? That's a Darwinian term, by the way. You'll learn it a long time from now in a galaxy far, far away."

"It's working! It's wooooorking!"

[rubs temples] "You are the future lord of the dark side. Do you have anything at all to tell us about your troubled past, about what drives you to evil?

"It's wor..."

"Pack it up, Gary! We're done here."

NUMBER 1: The kid from Shane
I cannot remember the plot from Shane. I only remember the main character's name because it's also the movie title, oh, and because the little boy whineyells "SHAAAAAAAAANE" in a piercing falsetto every thirty seconds. That sound--it is painfully seared on my memory. "Shaaaaaaane! SHAAAAAAANE!" If I remember my facts right (and there's a good chance that I don't), Shane defends the little boy and his mother (and father?) from the bad guys in the end of the movie. Shane wins, but he is mortally wounded. In a final act of bravery (or so we are to believe), Shane puts on a happy face for the family but then rides off into the night to die alone. I theorize that Shane is just faking it to get away from the kid. As he rides away, however, the little boy runs after him calling, "Shaaaaaaane! SHAAAAAAANE!" as though it's not enough that the man has already taken bullets that day. One thing I know for certain: Shane did not go gently into that good night.

So there you have the top 5 most annoying child characters in movies ever. Do you agree? Did I miss any? Do you find these five endearing? If so, do you promise to get a vasectomy/tie your tubes?

Discuss.

The Story of I Love You

2010-09-24T01:40:00.003-04:00

I awoke to a sunny Saturday morning (the last 15 minutes of morning) on September 16, 2006, looking forward to the day ahead of me. We were three weeks into football season, and it was the first football season I had spent with Jonny. I confess that I was less than enthusiastic about watching the game that day, but I was excited about spending time with my beau of two months, getting together with friends, drinking tea, listening to Corman and Jonny's rants, maybe ordering pizza for dinner - everything about watching football except for the actual football. Oh, how far I've come since then.

I brushed my teeth, threw my hair into a ponytail, donned the old standby sweats, and headed out the door. Five minutes later I was at Jonny's house drinking tea, listening to rants, and talking about getting pizza for dinner. Hopes were high going into the game. Notre Dame had demolished Penn State the week before, and now the Irish were ranked #2 in the country. Jonny had been talking about the team's prospects for months.

Then the game started, and it all went to pot.

Michigan intercepted on the second play of the game. David Grimes fumbled a kickoff return. Mario Manningham embarrassed the Irish secondary again and again. The score was 34-7 Michigan at the half, dashing my poor boyfriend's high hopes.

Before that day, I didn't really understand Jonny's relationship with Notre Dame. I had heard stories about Jonny's behavior during important games, how he'd stand up and pace and shake his numb hands, unable to sit down or work the remote. I had seen the memorabilia across his walls and the ND dominance in his wardrobe. I've told you before that even in the first month we dated he stopped mid-kiss, mid-kiss, to talk about ND's recruiting.

My basic thesis here is that I knew my boyfriend was a huge fan, but I had no idea what "huge fan" meant. I also had no idea that one loss can ruin a season. I had grown up watching baseball, for heaven's sake.

When the first half of the ND-Michigan game closed, I perceived the shift in the room. The sun no longer shone. The tea had cooled. The church bells all were broken. My boyfriend's heart had burst. The second half started, and Michigan stuck a few lit BlackCats in Jonny's remaining heart shards until the pieces burst into even smaller pieces. Then they put the coronary debris in a meat grinder and turned the crank. Then they added mayonnaise and a pinch of salt, spread it on bread, and ate it.

Mercifully, the game ended, and my poor, downcast, dejected boyfriend headed out the door to go to work. He didn't usually work on Saturdays, so those weekend hours at the pizza place added extra salt to his wound. ("Mmm, this savory heart sandwich is delicious." -Jonny's boss)

In those days, any entrance or exit of the premises, be it just to check the mail or sit on the porch, merited a hearty bit of necking at the threshold. On that day, Jonny barely managed a wave and a "See you later." I watched him shuffle to his Jeep in the driveway. He opened the Wrangler door, stood for a moment, sounded a barbaric yawp, and hot-footed it back to me in the foyer with a CD in his hand. He had just found his Jeff Buckley album, Grace, trampled on the floor. It had slipped out of its case and was scratched beyond repair. Jonny was done.

He entered the house in bridled fury, I'll give him that, but he couldn't suppress his disappointment. There is no need for me to repeat with precision what happened next. Like Mark Twain, I will close the curtain of charity over the details. The pent up rage in Jonny seeped out, and, friends, it was ugly. He didn't direct it at me, don't misunderstand me, but he let it out near me.

I scolded him.

He gave me an icy goodbye and shut the door.

He left the house seething. I have a terrible day and she tears into me! How could she?
I left the house seething. He can't even handle a stupid game! How could he?

I drove back to my house with clenched lips. I was furious with him at first, and as I always do when I'm too angry, I continued to argue with him in my head. I always triumph in head arguments, by the way. My enemies cannot hope to stand against me in my head. Also, comebacks come to me in droves three or four days after a good argument, so watch your back if you happen to be in my mind the week following a spat.

Anyway, I was furious at first, but inexplicably and against my will, my heart softened within a half hour. The anger dissipated, leaving me with an overwhelming desire to soothe. I just wanted to hold the man. Since he was at work and I had the whole day ahead of me, I took the time to make myself pretty. I put on makeup (gasp!) and picked out clothes that matched (gasp!), and my pants weren't sweatpants (triple gasp!). I bombshelled myself and then set out that evening with purpose in my step. I was going to replace that CD, and I was going to stop at the pizza place at closing time to give it to him. I was going to be the best girlfriend ever.

I stopped at one store; they didn't have it. I asked them to call their other store; they didn't have it either. Fine. I'll go somewhere else.

I left the store knowing that the nearest place that might have it would be closing in twenty minutes, and it would take me fifteen minutes to get there. As I sped down Nicholasville Rd. praying that I would make the lights, I held yet another head conversation, this time me vs. myself.

"Emily, why are you so giddy?"
"I don't know."
"Really? You don't know?"
"Well, I suppose...no it's stupid. It's just that he was being so unreasonable today that now I find it a delight to lift his spirits."
"Yeah, but why are you smiling from ear to ear in this car by yourself?"
"Because I love him."
"Holy crap, did you just say that?"
"Not really, no, this is all in your head."

While waiting for the light to change at the intersection of Nicholasville Rd. and N. Main St., I realized with clarity and finality that I loved the man. It was a lightning bolt decision, and I don't make lightning bolt decisions. I make rub-a-few-sticks-together-and-gather-small-bits-of-tinder-till-you-see-a-little-smoke-then-add-more-tinder decisions. Also, I call love a decision because it is one, even though there's a great bit of revelation in there with it. I loved Jonny, and I knew it was true because I loved him in an ugly moment. I loved him in his petulance. I found that my strongest desire was to show him grace; what little there was to forgive I longed to reconcile and forget.

I made it to the store in time to hear "Goodnight, Sweetheart" on the loud speakers, and I snatched up that CD. It was a race again on Nicholasville Rd., this time to get to the pizza place before Jonny left it. I caught him just in time, and the first thing he said was, "I'm sorry." We hugged a sweet, tight, all-is-well hug.

I gave Jonny the CD with glee.

"I can't believe it," he said. "Why did you do this?"

I knew exactly why I did it, and he had miraculously lobbed me an easy question with a now easy answer.

"Because...because..." I shrugged my shoulders.

I have never been more ashamed of my cowardice. He had given me the perfect moment to tell him that I loved him, but I lost my nerve. I cursed my yeller innards.

He closed the place up, and we drove our separate cars back to his house. We took our usual places on the couch, and we embraced and talked. How was the rest of your day? What should we do tomorrow? Aren't we fun? We talked for awhile, and then the conversation grew thin. We looked at each other; we kissed occasionally. The lightning bolt that had struck me a few hours before seemed to have left a charge in the air, and we both knew that our conversation had now become about what we weren't saying. Then the silence hit. We lay on that couch and stared at each other for minutes on end. Minutes of silent staring, I say. People, that gets intense. I knew instinctively that he was thinking about saying it, so I tried to pysche myself into saying it first, thereby winning. Except I was a fraidy-cat. Then he started to shake, and I knew it was imminent. Jonny cannot keep himself from trembling during important moments. I have told you before that his hands shook so much during our wedding that he had trouble putting the ring on my finger. I love this about him. It's as though he feels too much to contain his emotion; hiding it is impossible.

On September 16, 2006, he shook for one solid minute, took a sharp, quick breath, held it for a second, and exhaled, "I love you."

"I love you too."

It was my turn that day to give Jonny grace, and he has given it to me thousands of times both before and since then. I have been selfish, childish, rude, and lazy, yet he has forgiven me again and again and again and again. He is sweet and gentle, kind and honest. When he has something to say, he sits me down and says it quickly. Then it's done, and it's done forever. Grace has defined our love, so it's only natural that our love began with grace, even Jeff Buckley's Grace.

We've said I love you thousands of times since then, but we've also said a few I like yous, some I was wrongs, a couple of you're driving me crazies, hundreds of I'm sorrys, and an every other day I think you're hot. Most of all, we've said Lord help us. Help us treat each other with respect, dignity, kindness, and gentleness. Help us stay faithful to one another. Help us love each other as you love us.

By grace and grace alone, we'll repeat "I love you" for the rest of our lives.

The Lay of the Land

2010-06-04T23:12:00.007-04:00

I learned to drive in Kentucky, you know, on those winding roads about as wide as your average egg noodle, where the denizens of the Bluegrass kindly nudged me along from about an inch behind my bumper. A mile or two later, when the road curved sharply left at the top of a hill, they'd blitzkrieg by me in a blaze of glory, a trail of empty Coors Light cans in their wake. I miss home.

College in Indiana afforded me a new view of the driving world. Somewhere between Indiana-26 and Indiana-18 lay the only three hills in the state. There, college students occasionally took breaks from their cloves and Moldy Peaches to ride crazy on Devil's Backbone, the lone lane stretching over the Hoosiers' three hills. I can only assume that those daring captains of adventure who christened Devil's Backbone envisioned Beelzebub as some kind of overgrown nightcrawler, fearsome as a baby meerkat and tougher than a rabbit's resolve.

Devil's Backbone is a straight, two-lane road with some gently sloping hills. That's it. Amazingly, that didn't stop my hallmates running into my room with eyes popped and breath fast.

"So-and-so-has-a-minivan-so-like-twelve-of-us-are-going-on-a-backbone-run-do-you-wanna-come?!" they'd say.

"Uh, not today, thanks. I got all my thrillsies on those deathtrap teacups at Disney back in '87."

Then the road opened unto me in California, and lo, there was much to fear. I can sum it up with this: at least once a week I'd merge onto the 101 from Hollywood Blvd, slamming the accelerator to reach traffic speed. From there, I'd have 3/4 of a mile to cross five lanes of traffic, which miraculously was both bumper-to-bumper and 70 mph. A few heart attacks later, I'd finally exit to Barham Blvd, and from there it was a straight shot to church. In L.A., no one lets you in, by the way. You're not getting a wave and a smile just because you turn on your blinker. Oh no. You have to grit your teeth, swerve in front, cut off, and butt in if you expect to get anywhere and/or survive.

Now Oregon. Oh Oregon.

A little over a month ago I finally got my Oregon driver's license, and never have I been more ashamed to have my name associated with a group of people. (And this is coming from someone who once captained an academic team.) I learned a few new driving rules during my test, though, and I'd like to share them with you now.

Oregon Driving Rules

The speed limit is a suggested speed only. Should you think 50 mph a bit reckless for a six lane highway, please slow down and move into the left lane. There, you will be in the company of many friends.
Stop signs have eight sides to remind you to wait at least eight seconds at every stop.
When turning onto a road, check to see that the coast is clear before making your turn. If it appears clear, check again. Continue checking until you're absolutely sure. By this time, a line of traffic might be making its way toward you. Wait to make sure that the driver in the first car can see the whites of your eyes. Congratulations! Now you may pull out.
When approaching a Right Green Arrow, stop, look both ways, and turn right.
Car accidents don't happen on your commute every day, so be sure to slow down and enjoy the view when you see two drivers exchanging insurance information in the opposite lane.
You know what, Oreganos? You're so used to precipitation that you don't need to turn your lights on if it's raining. Don't even bother.
The Left Arrow. Of all the rules, this rule you must obey without fail, without pause, without exception, without turning to the right or the...uh...follow the rule. If you are waiting in a left turn lane at an intersection and the left arrow turns from red to green, WAIT. Don't go rushing into things here. We at the DMV know you've got conversations to finish, veggie burgers to eat, and staring off into the distance to do before you make that turn. After the arrow switches to green, count to five and then mosey on into the intersection.

Rule #7 baffles me more than anything else about driving in this speed-forsaken land. It's not enough that everyone consistently goes 10 mph below the speed limit (no exaggeration, by the way). No, no, they must also make you wait two rounds at intersections while they stare at the pretty traffic lights. I have a theory that the Green Movement has so deeply overtaken the subconscious of Northwesterners that when the lights turn green the drivers automatically look around their cars for cans to recycle and organic gardens to plant.

My daily commute is teaching me patience; I won't deny that. And it's reminding that if slow drivers comprise my greatest problem, then really, I'm not in too bad a state.

I am Madwoman; hear me mumble

2010-01-29T01:28:00.006-05:00

You know when Madeline Kahn sings "I'm so tired" to a room full of cowboys in Blazing Saddles? That's me, minus the red light implications. Let's face it, folks: I'm pooped.

Two weeks ago, Jonny and I moved to the Portland area. We packed up all our stuff...again...and loaded the car so full you could just barely see the tires poking out of the wheel well...again. I had to drive the entire way because we couldn't afford to lose the space it would take for Jonny to scoot the driver's seat back. We took two days to get from L.A. to Portland, but we still arrived exhausted. At 9:00 the next day I was off to an interview with a temp agency. At noon I had a job. At 3:00, we signed the lease for our apartment. Egads!

Yesterday, I started painting our apartment. I don't care that we only have a 12 month lease and that I might be priming it back to white in less than a year. I want to tell myself and the rest of the world that I'm staying in one place for a little while. When I filled out the application at the temp agency, I had to list all the addresses for places I've lived in the last ten years. I listed eight, and that didn't include the four additional places I lived when I worked summer jobs in college. I'm staying long enough in Oregon to decorate, dangit! I'm going to relax and enjoy and work and come home and not think about tomorrow every second of the day. I'm going to make friends. Friends, I tell you! And they're going to watch Gone with the Wind with me because I'm going to make them.

Also, I'm painting my living room a hair-raising shade of turquoise.
Because I'm mad.

Shm Shm Shmashmius and Roast Beef

2010-01-28T19:47:00.002-05:00

For every year of forever, my family has watched the same four Christmas movies: It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, Walton's Homecoming, and A Christmas Carol (with George C. Scott.) As a child I loved Miracle and Wonderful Life, tolerated the Waltons, and despised the Carol.

To me, A Christmas Carol was the grown-up movie that even Tiny Tim could not redeem. It had no Santa, no toys, no pretty dresses to admire. Fewer laughs. I hated Scrooge and didn't give a haypenny whether or not he bah-humbugged his way to the grave. Yes, yes, Bob Cratchit is coming; now can you just double his salary so I can watch Donald Duck bombard his nephews from a glacial fortress? Even until last Christmas I didn't much care for the story. It was nice, but I'd rather watch Chevy Chase.

Then our friends Phil and Karen invited us over to read A Christmas Carol aloud one evening, as in, pass around a BOOK and READ words and LISTEN to other people when they read. How novel. (Get it? Get it? Novel? Like the book and the new thing? I'M SO FUNNY!) So we went to Phil and Karen's to read. Mind you, we were told through the faulty phone chain that we were going to read Twas the Night Before Christmas, which I don't mind telling you is a slightly lighter tome than Dickens' classic work. Thus, my face only minimally betrayed my surprise when Karen announced at 7:00 that we had better start the book soon or else we might not be able to finish it.

With cookies on the table and tea in hand, we settled in for a long winter's read-along. Phil, the patriarch of the occasion because Dr. Fil in no way qualifies as an authority figure, started us with, "Marley was dead, to begin with," and we were off. Karen and I knitted scarves while Jonny perfected his elderly British woman voice. We each read a few pages and then passed the book along, and, magically, each person read the perfect part. Dr. Fil, one of the theologians, read the chapter that talks of ghosts roaming the earth, wailing for the good deeds they failed to do while they were alive. Karen read about Mrs. Cratchit and her brood of young-uns. Our friend James, who is such a character among characters that I cannot give space to describe him except to tell you that we call him "King James," broke into bubbling laughter and joyous knee slaps when he took on the part of Old Fezziwig. In such company, both contemporary and aged, we passed three hours before we even knew it.

The story is now one of my favorites, so I was thrilled to pass on the tradition to another group of our friends this past Christmas. Dickens' prose is full of the humor (or should I say humour?) and depth that the movies fail to capture. I laugh aloud when I read it, and when it's done I want to round up the destitute for a dinner party. Our annual read-along is the event of choice on a cold, yuletide night. Next year, I invite you to join us with your own tattered copy.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy: I keep my distance, but you still catch my eye

2009-12-23T18:29:00.005-05:00

Why is it that radio stations play the same exact version of O Holy Night every twenty minutes but only send out Wham's Last Christmas once a week? This is not rhetorical. I want an answer here.

Jonny and I are back East for the Christmas season, and that means a whole lot of sitting around and enjoying. Since we can't seem to break from California time, it also means a whole lot of sitting around and enjoying at 4a.m. We're here in these parts for an entire month, so we're hitting up all sorts of family and friends while we're in the area. Last week we were down in Kentucky, and let me tell you about a typical day there. We would wake up around, oh, 2 p.m. Then we'd grab hot drinks and sit by the fire until we were toasty. Jonny would then play Resident Evil 4, you know, to get himself in the holiday mood, and I would read on the nearby couch. Roundabouts 6:00, we'd carry ourselves off to a Christmas party or a delicious meal made by friends, and then we'd laugh and talk with friends well into the night. With full bellies and, might I add, full hearts, we'd return to the house where, after a day of lidded simmerings, the hot tub would welcome us into its bosom. With a good soak under our belts, we'd return to the living room for a repeat of the afternoon's activities. Eventually, we'd set aside our books and video games in favor of a late night meal - veal parmigiana or turkey with all the trimmings - right before turning into bed at, say, 5a.m.

It's tough to be a night person in a morning person's world, but it's even tougher when your body is stuck in Pacific Standard Time. Try not to let our plight blight your Christmas spirit.

Fine

2009-12-19T04:57:00.003-05:00

Very well, you shall have your way. I will wipe the quicksand off my feet, invest in acupuncture, move to a new block, and blow up the island.

I'll be at the folks' house next week, so I hereby give my mother permission to harass me into writing while I am under her roof. So let it be written. So let it be done.

Here. Have a picture.

The Theory of Relativity and Other Turn-ons

2009-10-25T22:30:00.019-04:00

The following is a purely fictional tale. I made it up in its entirety, because, as you've seen from previous posts, I never venture across the borders of tact and prudence into the worlds of Shameville and Weirdton. If the story were true, however, you can be sure that I would get permission from the involved parties beforehand. It's not true, though. It's fiction.

Once upon a time, a young man and a young woman loved each other. Also, they were totally hot. Although these totally hot and loving young people loved each other and enjoyed spending time together, their lives got busy, and the two found themselves parted by social engagements, work, educational advancements, and sleep. They were parted for so long, in fact, that they forgot when they last had a decent conversation.

Then one day, they found themselves strangely alone and unencumbered, so they decided to talk. But just as soon as their conversation began, things took an unexpected turn:

Man: "You know what? I need to blow my nose. Just stay put. I'm gonna go get a tissue in the bathroom. Be right back."

Woman: "Ok, darling."

The man left the room and the woman reclined, daydreaming about how dreamy her man was even with his snotty nose. She thought about how lucky she was to have him and how nice it was that they were finally getting to spend some time together. She reclined and thought for a long time because the man took longer than a "be right back." Even so, she was happy just to think about how romantic her Casanova was.

At length, the man returned and stood in the doorway.

Man: "Sorry it took so long. I figured I might as well use the bathroom while I was in there."

Woman (propped on her elbows): "That's ok. Come on over here now that you're back."

Man (still in doorway): "You know what I was just thinking about?"

Woman (tossing hair): "No, what?"

Man: "I was thinking in the bathroom that with our incredible recruiting class and the talent that's on the field - the now experienced talent - Notre Dame should really come up in the ranks this year. I mean I don't want to get too optimistic, I know we have a lot of ground to cover, but we should be much better than we have been."

Woman (hair perfectly still): *blink

Man: Right? I mean Charlie Weiss has some new people on staff and Michael Floyd's a beast and..."

Woman: *blink blink

Man (crossing the room): "Right?"

(beat)

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Woman (now sitting up straight): "It's just that...again...football talk doesn't really do it for me, I guess."

(beat)

"It kind of takes me right out of the mood, you know?"

Man (step forward): "You mean?"

Woman: "Well?"

Man (now next to her): "But, but doesn't this feel nice?" (pulling her in for a warm embrace)

Woman: "I mean, I guess so and everything, but it's kind of done-for at this point. Don't you remember about how a woman's greatest sex organ is her brain?"

...

Man: "E=MC SQUARED!!"

A Smatterin'

2009-09-22T21:27:00.007-04:00

Did you know that I once dreaded writing a paper so much that I went to the restroom and tried to make myself go, just so I could procrastinate a bit longer? Totally did that.

That's not what's going on here. I've been in the process of writing a post on the first time Jonny and I said "I love you," but the words have been slow in coming. I find this particular story more difficult to write than most, perhaps because some parts of it are unflattering. It's easy to be self-deprecating, but hard as hell to reveal a true shortcoming. I sit down at the computer for awhile, type out a paragraph or two, then erase it all. I have maybe half of the story written right now, but the rest will come in its own time.

Until then, here is a smattering of info for you.

1. My sister has five glorious, wonderful kids. Erin is a stay-at-home mom and a homeschooler, and boy howdy is she good at it. She also happens to love it. That said, once every three years or so, she'll call me up and say, "Em, I've only been with the kids today, and I'm starting to say things like 'Nanny nanny boo boo.' I need some Jane Eyre."

And here's why. Have you ever noticed that when you immerse yourself in a book, you start thinking and talking in the characters' dialect? Now, I've read Jane Eyre about two million times, and every time I read it I devour it in one enormous chunk. During one of these particular chunks in high school, I took a break from my book to talk my mom's ear off about something stupid (the shmanguage, Lyndee), and I ended with, "Have you never heard us converse in that manner?" That's the Bronte shining through. Now you know that whenever my sister wants to improve her vocabulary, she absorbs Jane Eyre.

Lately, I've been devouring The Grapes of Wrath, and though I'm loving my experience, this particular novel has passages like:

"Come right up in meetin'. One lady says we oughta have a little bell that rings ever' time the roll turns oncet. Then we could count how many ever'body takes. I jes' don't know. I been worried all week. Somebody's a-stealin' toilet paper from Unit Four.

After 430 pages, can you imagine what my inner dialogue is like? "Why, Pa, we gots ta git us ta thet rest'runt a'fore I starve to death. I just a'soon et a mess o' corn pone ruther than fit that rush hour traffic. Kin you git the GPS a-workin?"

Erin, I need some Jane Eyre.

2. Oh my gosh, the Pioneer Woman can do nothing wrong. Have you tried her pancakes? Have you? Have you?!? Look, go here now and do exactly what she says. I've never in my life been a pancake person. I don't order them at restaurants (rest'runts?), don't crave them, don't care about them. I'll eat them, of course. I've even enjoyed them, but I've never loved them. These, on the other hand, are perfect. I've actually made them. For myself. Because I wanted them.

3. So, we were at our friends' apartment last week playing movie pictionary when we heard a fire alarm going off in the distance. The windows were open, so we peaked out to see if we could figure out which building had the trouble. Our apartment complex is made up of several towers, you see, so we thought maybe we'd be able to watch the action once we figured out which tower it was in. The fire trucks came screaming around the corner, and we watched to see where they'd pull up.

"Huh. They're coming down our road. I don't see any smoke, but the alarm must be coming from the next tower."

"Huh. They're headed this way. Must be the tower across the street."

"Huh. They're pulling up in front of our tower and scurrying about with hoses. Guys, do you smell something burning?"

That's when we figured out that we were, indeed, in the towering inferno. We all rushed out, dinner bowls in hand, to the parking lot next to the building. All 20 of us. Yes, in a dozen stories of residents, maybe 20 of us ventured out of the building.

It ended up being nothing much - the contents of a basement dumpster had caught fire - but I can't help thinking that the alarm system needs a bit of tweaking. Jonny says it needs assertiveness training. Evacuation fail.

And with that, I leave you. See you again soon, my friends. Until then, yeh have yesself a righ' nice time.

Because Pistols Are for Sissies

2009-09-15T02:46:00.002-04:00

I challenge you to a duel - an underwear duel. I discovered today that I have 67 pairs of underwear. Jonny owns a measly 9, so I defeated him soundly. If any of you can best me, then I will cede the panty throne to you. Takers?

Girl Makes Move, Boy Makes Bigger Move

2009-09-14T00:29:00.000-04:00

Again, you may have already read this post on our wedding website. New stuff to come in the next one. ~Em

Well. This is Jonny, here to give my own version of things. I am not going to bother further illuminating the twelve years that lead up to Emily's and my relationship, because she covered it pretty sufficiently. Besides, for a full account of an arrest and multiple near arrests, streaking, and perilously low GPA's, you may speak to me yourself.

When Emily moved to town after school, our mutual gravitation was immediate and irresistible.

I'll pick up a couple of days before the point where we looked at each other and said "oh."

After another session of watching the Simpson's, trying to ignore a veritable storm of sexual tension, something big happened. We hopped in my jeep to head out to a friend's house in Lexington for a movie...and she reached over and grabbed my hand. I...nearly...drove...off...the...road. I am not joking. Emily actually had to say, "Woah, watch out." It's amazing what a big deal the holding of hands is. We had touched hands many times, intentionally, and even sensually. But all of those times we could write it off as something we were just doing in the privacy of our homes because it felt nice, something in the vein of a back scratch or shoulder massage. But out under the watching eye of the sun, it felt official. Nay, it WAS official. This was an intentional statement. It was handholding with intent to romanticize. (Of the first degree.)

Later after movie night, out in the yard I beseeched my brethren (specifically Corman and Lee J.) with a dilemma:

"I think Emily and I may actually date."

"Really? Wow. She is really cool."

"I know, but it's crazy. I mean could this actually work?"

"Well I think so, you guys definitely get along."

"Yeah, it's frightening. When I look at her, I see someone who I could really be with, I mean I don't see any reason why I wouldn't want it to work out...Hey, is she watching us out of the window?"

"Yeah, she may be...if she comes out here, just pretend we're talking about the all-star game."

"Ok."

"So has something specific happened between you and Emily that-AND THE THING ABOUT THE ALL-STAR GAME IS, THERE REALLY SHOULD BE MORE RED-SOX PLAYERS."

"Ok, she went back inside. Yeah, anyway, we just held hands on the way up here. I mean, I just about ran off the-YEAH, THE THING ABOUT THE ALL-STAR GAME IS THAT IT HAS PLAYERS IN IT...BASEBALL PLAYERS! THEY PLAY BASEBALL! OH, HI EMILY! I mean...Hi Emily."

Jump ahead two or three days and we are together once again basking in the glow of Springfield and her wayward citizens. It is late, the mood is ripe, and there is no more skirting the issue, no more ignoring the elephant in the room (his name clearly would have been "Stampy.") I looked at Emily, she looked back, and I moved in. The first kiss. It was short, and quick. The ice was cracked, but long from broken.

I ask, "Should we do this?" And I am fully expecting my responsible and not particularly spontaneous friend Emily to say something along the lines of, "No, we probably shouldn't." But that isn't what she said. She simply looked back at me and said, "Yes." Let me repeat all of that.

1. I kiss my friend of twelve years.

2. I ask if we should do this.

3. She just says "Yes." Not "maybe", not "what do you think?" Just "Yes."

CRACK! SPLASH! FIIIZZZZ. The ice not only breaks...it is obliterated. The sun comes out, melts every bit of ice within miles, the polar bears all drown and California sinks into the sea. It is on. The makeout session that ensues practically makes up for every kiss we had missed out on in the last 12 years due to our annoyingly pious restraint and selfish regard for friendship.

And that my friends is how it began. How it ends is another matter, but since that story will involve one or both of our deaths, let us not dwell on it here or now. Huzzah! And on with the celebration!

Boy Meets Girl...Then Waits 12 Years to Make a Move

2009-09-13T03:11:00.002-04:00

Today, I've been thinking about significant moments in my relationship with Jonny. (Ten points to the first person who knows why. Minus ten points to the first person who guesses that I am pregnant. No, I am not pregnant.)

In a few days, I'll tell a story about Jonny and me in the beginning of our relationship. Until then, you should have a bit of back story. Many of you have already read these posts on our wedding website, but for those of you who haven't, I'm putting them here on blogger so you can catch up. If you've already read them, just sit tight, my pretties. New material will arrive within the week.

How We Met

Jonny and I don't remember how we met, mostly because we were eleven years old. I had just moved to town, and Jonny, though my age, hung out regularly with my older brother Mark. I had the hugest crush on Jonny for at least a month of 5th grade, but he never asked me out. He told me later that he had thought about it once on the bus home from school, but he thought better of it before he saw me. Alas, our love had many years to go before it would bloom and blossom.

Although I'm exactly 23 days older than Jonny (about which I tease him regularly), he was a year ahead of me in school. We went to different middle schools anyway, so we didn't see each other all too much in those rather awkward years. Thank God. Still, we went to the same youth group throughout middle and high school, so it's not like we forgot about each other. We just didn't have much to do with each other.

I went back to public school for high school, so our acquaintance grew stronger during those years. We had a couple of classes together and ate lunch with the same people, but again, we weren't really close. He dated someone else for several of those years, so he wasn't even an option anyway. We continued to run in different (albeit intersecting) circles, but we were friends.

Then, during my senior year of high school and his first year out of school, our friendship deepened. I had gone on a mission trip with a bunch of guys earlier that summer (Yohan, Headley, and A.J.), and Jonny had already been hanging out with that group for awhile. After the mission trip, I started going to A.J.'s house frequently (it was always the place to be), so I saw Jonny all the time. We talked about anything and everything, but always as a group. Just like the other three years of high school, there was no romantic pressure, and I'm grateful for that to this day. We got to know each other as friends. We learned to have casual conversations with each other and to laugh with each other. I learned his personality and a few of his quirks, all outside the context of dating. There was no false front, no pressure to seem better than we really were. We just were.

The next year, I left for college in Indiana, and I thought that would be the end of our friendship. Some friendships survive a move; some don't. I thought this one was surely doomed. Still, I found that I looked forward to seeing him when I was home for breaks. We Instant Messaged occasionally (good grief, IM) and sometimes talked on the phone, but we still didn't get it. Then during my sophomore year, he and Yohan joined some friends and me for a trip to Chicago. The boys got to know my college friends on that trip, and since my roomies and I were an irresistible bunch, Jonny and Yohan came up to visit us in each subsequent year. Even after my parents moved from Kentucky, I got to see Jonny over Thanksgiving each year. My dad worked with Jonny's uncle at a church, and Jonny's family always went to his uncle's house for Thanksgiving.

During my college years, Jonny and I still just didn't get it. We loved talking to each other and we flirted - heaven knows - shamelessly, but we only saw friendship. We got elbow nudges and eye rolls from friends and family, but after 12 years of "just friends," we didn't even consider the possibility of more. It wasn't on the radar.

Then I graduated.
I moved back to Kentucky.
We spent every day together for a month.
At the end of the month we looked at each other and said, "Oh."

And that, my friends, is the story.

Life Goals

2009-09-11T02:40:00.002-04:00

Tonight I have been feverishly writing down professional goals and business plans. My mind has been racing with ideas about brand management and marketing strategies, so much so that my pen has not kept up with my head.

I was just jotting down a note about press releases a moment ago when my eyes were drawn to the TV. Naturally, being of Generation Y, I had turned the TV on so I could think a bit clearer while I wrote down my career aspirations. I chose a Planet Earth DVD because Planet Earth is AWESOME.

So as I'm writing about press releases, I hear Sigourney mention a mountain goat on, get this, a mountain. I look up, and there's said goat scaling the precipices. My heart immediately swells, and I remember that my real lifelong goal is to herd sheep. Basically, I want to be Heidi, just in New Zealand.

Do you think they perform SWOT analyses in New Zealand?

Small Town Girl Meets Big City, Gets Warm Fuzzies; OR There, Not Back Again: A Hobbit's Tale

2009-09-02T18:57:00.001-04:00

I, much like John Cougar Mellencamp, am a small town, stay-at-home kind of gal. A 7-minute trip to Wal-Mart might as well be an expedition to Bornia for me.

"Are you kidding me? You mean we need to go to Wal-Mart just to get one little thing? But it's in a whole nother town! (One separates "another" during crisis.)

"Yes, Emily, but it's still only 7 minutes away."

"Did you not hear me?!? I SAID NOTHER!"

I liked my 3-minute commute to the office (4 during rush hour) in Kentucky. I liked that I only used my housekey two times in as many years. I liked leaving my car on and unlocked while I ran into the post office to drop off some letters. I liked that I saw my 9th grade geometry teacher and my friend's boss's wife and my friend's former roommate while in line at the post office. I liked my town's two stoplights. So, naturally, I moved to Los Angeles.

Truth be told, I like adventure too. Elizabeth, it pains me to say this, so please refrain from gloating: I am Bilbo Baggins. Jonny made the observation some time ago, and while I hate to admit it, while I try to challenge it, and while I give it the finger, I cannot deny it. I love tea and good company and good food. I've wanted to tend lush gardens ever since I read Frances Hodgson Burnett's masterpiece in second grade, and I've wanted to live under a hill for as long as I can remember. (When my family lived in Oklahoma, I thought to myself, "These tornadoes would be nothing if our houses were built in hills." No, it did not occur to me that there were no hills in Oklahoma.) Also, I might be, cough, short.

But I'm not just any hobbit, you see. I'm Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo loves his home, but he has to get out of hobbiton every now and then. He has to find rings and fight trolls and fend off dragons. He has to live with the elves and sail to the undying lands. I can't think of a better place to find strange creatures than right here in LA. It might not be the undying land, but it seems to be the unaging land. (E. Taylor excluded.)

As for the strange and new, well:

In Kentucky, we would look outside and see rolling hills; now we see, um, rolling hills. It's just that the new hills are dotted with beautiful, sauced celebrities instead of old Maytag uprights.
I miss Wal-Mart. I never ever EVER thought I would say I miss Wal-Mart. The beauty of Wally World is that you go to one place, load up, and that's the end of it. To get everything for our apartment here, I had to go to 1,2,3,4,5,6 places. Six. Ok, I didn't have to go to six places to get everything. I could've done it in two or three, but I had to go to six to get the best prices on everything. The good thing, though, is that four of those stores were within walking distance. If you'll recall our earlier conversation on 7 minutes, then you'll appreciate that I appreciate stores within walking distance.
The traffic really is that bad, and the parking is worse.
Elevator chat. Perhaps more on this later.

All in all, though, I'm loving it here. We spent Sunday afternoon at the beach, which was glorious. There is a Mediterranean restaurant exactly 1.2 miles from our apartment. Ushers monitor crowds at the movie theaters to make sure no one talks during the movies. There are concerts, shows, and interesting spectacles every single night.

Yes, LA, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship. Just don't screw it up.

Update on videos

2009-08-19T12:01:00.002-04:00

Whelp, the first video is on youtube now, but the entire audio track is muted because they're worried about copyright issues. We'll try something else; it'll just be awhile.

Fa la la la L.A. la la la la

2009-08-18T02:15:00.005-04:00

Jonny and I are moving to L.A. even as I type. I plan to catch you up on all the goings-on after we get settled in California, but for now I can give you a few glimpses of our trip. We're taking two weeks to get to the west coast, and we're visiting family, friends, and national parks along the way. We (and by "we" I mean Jonny) are making short videos of each leg of our trip, and we'll be posting them along the way. Two videos are already done, but I can't post them here yet because I haven't uploaded them to youtube yet. We need to get on the road right away, so that step will have to wait for our next stop - Utah. If our hotel in Utah has wifi, then I'll upload the videos tonight and you can see them tomorrow. Until then.

In Brief

2009-07-24T14:49:00.002-04:00

Last night, an exhausted, bedraggled Jonny came home after an exhausting, bedraggling day. He wrapped his arms around his ever-loving wife and said, "Emily, when I'm completely done with school and the holidays are over and we've moved to wherever it is we're moving, can we just sit for awhile?"

I said yes.

Home Sweet Hovel

2009-07-21T09:00:00.001-04:00

We interrupt these marriage raptures for a brief look at the newlywed mansion. Mom and Dad, I think you'll like this.

Here she is from the front in all her glory. Ain't she a beaut?

Here she is from the side...her good side.

The front door leads straight into the foyer/living room/game room/dining room/library.

In the West Wing we have the kitchen...

...and the refrigerator that almost opens the whole way.

Here is the bedroom, the pride of our home and the rest for our weary souls. Note the DIY flannel blanket curtain because "The blinds don't block out enough light," and note the careful placement of hampers, work lights, and wall art. We decorate with Feng Shui. The sealed door acts as a funky, new art deco headboard and grounds the room in style, while the floor pillows really tie the room together.

Our floors slant every so gracefully, so we balance our furniture on recycled, sustainable, cardboard.

Ahh, the bathroom, a place to clear away troubling thoughts while we clear away the grime from our days. You'll see in their separate corners the washer and dryer. Neither worked when we moved in. The washer is now fully functioning, complete with bucking mechanism. The dryer had to be replaced, and you can see in the picture our brand new dryer. The stool is hidden behind my trusty Tide detergent, and the sink you can just barely see in the right side of the photo. We made one modification to the bathroom when we moved in: we replaced the one plastic shower head with two heads. No more need be said about that save Thank you for the BB&B gift card, Trevor and Jenna.

Unfortunately, our closet did not make it into a photo.

Moving on, we venture back outside for yet another angle of the house. But wait! What's this?

What in tarnation is this?!?

Are you telling me that when our landlord replaced our broken dryer she failed to haul away the old one? Are you telling me that I have a dryer in the front yard of my Kentucky home? This can't be! This will never do! We're moving in three weeks, but that's not soon enough.

With any luck, our neighbor's house will come up for rent.

Part 2: Mawwiage, Dat Bwessed Awwaingement

2009-07-20T09:47:00.012-04:00

Note: I don't have our wedding pictures on the computer I'm using, so I'll just give you the story for now. Pictures will come later.

The wedding was now. My dad rounded the stairs, saw me there in veil and gown, and my hold-it-together, no-nonsense dad promptly burst into tears. He kissed me, told me I looked beautiful, and promised me that Jonny would be stunned. Oh, my sweet dad, that was a hard moment. The bridesmaids ALL started crying and grabbing tissues, and I desperately held off the tears so as not to ruin my makeup. We weren't even downstairs yet.

With a start, we realized that the groomsmen were heading to the beach, and that was bad news for us. We had instructed our high tech sound guy, A.K.A. usher Jesse recruited at rehearsal, to start the processional music as soon as the groomsmen were in place. That meant we women had to be far enough behind the groomsmen that they wouldn't see us walking toward the beach but close enough to the groomsmen that we would be in place behind a sand dune as soon as the music started. The groomsmen were already out the door, meaning we were late, meaning my 10-hour early arrival time was all for naught, meaning the processional would start and there would be no one there to process. Eek!

We rushed downstairs in a flurry of silk and tulle and pressed our noses to the windows to watch the groomsmen. All was saved; they had left the building, but they were standing just outside the house. We would be on time. We grabbed our nearly forgotten bouquets of simple white flowers and watched the groomsmen start their journey to the sea. Then with a deep breath, we too began the trek.

The weather was gorgeous. The storm clouds that had been threatening all afternoon gave way to wispy clouds and sunlight. The temperature was warm but not too hot, and a light breeze had its way with my veil. We found out later that storms had hit thirty miles to the north and south of us, but we remained in the clear.

It wasn't the weather, however, that occupied my thoughts when we left the house. My nerves and panic had mercifully been replaced by a deep calm. All thoughts of preparation and details were swept away when I realized that the moment I had been preparing for had finally arrived. There were no more issues to wrap up, no items to purchase; I had only to take a short walk on my father's arm and then my beloved would take me for his own. That is a sweet thought, ladies and gentlemen. It is the culmination of years of wonder, and it is simultaneously complex and simple. No wonder marriage is so often used as an analogy to our relationship with Christ.

We used two songs at our wedding, one for the processional and one for the recessional. Our processional was Drunkard's Prayer by Over the Rhine that begins, "You're my water. You're my wine. You're my whiskey from time to time." That about sums it up perfectly, both with a spouse and with Christ. We chose it for the dual meaning, and it had the added bonus of being written by a husband and wife who had been through it all and come out victorious. By the by, I recommend the album Drunkard's Prayer to anyone who likes things that are awesome. For more on that, see Elizabeth's account here.

We heard the first few bars of the processional just as we arrived at our hidden spot behind the sand dune. The bridesmaids ordered themselves ahead of my dad and me, and one by one they made their way to the ceremony site. My dad and I were left alone, waiting, and we shared a few words that will remain in daddy/daughter land. Some words are too precious to carelessly strew about the internet.

Audra, my maid of honor, marched down the sandy aisle, and then it was my turn. My dad and I walked slowly, savoring our time together, and I drank in the music and the scene. I saw friends and family, so many who had made the long drive to attend, and then I saw Jonny waiting for me at the front. Dear friends, how can I describe the joy of that moment? My dad whispered, "Keep your eyes on him, Emmy," and I did so with pleasure. Everything else, and I mean everything, melted away, and it was just Jonny and me and a song. Water. Step. Wine. Step. Whiskey. Step. I stood before him, he with tears on his face and hands absentmindedly crammed in his pockets, and then my dad gave me away.

Our dads are both pastors, so they shared in performing the ceremony. What a beautiful job they did! Dr. Fil shared anecdotes, thoughts, and exhortations, and my dad did the vows and rings. I told Jonny just last night that there are a few things about our wedding that I will never forget.

Jonny swayed side to side, shifting his weight from one leg to the other for the first part of the ceremony. When he said his vows he stopped swaying, and I thought he might faint from keeping his knees locked. When the vows were done, I whispered to him to unlock his knees. I credit myself with preventing disaster.
His hands trembled. I've told you before that his hands shake and go numb when he's nervous. I don't think "nervous" is exactly the right word for his state at the wedding. It was more a matter of importance. This was an important occasion, and his body knew it. When it came time for the ring, he asked me to help him put it on my finger because his hands were numb and he was afraid of dropping the ring in the sand.
The sun was directly behind his head when we said our vows. From my perspective, rays of light were shooting from his head, and I thought to myself, "How very theatrical." I had to sway with him to keep his head between my eyes and the sun.
Dr. Fil cried throughout the ceremony as was expected, but at one point, perhaps during the blessing, a single tear perched itself on the edge of the abyss at the end of his nose, directly over the microphone he was holding. I wanted to take a tissue to it, but I thought it might be slightly distracting for the bride to leave the groom's side so she could wipe the minister's nose. Relief flooded when he jerked his head and the tear plunged to its sandy death away from the microphone.
Jonny strongly emphasized "death" in "til death us do part." I believe him.

The blessing was probably the most meaningful part of the ceremony. Our parents stood with us - moms beside and dads before - laid their hands on our heads, and blessed us. I don't need to say much about this part, because I thought and felt exactly what you think I thought and felt. Here is the clip if you care to watch it; keep tissues at the ready.

The vows, rings, and blessings done, we had only the kiss and pronouncement left. A few words about the kiss: things did not go as planned and carefully rehearsed. I have this thing about making out in public in that I don't like doing it. I get self-conscious when I kiss Jonny in front of other people, so I was more worried about the kiss than anything else. In an attempt to quell my nerves earlier that day, I had approached Jonny to practice the kiss. He said, "Hmm, that's the one thing I'm actually not nervous about." I replied, "I am, so pucker up." After a brief argument about the nature of the kiss, we agreed on the pleasant, subdued, not-so-brief-it's-barely-a-peck yet not-so-long-the-people-vomit sort of kiss. We practiced it. I was satisfied.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that is NOT what I got. Jonny swooped in for a celebration MAKE-OUT SESSION in front of God, our parents, and everyone else. It lasted so long that one of our groomsmen remarked to another, "This is getting out of hand." I will not go into detail lest our friends vomit anew, but I'll say that this kiss was neither subdued nor brief. And as it turns out, I didn't mind it so much.

Our fathers together presented us as husband and wife, Queen's You're My Best Friend started up, and we skipped, yes, skipped down the aisle and to the dunes. We were giddy then, and we have remained so ever since.

(To be continued with the reception and send-off)

Part 1: Mawwiage Is What Bwings Us Togevah Today

2009-07-15T10:15:00.000-04:00

Jonny and I have been married two months exactly today, and I find myself reflecting on two months of wedded bliss. Every morning when I wake up, he is miraculously right next to me. It's like Christmas every day! Then I go to work. That's not at all like Christmas.

The wedding was - there's only one word for it - perfect. It was perfect. We decided to have a beach wedding because we wanted something a bit more casual and relaxed, and that's exactly what we got. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let's start with expectations and work our way from there. I'm a pretty laid back person. I don't get worked up over every little thing, and I decided several years ago that weddings were far too much trouble. There are invitations, reply cards, registries, favors, cakes, place cards, corsages, collages, engagement pictures, wedding pictures, pictures of taking wedding pictures, organists, quartets, buffets, bouquets, garters, dresses, tuxes, DJs, open bars, toasts, and drunk toasts. It's enough to make a woman scream, and more often than not, it does. Jonny and I decided back in December that we wanted a no-frills wedding, something that would be low stress and easy to plan, and get this: I actually thought it was possible.

Perhaps some people get away with easy weddings, but I don't see how. No matter how simple the ceremony, there are still a lot of people to please or appease, a bunch of envelopes to lick, a location to acquire, a dress to pay for, etc. ad infinitum, ad nauseam, ad andsubtracteam. Weddings tend to be stressful, and boy howdy, was I stressed.

I was so stressed, in fact, about r.s.v.p.s and engraved rings that I forgot to think about the ceremony. In five months of unceasing focus on the wedding, I never stopped to actually focus on the wedding. The ceremony ended up flooring me. It stole the show, just as it should have, and it was without a doubt one of the two most meaningful moments of my life.

I woke up early on my wedding day, as all brides probably do. We housed the wedding party in the same beach house where we held the reception, so technically, I was nine hours early to the wedding. Ten Wife Points to me for being on time.

Audra (my maid of honor) and I shared a room overlooking the ocean, so I awoke in peace and near a friend. That's the way to start off a wedding day, if you ask me. Auds and I got up and milled about the kitchen, prying our eyes open with fresh coffee and slices of breakfast pastry. I had lost my voice on Tuesday of that week (didn't get it back fully until Saturday), so I fixed myself a soothing cup of tea and picked a spot on the back deck. The others, most of whom had gone to bed at 4 or 5 that morning, slowly crawled their way into the living room and then on to the deck. It was a beautiful Friday morning, the kind you dream of waking up to on your wedding day. We sat in rockers on the deck, talked as old friends do, dared each other to jump from the deck to the pool - stuff like that. I'd like to say that my thoughts that morning were focused entirely on thankfulness for God's grace and good friends and family and excitement for our future (and sometimes they were), but most of my inner dialogue went like, "Holy crap, today's the day. I don't even have the playlist ready yet. Holy crap." I wasn't nervous, but I was still stressed. I couldn't force myself to forget about the details.

Following an incredible meal prepared by my mother-in-law and her husband, we held the rehearsal at noon on the beach behind the house. It went as rehearsals do.

At the end, all the groomsmen dragged Jonny across the sand and threw him into the ocean. The bridesmaids and I watched and laughed, and then we realized that we were alone on the beach. We gathered together, clasped hands, and prayed, and I don't think I'll ever forget that moment.

The next three hours were fun and games. The wedding party changed into bathing suits and hit the beach, and, as Jonny and I had requested, friends and family trickled in to join us by the pool and on the sand.

A game of four square sprang up, and the line quickly formed to vie for king or queen of the squares. Something else quickly formed; rainclouds darkened overhead and on the horizon, and the wedding was mere hours away.

The ceremony was at 5:30, so I went inside to get ready around 3:00. That's when the nerves hit. My inner dialogue transitioned from "Holy crap, the details" into a steady stream of "Holy crap holy crap holy crap holy crap..." Audra came in with me, took over the playlist I was working on, and sent me off to the shower. When I got out, my bridesmaid Ashley, an osteopath in training, aligned my back for me. I could fully turn my neck for the first time in weeks, and I realized how much stress I had been carrying around in my body. Elizabeth made me another cup of tea to soothe my throat, and Amanda came in to do my hair. Have I mentioned how wonderful my friends are? They are wonderful.

Despite their attentions, my nerves went from a steady stream to a steady tone. The wedding was one hour away, and I had flatlined. I sent everyone but Audra from the room, and, being an introvert, sat in silence and gathered my thoughts for a few minutes as I applied my eyeliner. I can't tell you how glad I am to have had that moment. I focused on the joy buried beneath the nerves, and, slowly, the nerves faded just a twinge. Amanda worked her magic on my hair while Audra and I laughed and talked together, and suddenly the wedding was thirty minutes away, twenty minutes away.

The bridesmaid rejoined to help me into my dress, and it was ten minutes away.

I put on the necklace that Jonny had given me for our first Christmas together, and the wedding was five minutes away.

We looked outside to check the crowd while Amanda hastily pinned my veil. I heard my dad climb the stairs to claim me, and suddenly, the wedding was now.

(To be continued)

A Mini Mini Rant

2009-07-07T23:39:00.002-04:00

Good gravy, ladies and gents! I just want to blog, really I do, but I can't. As I've said before, I have no internet at home, so I have to blog from Jonny's dad's house. I've been composing the post in my head all day long. Jonny and I just spent two hours at Dr. Fil's house so I could finish Jonny's FAFSA and post the new blog. TWO HOURS LATER I have only just finished the FAFSA, and now it's too late to blog. I hate tax forms. Hate them! Why is it that the IRS requires everyone to file impossible forms? You have to have a degree in TAX FORMS to fill them out, and yet everyone is supposed to be able to do it. BAH!

Now it's time to go home and shower and go to bed so I can get up tomorrow and go to work then to an appointment then to a movie then to shower and go to bed so I can go to work again. Hopefully, I'll catch you on Thursday. BAH!

The Other Side of the Shilling

2009-06-16T17:30:00.000-04:00

We have a weekly tradition, a Monday night routine, of going to our local Pub for half-priced fish and chips and a pint or two of our favorite beers. We waste away hours at the round table talking and toasting, leaning forward in our thrones when we're worked up over a subject and slamming down glasses to emphasize particularly brilliant points. The Pub is not charmingly authentic; it's kitsch. The Rolling Stones leer at you from their poster on the wall next to a cheezing Rod Stewart. Quotes about ale and women catch your eye amid dark paneling and British flags. Then there are the servers whose t-shirts subtly whisper "Bollocks!" and "Wanker!" If only Queen Victoria had lived to see it.

The Pub is a fun getaway of quality beer and affordable food, but it has one glaring stain: the waiters pair their t-shirts with kilts while the waitresses wear short, plaid skirts with knee-high socks and Mary Janes. It's difficult to enjoy the Pub experience when you're wearing sweatpants, a smelly t-shirt, and glasses while every man's Catholic schoolgirl fantasy walks up and offers your husband a refill. I've thought about protesting with my own attire, but I can't decide if I should go with a burqa or a bikini.

The thing that really gets my goat cheese, though, is not so much that the male patrons get miniskirts; it's that the female patrons get kilts. Kilts? Come on! I understand the whole warrior poet attraction, but that only comes with the mud, blood, troubled past, and uncertain future. Sans rugged mystery, a kilt brings to mind more of a Groundskeeper Willy than a William Wallace. If you insist on sending thighs into my husband's vicinity, then the least you could do is provide me with a nice fireman.

But that won't do either, will it? The thing is, men are stimulated visually, but women, well, it takes a bit more for them. You've heard it said that "the greatest sex organ on a woman's body is her mind," so, really, Danielle Steele is just Hugh Hefner with boobs. It doesn't take much to understand why there isn't a Hooters-type restaurant out there for women. Frankly, a restaurant of shirtless waiters wouldn't have that much of a draw for the female crowd. I'm not saying women don't have eyes; it just that eyes aren't enough. What surprises me, though, is that the restaurant tycoons haven't yet figured out that the way to a woman's pocketbook is through her heart, and that her heart, most often and most unfortunately, beats to the cadence of Nicholas Sparks' prose. If they want a man to come in for a pint, then they should hire Adriana Lima.* If they want a woman to order an extra glass of wine, then they should hire Heathcliff.**

Imagine with me the following dining experience:

You and your husband walk into a restaurant where a pony-tailed woman in loose khakis and a cardigan asks if you prefer smoking or non-smoking. Non-smoking, you say. You like your lungs. The hostess leads you to a table in the corner where, 30 seconds later, your waiter asks for your drink order. There is nothing particularly striking about your server's appearance, save for the troubled expression on his face. You ask him what's wrong. He does not speak. You press for an answer, and with a sigh he replies, "What's the point?" He retreats behind the counter to fill your Coke, and as he turns away you notice that the dark shadows beneath his eyes, which you thought unsightly on first glance, actually become him well when coupled with the sadness behind his eyes.

You brush away the thought as you turn to the menu. A few moments later, your waiter returns to ask for your order. Your husband orders the sirloin steak, extra rare. You order the tomato basil quiche and ask if you can get the strawberry tart to go.

"The what?" he says, his voice trembling.

"The strawberry tart," you say.

Tears spring from the corners of his eyes. He tries to hide them, but it's too late. You cry out in alarm, "Look, I'm sorry! I don't need the tart, really, if it upsets you. Don't worry about it. Here, take my napkin."

"I'm sorry, this has never happened to me, it's just..."

"Yes?"

"It's just..."

"Go on. You can talk to me."

"It's just that this is the tenth anniversary of the day that the only woman I've ever loved, a strawberry-blonde, left me. I cannot tell you of the pain I felt when she ran off. I searched for her far and wide, desperate to make her come back, to persuade her that we were meant to be, but I could not find her. Two years later I learned that she had married a man who, though wealthy beyond measure, could never give her what I could - purest love. Stricken, I ran from place to place, woman to woman. I sailed the sees in a vessel that I built with my own hands. I lived among the remotest tribes of the Amazon. I built an ecologically friendly treehouse with large closets and extra shoe storage using just a machete and my own fingernail clippings. I sought to rid my life of everything that reminded me of her, and to fill it with whatever else I could grasp.

I've never shed a tear for her before now; the pain was too deep. But when I talk to you, I feel that I can tell you anything, be anything. There's a strange feeling in my chest, something I haven't felt in years." He looks straight into your eyes for the first time. "Can it be hope?"

You stare back, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. Your husband looks from you to the waiter, the waiter to you, and says, "Check please!"

The hostess in baggy khakis escorts you out the door, and you give one last longing look at the waiter. Though his back is turned to you, he senses your stare and, looking over his shoulder, gives you a tender, knowing smile. He bends down again to tend to his next customer, a woman who asks him if anything is wrong, and as the door closes behind you, you think you hear a sullen, "What's the point?" over the din of the patrons' chatter.

Now that's a restaurant! It has endless possibilities too. You can have the melancholy poet, the dark rebel, the displaced cowboy who just wants some land and peace, the man who raised his siblings after his parents died and who donates his tips to cancer research, the dashing, billionaire playboy, the quiet type who lives off the land. Oh, the choices!

Unfortunately, the restaurant industry hasn't caught on quite yet. Until it does, you'll find me at the Pub on Monday evenings ordering fish and chips with a side of mild jealousy. You'll recognize me. I'm 5'1/2", brown hair, brown eyes, wearing a burqa.

* who is pregnant now, by the way
** a colossal prat

How does one type out the Jaws theme music?

2009-06-10T11:56:00.002-04:00

Jonny and I don't have internet access at our new house, so my online time has been minimal. That said, updates shall come when I spend a bit of time at Dr. Fil's later in the week. I have much to say. Be prepared.

Rent: It's not just a musical with shockingly obnoxious songs enumerating the seconds you're wasting listening to the songs

2009-05-07T14:00:00.001-04:00

I'm moving out of my current house (some sniffles) and moving into my new house where the hot Jonny will soon join me. We're renting this place just for a few months because we'll be moving out of state in August, and I'll just tell you that the new house is about the size of a steamer trunk. All of the floors slope, so I imagine we'll be embarking on indoor sledding adventures this summer. The light switches are in the wrong places and on the wrong side of doors (bathroom switch is in bedroom; kitchen switch is in living room). There is one closet and one closet only. This forces me to get rid of all my junk, and believe me, I've got a lot of it. Jonny, his sister, and I cleaned for several hours yesterday, but there's still much work to be done. (Mom, you would have been appalled by the furry growth on the bathroom window, but I know that, secretly, you would have been delighted to clean it. That's the Mama Jo hormone we inherited.)

All in all, it's kind of a disaster of a house, but we love it.

I'm going to be unpacking my stuff today, tomorrow, and Saturday. On Sunday I'm going to pack my bags for NC and Italy (we finally decided on Italy for the honeymoon destination, by the way), and then we'll start moving Jonny's stuff in for the rest of Sunday and Monday. In between times, I'll be picking up my dress and Jonny's ring, dyeing a veil (ha!), washing my car, changing my oil, purchasing beverages, plucking my eyebrows (cause eww), making a playlist, and kicking back at a couple of cookouts. I've had a lot of help so far, and I'm thankful for so many sweet friends who have taken part of the planning burden on themselves.

In six days I'll get to see my new niece, and in eight days I'll get married.
I can't believe it.

Graphic?

2009-05-01T09:46:00.002-04:00

No one ever told me that planning a wedding is sometimes like finding an extra sleeve of Thin Mints behind the sprouting potatoes in the back of your pantry and other times like vomiting a scream.

Hurrahs!

2009-04-27T10:12:00.002-04:00

It was a good weekend. On Friday, my sweet (and hot) fiance had a birthday, ending that 23-day stretch of the year that we're different ages. Happy birthday week, my love! Hurrah! (As a side note, I realized yesterday that the movie Independence Day came out in the middle of my life. This fact, for some strange reason, blew my mind.)

Then on Saturday, my sweet niece had a birthday - her very first and only birth day. Congratulations to my sister and her expanded family! Sarah Elizabeth came nine days before she was due, and that's good news to her Aunt Emily. If she had come late, my sister may not have been able to make it to my wedding, so now I can breathe a sigh of relief. I can't wait to meet and hold the new one, and, ok, I can't wait to hold the old ones too. Hurrah!

On Saturday night, I joined fiance's family at his mother's house for a birthday celebration. Fiance's mother and her husband love to cook, and they're good at it. This works in my favor, except for that whole passing-for-five-months-pregnant thing that happens when I finish a meal at their house. Totally worth it though. A few days before the Saturday gathering, my future mother-in-law emailed all of us requesting lists of our favorite dishes. We responded with several things that we like, little knowing that she would make ALL of them. Here is the menu from Saturday, and take note that there were six people total in attendance: Appetizers of homemade fried chicken fingers with homemade honey mustard and fresh veggies with dill dip; for the main course(s) five humongous strip steaks, tilapia with mango salsa (one apiece), pork chops with barbecue sauce (one apiece); sides of potato salad, cole slaw, and steamed asparagus; key lime pie and strawberry shortcake for dessert. An hour after eating, I got into a bikini for the hot tub, and such sticking out of the gut, such forming of bellybutton doughnuts with hands, such talking of bellybutton people, and such laying of hands atop child-carrying-like tummy that bathroom mirror has never seen and never will see again.

Until my next meal there.

We were spoiled rotten for our April birthdays. Hurrah!

I Have a Quirk

2009-04-20T17:11:00.005-04:00

What if every title of my posts began "I Have a ________?" I have a dress. I have a vacation. I have a roommate. I have a colonoscopy. Would you still stop by every now and then?

If you're wavering at all between staying and going, here's a good reason to go: I have a quirk. I've used a few posts here to tell you about Jonny's quirks, but today I'm confessing one of my own. Here it is: open cabinet doors make my stomach twist with anxiety. Now, if someone is opening a door to get something out of the cabinet, then that doesn't bother me in the slightest degree. I don't give it a thought. If, however, the cabinet door is left open while the culprit walks away, I experience moderate anxiety until the door is closed. I can't concentrate on anything else, I can't put it out of my mind, and I can't walk away. The door must close.

A particular college housemate of mine, drunk with the power of knowledge, used to amuse herself by opening all the kitchen cabinets and then calling to me. Worse yet, if I were lying on the couch facing the kitchenette, she would leave one of the cabinet doors slightly ajar, just one, and say, "Hey, Em, check it out. I'm just gonna leave this open here and then come join you on the couch. That doesn't bother you, does it? You wouldn't need to get up for any reason, would you?" Then she would sit and stare at me until, unable to take it any longer, I jumped up and slammed the door. It's as if Lex Luthor were juggling balls of kryptonite outside Superman's bedroom window.

Wilson, I don't know why I ever made you a bridesmaid. One more wrong move out of you, and I swear you're off the team.

So anyway, despite telling Jonny and his family about my condition and asking them kindly to respect the neurosis, every time I've entered that house for the last 2 1/2 years, the door to the tea cabinet in the kitchen has been wide open. You'd recognize the tea cabinet since it's the only one you can see from the front door. And every time, I have calmly and directly closed the door and moved on with my business.

Since Jonny is still alive and in possession of all his limbs, I figure our marriage can and will survive anything. This is my greatest encouragement.

Losing It

2009-03-26T11:46:00.010-04:00

Let's talk about bras today. Goodbye, men.

I lost a bra about two months ago. I'd had it for two years and had worn it many, many times, so I was sad to lose my old friend. I found it a week ago, and there was much rejoicing.

Now, in between losing and finding said friend, I took up running again (you may have heard a little something about red tights). After donning the returned article this morning and walking around for a bit, I was dismayed to discover that it no longer fit correctly. The band was just too loose, apparently from the weight I didn't know I had been losing. It provided no support at all. I know it's ridiculous to complain about loose clothing and lost inches, but for me this dilemma causes far too many problems. I have a small frame - so small, in fact, that a waiter guessed I was 15 when I was really 23. I buy jeans from one store and one store alone because it's the only place I can get short pants. I already wear the smallest bra size anyway, so now what am I going to do?

I'll have to go back to the preteen section, that's what. Goodbye to Vicky and her many secrets. Hello, Limited Too and American Girl. Prepare your best cotton, purple and pink flowered, front-clasped training bras and High School Musical 30AA's! My Hannah Montana sunglasses and Hilary Duff glasses are about to get some company in the apparel department.

But what am I supposed to do? I want to keep running because now I can run up the stairs at my house without getting winded. I want to be physically fit. What happens if I keep running? Will my chest waste away into what has been so delicately called "peas on a board?" Pretty soon even the preteen bras won't fit me anymore. I can't sew, so I'll have to fashion myself a garment of duct tape. NOT THAT I'LL ACTUALLY NEED ONE. People will see me in the streets and whisper to each other, "There goes that nice, cross-dressing, duct tape boy." How will I nurse my children? They're going to starve. They're all going to starve! Every child everywhere is going to starve!

At least that's what I thought on my way back to work from the post office.

As I fixed my second cup of morning tea in the office kitchen, an idea - so inspired that I thought it must have come from Heaven itself - struck. I reached back behind me and found that, sure enough, the clasp had come undone, rendering the garment loose and useless.

Then I hooked my bra and smiled.

It's Baaaaaack

2009-03-25T10:10:00.002-04:00

Last Saturday, I dreamed that my friend Luke was eating carrots. Boring dream. I awoke and thought, "Hmm, it's almost like I can still hear him chewing." As I slowly gained my senses, I realized that I could, indeed, hear chewing. I heard it quite close to me. It was loud and menacing. It was crunching and munching and threatening my sanity...again.

The creature is back.

How to Look a Fool

2009-02-25T20:21:00.004-05:00

How to Look a Fool
Step 1: In October/November, decide that since you haven't run regularly in seven years, you don't need all your long sleeve t-shirts. Get rid of all but two.

Step 2: In February, decide to run regularly. Get home from work at 5:30, but schedule dinner for 6:30. This means you have one hour to get dressed, stretch, run, cool down, stretch, wash up, and change for dinner.

Step 3: Frantically scan your room for running clothes. Since it's cold outside, you need good pants. Tear open every drawer, but fail to find the one pair of pants that qualifies. Decide to wear your old running tights from your freshman year of high school. Remember how Travis Whalen once wore them for a Captain Stock Market skit in social studies. Chuckle. Your running tights are bright red.

Step 4: Frantically scan your room for shorts to go over the pants. Settle on your bright blue racing shorts that you wore in middle school. They're short, but they're better than your cheer shorts with "Irish" written across the butt. Yes, you have those.

Step 5: Now for the top. Since you work out maybe twice per year, you only have two sports bras, and you've had both of them since you were in middle school. Pick one out, and remember how when you bought them you thought that they would do ok until you grew out of them. You never grew out of them. Sigh.

Step 5: Now it's time for your shirt. Tear your closet apart in search for your remaining two long sleeve t-shirts. Find the bright red one. Realize that your bright red t-shirt would completely hide your blue shorts, making you a Twizzler when combined with your bright red running tights. Decide that this is too much, even for you. Finally locate your gray shirt from 8th grade with the holes in the wrists, and put it on. You're looking awesome now.

Step 6: Now for the ears. Your gray headband ear cover thing is simply too loose. It will fall off. Go for your purple one instead.

Step 7: Gloves. You have one black glove, and you know you took the other one out of your purse and put it on the couch earlier in the day. Of course, it's not there now. You put on the black glove while you search for something, anything, to wear on your left hand. Briefly consider the muff that your fiance got you for Christmas, but, much like the red shirt, decide that it's too ridiculous. Instead, find an old blue mitten in the back of your closet. Put it on.

Now you're fully clothed. Top to bottom you're wearing a purple earband, gray shirt with holes, black sports bra from 8th grade, red running tights, short blue shorts, white socks, orange and white shoes, black glove on right hand, blue mitten on left hand. You're hot.

Step 8: Since you spent so long destroying your drawers, you don't have much time for your run. Cut down on stretching even though you know that's a bad decision. This doesn't make you look a fool right now, but just wait.

Step 9: Put your headphones in, and run with an iPod for the first time ever. "Hey! Music really does make this better!"

Step 10: Run on concrete, ignoring the fact that you always get shin splints when you run on concrete. Stupid. Also, run around town, you know, among the people.

Step 11: Get home. Stretch for about a minute. Change clothes. Let the salt sweat dry on your skin on your way out to dinner. Yuck.

Step 12: The next day, try to sit down without groaning. Fail. Let your shins remind you that they exist and they're angry. Curse stretching.

Congratulations. You've now completed twelve foolproof steps to Looking a Fool.

Wedlock Gridlock

2009-02-24T11:57:00.013-05:00

Greetings All,

We interrupt your lunch hour with this important announcement: I'm giving up my lunch hour to blog today, just to catch you up on all things wedding. (Men, I'm sure you've been waiting for this.) You see, when I get home from work I usually make dinner, eat dinner, clean up dinner, shower, and then work on wedding plans and watch Seinfeld until bedtime. This is my life. This is what I do. If I'm on the computer, then I'm looking up honeymoon spots and cheap flights. Blogging has fallen to the last thing I squeeze in, right behind singing real loud with Jonny (one of our favorite pastimes.)

Here's how things have gone thus far: We got engaged on December 12; friends started visiting town on December 15; last friend left town on January 11. During that December to January friends visiting period, I got that whole attire thing under control with the help of said visiting friends. We ordered the bridesmaid dresses in a 15-minute online shopping spree before church one Sunday. That went like this:

Ashley: "Hey, Emily, do you like this dress? The fabric is great."
Me: "Yes, I do. All right. Let's go for it."
Add 6 to shopping cart. Continue to checkout. Checkout.

Then we got the wedding dress, which was a fun process. It went like this:
Starts with looking at pictures online.
"Jonny, do you have any preferences or expectations?"
"Nope. You can wear a bikini if you want to. In fact, do that, please."
"Then how about I wear something like this?"
"That's fine."
"Baby, it's bright blue."
"What?"
"It's blue and humongous and covered in bows. Are you honestly telling me you're ok with that?"
"UK is on."

Next, go to five different stores.
"Yes, I like this, but maybe it's not my favorite."
"This one would do, but is your wedding dress supposed to just 'do?'"
"I don't want to look like the cake."
"Wait, so you're telling me that I'm not allowed to try anything on?
"Where are my boobs? They're gone."
"Ok, clearly I like this particular style, so let's just stay in that sort of range."
Try on 18 more dresses that look exactly the same.
"Anybody else in the mood for chicken wings?"

Try a new store.
"Ok, all of these are fantastic. Why did I go anywhere else?"
"Whaddyaknow? This one really is the one. I didn't think that actually happened to women who don't like pink."
And there you have it. I have a dress.

We don't know what the men will be wearing, but they won't be in suits or tuxes. I think that's all we need know for now.

The Location: That one created a huge switch because we were originally planning to have a beach wedding on August 1. Well, it turns out that August 1 is in the exact middle of peak season, both for beaches and for honeymoons, therefore the cost was about 10 times the amount it should have been. We were looking to rent a big ol' beach house for a day or two, and a day or two is affordable in low season.* In August, you have to rent everything for an entire week, and for that week you may choose to pay with cash or with your right arm, left earlobe, and an inch of your midsection. We chose to move the wedding date to low season. Now, we're getting married on May 15, and hey! that's two and a half more months of married life we just bought ourselves. Good deal! Good deal! Not only that, but we'll probably be moving in August. Had we gone forward with the August 1 date, we would've returned from our honeymoon to pack a U-Haul and immediately hit the road. Now we get a few more months to adjust to married life before we have to adjust to a new state.

Food: Jonny's mom is taking care of all the food arrangements, and I can only say that this is good news for attendees. Also, we'll be using Jack's BBQ sauce, the greatest BBQ sauce in all the land. Mmmmmmm. Jaaaaaack's.

Cake: Yohan is making the cake, and he just practiced one of the layers last week. May I just say that the layer of lime cake with coconut white chocolate filling shall be mine and mine alone. You may not have any. Mine.
And I don't even like cake.

Music: We've gone back and forth and forth and back about music for the wedding. If we were getting married in a big, ornate church, I would definitely walk down the aisle to the Corpse Bride theme played on an organ, no matter how morbid that sounds. It's a gorgeous piece - just doesn't work for the beach. The recordings of the theme come from the movie, so it includes dialogue in the music. The song doesn't even end, really; it just trails off into dialogue. Too bad, because I really like that song. Next, I proposed the New Pornographers' Bleeding Heart Show for the processional because I love the way the song builds and triumphs. Then I read the lyrics and discovered that it's about a break-up. So that's out. We're now considering other songs, but we have yet to agree on something. This is a small detail, so I'm not really that worried.

Photography and videography: check.

Honeymoon: Oh my gosh, we've spent so many hours trying to find a place, and we've changed our minds just about every day. I would tell you what we're considering, but I'm sure it will change tomorrow and become irrelevant, so I'm not going to bother.

Invitations: Yikes. This is the last major thing to do, and I've had a lot of trouble doing it. Trying to find an affordable invitation with enough room for extra info was a nightmare. I gave up, and now I'm designing it myself with Audra's (la MOH) help. The extra info will go on a website, and the invitation will be bare bones.

That's it. That's where we are. I think this has been a major period of growth for me, because I've been forced to make decisions, sometimes even quickly.

I hope to return to blogging regularly soon, but it won't happen until the invitations are out and the honeymoon is booked. Maybe I can convince my boss to make lunch two hours long. "Sorry, Boss, but I can't digest my food unless I take five minutes per bite." It's sure to work. Sure! Muahahahahahahaha! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Muahaha - I'm done.

*See my definition of "affordable," not my father's.

Terror in My Room, 2009 - Final Update

2009-02-14T19:40:00.003-05:00

Final for now...

I haven't heard the creature since early yesterday morning. Perhaps it has moved on, and I'll never hear from it again. Perhaps my terror was premature and unwarranted. And perhaps not.

Terror in My Room, 2009 - Update 2

2009-02-13T14:50:00.003-05:00

It's 3:00 now, and I haven't heard anything from the creature since 11:00 this morning. I wonder if he went away forever, if he's just lying low for awhile, or if he went to gather his minions.

Terror in My Room, 2009 - Update 1

2009-02-13T13:05:00.002-05:00

All quiet on the western front. I went to take a shower and left my bedroom door open while I was gone. The creature could be anywhere now. He's cunning, this one. Angie and I are setting mousetraps. We'll get you yet, creature.

Unless you're a raccoon. If you're a raccoon, then let's face it, I probably won't get you. Also, I applaud your ability to make yourself very, very small.

Terror in Real Time

2009-02-13T09:53:00.015-05:00

Ok, if I had Twitter I would use it now. As it is, I'm going to update you every once in a while here today about Terror in My Room, 2009 because I need company, any company, to calm my nerves. Fiance is asleep in his own home right now, so he can't help, but I am working at home from my bedroom, specifically from my bed.

Here's the setup: I live in an old house, a very old house. It's drafty. There's no insulation. There's a fireplace in my bedroom. The fireplace once brought me this monster (which I've told you about before)

at 3a.m. about a year and a half ago. Then last summer, during the week Fiance was in Mexico and therefore out of killing-creatures-for-his-girlfriend range, some other creature haunted me from the chimney every night around 1a.m. It started chirping in the fireplace as soon as I turned out my bedroom lights, and it didn't quit for hours. I had to turn on a fan to drown out the chirping noise, because I wasn't about to open the fireplace and let whatever it was in there come strolling through the house. I never found the source of the chirping noise, by the way. It just haunted my sleep for two weeks and then mysteriously disappeared.

So there's that.

Add to the fireplace history a tale of woe from last evening. I live in an old house, a very old house. Have I ever mentioned that before? Last night I came home to this very old house, but, expecting Fiance to show up in the next hour or so, I didn't immediately lock the back door. This door has a history. When we first moved in, the doorknob was on the right side of the door, but the latch never caught correctly and we didn't have a storm door, so there was always a draft in the house. My industrious housemate bought a storm door and then flipped the regular door around during the installation process. The doorknob is now on the left, and all that was once inside is now outside, facing the back porch. This means that the curtain that was once on the inside, covering the door's window, now hangs on the outside. This is incovenient, but the door latches now.

So last night I didn't immediately lock the back door. I putzed around for a bit, brushing my teeth, doing laundry, cleaning dishes - that kind of thing. Fiance eventually phoned to say he wouldn't be coming over after all, so I went downstairs to lock up for the night. The back porch light was on, and the curtain on the door was covering only the right half of the window. With my right hand I flipped the porch light and with my left I reached for the lock, just in time to realize that a woman on the back porch had been hiding behind the curtain and was now reaching for the door handle. I flipped the bolt faster than I'd ever flipped before and, gasping, stepped back into the kitchen. That's when I realized that the crazed, murderous, wild-eyed, frazzle-haired woman on the other side of the door was actually my reflection in the door window, revealed when I turned out the light on the back porch.

So that's one year less for me to live.

This morning I've been working from my bed, my favorite place to work, but the flannel sheets and electric blanket can no longer comfort me. There's a noise in my room. It only comes once in a while, but it's definitely a crunching sound. Something is chewing in my room. At first it sounded like it was coming from the ceiling, then the fireplace, then by the window, then under my bed. I got up to check it, but of course it stopped as soon as I approached. Worst of all, I discovered that I had carelessly left the fireplace cover ajar.

There's something in my room.
It's chewing.
It's munching.
It's stranding me on a Bed Island.
I want out.

Updates to come.

Missiology, Visioneering, and Making a Difference

2009-02-05T22:36:00.011-05:00

I work for a Christian mission organization. I don't know if I've ever stated that here before, but there it is. While I realize that a well-run mission organization is often like a regular business, there are days when I look around me and say, “This is an entirely different animal.” Today was one of those days. Today was also one of those days when I accidentally put my underwear on inside-out, but that's another story for another time.

In preparation for our coming newsletter, I’ve been scrolling through our picture archives at work, literally thousands of photos, looking for just the right set for our next publication. While wandering through a bog of Peru prints from six years ago, I saw in the thumbnails (small, picture previews) that there were a few promising shots of our team members with a goat. I thought to myself, “Aha! Now here’s a potential gem.”

In the stream of whining issuing forth daily from my office, you may hear some complaints about Christian buzzwords, about faulty thermostats, about traitorous printers, about goat pictures. Goat pictures. One of my tasks at work is to organize a spare change drive in elementary school classrooms. We collect jars of spare change from the kiddies, and then we use the money to buy goats, life-changing goats, for poverty-stricken families in India. This is perhaps my favorite part of my job because it has such quick and clear results. A family is poor and cannot afford milk. The next day they have a goat and milk and mohair for making things. The only thing I don't like about organizing the fund drive is that we have zip, zilch, zero usable pictures of families with their goats. We have a few prints scanned in from ages ago, but the people in the pictures always look like they’ve just chased a nasty hangover with three healthy doses of castor oil and a glass of beet juice. We do not have good goat photos, so it's difficult to create promotional materials for the project.

So, my spirit soared when I discovered the goat photos in Peru, particularly because one shot included a man smiling and hugging the goat. Saints be praised! I zoomed in to get a closer look at the three pictures. The first showed the goat looking rather grumpy on a leash . “But still – a goat!” I said. Pleased, I moved on to the second. The next photo showed two men standing behind the flayed flesh of some kind of animal, and the record player screeched in my mind. “Wait. What? This can’t be right. No, surely not.” I scrolled back and forth between the two photos. “No, I know from the thumbnails that the goat is some kind of pet. The guy hugs it, for heaven’s sake.” I was right, and by “right” I mean “wrong.” The third picture showed the man smiling next to the goat with his arm wrapped around where the neck should have been, but of course his hands would have to be on both sides of the goat’s head in order to carry the head around with him. So, yes, we have a photo of a person smiling beside a goat – the goat is just immortally challenged and in pieces.*

I do not work for a marketing company or at the Prestigious, Yuppy & Rich law firm. Our photos do not include executives in suit and tie examining financial reports and making conference calls from their glass offices. We have goats, and personally, I’d rather have the cashmere goat than the cashmere sweater, even when the goat is not in, ahem, pristine condition.

That said, I ain’t lookin’ at another photo for a week.

*For clarity, I feel the need to state that this unfortunate beast was not one of our India goats.

Heyyyyyyyyyyy Bubba

2009-01-15T23:20:00.008-05:00

Because I wrote and rewrote the first line to this post about eighteen times in an effort to strike an inspiration mine, I finally decided to give up and just open with a joke that ended, "I hate chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

My deepest apologies. I remain uninspired, but I refuse to punish you for my deficiencies. Instead, I'm pulling from the archives something that I wrote around this time last year, something I wrote before I had a blog. Here's a tidbit that you might find fascinating: I learned in school that people used to write without publishing their pieces in a public forum. They called it "journaling." Can you believe it?

I wrote this particular piece after an incident that occurred on December 30, 2007. It was a horrific experience. Try not to scream.

Allow me, if you will, to tell you a purely fictional story. It involves a ~~pale, frazzled~~ young, attractive woman who agrees to go shopping with a bride-to-be and the bride-to-be’s mother the Sunday before the bride-to-be’s wedding. Our heroine has just met the mother and is desirous of making a good first impression. They set out on their journey and reach Hobby Lobby when the woman begins to smell something strange coming from her car. In fact, it has a distinctly burned odor. The heroine checks her fluid levels like the experienced Ford owner is prone to do, and even looks for radiator fluid in the oil, knowing her vehicle’s penchant for blown gaskets and cracked heads. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she closes the lid and decides to ignore the problem, reciting the child’s adage, “If I can’t see you then you can’t see me.” She continues shopping, knowing that she’s already in the city and that going home isn’t going to solve anything.

When she and her two friends return to the car and head off toward the mall, she notices excessive exhaust. Again she says to herself, “The mechanic just checked the car. I didn’t see any antifreeze in the oil. Surely it’s not the heads.” She begins to be embarrassed and apologizes profusely to her guests. They arrive at the mall, and our heroine calls her friend who is good with such things. He agrees to look at the vehicle when she gets home, but he doesn’t think it needs a tow at this point.

She and her guests continue to Target and and a bookstore. Now, she leaves clouds of both exhaust and curses behind her as she travels on. Full embarrassment, worry, and anger set in, and she again apologizes profusely to her guests. When she arrives at the bookstore she drops her friends off at the door so that they can escape the frigid temperatures, but she simultaneously fills the entire entrance with smog. People begin to point; others drop dead from asphyxiation before they can lift their arms. Our heroine has gone through denial and anger; now she begins to bargain with the vehicle. “Look, if you can just get me home without causing a fuss, I promise I’ll sell you to some ~~unsuspecting~~ nice people instead of scrapping you.” The young, attractive woman has also failed to eat all day, so she is put out, but she can’t put up much of an argument.

After a few hours of dinner and browsing, she returns to the vehicle with renewed hope and vigor. Surely, the car has simply fixed itself in her absence and is now eager to reestablish her faith in automobiles.

Not so.

The guests request a short stopover at Meijer for some ice cream. While she would rather get her blankety blank car home, she could really use the ice cream. At Meijer, passersby knock on her window and ask if she knows that her car is fuming.

“What!?!” she responds. “Do you mean to tell me that my car doesn’t look normal to you? Away with you, vile liars!

“Yes,” she actually responds. “I’m just testing a new stunt car for the next Hollywood blockbuster. It’s supposed to create fumes that cover an entire city. The movie is called 'Taurus-o-Death;' you should see it.”

“Yes, it’ll be fine,” she actually actually responds. “I’m taking it to a mechanic right away.”

On the way home from Meijer, our heroine hits every single red light that she could hit. Lights simply are not green in the city on this night. People in adjacent cars wave the air in front of their precious nostrils, seeming also to wave away their disgust at this petty excuse for a driving apparatus. Vehicles behind the Taurus stay back a good half-mile, afraid to come closer lest the vehicle should explode. Our heroine is now embarrassed and depressed, yet she journeys on, chanting, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.” She is now convinced that the problem has to do with cracked heads. Meanwhile, her own head cracks.

When she gets home, our heroine begins to feel a bit lighter in spirit. “You know what?” she says. “Who cares if it’s completely dead forever and ever amen. I was looking for a new car anyway; why not just speed up the process? A Camry is starting to sound like a great idea, and since the Taurus didn’t agree to our bargain I can just scrap it and forget about it for the rest of my days. Better yet, who needs a car anyway? My trusty mountain bike will do me no harm.” And so, our heroine finally reaches the acceptance stage, and her bike is already reminding her of muscles that she forgot she had.

The End.

And today, our heroine gave thanks for her trusty Camry, Pat, and its perfectly functioning engine.

How NOT to Communicate in Marriage

2008-12-18T16:37:00.008-05:00

Allow me to present to you a muddled mess of communication that would make the most seasoned gossip blush.

Here is the diagram:
And here are the steps.

Step 1. Prior to their engagement and before Thanksgiving, Fiance and Emily have a bit of an argument, during which Fiance blurts out, "I'm asking your parents for you this weekend!" Emily screams, "I'm not supposed to know this!" They pretend nothing has happened and part ways whistling nondescript tunes.

Step 2. Pretending doesn't really help Emily because she's going to see her sister that same weekend, and how can she possibly keep this from her sister when they so rarely get to see each other? Emily tells her sister about it, but she doesn't tell her parents because she doesn't.

Step 3. Fiance talks to parents after church, complete with standard compliments and threats from the father. During their conversation they discuss the ring specifically. The ring was Emily's grandmother's engagement ring, and Emily and Fiance have talked about it at length by this time. When Emily and Fiance talked about it at length, Emily thought she was saying, "I would like to have my grandmother's engagement ring, but feel free to take it to a jeweler and redesign it using the original parts but making it look different." Fiance thought she was saying, "I would like you to use the original setting from my grandmother's ring, but please use new diamonds."

Neither Fiance nor Emily know how this happened.

When Fiance talks to Emily's parents about the ring, he mentions his plans to get new diamonds.

Step 4. Emily's mom protests with something like, "I don't think she wants new diamonds at all! Please please please check with one of Emily's friends about this before you spend so much money. Why don't you call Elizabeth? She might know something."

He agrees to call Elizabeth before making major purchases.

Step 5. Emily's parents call Emily's sister to tell her that they had the talk. They mention the diamonds.

Step 6. Emily's sister says, "No, I'm sure that's not what she wants. We just talked about it this week, and Emily knew that Fiance would be talking to you."

Step 7. Learning that Emily already knows about the Ask, Emily's mom calls Emily and says, "Look, we had this major communication problem. What is it that you want for your ring?" Emily tells her. Emily's mom says, "Would you please call Elizabeth to tell her exactly what you want so that when Fiance calls her she'll know what to tell him?" Emily grumbles but agrees and says, "I don't want to know anything else from now on."

Step 8. Sister calls Fiance to tell him not to get new diamonds.

Step 9. Emily calls Elizabeth with specifics.

Steps 10 and 11. Elizabeth calls Fiance or Fiance calls Elizabeth, Emily isn't sure which. They discuss the ring, and he makes a plan.

Step 12. Fiance, at some point or another along this timeline, tells his dad he has talked with Emily's parents.

Steps 13 and 14 Emily is still a bit unclear on. She think this happened, but we'll have to ask Elizabeth and Dr. Ffil (Future Father-in-Law now) for a confirmation or denial.

Step 13. Fiance's dad talks to Elizabeth about the events. He tells her that Emily knows nothing of this. Elizabeth knows better because she has already talked to Emily.

Step 14. Elizabeth tells Fiance's dad that Emily knows about it. He is disappointed, because he wonders how she could have learned.

Step 15. Fiance and Emily go to their small groups on the same night. Emily tells the other two girls there about all the events up until this point. They laugh about it and ask her about the ring. Emily says, "I hope he understands now that I want the ring redesigned but using the existing parts." Fiance tells his small group about it at the same time. Both small groups are not to discuss events further.

Step 16. Both spouses of a married couple attend Emily and Fiance's small groups. When the couple returns to their home, they hint to each other that they both know something about Emily and Fiance. They then throw caution to the wind and discuss everything openly because married couples share vaults (Seinfeld reference).

Step 17. In the open sharing time, they discuss the ring. The wife says, "Oh dear me, your description of his plans for the ring don't match up with what Emily said. Hmm." She makes up her mind.

Step 17 cont. The wife calls Emily (who is on her way to Fiance's house) and says, "Look, I think you need to talk to somebody about this because it looks like he's going to keep the ring exactly the way it is. Also, my husband told me that Fiance said that you didn't know that he already asked your parents. Do you think that he thinks you don't know?" Emily is confused and doesn't know what to do, so she decides to scream because, "Heavens to Betsy, I'm not supposed to know anything and I don't want to talk to anyone about it and how could he not know that I know when he was the one who told me? AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH."

Step 18. Emily calls Elizabeth and says, "Did you talk, and, if so, what did you say because it's possible that he doesn't understand that he can change the design if he wants." Elizabeth tells Emily because Elizabeth is a good friend. She thinks that Fiance understands about the ring, but she doesn't know if he knows that Emily knows about it because Dr. Ffil told her that Fiance thought Emily didn't know anything. Emily screams into the phone, "THIS IS DRIVING ME CRAZY. How could he not know that I know when he told me to my face? Whenever I have something to say to him, I always say it to him. Why can't I do that now?" Emily decides not to say anything to Fiance tonight, if at all.

Step 19. An hour later, Emily says something to Fiance. The conversation begins, "Can we talk about how I know that you know that I know?"
He responds, "No."

But then they talk guardedly for about one minute, and they both decide that the other one knows just enough to get by and there's no need to discuss anything further. They laugh.

Now, Emily loves her ring.

And she's happy to tell Fiance that to his face.

I Know

2008-12-16T13:14:00.008-05:00

When I was a child I answered every question with, "I don't know," immediately followed by the answer. For example, "Emmy, how old are you?"

"I don't know three."

"Emmy, do you like doggies?"

"I don't know yes."

"Emmy, what is opportunity cost?"

"I don't know, well, Dad, it's the idea that when you do one thing you lose out on doing another thing at the same time..."

And so on. I think perhaps my patent answer wasn't just an idiosyncrasy, a child’s mental lisp. I think perhaps it was the deep recognition that I just don't know everything.

When we lived in Ohio, I didn’t know that I would someday look back at my many, many fights with Stacy Reese over who would be named “Crystal” when we played house and think, “Why why why did I adore that name so much?” I didn’t know that “Breakfast” was not pronounced “Breckless” or that “Fievel” wasn’t “Bible.” I thought that life’s peak came at age 19 and that marriage was rare for those poor old maids past age 23. When my dad magically changed my necklace into a ring, I didn’t know that he had been hiding the ring behind his back the whole time. I didn’t know that he couldn’t actually pull his own thumb off and then put it back on.

When we moved to Oklahoma when I was six, I didn’t know that the outside thermometer could actually get up to 119 degrees. I didn’t know that storms could be terrifying and captivating at the same. I thought that Tommy Blohm, my elementary school flame, was the love of my life. I didn’t know that I would miraculously avoid having to enter any sort of science fair in every school I ever attended. I didn’t know that mouthwash was kind of a dumb thing to ask for as a ninth birthday gift.

When I moved to Kentucky in the summer after fourth grade, I didn’t know that I would eventually call it my home. I thought that I would live there for four years and then move on to the next place and the next phase of my life. I didn’t know how truly horrible I would look in bangs, or that middle school would be a lonely time for me. I didn’t know that my youth group friends would someday become more like family. I thought that I would leave town for college and never look back.

But most of all, I didn’t know that when I moved to Kentucky I would meet a host of neighborhood kids and that a few of them would become lifelong friends. When we played hockey in the street and football in the side yard, I didn’t know that one of them in particular would come to be so special to me. I sometimes sat next to him at youth group, across from him at lunch in high school, and in front of him in graphic arts class, but I didn’t really know him, and he didn’t really know me. I couldn’t anticipate that groups of our mutual friends would merge and that we would spend at least five nights a week together as a group during my senior year of high school.

When I left the state for college, I didn’t know that we would continue to keep in touch; in fact, I thought we would just drift apart. I was surprised that when I went home on breaks, his was the first house I wanted to stop by and visit. I didn’t know that he and a few others would return those visits, coming up to see my friends and me once a year at school. When I returned to Kentucky after college, I thought I would only stay for a month, and even when I recognized my feelings for him I thought, “Nah. It’ll never work, and I’ll lose my friend in the process."

Two and a half years later, I didn’t know that his visit to my office was a bit different that day. I said, “Hooray! Your classes are over for the semester!” and when he responded, “I can’t take it anymore,” I thought he was talking about school. When he said that he couldn’t go another semester, another week, another day, another minute, I still thought he was talking about school. And when he knelt down next to me at my desk, I didn’t know that his next move would make my heart thump and my hands shake. He offered me the ring and asked the legendary question, and even though I had imagined that scene a million times in my head since the days of Crystal and Stacy Reese, I was unprepared for the torrent of emotion that would accompany it.

But as I looked at him in disbelief, as my eyes darted back and forth from the ring to his expectant face, as I nodded my head slowly at first and then fast, as I squeaked out a yes, I knew that it was the right answer.

I knew.

I knew.

I knew.

I know.

Update Coming

2008-12-15T10:25:00.001-05:00

I promise an update soon, but not necessarily tonight or tomorrow night. This one will take me a while.

Shocks and Bonds

2008-12-03T10:43:00.004-05:00

There has been a lot of Bond talk floating in the atmosphere recently. By the way, my high school English teacher marked us down for beginning sentences with "there is/are," and my mom, my 6th grade teacher, marked us down for using "a lot" in our papers. By those standards, I'm already failing.

As I was saying, there has been a lot of Bond talk floating in the atmosphere recently, and I, for one, enjoy Bond talk. No, not savings bonds. Those are boring, dull, flat, and taxable. I speak, of course, of the one and only (or six and only) world-saving, woman-seducing, rule-breaking, havoc-wreaking, licensed-to-killing, dry martini-chugging, three-digit-number-having super secret agent who isn't actually so secret because all the villains seem to know about him Bond, James Bond.

I fell in love with Jimmy, his gadgets, and his cars when I was but a child, and although my parents forbade me to watch The Simpsons, we all joined together as a family on the old navy and rust davenport for Thirteen Days of 007. In those early days, I viewed Bond as he was meant to be - the hero, the infallible hero. He could do no wrong, looked smashing in a suit, wore too-short swim trunks with awe-inspiring confidence, and made more puns than Angie. In one moment he was ~~wining~~ martini-ing and dining with the elite, and in the next he was blowing up submarines with his money clip and wristwatch. He was a man's man and a woman's man, and the world depended on him.

Then I grew up. I went through a Bond hiatus for a few years and then returned as a woman, albeit a woman whom strangers still guessed to be fifteen or sixteen (grr), to re-watch some classic 007. The woman saw something that the child had always missed, namely that James Bond was a colossal jerk.

I would bet my job and my dad's Jeep that even if you've never seen a Bond film you can still name at least one of the Bond girls. They're named for their...exemplary moral fiber and winning personalities. While I enjoy ~~maybe one~~ every Bond girl in her own, unique way, no one stands out quite so well as the goddess of Goldfinger, Miss *cough mumble* Galore. She is smart and sly, and she runs her own fleet of female pilots for heaven's sake. She toys with Bond, and she threatens Bond. I hate to ruin it for you, but despite all of her protests, 007 still gets her in the end of the movie. That and all their heads explode.

More to the point, however, is another Goldfinger girl, Jill Masterson. Poor Jill. Poor, poor Jill. She holds a certain distinction among all the Bond girls. You're probably thinking, "Yeah, she's that one woman who runs around in her underwear," or perhaps, "Oh, Emily, you mean that blond one?" Yes, Reader, that blond one, but more importantly that blond one who gets slapped six ways from Sunday by our hero, Mr. Bond. (And you thought I was going to talk about that whole Death By Gilding thing.)

Miss Masterson's unfortunate brush with Bond's rookers came up in a recent article by Courtney Hazlett, featured on msnbc.com. She says:

The scene that caused my initial pause: Bond, fed up with the tomfoolery and double-crossing of Jill Masterton, palms her face as if passing a well-worn basketball during a casual game of street ball. Horrified by how naturally this came to Bond/Sean Connery, I reacted inappropriately — by laughing nearly to the point of tears. And that’s where msnbc.com’s former Tabloid Tidbits scribe and current Technotica columnist, Helen Popkin, who was within earshot, chimed in (while laughing), “You know, it takes someone who’s never seen (a Bond film) before to say, ‘that’s really unacceptable,’ and realize just how bad that behavior is.” A compelling argument for how we’ve become de-sensitized (and a case study in inappropriate laughter).

The idea of desensitization to Bond wasn't new to me. Two years ago, the topic came up at Easter dinner, you know, where normal secret agent talk happens. I had just finished my last helping of Elizabeth's glorious chunky mashed potatoes when Bitty made this statement (and I paraphrase): "You know, I just don't like James Bond."

Gasps from all around.

"But, Elizabeth, he's JAMES BOND. How could you not like him?"

"He slaps that one girl in that one movie." (This is the part where I strip Bitty of her vocabulary.)

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that. He is kind of a jerk, isn't he?"

"This is what I'm saying." (Again with the stripping.)

From the shadows of the corner came Dr. Pfil, serving his patented dish of controversy for our Easter luncheon. A malevolent gleam shone forth from his eyes, and he said, "Ahh, but we've known this for years. He slaps one character in one film, but he sleeps with multiple women in every film and then disposes of them without a second thought. Why is it that your generation is so accustomed to sex that it doesn't even bother you? Why does a slap bother you, but fornication doesn't? Why am I so bald? I'm just curious."

And here's the thing about Dr. Pfil. He made a good point about our general desensitization toward sex in film, but he phrased it in an accusatory way because he LOVES arguing. If he had simply said, "Yes, James Bond is a jerk, but consider this: slapping a woman is just one of his many faults; he also sleeps around," then we would've agreed and moved on. But nooooo. Since he made a generalization about an entire generation, he got us all riled up, and he got his precious argument. We defended our generation, saying things like, "Of course that bothers us, but the sin of two people who decide to blah blah blah naturally elicits less of an emotional visceral reaction than a woman being physically harmed by a much larger man blah blah blah." Then we argued about the definition of "visceral" for awhile. Then Dr. Pfil repeated his original statement but louder. Next, we probably accused his generation of something or came up with a few different arguments. He responded with his original statement, but shouted. Then we fought amongst ourselves and screamed things like "Zeitgeist!" and "Christocentric!" It was just like Easter on Walton's Mountain.

After we picked up the pieces of our damaged psyches, I thought to myself, "You know, Emily, you really are desensitized. Despite your natural instinct to do the exact opposite of what Dr. Pfil suggests, you have to quit allowing culture to define sin for you," and the thought hit me like - prepare yourself - a slap in the face.

Why the Force Is Strong with Me

2008-12-02T16:47:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time, Emily traveled far, far away to the Ville of Nash with her companions Audra, Jesse, and Bubba. They stayed in the basement of Blake's Inn that first night, where they enjoyed hour upon hour of ~~Flight of the Conchords~~ stimulating conversation. When their eyelids were so heavy that they could no longer converse with ease, the weary travelers prepared to retire. Emily went to the upstairs lavatory to ~~wash her underarms~~ perform her nightly beauty regimen, and upon exiting the washroom she immediately gained the stairs.

Then it happened.

Up went the feet and down went the rear as she slipped on that first, shortened step. When she recovered her senses and her backside at the bottom of the stairs, Emily was shocked to find her hand tightly clasped around a hammer. The hammer certainly had not been there on the basement floor a moment before, and Emily couldn't recall picking it up on her ride down. She could only conclude that her Jedi instincts had kicked in, and she had used the Force to call the hammer to her aid. Truth be told, she would have done better to Force-pull a mattress, but her budding abilities did the best they could under the circumstances.

Some said that the hammer was cursed, an ill omen of things to come. Others called it a blessing claiming it was the Hammer of Justice bestowed upon a chosen one. Still others said the hammer was a simple implement of home maintenance used to hang pictures earlier that day and then placed at the top of the stairs. Jesse said nothing, for he was occupied with pointing, crying and laughing.

But Emily knew the truth. She had the Force.

Tight Beginnings

2008-12-01T13:14:00.011-05:00

So here's the thing: whenever I write something in my blog that starts out, "I'm excited about this topic, so I'm going to blog about it at length later," I'm usually lying. I don't mean to lie about it. It's just that I always come back to the topic later and think to myself, "Why in the world did I want to do this? I have nothing to say about this that couldn't be said in one sentence." Then I realize that I'm thinking in double negatives, so I take some time to switch it around in my head to make sure that I thought it correctly. Then I say, "Everything I have to say about this could be said in one sentence. Yes, that's it."

With that in mind, I have some maintenance to do, some tying up of loose ends. And why do we have loose ends but not tight beginnings?

Loose end #1: China 2
I thought at one point that I would write on and on and on about the many wonderful people that I met in China. Then I thought about what it would be like to hear someone else drone on and on about wonderful people halfway across the world, and I wanted to choke that person with a rice noodle. Let's just say this:

Della (that's the English name she chose to go by) was a college student. She adopted me as a friend for the few weeks I stayed on her college campus, and she proved to be loyal and faithful even in such a short time. I gave Della her first swimming lesson.
Nick owned a coffee house in the central market in Yuxi. He loved music, particularly folk, and he always had Alison Krauss or James Taylor playing in his shop. If you're ever in Yuxi, be sure to drop by the Fin du Monde Cafe. You won't regret it.
I was privileged to meet one woman there, a Christian woman, who had been imprisoned many times for her faith. She refused to quit preaching despite the frequent arrests, and as a result, she had brought literally hundreds to Christ. She was frail, soft-spoken, and gentle. A few days after I met her, my group took a walking tour of a mountainside filled with temples. Our guide went on ad nauseum about the three faiths represented there (Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism) and how great it was that the different religions could live in harmony with each other, even in such close proximity. Meanwhile, I wasn't allowed to tell him I was a Christian.

Loose End #2: Tales of the Tea Party and Chicago and How I fell down the stairs
I have tons of pictures of the tea party, so perhaps I'll post those as a picture story. As for the party itself, there's not much to say. We drank tea, ate scones, talked of England - stuff like that.

Chicago was fun, of course, but no particular anecdote sticks out to me as a Must Tell. I'll let the trip marinate awhile longer.

As for the stairs, well, that's coming up.

Loose End #3: Moneymoneymoneymoney...Muuuuuh-nay
My fingers simply will not type about penny pinching. Every time my hands touch the keyboard my mind goes blank. It's as though there's a secret connection between my computer, my fingers, and my brain. Perhaps it's a vast conspiracy, a retailer's trick to get us to spend, spend, SPEND. Clearly, the manufacturers placed thrift detectors on old QWERTY, forcing silence on all things cheap. I have two questions only: How did they do it, and how can I use it for ~~my own gain~~ good?

Wow, friends. Wow. I just stepped away from my computer for a few hours. Directly before leaving I wrote a few bullet points of money-saving information and then with great deliberation pressed Save on the draft. Well, guess what. My computer froze while I was gone, forcing me to restart it upon my return. When I reopened this post, my paragraph on thrift tips had mysteriously disappeared. Accident? I think not. Those debt inducing bigwigs at the computer company are at it again, but I shall overcome this persecution. I'll get you yet, you anti-centites.

For now, however, I'll (re)list in bullets my few helpful hints at saving moolah.

Food is expensive. QUIT EATING OUT. You can feed four people a full meal for twenty bucks or less when you cook at home, and I often cook for under ten dollars. They're not fancy meals, but they're tasty and filling. Ex: Grilled chicken breast over salad, ham and bean soup with cornbread, sloppy joe's and a couple of veggies.
Buy non-perishables in bulk when the price per unit says it's worth it.
Meat is expensive. Generally, you can substitute a vegetarian meal once a week to cut down on your grocery bill.
Brown bag it for lunch. You can buy lunch meat, cheese, and bread to last you two weeks for the same price as two Subway sandwiches.
If you must eat out, skip the beverage and the dessert every now and then. Water won't kill you (unless of course, it's laced with arsenic. I'm looking at you, Computer Key Mafia.) Your wallet will be heavier, but your body will not. Nice exchange, no?
Change your own oil. It saves you ten bucks or so, but, more importantly, you get to pretend you know what you're doing. Apply streaks of old oil to face for that "I just bashed my fingers with a wrench and I don't even care" look. Chances are...you did.
If you live in the States, you don't need as many clothes as you already have, so don't buy more. Remember that one year I told you about when I didn't have money for a haircut? I spent $37 on clothes, shoes, and accessories that entire year. It helped, of course, that I got fantastic hand-me-downs from Audra every time she visited. The point, however, is that if you're looking to boost your savings or get out of debt, this is the first place to start. Let's be painfully honest: if the thought of cutting down on clothes terrifies you, then it's probably something you should do just as a personal growth exercise. You can do it. You can.
Finally, tell other people about your plans to be thrifty, and make them hold you to it. Tell them how they can best support you. Who knows? One of them might even join you.
And real Finally, tithe. But, Emily, I thought we were talking about saving money. Yes, Reader, we are. The truth is that every cent we earn is a gift. We are blessed, and we need to acknowledge that before others and before our Creator. We have responsibility to give, not only in abundance but also during drought. I learned this one the hard way. I failed to tithe during that particularly difficult year, and I found that the money worries were always on my mind, oppressive and weighty. Money worries have come and gone since then, but I found that after I started tithing again my heart became much more receptive to trusting in the Lord. I believed with confidence that he would clothe me as he does the lilies of the field. I looked on future debt with hope instead of the all-too-familiar despair. Tithing released me, at least in part, from money's grip, and although I struggle with the Worry demon daily, I know it no longer dominates. Test the Lord in this one, and just see if he doesn't open the floodgates.

There you have it. The next time I tell you I'm going to blog about such-and-such a topic, don't you dare believe me. In fact, call me out on it. In the meantime, good luck with any thrifty goals you've developed, and may you have a very happy Tight Beginning.

Quoth the Raven

2008-11-30T12:40:00.000-05:00

Yay! You got them all! Thanks for playing, everyone. I love the quotes game, so please quiz me on movie lines from time to time. Isn't it fun?

Here's a little game that's going around Facebook, but I prefer to do my posting here. The movie quote game has long been a favorite for my brother and me, so I'm excited about playing it with you all. These are the rules if you'd like to keep the game going:
1. Pick 15 of your favorite movies.
2. Find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie.
5. NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search or other search functions.
That's the intro, and here are my quotes. When you figure one out, leave a note for me in the comments section. You can guess as many as you'd like as many times as you'd like. Good luck!

1. - Now, remember, not a word of this to your papa. You know how he plagues the girls about their beaus.
- Everybody knows but Papa?
- Your papa's not supposed to know. It's enough we're letting him work hard every day to support the whole flock of us. He can't have everything.
Meet Me in St. Louis - Erin

2. a. We don't like what we don't understand, in fact it scares us, and this monster is mysterious at least. Hint: this line is sung. If you write it out like it sounds, it goes something like:
We don't like
What we don't
Understand in fact it scares us
And this monster is mysterious at leeeeast.

Bring your guns!
Bring your knives!
Save your children and your wives
We'll save our village and our liiiiiiiiiives....
Beauty and the Beast - Elizabeth (and Erin)

3. a. - He's a gentleman. A gentleman fits in anyplace.
- A sponge fits in anyplace.

b. Do I have to remind you this is my theatre?
- So, what, nobody argues with the landlord?

c. You think beautiful girls are going to stay stars forever? I should say not! Any minute now they're going to be out! Finished! Then it'll be my turn!
Funny Girl - Dar

4. a. Villainy wears many masks, none of which so dangerous as virtue.
or
b. - We haven't heard your name yet, friend.
- I have not yet said it.
Sleepy Hollow - Jonny

5. - Your Dad was so proud of you. He knew you were a predominantly accelerated child.
- What about me?
- You are rebellious and ungrateful of my love.
Almost Famous - Jonny

6. a. The Lord has blessed us all today... It's just that he has been particularly good to me.
or
b. For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.
A River Runs Through It - Lyndee

7. -Have you ever transcended space and time?
- Yes. No. Uh, time, not space... No, I don't know what you're talking about.
I Heart Huckabees - Bubba

8. a. Ahah. The old rubber ducky with invisibility-spray trick. Check.
or
b. There is a menu correction, okay. We will now be serving bologna sandwiches.
[cook shouts something]
But, no bread.
Muppets from Space - Jonny

9. a. -Do you speak Gaelic?
- Fluently
- How do you say, "Let's get out of here?"

b. This is frightfully intimate. I know just enough French to be embarrassed! Could you...refine it a little and tell me in effect what it says?

c. It's not that I'm prudish, but my mother told me never to enter a man's room in months ending in 'r.'
An Affair to Remember - Dar

10. ~~I'm an orphan, and I've never taken drugs because I missed the sixties. I was an accountant.~~
Hook - R.C.

11. -There is a war on! How is it that you are headed west?
- Well, we kinda face to the north and real subtle-like turn left.
Last of the Mohicans - R.C.

12. - What she's done? I'm all but lame from the bite on my leg!
- Oh! You mean she bit you?
- No, her dog!
- Oh, she bit her dog, eh?
The Wizard of Oz - Pop

13. - Christopher can scoff, but I know how hard you've been praying; and now God is answering your prayers.
- That's not why I pray, Harry. I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping.
Shadowlands - Pop

14. a. You show me a good piggy-backer and I'll show you a real human. Now you take Abraham Lincoln for instance - a natural born piggy-backer.

b. *singing* Young people in looooooooooove are very seldom huuuungry.

c. 20 millions and you don't know how to dunk.
It Happened One Night - Elizabeth (and Jonny)

15. ~~I give up. I see no point in living if I can't be beautiful.~~
Howl's Moving Castle - Jonny

BONUS *
~~16. I said I would and I will, but I'm under the gun here.~~ (That's for you, Mark.)
The Sandlot - Mark
~~17. I fight gangs for local charities and stuff.~~
The Princess Bride - Bubba

Bubba Bull

2008-11-22T22:38:00.021-05:00

People often make fun of me because I live in Kentucky. Most of those people live in Indiana, so I don't know why they think they have room to mock, but so it goes. Some Kentucky stereotypes are true. For example, my high school English teacher and her husband were out on a geological survey on public land in Eastern Kentucky when an overweight man in a dress emerged from his shack in the woods and shot several rounds at them, wounding the husband. When questioned by the police later the man said, "They were on my property. I had the right to shoot them."

Also, there are people in Eastern Kentucky whose recessive gene for blue skin finally came out after many generations of inbreeding. So yeah, some of the stereotypes are true.

On the other hand, you might be surprised and pleased to know that intelligent conversations sometimes occur in the Bluegrass. I've spoken to at least three people who use the words "eschatology," "exegesis," and "epistemology" correctly. Then again, I've never been able to use "epistemology" in a sentence, so maybe they're using it wrong and I just don't know it. I also go to a church that I'm convinced has the most PhD's per capita in the country. I consider it a small point that we only have an outhouse for a bathroom.

As I compare KY's hick v. non-hick attributes, I can't help but think that Kentucky as a commonwealth is personified in my friend Bubba. Yeah, I have a friend named Bubba. What of it? Bubba is a southern boy, a good ol' boy, a lady's man, and a handy man, and here are some of my favorite things about him.

Bubba is a doer. I have about 8 close friends because that's the maximum number I can possibly keep up with. Bubba has about 40 close friends because Bubba is willing to join in any activity at any given time. He genuinely cares about other people, and he invests in others at all times. That's probably why he's been in 10 weddings thus far, and yet I can think of at least 5 more people who will ask him to be a groomsman when their times come around.
He wears cowboy boots all the time.
The man prefers bourbon to any other beverage and sometimes carries a flask, but I can't think of a time when I've seen him drunk.
He's a blessing and a curse on road trips: blessing because he'll fix the car when it breaks down (thanks for that whole alternator thing, Bubs), and he can drive for hours and hours on end; curse because he enjoys curves and hills, and he refuses to stop for bathroom breaks.
He likes setting goals and meeting them. He drove Audra's Civic hybrid to Florida and decided then and there that he could never own a hybrid because there were just too many goals to try for. Should he go for maximum mileage? For charging the battery? For getting the autostop? It drove him nuts that he couldn't do all at the same time.
When a word ends in "D," Bubba pronounces it as a "T." So to Bubba, a sentence ends in a periot. Points are grantet, and castaways are strandet.
Speaking of periots, a bunch of us were once talking about relationships and how men handle their girlfriends during that very special time. We asked Bubba how he had acted with his past girlfriends, and he responded, "I don't know if I've ever dated a girl long enough for her to have a period." This is not to say that Bubba doesn't date very often. Quite the contrary. Quite.
He coaches high school football, umps little league and plays softball, but he still finds time to read all kinds of classics and get all sorts of work done on his house. Speaking of his house, his roommate's name is - get ready for it - Catfish. Bubba lives with Catfish. There are men named Bubba and Catfish who live in one house together in Kentucky. All right, so their real names are Marcus and Kyle respectively, but few call them that.
Bubba likes the South. Jesse tells a story about a road trip they took to Boston once. I think the story goes that Jesse had been driving for a good part of the trip, and he had finally stopped to take a rest. He settled down in the passenger seat absolutely exhausted, but he had some trouble getting to sleep. Just minutes after Jesse finally dozed off, a blood-curdling scream jerked him from his sleep. Apparently, Bubba didn't like crossing the Mason-Dixon Line.

Marcus Scott, you are Kentucky to me. You're a bit of a hick, admit it, but you're fun. I suppose we'll keep you around, unless, of course, you start wearing dresses and carrying shotguns.

We Interrupt This Financial Crisis for a Brief Message

2008-11-10T19:00:00.001-05:00

Before I get to the nitty-gritty money savers, I'd like to suggest this helpful hint. When possible, find yourself a look-alike and get her to do your work for you. My friend Ashley and I went to college together, and during our time there no one - NOT ONE SOUL - told us we looked alike. Many people told us that we looked Jewish or Greek, but no one said we looked the same. Since graduating, Ashley has straightened her hair, and now everyone asks us if we're sisters. It's unbelievable. We must have gotten it 8 times today. Some have even mistaken Ashley for me.

Here we are together with Ashley's curly hair. We're doing a jig, because that's what we do. This was before the sisters comments.
Jewish? You know, it's just easier to say Yes. Twins? No.

For clarity, here's how it breaks down. This is Ashley with straight hair.

This is my sister

This is me
I'm blurry, but I've made my peace with that.

Instead of getting upset that I'm not so unique as I like to think I am, I've decided to harness the power of twins or, if my sister gets involved, triplets. I'm going to force Ashley to go to work for me while I stay at home drinking lattes. It's brilliant. Brilliant! This can also be a moneymaker, because opportunity cost is now nothing to me. I don't have to decide between two options; I can just do both. The possibilities are endless.

And if nothing else works out, I can just sell tickets to the freak show.

The Poor House

2008-11-10T17:34:00.015-05:00

Rose Smith: Money. I hate, loathe, despise and abominate money.
Her father: You also spend it.
~Lines from Meet Me in St. Louis, my childhood favorite movie.

Money has been on my mind, dear Reader, for many months now. I work with it daily; it's my job, in part. The economy, also, is apparently in the crapper and we're all going to end up in the streets where we will fight for the highly coveted job of street sweeper and shit disposer because all other workers like mechanics, plumbers, electricians, videographers, and administrative assistants to the executive staffs will no longer be necessary. Or we'll all cut back on our spending a bit, which brings me to the subject of today's post.

You see, Bossy is hosting a poverty party, and I'm thinking about joining it for this week. No, forget the whole "thinking about" it thing; I'm joining this week. So there. Hmm Hmm (as my mom puts it). I'm joining the party for the following reasons:

Frugality = good
I'd like to save a good chunk of change in the next year.
I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do (budget and stick to the budget) I do not do, but what I hate I do. I hear you, Paul. I get it.
I'd like some accountability (shudder) to actually do the things I tell my head that I will do.
I want to set an example for charitable givers. I work for a nonprofit, and when our donors are sacrificing to give to our organization, I want to sacrifice and give right along with them. I think I'll have to dedicate an entire post to my thoughts on this subject, but for now this explanation will have to do.

Really, I'm not in terrible shape. I'm not in a personal financial crisis at present, but I know I can do some tweaking that should save heartache in the future. Tonight: the budget. Tomorrow: the world! In the interest of accountability, company, and fun, this week I'll be sharing the few money-saving tips I have with you, and I'll be asking for your help and advice in trimming down my own spending. Father, you can just send me your 150-page dissertation on penny pinching by mail.

Oh, and thanks for college.

A Breath

2008-11-04T14:23:00.004-05:00

Up from the depths I come for a gulp of fresh air. Yikes, I've been busy. I should take this time to clarify "busy." For me, any scheduled activity automatically equals busy, even if it's fun times I scheduled with friends. What? We're to get together for tea after work? Oh my gosh I'm so busy! So much is going on! That's me.

So now I say to you, "Whoa, friends and family, I've been busy."

It all started in August when I went to Nashvegas with Audra and company.
The next weekend was Labor Day weekend, so I went camping with Boyfriend's family
Two weeks later I spent a weekend at my sister's house.
Two weeks later I spent a weekend in Indiana to visit the folks and go to a wedding.
Three weeks later I went to Chicago to visit Audies (and saw Dar and Lauren!)
Now I'm at the old alma mater on business.
On the free weekends there were a few birthday parties, a tea party, a Halloween party and activities, and I painted and rearranged my bedroom.

They were wonderful, wonderful times and I wouldn't change my schedule at all, but now I need air. That, Ladies and Gentlemen, is why I can't wait for this weekend. I have nothing scheduled, save for to spend some time with my friend Ashley who will be visiting. Ashley is a low maintenance visitor. We lived together for two years during college, so there are no formalities between us. I repeat: no formalities. I fully intend to sleep late on Saturday, watch football in my pajamas for the entire day, maybe play some NES or watch a movie, and then go back to bed having never changed into real clothes. On Sunday, I'll actually get to go to my home church (!), and then I'll nap and watch more football in the afternoon. Maybe I'll cook something delicious too. Doesn't that just sound fantastic?

My friends and family will probably scoff at my definition of busy, especially three couples who have their own idea of what busy means. Congrats to my sister and her husband, my brother and his wife, and Josh and Sara! I look forward to baby mania this coming summer.

As long as I don't have to handle the poop.

No poop.

A Winner

2008-10-31T08:08:00.002-04:00

We have a winner, folks, and it's Audra with:

"This is what happens when Boyfriend realizes that he's just tasted the best cider and doughnuts in the world and doesn't know how he will now cope without them."

Audra wins because, yes, that's EXACTLY what happens to his eyes with cider and doughnuts. He's crazy for them, and he's cranky without them. Last weekend he took his first sip of cider (amazing cider) and then just yelled. He yelled and got angry and stormed about the place, which is his typical reaction to delicious treats. Thanks, Auds. I know this contest is a no prize sort of contest, but you'll probably get a prize in the mail anyway. And by prize I of course mean a birthday present. And by birthday present I of course mean a half-birthday present. And by half-birthday present I mean perhaps a box of packing material. One never knows.

Thanks to everyone else who entered a caption. I laughed A LOT.

And Happy Hitchocktober! Wait. No. Happy Halloween!

A Contest

2008-10-28T15:14:00.007-04:00

Give this short video clip of Boyfriend's eyes a little view. Pop and Angies, you motion sickness victims, I apologize for the shaky cam. We were on a train and I couldn't hold the camera steady with such a zoom. Still, you ought to be able to withstand 10 seconds of nausea so you can enter my very first contest.

My very first contest! Yay! There's no prize, except, of course, the fame and recognition. It's just that when I watched this clip I kept thinking, "This must be what happens to Boyfriend's eyes when he sees something shocking or horrible or fantastic." Something like...

Notre Dame going to the championship game (or getting clobbered)
Baked beans (He detests baked beans. Can you believe it?)
A Zelda trailer

So pretty much, I want to hear what kinds of things you can come up with. To enter the contest, please finish the phrase, "This is what happens when Boyfriend sees..."
Enter as many phrases as you like. I'll pick a winner tomorrow, and that winner will get nothing but satisfaction in a job well done.

Good luck!

Warning: You will not win if you put in something along the lines of "a busty blonde" (I'm looking at you, Dr. Pfil) or "Emily before her morning tea." But who am I kidding? No one's dumb enough to put that! We all know Boyfriend is more of a butt man. You can enter those, of course, but you'll have to accept my undying disdain in exchange.

Coming Up

2008-10-23T16:42:00.003-04:00

I'm leaving for Chicago tonight, so I'll be gone for a few days. When I return you can expect the following:

Something about my trip
Something about last week's tea party (to which I wore a hat and gloves)
Something about the time I fell down the stairs and came up with a hammer (alternately titled "Why the Force Is Strong with Me")

Stay cool, my babies, and Happy Hitchocktober!
Have a picture. In fact, have the best jowling picture I've ever seen.

Isn't my boyfriend dreamy?

Help Me Help You

2008-10-21T12:44:00.003-04:00

Teachers are saints. I'll say it again. Teachers are saints.

There was a time in my life, a short beat in time, an eighth note in the Sonata of Life, a mere "Ha" in Handel's oratorio, a sole da da da daaaa in Ludwig Van's Fifth, when I thought perhaps I would like to be a piano teacher. I liked music; other people liked music. I knew how to play piano; other people didn't know how to play piano. Hey! How 'bout I teach 'em! It was around this time that I also thought Clay Aiken was straight.

So I became a music major. I took theory classes, increased my repertoire, researched children's series of music, practiced consistently each week, and even cut my fingernails short (gasp!). Ok, they were already short from climbing. Anyway, I was going to inspire millions of young ones. I would form armies of virtuosos. The next Bach or Beethoven would make excellent progress under my tutelage. (Name that movie, except not you, Erin. You'll get it too quickly.)

Then I met my students.

My first two students were sisters, ages 8 and 10. The 8-year-old usually behaved and was at least mildly interested in the instrument, but sometimes she was mad at the world and there was just nothing anyone could do about it. I remember her sulking through the door one rainy day and throwing her books down on the counter. "This should be fun," though I. We got through fifteen minutes of regular lesson plans, but I kept losing her attention. "Ok, something else then," thought I. We switched to an ear training exercise to get away from the books for awhile. I played two different chords for her and asked her if she could hear the difference. Her response? She crossed her arms, squinted her eyes, looked at me sideways and sneered, "Of course I can hear, I HAVE EARS." The lesson ended there.

Her sister didn't care about piano and didn't want to be there. That's always fun. Parenthetically, I encourage parents to keep their kids out of piano lessons until the children actually want to learn. Lessons are good for teaching discipline, for gaining a basic understanding of music, and for supplying a creative outlet, but in my experience, if the kids don't want to learn then they simply will not learn. Even if they practice daily and always do their lessons, they'll never make the same kind of progress as a child who wants to be there. Sure, children need to know that sometimes they have to do what they don't want to do because it's good for them, but they get that message every day from school and chores. Piano lessons are valuable and worth a year of investment, but children can often learn the same life lessons from other, less expensive activities.

Like I was saying, her sister didn't care about piano and didn't want to be there. She didn't like to listen either, so in between songs I always had the worst time keeping her hands off the keys. We'd be talking about a section of music and she'd be plunking random keys. As any teacher knows, that simply will not do. I eventually had her place her hands in her lap whenever she finished a song. She would play the last note, and then I'd say, "Ok, hands in lap. Now, in this section here we crescendo to..." That's how our lessons went, and mostly, it worked. But one day, she finished her song and I said, "Ok, hands in lap." She turned to me grinning, as my mom would call it, a shitty grin, scooted the bench back, placed her feet on the keys and pounded away. The lesson ended there.

But nothing, nothing, NOTHING compared to the twins. Twins seem to be my lot in life. (Erin, are you going crazy?) It's difficult for me to describe the twins. We didn't have single, unique incidents; it was more just a culture of crazy. I only had the twins together in two lessons, and thank heaven for that. A fellow pedagogue and hallmate, Amy, then took one of the sisters and I took the other. After lessons, Amy and I usually hugged each other, consoled each other, and swapped horror stories on the way back to the dorm. Did you ever read that other Wilson Rawls book, Summer of the Monkeys? That's what I thought of when I taught the twins. It was like corraling escaped circus monkeys in a large wood.

My twin, who we'll call "K," had a hearing deficiency, as in, if she didn't want to listen to you then she wouldn't hear you. I'd ask her a question or give her an instruction, and she'd hop up from the piano bench to draw pictures on the blackboard. That, as we've said before, will not do. She also cried in just about every lesson. I can understand crying at a poor lesson. You practice all week and perform beautifully at home, but then you bomb at the lesson. It happens all the time, and it always feels horrible. But that's not what happened with K. She would finish her song, and I'd gush, "Wow, K! That sounded great. You've really shown some improvement," or something like that, especially because we piano teachers have learned always to say the good stuff first. Then she'd cry. She'd bury her face in her arms and just cry on the keys. The first time it happened I felt horrible. I thought, "Oh my gosh, what'd I do? How can I help?" Then it happened again the next lesson. Then it happened for the next 8 or 10 lessons. I talked to her parents about it, but they didn't seem too concerned and they didn't have any pointers for me. Great. It got to the point where she'd be sitting there sobbing, and then that scene from Jerry Maguire would play over and over in my head. "Help me help you. Help me help you! HELP ME HELP YOU, K!"

I had to videotape one of our lessons for the pedagogy class I was taking. Yeah, that went over real well. On that particular lesson, she chose to hop up from the bench without warning, crab walk across the room, and then do kind of a gorilla walk back to the bench. The real trouble with recording that lesson is that I couldn't beat her on camera without worrying about CPS and those troublesome authorities. (I kid. I kid.)

After the twins I seriously questioned my teaching abilities. Am I just that bad? Am I completely incapable of managing my studio?

Two years later, Audra and I had become best friends and housemates. She was teaching art lessons in an after school program, and after a few weeks of teaching she started telling me about these twin girls in her class that she didn't know how to handle. "They're never on task. They're always running around the room, and they cry at every lesson!" I smiled. I gave Audra a hug. I explained things.

Ahh, company. You work wonders for misery.

I had three wonderful students after the sisters and twins. The three restored my faith in children, in music, and, in some degree, myself. I learned a lot during my stint as a teacher. Most importantly perhaps, I learned that the greatest flaw in the educational system is that you can't beat your students.

Teachers are saints, and that's exactly why I'm not one of them.

Intervention

2008-10-20T15:56:00.002-04:00

A concerned friend sent me this story today. It's something I've needed to hear for a long time, and it meant so much to me that a friend cared enough about me to direct me to the help I need. Thank you, Elizabeth. Thank you for your friendship, for your compassion, and for your - how shall I put it? - for your ta-ta pity.

Plastic Surgeon General Warns of Small Breasts Epidemic (The Onion)

My Fidgeter

2008-10-19T14:57:00.004-04:00

Women learned long ago that if they wanted to keep their hair clips intact, they'd better keep them away from my boyfriend. He's a fidgeter, ladies and gents. A fidgeter. I can't tell you how many times I've seen him snatch up spare change, bobby pins, and hair ties and twirl them between his fingers. Most of the time he doesn't even know he's doing it. I'll ask him for my bobby pins back and he'll say, "What? Oh. I didn't even know they were in my hands." Just last week we were at a friend's birthday party. I was playing with a couple of napkin rings, stacking them up and such, and when I tired of them I set them on the table. Immediately, as in not two seconds later, he snatched them up from the table and twirled them in his fingers. Astonished at his speed, I looked over at him and said, "You've been waiting for me to put them down all this time, haven't you?"

"Yes." (sheepish nod)

So it didn't surprise me the other night when I caught him fidgeting with three different items in the course of twenty minutes.

The hair clip: his favorite item and the most prone to breakage

Two pennies, the same two pennies that Ethan later gave to Angie.
Angie: "Penny for my thoughts?"
Ethan: "No, I just wanted to give you my two cents."
Uggh.

String. It's hard to see, but he's twirling it.

And then, of course, the string and the hair clip at the same time.

I love my fidgeter.

The Pun Master

2008-10-10T13:33:00.018-04:00

Update: Angie announced last night that she was a "sci-fi-entist." I promptly smacked her, but secretly I was excited because she confirmed numbers 6 and 8 for me.

She has been a soft drink machine filler, a real estate agent, an EMT, a house flipper, Miss Flame of Indiana, an actress, an artist, and a volunteer firefighter. She's Angie, and she's one crazy housemate.

I first met Angie maybe five years ago. Her cousin is an old friend of mine, and I noticed her at his wedding because she was wearing a dress that I also owned. I said to myself, "Hey, that's my dress!" I did not say to myself, "Hey, I think I'll live with her in three years!" There was no premonition, no sign of what was to come. We met. We were cordial. We parted. The end.

Then I went back to college and whoa! my parents moved to Indiana. They settled in a cute house kind of in the country, and I went to live with them during summer break after my sophomore year of college. I knew no one in that area, and really there was no one near the house to know. A typical day that summer went something like this: work, garden, read, dinner, cards with family, tv, sleep. Then the next day would go: work, garden, read, dinner, cards with family, tv, sleep. Repeat.

I love my family and I'm happy to spend time with them, but 90 days straight with no one my age to talk to? That gets rough. There was a group of college-aged people at my church, but they already had established friendships and modes of operation. We went out a few times, but nothing really clicked.

And then there was Angie. Angie lived in Indiana at the time, and she just so happened to go to my church. Every time I saw her she screamed, "Emily!" and came running to hug me. Yep, I liked Angie, and I was so thankful for her friendship that summer. A couple years later I moved to Kentucky, and then Angie moved to Kentucky. We settled in a house together, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Here are some fun facts about Angie.

She can give you the make and model of any passing car. It's a fun game, except I can't actually play along with her and I don't actually know when she's wrong.
She keeps moisturizer and drywall screws in the same cabinet. Last Saturday I got angry with myself because I needed a flathead screwdriver. I had already used one that day and then (stupid me!) put it back in its place in the shed. When I needed it later that night I didn't feel like walking all the way out to the shed in the dark to retrieve my screwdriver, so naturally I did what any normal person would do. I looked in Angie's bathroom cabinet and found the necessary implement next to her toothbrush. Because screwdrivers and teeth go together so well.
She reads the Illiad to herself and the Hobbit to her seven-year-old son.
She rearranges the furniture a minimum of every two months. No kidding. To Angie, keeping the furniture in one place for a quarter of a year makes about as much sense as drinking coffee without coconut creamer. She just doesn't do it.
She welcomes everyone to the house all the time. If you exist, you're welcome to come on in. I love this about her. Hospitality is certainly one of Angie's gifts, and she uses it regularly.
She also uses the gift of puns. She was born with it, but she has also spent years developing it into something truly grand. I've never seen someone so adept at using double meanings, and I've never groaned so much in my life.
You know those wind-up chattering teeth things? Angie can wind up her entire body and then chatter across the living room floor. I've never seen anything quite like it. She also excels at shimmying.
Angie is a huge nerd. She likes Star Trek and Star Wars and Battlestar Firefly Willow (or something like that).
She's never content to stay still, which is something I'm always trying to get her to do.
She makes a killer apple pie.
Her art is beautiful. I'll post a link to her artwork whenever she actually gets a site up for it.
She has remodeled or redone just about every room in our house.

Finally, she really scares me sometimes, like when she's being the limbless crazy couch lady. Shudder.

Wittle Lemon

2008-10-06T16:50:00.014-04:00

Remember those rants I said were brewing about two weeks ago? Well, they've lost a bit of their bite, their zing, their slice, their cut in the last 10 days. To tell the truth, I can't even remember what I was so upset about. (<-- Don't end your sentences in prepositions, people.) I remember being angry with the world of shoes. I went shoe shopping two weeks ago in a local store, but I didn't find what I was looking for. Pardon, I didn't find the shoe for which I was looking. After that, I decided to try my hand at this "online" shopping thing everyone's abuzz about, so I browsed the "world wide web" for some gold pumps with a serious heel. Dismayed that my "Google" "search" availed nothing, I browsed the "Web sites" of several favorite shoe stores. Finding nothing yet again, I decided that the "internet" (that's the last one, I swear) was a piece of intercrap, and I was done with it forever.

Then I emailed my friends to see if they would go shopping with me and looked up the store hours online.

Here's the thing. This post is really a confession, and it's about how girly, how truly, deep-down girly I can be when no one is watching. I chose to search for my golden beauties at a shoe warehouse, a big old shop, in the nearby city. None of my friends could make it, so it was just me, little old me, in the big old shop. I walked through the doors, stopped, gazed at the walls, more walls, and shelves of shoes and then grinned uncontrollably for one minute straight. I had to hide my face from other shoppers because I couldn't stop beaming at all the shoes. Why, why is that? Why are women so entranced by footwear? I don't know the answer, but I've made my peace with the question.

You see, shoes are fun. There was a time in my life when I NEVER NOT IN A MILLION YEARS NO WAY NO HOW would've confessed to grinning like an idiot at a row of Mary Janes (no, not that Mary Jane). For a long time I associated femininity with weakness, so I eschewed all things overtly "woman." I was never a Tom Boy. I wore dresses and painted my nails and (Heaven help me) read fashion magazines, but I didn't take pride in those things. Instead, I took pride in being the first girl picked for football at recess in elementary school, in nonchalantly squashing bugs for my screaming friends, in driving a stick.

Then one day I attended a women's conference in college. I wasn't expecting anything life-changing from that day, and when I found out how early I had to get up for it on a Saturday I almost didn't go. Thankfully, I went. I attended a seminar presented by a man, the only man at the conference, a pastor and the father of a hallmate. He said some very simple things, but they went straight to my heart. One of those very simple things was this: "It's ok to be feminine. That's what you were born to be." That seems so common sense, doesn't it? That shouldn't be a life-changing phrase. It ought to be a, "Yes. And?" But for me on that day, it was permission. It was a long-awaited exhale, a sigh of relief. I was allowed to be soft.

Something happened to me then, and I connected with a part of myself that I'd closed off for a long time. People who knew me well probably could've detected a few outward changes, but most of the difference was internal. My attitude about my activities changed. I'd worn makeup for nearly ten years, but after the conference I quit feeling stupid about putting it on. I shopped with glee and I bought a few things with frills. I cried in front of people with a bit less shame. (But c'mon, crying will never lose all its shame. Your lip quivers, your face turns red, your nostrils flare, you're covered in snot. All in all, you're just a soggy mess.)

So now Boyfriend squashes my bugs for me while I stand on the couch. I've lost any and all ability to throw or catch a football, or any other ball for that matter. I'm girly, deep-down girly, and that's ok. In fact, it's great. Cause now I've got a fantastic pair of snakeskin peep-toes with a 4" heel.

That Does It

2008-10-06T13:10:00.007-04:00

This post ends with the phrase "Viva la boob!" If that makes you at all squeamish, then I suggest you skip the read entirely. You've been warned.

I have several businesses in the planning stage. They are as follows:

Bethesda Spa and Resort
The Wesley Tea Room
Leather Bound Books Publishing Company (It's worth noting that the library in the Wesley Tea Room will be supplied with comfy armchairs, rich, Persian rugs, and the entire collection of works published by Leather Bound Books.)
The Stone Oven Bakery (we deliver!)
Anal Intruders Home and Office Organizing: We're anal so you don't have to be.
Take My Chicken Shit Dot Com, a mail-order fertilizer business made necessary, of course, by all those backyard chickens I'm going to raise
and finally, Celebrity Breast Milk Dairy: The nectar of the stars

I shudder to think of the Google keywords that will now tag my blog. The mind reels.

I think I'm forgetting a few of my businesses, but you get the general idea. I started this list in 2002 with Bethesda, and the roster has steadily grown over the years. Thus far, all of my businesses have stayed in the planning stage, but recent news has pushed one to the forefront. Yes, friends, it's time to hold Celebrity Breast Milk Dairy upside down, slap its butt and see if it cries.

My roommates and I first conceptualized CBMD during a study break in college. Our brains were fried, and this is what comes of fried ~~eggs~~ brains. The way I see it, CBMD has a great chance of becoming my most lucrative business. To be entirely honest, I'm not too into breast milk. It's great and everything, and as Captain Stubby says, "You know the cats haven't been in it," but I don't feel the need to slap a "Breast feeding in public is legal" bumper sticker on my Camry like that zealous minivan owner downtown. That said, I could get excited about a business that brings in the bajillions, and clearly this one has a shot.

Just imagine it. How much do you think J. Lo's "Jenny from the Block of Cheddar" would pull in? I'm sure that Jolie Brie would grace only the poshest of parties. And don't tell me that Halle Very Berry Ice Cream wouldn't be a top seller. This business has potential, and now is the time for it.

Why is the time so appropriate for CBMD? Read this to understand. Enlightened yet? Are you keen to invest? Whether you're in or out, I'm sure you comprehend the brilliance of this business plan.

As for me, I'll be damned if I let this gallon of 100% expire. Viva la boob!

Checking In

2008-10-05T15:55:00.002-04:00

Hello, all. I woke up this morning and thought the following about the condition of my head: "Wow. It's as though someone smashed a large pile of bricks with a sledgehammer and then threw all the little bricklets at my temples at a steady pace over a stretch of 14 hours." I have much to say about the last week and a half, but I'm currently in no shape to say it. I'll return when my mind functions properly, or at least adequately.

The Sibs

2008-09-24T13:19:00.014-04:00

My siblings are cruel, horrible, heartless beings who deserve to be locked in a cubicle that alternately streams "Carrot Top Performs Notable Monologues" and "96 Unforgettable Hours of Sweating to the Oldies."

Case in Point 1

After reading the first case of sibling cruelty, you might think, "Wow, Emily, your sister really is a raging harpy." And I would have to agree. But you might mistakenly follow that with, "Well, at least your brother treats you well." Gentle reader, don't be as easily duped as I.

It all began when I was but a wee tot. Born with a naturally sweet disposition, I couldn't have anticipated the danger of having siblings three and seven years older. While I cooed happily in my playpen, they plotted my destruction from afar. Their object: to exploit my naivete. Their plan: to build my trust slowly and then tear it down in one shining moment. As you already know, my sister accomplished that with Jim Hensen's aid. My brother, on the other hand, called upon the help of Katy. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My siblings' plan unfolded slowly. At all times they tested me. When we were very young, I a mere toddler, Mother and Father unfeelingly threw Mark and me in one tub to clean us, like Pfaltzgraff in a Whirlpool. Erin offered to "help" Mom with our bath times, a sure sign of impending trouble. At these times, she and Mark were at their peak, a duo of destruction for my poor young soul. Mark would soften my nerves by handing me toys to play with and patting me on the head and telling me I was sweet. Then he'd say something like, "Hey Emmy, stand up and hand me that towel behind you." Obediently I complied, and then Erin swooped in to zerbert my poor, exposed rear - Cosby style. I'm sorry for the graphic images depicted here. I'm still trying to work through the pain, and I really think this will help. Upon receiving said raspberry, I would whoop and holler with frustration and then sit down firmly, determined never to be tricked again. A few minutes later Mark would reel me in with flattery and bribes, and then I'd fall for the exact same setup. They performed this routine multiple times every bath time. I cried and lectured and pouted; they laughed with unbridled glee. Still, my trusting nature said every time, "Maybe this time will be different. Maybe this time they're telling the truth."

Fast forward seven or eight years. Erin had already revealed her true character with the Animal incident. Mark, on the other hand, had gotten on my good side. He took me to the arcade. We went to movies. He bought me slices of Anthony's pizza. He took me to the playground. Yes, he was the Jem to my Scout, the Laertes to my Ophelia, the John Boy to my Elizabeth.

Or the Bart to my Lisa. We had a ~~traitor~~ friend, Katy, who spent a lot of time with us in Oklahoma. When Mark met Katy, well, there was no hope for little Emily. On a bright, sunny day in Oklahoma (which I actually don't remember because my defense mechanisms blocked the pain from my mind and also because I have the worst memory known to man), Katy, Mark, and I were playing in the backyard at Mark and my house. There in the yard, K & M hatched their devious plan to finally cash in on all that trust Mark had been storing up. It started with a suggestion.

"Hey, I know! How about we play a game?" Katy said.

This sounded good to me.

"We'll take turns tying each other to the clothesline pole with this rope, and then we'll time each other to see who gets out the fastest."

This, perplexingly, still sounded good to me.

"Mark, you go first."

"Ok."

Katy and I then tied Mark to the clothesline pole. With the help of my complete lack of knot-tying abilities and Katy's ulterior motives, Mark quickly freed himself. Then came the inevitable.

"Hey Emmy, why don't you go next?"

"Yeah, ok."

Several minutes later I was tied to a clothesline pole in the dry, Oklahoma heat, struggling to free myself from bonds of torture. Meanwhile, Mark and Katy were inside the house...watching TV.

Yes, I had been duped again. Mark carried out his devious plans, and had it not been for my mother's watchful eyes, I might still be there to this day.

I say it again: Carrot Top, Richard Simmons, cubicle.

Blurb

2008-09-23T12:52:00.003-04:00

Fact: I kept a fortune cookie that read, "You are careful and systematic." I threw away a fortune cookie that read, "You will find happiness with a new love."

A few rants are a-brewing. We'll see if they turn into anything or if they shrivel and dry up like some sort of aged fruit in some sort of bright, blazing orb.

Helter-Skelter

2008-09-19T09:17:00.005-04:00

You know you're a bit off when you search frantically for your pen for about five minutes, only to find it in your hair two hours later. Also, it takes you half a day to realize your underwear is inside out.

Avast!

2008-09-19T09:17:00.002-04:00

My brother Mark has this habit. It's not a gross habit like Boyfriend's perpetual (and often unconscious) spit bubble blowing; it's just a habit. He makes nicknames for everyone. They rarely make sense, and they're always dumb.

Case in point: his wife's name is Lori. She has gone from Lori to Louie to Lou to Louavision to Vizh to McBane to Mcbaneamente to Bane and from there into all sorts of things that I can't remember because they're too random to commit to memory.

I have a nickname from childhood that Mark did not give me. Mine is Woo, and my family has called me that for as long as I can remember. Apparently, they called me Emmy Lou every now and then when I was a toddler, even though my middle name is decidedly not Lou. When you say it in baby talk it comes out, "Wittle Emmy Woo," hence the shortened "Woo." As time went by, Woo just wasn't enough for Mark, so he expanded it to Wooless, and the next logical move was of course Wooless Georgina. I responded in kind by calling him Marcus Lavinias, even though that makes no sense either.

Marcus Lavinias is now deployed, but he comes home in exactly two weeks. Can't wait to see you, Mark, and to hear all the exciting news about your time in Qatar. I'm sure you'll have plenty of stories for me about cafeteria food and sand and surfing the internet and reading stuff and walking from one building to the next and sometimes talking to others and saying things like "affirmative" and "ETA." Wow! Military life is so glamorous.

A toast to you with a Clearly Canadian, my brother, and a happy International Talk Like a Pirate Day to the rest of you scalliwags.

Arrrr!

New loves

2008-09-17T09:20:00.002-04:00

Announcement

I'm in love with the following:

Cathedrals by Jump Little Children. Listen to it here, and then after you return to Earth buy it on iTunes or Amazon or something to show your very legal appreciation for such beauty. It reminds me a bit of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, as made popular by Jeff Buckley and of course Shrek...sadly. Cathedrals doesn't have the same brilliance as Hallelujah, but both form in me a sense of longing, of melancholy, of hope. Give it a whirl.
Out of Africa, the Best Picture winner of 1985. I purchased it three years ago in China for 75 cents, but I didn't watch it until yesterday. Speaking of legal appreciation, I think I'd better make a trip to Best Buy soon. This one belongs on my shelf.

There you have it. I love them. I luuurve them, you know. I loave them, I luff them, two F's...

Old Friends

2008-09-16T17:00:00.002-04:00

I ran into an old friend on Sunday. We hadn't spoken in months, but I saw him the other day and struck up a conversation. We talked about the night sky, about daydreams, about geometric art, and even about unrequited love. It was fantastic to talk to him again, and it reminded me that old friends are indeed gold. We used to see each other just about every day, and I knew I could always go to him for both comfort and entertainment. It's ridiculous to let such a wonderful companion fall by the wayside, especially when my parents paid for our play dates for 15 years. Whether he's the Story & Clark I grew up with, the Steinway I practiced on in college, or the Clavinova in my living room, I plan to keep up this friendship for years to come. Those 88 keys hear my heart. Sometimes my piano expresses my thoughts, and sometimes it hides my thoughts, but it's always there to listen. What a friend.

Good Morning, Sunshine

2008-09-15T19:04:00.009-04:00

I know this will come as a shock to most of you, but I have to confess something: sometimes I wake up angry.

Whew. I feel cleansed.

Specifically, I woke up angry today. My stupid housemates (yes, all four of you idiots) played music and shrieked with delight at 7:45 in the morning. Seven forty-five. The swinging door to my bedroom is no match for the decibels from the next room, and although I'm a heavy sleeper, I'm not, in fact, dead. While my housemates are all jerks, they are not the first to awaken my wrath in the a.m. My loving father always blared Glad, an early 90's a capella group, on Sunday mornings when I was a child. "A capella" literally means "in the manner of the chapel." I think that jolting innocent children out of peaceful slumber with revoltingly exuberant melodies is more "in the manner of the torture chamber" than the chapel, but that's just one woman's opinion. My roommates will get an earful when I see them, but that's neither here nor there.

What's here (and perhaps there) is that I awoke with a snarl. I was lying in bed grinding my teeth and spewing hushed anathemas when my phone rang. It was The Boss. The Boss said, "Emily, are you planning on coming to the team leader retreat today?"

My mind said, "Huh?"

I said, "Huh?"

"Well, you might be leading one of our mission trips next year, right? If you are, then you really need to be at the retreat today for some training. We're leaving right now, but we won't start the sessions for another hour. You can get directions at the office and then meet us at the retreat center later. It's only about a half hour drive."

My mind said, "Waaaaaaaahhhhhhhh."

I said, "Ok."

So I got up and prepared myself for a day of meetings, but I was angry. Oh was I angry.
"Rassem sassem stupid music frassem...dumb retreat...driving...grumble grumble...brushing teeth brushing shmushing...stupid greasy hair...zits Zits ZITS...gnashing gashing lashing...car keys...dumb...slam door kablam...no work done...$4 gas...great commission my ass!"

Yes, I was a regular Mother Teresa.

An hour later, I arrived at the retreat center slightly more centered, slightly calmer, but I still was in no mood for, well, for anything. Then those jerks from my office made me listen to tales from the mission field. They had me sit there in silence while they talked about the transforming power of Christ's love and while they told about changed lives. Aaron talked about a lame man who was able to walk after they prayed for him. Phil mentioned a guy who couldn't look you in the eye until he met Christ. That man is now the bishop of 35 churches. Bert, the big boss, even told about a baby that would've died a month ago had their medical mission team failed to go to Nairobi. The nerve of some people.

Perhaps I needed a bit of humility today. Perhaps I needed to learn some patience and flexibility. Perhaps some perspective was in order. I'll never be happy waking up to music, but that's ok. Next time I can remember the things worth waking up for...and I can suck it up.

8 Bits of Fun

2008-09-10T20:51:00.018-04:00

I just asked Dr. Pfil what I should blog about tonight. He responded, "Politics. Your liberal friends who aren't actually liberal. Sarah Palin."

"But I don't want to blog about politics!" (Stamping foot.)

"You have to sometime, L'Emily." (I'm little Emily, you know.)

"What? No I don't. Besides, I'm too happy to blog about politics."

"Fine." Then he made me some tea.

I'm not gonna blog about politics. So there. Instead, I'm going to change my hat with a list of 8 fun things. I've discovered through blogging that I'm a fan of lists. I never knew this about myself. In fact, I always thought that I hated lists. Boyfriend and his friends are in love with lists, and they have their top 100 movies, top 25 albums, bands, and songs all written out. We have a movie club that meets every Wednesday, and to apply for membership you have to list your top ten favorite movies. It took me 9 months to apply because I was too scared to commit my top ten to paper. But what if I miss one? What if I forget about a movie that I saw 8 years ago that actually belongs in my top 10? What if Number 7 is really my Number 4 but I'm not self-aware enough to know it? What if I re-watch my number 2 and I hate it? Then my whole list would be a lie, a sham, a deception! I've never said I'm not neurotic, nor have I called myself a quick decision maker. (<--What is that, a triple negative?) Turns out I like lists; I just hate ranked lists.

So here's my unranked list of 8 fun things. Why eight? Because I've been playing 8-bit Nintendo games all week, and I wanted my title to be a play on words. At this moment, I haven't even thought of eight fun things. I'm just committed to the title.

#1. Super Mario Bros. What a great game! Boyfriend and I beat it during halftime on Saturday. When I was young, and Mom and Dad hated Nintendo, the parentals didn't want to put too much money into games. My brother Mark and I played hours and hours of the original Mario Bros. Hours and hours. So many hours, in fact, that Mom and Dad took the Nintendo away from us entirely and said we could only play it if we got straight A's, and even then we could only play for 1 week following that 9-week term. It was the greatest week of all time.

#2. Getting so many extra lives in level 3-1 of Mario Bros. that the game gives up on numbering the lives and simply labels them as "Crown Blue Box." This is getting its own number because it's just that awesome.

#3. Anime. I never ever EVER thought I would like anime, but Hayao Miyazaki's films are incredible. Howl's Moving Castle is my favorite. They are wondrous adventures. Give them a try sometime.

#4. Rookie of the Year. We watched it last night, and my nostalgia meter went berserk. I hadn't seen it in at least 10 years, and it was wonderful. Thank you, Daniel Stern, for your 1993 treasure.

#5. Generally, I am entirely unaware of fashion week; I neither know what's going on, nor do I care. But this?

This is a Marc Jacobs ensemble. It's like Anne of Green Gables meets Grace Kelly. How could I not like it? The hat makes me want to do a jig.

#6. Dolores Moran's hat in To Have and Have Not. There are lots of topics I could focus on in the movie - Lauren Bacall's performance as a 19-year-old, the onscreen chemistry of Bogart/Bacall, the astronomical amount of casual littering - but this blog is called "I Have a Hat," not "I Have a Cigarette to Drop in the Hallway." I would like to have and to hold this hat. That's all I'll say about it.

#7. A quality group of women. I just started a small group with several friends, and I can't go on enough about how fantastic it is to share hearts and thoughts with these wonderful people. Men are great fun to hang out with, but they're not women. They're just not.

#8. Playing with Boyfriend's MacBook Pro. I've had to do a lot of praying about coveting lately, because I adore the MacBook and I want to steal it for my very own. It's so shiny and pretty. I use a Dell at work, but I had to steal the MacBook this week to work on a slideshow presentation. I've said many times before that if I had the moolah for a laptop I would probably go for a non-Mac because I do so much data processing, list sorting, mail merging, etc. As it turns out, that would be a mistake. Everything is easier on a Mac, from network connections to video editing to searching the desktop. I had a lot of fun playing with the Pro this week. Both Boyfriend's laptop and my laptop are silver; perhaps I'll switch them when his back is turned. Yeah, that's it! He'll never ever notice. (Cue thunder, lightning, sinister laugh - wait, make that sinister giggle.)

There you have it, folks. I like 8 things. No more. No less. Eight shalt be the number I shall like, and the number that I like shall be eight. Nine shalt not be liked, nor either seven, excepting that I then proceed to eight...

Extra! Extra!

2008-09-05T09:12:00.005-04:00

Today's headlines as reported by that tall, dark, blue-eyed stud also known as Boyfriend.

Incoherent Screaming at Political Rallies Up 90%, Analysts Say

Last evening’s Republican acceptance-speech brouhaha marked a record in the storied history of the Republican rally. According to analysts (who were on site equipped with graphing calculators), incoherent screaming from the excitable, crimson-clad multitude was up 90% from 1958 (when the statistic was first taken), now making up a solid 98% of the four-day rally. When asked what this means for the future of political speaking, one analyst said, “This statistic signifies a new era in the world of political speaking. As the scream percentage goes up, the filters for hollow rhetoric are loosening significantly.” During his acceptance speech last night, Senator McCain’s largest uninterrupted streak was clocked at a whopping 8 seconds, when, it seems, the crowd could no longer contain itself. This particular eruption followed a brief description of the Senator’s future plans to add a sunroom onto his Arizona home.

One particularly enthusiastic spectator said, “It’s just so exciting! Of course we care about what the speakers have to say! Senator Confetti had my full attention, as did Ms. Balloons. They both gave a beautiful banner with lots of profound insights and pretty colors…and…USA! USA! USA!" When asked for further clarification, said spectator tossed a chair across the crowded arena, leaving 3 unconscious and one dead before attempting to strangle this reporter with the ribbon from a star spangled balloon.

When approached about this disturbing trend, Senator McCain said, “It’s frustrating. There’s a reason that we construct these speeches to say EXACTLY what these people want to hear: so they can actually hear them!” (Caps and Italics not added.) It is rumored that at one point the Senator’s speech digressed into a spoken quoting of Toto’s riff-heavy rock hit “Hold the Line.” However, no one seems to have noticed.

Senator Obama could not be reached for comment, but his publicist shared his thoughts on the matter. “The truth, really, is that Senator Obama hears all of our prayers, even if it doesn’t seem like it.” When asked what this cryptic proclamation had to do with the statistics at hand, Obama’s publicist said, “Acknowledge Senator Obama’s divinity now, or be smote…verily!” Upon this reporter’s refusal to worship Senator Obama the publicist simply said, “You obviously are not from the press,” and hung up abruptly.

Bob Loblaw

2008-09-04T21:19:00.007-04:00

Dear Erin (that's my sister, to the rest of you),

Today started out as one of those no good, very bad days. It's ok now, but I think my spirits would be lifted even further if you called me up to read to me about Percival Pinkerton and his refusal to Poo Poo at the Zoo. I also wouldn't object to a Barbie house made entirely from paperbacks, hot water bottles, and tin foil. Thank you.

Your loving sister,
Emmy Woo

A week ago, I blogged my morning routine for your viewing pleasure. That's a pretty boring thing to write about, so I don't know how pleasurable it actually could have been to you. Anyway, today I broke my morning routine. I broke it by sleeping through my alarm while it was going off for at least 10 minutes. That's right. It buzzed in my ear for 10 minutes, but I didn't wake up to it. Instead, I incorporated it in my dream as a beeping trashcan in an elementary school. No matter how hard I looked, the janitor was nowhere to be found, and the front office personnel was less than helpful with finding the Off switch. When I finally awoke and silenced the beastly gong, I only had six minutes to get to work. I made it in eight.

So that's how the day started. The rest of the day went something like:
the printer won't print
the paper folder won't fold
we're out of stamps
this file is incompatible
that file is too big
there's not enough money
these are in the wrong order
those would be in the right order if they were exactly the opposite of how they are

Cripes!

To preserve my sanity, the rest of the day decided to have mercy on me. It allowed me to make myself a delicious, meaty sandwich for dinner and to follow that up with a comforting cup of darjeeling made by Boyfriend. Boyfriend also bought me a pint of Key Lime Pie ice cream from Bruesters. Wow. Wow. We took to it with a spoon and a bib. Ok, to be entirely honest with you, the bib was just hyperbole.

And then came one of those surprising comforts - Football.
What?!?
Football a comfort?
To you, Emily?
To you?

Yep. To me. I've grown to like it a whole darn lot in the last 2 years, and maybe someday I'll grow to love it. For the last two summers I've experienced a new and strange sensation - a longing for football season. It's just so exciting. Going for it on 4th and 1, the fake punts, the rivalries, the 2-minute drills, the heartaches, the triumphs! It's grand, I tell you, grand.

So football is back, and it comforts me on these no good, very bad days. Now if only it could take care of fleas, too.

Vacunioncoming

2008-09-02T14:40:00.002-04:00

Dear Friends,

I've been traveling for vacation/reunion/homecoming. I shall return to you later today. For now, I have only this to say:

Last night I came home again home again jiggety jig, only to hear my friend Bekah promptly declare that she would be cooking Jiaozi for my housemates and me on Tuesday night (tonight). Can you believe that? Just last week I blogged that if someone wanted to "drop some fried Jiaozi (pronounced Jow-dza) off at my house tomorrow, I'd be much obliged." I haven't had Jiaozi in 3 years, and all of a sudden someone's making it at my house only a week after I say I want some.

With that in mind, ahem, if someone wants to drop a large quantity of unmarked bills at my house tomorrow, I'd be much obliged.

Oh, and one of those circular gold things with one of those sparkly, baseball field-shaped hard things on top of it.

Ahem.

If I Ruled the World

2008-08-26T16:11:00.002-04:00

If I ruled the world, the public restroom situation would be vastly different.

First, I would create a manual on proper bathroom etiquette. Chapter headings would include:
1. Knock first then enter
2. Choosing a stall: Love thy neighbor from a distance
3. Come, Go, Don't Tarry
4. The magic of flushing
5. Washing hands: It's not just for employees anymore
6. The trashcan: Now accepting trash!

Second, I would require the people of the world to pass written and practical exams to gain access to public restrooms. Licenses issued with scores of 90% and higher. Highest marks given to those with distinguished essays on the prompt, "'If you sprinkle while you tinkle, be a sweetie, clean the seaty.' Discuss."

Third, I would fast track the 'Automatic Seat Covers on Every John' initiative.

Fourth, I would declare separate bathrooms for all drunken sorority girls. These special restrooms will be maintained by their patrons and quarantined from the rest of the world.

Fifth, the maximum gap between stall door and stall wall would be reduced to 1cm. Maximum distance between door and floor would be whatever gap a precocious 2-year-old cannot squeeze through.

Sixth, children must be accompanied by adults. Same goes for many grown men.

Seventh, public restroom soap manufactured by Bath & Body Works and Bath & Body Works alone. Current green goo soap to be researched at Area 51.

What think you, World? Are you prepared to vote me in as supreme ruler? If you choose not to vote for me, I will, of course, humbly abandon my ambitions (c.f. Mugabe, those delightful Castro boys, and Stalin.)

X Marks the "Sh:" China Part One

2008-08-25T22:18:00.015-04:00

I hear that the 2008 Beijing Olympics was (were?) the most-watched TV event ever. The internet told me that, so it must be true. Given the enormous spotlight on China during the games, I find it appropriate to post some reflections on my time beyond the Great Wall. I don't intend to cover China's human rights record or its political position because, frankly, that's been done, done, and redone. These are snippets of thought from my trip to China, snippets that wouldn't exactly make headline news, that is, if people came to me for headline news.

I went to China in the summer of 2005, and I stayed there about 3 1/2 weeks. When I got off the plane, the first thing that hit me was the smell, and boy did it hit me. If I sit here long enough and concentrate all my energies toward remembering exactly how it smelled, well, then I start to get nauseous and I ask myself why in the world I would do such a thing and can't I ever just allow myself to be happy? When I recover from my existential crisis, I remember that the smell was bad, and I leave it at that.

Toddlers use the street for potty training. They also have little slits in the backs of their pants for ease of relief. There's nothing funnier than seeing chubby little reverse Coppertone babies waddling down the street, enjoying freedom of movement in their trousers.

Mah-Jiang is the greatest.

On one particular night there, I took a girl on my team out for a one-on-one in the city. It had been a busy and stressful few days, and we were both thirsting for a break. Usually, we walked downtown or took the bus, but on this night we splurged for a couple of motorcycle taxis. Despite my pitiful attempts at Mandarin, we somehow ordered the correct Sweet and Sour Pork in a delightful hole-in-the-wall restaurant, and then we headed to the market. Someone had recommended a hair washing to us the day before, and since we were feeling adventurous, we made a beeline for the salon. It was a three-walled shop with an open front on the market street, so we could hear the noises of the city as, for the next thirty minutes, we were pampered to the extreme. You know how your stylist washes your hair before she cuts it? Well, it's that plus 25 more minutes of blissful scalp and back massage. To this day, it's the best 60 cents I've ever spent.

The food. I have mixed feelings toward the food in China. Some of it was fantastic, and I crave it to this day. If you would like to drop some fried Jiaozi (pronounced Jow-dza) off at my house tomorrow, I'd be much obliged. You may keep the mixian (Mee-shee-en) for yourself. Mixian is breakfast, and it's made up of rice noodle soup with meat and spices on top. After just a week and a half, my stomach couldn't handle mixian for breakfast any longer. I stuck to yogurt and bread after that. Last year, I accidentally ordered Drunken Noodles from a Thai restaurant. I had never tried it before, but I figured what the heck, let's be adventurous today. It was a mistake. The spices in Drunken Noodles were just the same as the spices in Mixian, and after a few bites I was nauseous for the rest of the day. Now that you know my Kryptonite, I ask that you don't exploit my weakness.

I tried some weird stuff in China, too. I had mutton on a stick from a street vendor. They told me later that maybe I shouldn't have done that. I ate a grasshopper, which tasted a bit like burnt popcorn. I also tried a snail. It tasted like death.

We were invited to a home for a tea tasting. Wow. They know their tea, and they relish it. The owner of the house told us that she and her husband spent at least an hour in their tea room each night, catching up on the day and just talking to each other. I can't imagine a better routine for life and for marriage.

The Chinese consider the ground inherently dirty (like a toilet seat is inherently dirty to you, no matter if it's brand new, straight out of the box, freshly cleaned), so they don't sit on the ground. Instead, they squat. We stayed on a college campus during exam week, and we saw students squatting in parks, books in hand. Hours later, we returned to find them in the exact same positions. They learn to squat when they learn to stand, so it's a comfortable position for them. I wish it were comfortable for me too.

The culture, the food, the norms, even the air of China were great experiences for me, but nothing, nothing compared to the people of the land. Their stories to follow in Part Two.

The Routine

2008-08-25T12:11:00.004-04:00

We interrupt your lunch break for this short announcement.
This morning I looked into the mirror at work and asked, "Mirror, why does my hair look so much better than usual today?"
"Because you actually showered before work," the mirror replied.
"Oh," I said.

My normal morning routine is as follows:
7:45 First alarm goes off. Snooze alarm.
7:53 Second alarm goes off. Snooze alarm.
7:55 First alarm goes off again. Snooze again.
7:58 Second alarm goes off again. Snooze again.
8:03, 8:05, 8:08, 8:13 Alarms continue to sound the call. Snooze, snooze, snooze, snooze.
I'm cognizant of only two snoozes, usually 7:45 and 8:08. I only know the rest exist because my alarms have 5 and 10 minute snoozes and there are more than 5 and 10 minutes between 7:45 and 8:15.
8:15 Get out of bed. Don robe. At my house, you never know who might be on the couch.
8:17 You know
8:19 Run brush through hair
8:20 Run brush through teeth. Hope I don't confuse my brushes.
8:23 Stare at closet
8:24 Don whichever shirt smells best and whichever pants are least wrinkled. Cross fingers for a match.
8:26 Run out door
8:27 Run back in door to retrieve keys, phone, or laptop
8:28 Leave for work. Rub eyes and slap face to stay awake for long commute.
8:30 Arrive at work. ~~Be a ray of sunshine to an otherwise dark and pitiless world.~~ Be grumpy until first cup of Irish Breakfast.
12:20p.m. Put in contacts on lunch break
5:15p.m. Shower
5:45p.m. Hair and makeup
6:00p.m. I'm ready for the day!

Ying and Yang

2008-08-22T09:35:00.003-04:00

Things that make me happy:
1. The coming weekend in Nashville
2. Seeing Audra
3. A short workday
4. Plain bagels with chive and onion cream cheese
5. The Princess Bride
6. Quality tea
7. Boyfriend

Things that make me disgruntled:
1. Cooking fried chicken. I fail.
2. Forgetting that I promised to fill up 200 water balloons until 11:00 the night before I'm supposed to have them done
3. The syntax of that last sentence
4. Staying up until 1:00 on a work night to fill water balloons
5. Having Britney Spears' Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman song stuck in my head
6. Having Britney Spears' Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman song stuck in my head while filling up 200 water balloons

It's a balance, really.

Updates and Additions

2008-08-20T17:21:00.001-04:00

"And some things that should not have been forgotten were lost." 10 points to the first person who names the source of that quote. No google cheating, though I hardly think you'll need to.

Here are a few items of which you should be informed.
#1. I spoke too soon here.

Just two weeks ago it looked like this.

Now it looks like this:

How could this happen? I'll tell you how this could happen. These are the culprits, and more disgusting culprits I've never seen.

Well, that's not really true. I've seen this.
Crawling out of the fireplace.
In my bedroom.
Late at night.
I shudder just remembering it.

In any case, it looks like the pumpkin is doomed. Anyone have a suggestion for me? Do you know what kind of bug that is and what I can do to get rid of it? Is the plant even remotely salvageable at this point? Is that how you spell salvageable?

#2. In a previous post, I forgot to mention that Boyfriend's taste association with my last name just happens to be taco and chili meat. If that doesn't strike you as ironic, or if it's completely incomprehensible to you, see explanations here and here.

#3. Doesn't this look incredible? Yohan made that. Yohan, you're a genius! Someone give this man a grant so he can go into chefery full time. Someone? Anyone?

Mmmmmmmm. It was delicious too.

#4. Best outfit ever.

Thoughts on China coming tomorrow or Friday or next week or sometime. We're very precise here on I Have a Hat.

In the Waiting

2008-08-18T17:40:00.002-04:00

Last Friday I did a lot of waiting. I paced in my office. I stared out the window. I jumped at my phone at the first sign of a ring.

I waited. I waited, and the ticking minutes threatened my sanity. You can forget about eating when you’re waiting. You don’t have time to chew; you only have time to wait. I felt anxiety, not for myself, but for a friend. The issue wasn’t as serious as test results from a doctor or rumors of war near a loved one. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was life-changing and important to my friend.

I waited. I waited, and I reflected on the past, on times that I stared at my watch and wondered when change would come. On my internship when everything went as it was not supposed to go and when I felt lower than the floor. On last summer when I thought I was never going to get a job and I didn’t know how I was going to make rent the next month. On my freshman year of high school when I thought the Lord had stopped talking to me forever.

I waited. I waited, and I reflected on times when I was scared. On the phone call that my sister’s delivery wasn’t going as planned and that my niece wasn’t breathing in the womb. On the hours we spent in the NICU, peering through the glass panel in the door to catch glimpses of the newborn’s beautiful, frail body, wondering if she would be all right. On the time I got home from school and my dad told me my brother had been in a car accident and that we needed to leave for the hospital right away.

I waited. I waited, and I reflected on others who have been through far worse than anything I’ve experienced. On the months and months that my aunt and cousins tenderly cared for my uncle when he was dying of cancer. On the years my grandmothers cared for their husbands when the men, always the families’ providers, could no longer take care of themselves.

I waited. I waited, and I reflected on the biblical characters who had to wait, those who were given to me as examples. On Joseph, who spent most of his life waiting in exile and prison although he had done nothing wrong. On Hosea, who waited for his unfaithful wife to return to him. On Israel, who groaned in exile, waiting for the day she could return to her homeland.

I waited. My stomach was in knots, and my brain was pea soup, but a few verses floated through the mire and into consciousness.

“Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way that I should go, for unto you do I lift up my soul.” Ps 143:8

“When my anxious thoughts multiply within me, thy consolations delight my soul.” Ps. 94:19

“And call upon me in the day of trouble; I shall rescue you, and you will honor me.” Ps 50:15

“Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” Ps. 27:14

And then I remembered. I remembered feeling the favor of the Lord when he picked me up in my broken state during my internship and gently caressed and restored my soul. I remembered getting three job offers in one week when I didn’t have enough money in my checking account to cover a haircut. I remembered my sophomore year of high school when I told the Lord I was his and he said, “That, that, is what I’ve been waiting for.”

I remembered how my niece called me “Nini” when she was 15 months old, a healthy, beautiful girl. I recalled my brother’s toothless grin, a grin nonetheless, when we visited him in the emergency room.

I can’t speak to the pain of those whose stories didn’t end well. I don’t know how my cousin felt when she walked down the aisle without her daddy by her side. I don’t know how my aunt and grandmothers grieved when their husbands, their lifelong companions, passed away. I don’t know how the parents of the other man in the car accident reacted when they found out they had lost their only child. I don’t know how Joseph handled the long years in prison or how the Israelites felt on the journey to Babylon.

But I know this: the Lord was there, and the Lord is here. I know it because 2,000 years ago, one waiting period ended. They had been watching for him for thousands of years, and finally, a child was born. He grew up, and he learned to wait. He waited in a garden. He waited through torment. He waited through mockery. And then he conquered. He weeps when we weep and he grieves when we grieve, but the ultimate victory is his.

Last Friday, I waited. I waited, and when I got the news, I cried. Now I wait for what the future may bring, but I know I don’t wait alone.

In the News

2008-08-13T16:13:00.002-04:00

Ha! My boyfriend is a sicko. Check this out. Ignore the whole birth control part, but focus on the science of attraction.

Bringing Sexy Back

2008-08-12T18:04:00.014-04:00

I’m a fake - a big, fat fake.

I hate, and I mean hate, the way Victoria’s Secret uses sex in advertising. Whenever a commercial pops up, the room environment inevitably goes from lighthearted jocularity to mild awkwardness. The men either become unnaturally interested in the wood grain of the coffee table, or their mouths go slack, their eyes transform into wide-angled laser beams, and their conversations go something like, “Well if the stinking Yankees had just... salary cap... basebra... sparkly... hrmagjwl;wmq%#thhhhh.” To Boyfriend’s immeasurable credit, he falls into the wood grain category. Darling, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that.

Still, I’m a fake – a big, fat fake – because no sale, and I mean no sale, gets me as excited as the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale. As much as I hate the commercials and the driving force behind the commercials, I can’t stay away from the dang store. They make the best strapless bra in existence. No, really! It doesn’t slip and it doesn’t stick out unnaturally and, well, it’s just the best. Their stuff is cute and feminine, and it lasts forever. Just this week, in fact, I’m planning a funeral service for a VS bra that I’ve had since 2001. 2001! And although I may be ~~minimal~~ ~~forsaken~~ ~~cursed among women~~ ~~if you look real hard you might be able to see them~~ delicate on top and therefore easier to support, I still think 7 years is quite a feat for a member of the oft-worn rotation. Now, Gentle Reader, lest I bore you to distraction with my tales of undergarment longevity, allow me to get to the point. Because I’m a frequent shopper and an Angel cardholder, I get lots and lots of VS catalogs delivered to my door, and every time I browse through one, like at lunch today, I laugh out loud at the ridiculous expressions and over-the-top poses of Victoria’s Secret’s models. (<--two is too many consecutive apostrophes.) I know the men-folk enjoy said poses, and I know the women-folk think, “Maybe if I order that t-shirt then I’ll be the one who makes the men-folk go ‘hrmagjlwl;wmmq%#thhhhh,’” but I tell you these poses are ridiculous.

Allow me to demonstrate, and I promise I’m not just trying to attract the male readership of the interworld.

This one says to me, “This shirt is just too great a burden for me to carry. Perhaps if I stretch it forward like this and stick my butt out like this, then maybe I’ll get the relief I need from the pressures of this life. Sighhhhhhhh.”

Then there’s this one:

I like to call this one, “I am way too smart for college,” or alternatively, “College is for pillow fights!”

Here’s one that my housemates and I discovered in college. We all called her The Woman of One Expression, and we found her when we thought they had accidentally put the same picture twice in the catalog. We kept flipping back and forth between two pictures, saying, "Did they photoshop a different color bra on her?" After a thorough search of the rest of the catalog, we discovered that they were all different pictures, just the same expression. She looks perpetually pissed, but she’s not quite sure why she feels that way. Here follows a rapid fire of W.O.E.

When she turns her head to the side, she really displays her versatility. Now, obviously this woman knows what she’s doing, and I have it from reliable sources that many men would murder and maim for her. I’m just saying this: she could learn a thing or two from this one.

Good heavens, why do I do this to myself?

Baby's First Guest Post

2008-08-11T12:00:00.000-04:00

Wow! I'm really excited about the first guest post on my blog. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Or maybe that's an arctic gnome having a camp-out in my gall bladder (see also this.) In any case, I'm excited to host Boyfriend's piece on why you, yes you, should read Harry Potter. He wrote this years ago as a Myspace blog but has since revised it to include the last few books of the series. Points to note:

There are no spoilers here. Read freely.
If you're not used to the cocky tone of Boyfriend's, Dr. Pfil's, and Dr. Pfil's brother's arguments, then here is the perfect introduction. Don't you dare be offended. It's a sparring gesture, the first step in the dance of debate where they invite you to tango. Getting offended merely clouds your judgment and makes it harder for you to make an intelligent, logical reply - which is entirely the point and purpose.
This particular piece does not touch on religious reasons to engage in or abstain from Potter, although that's a separate argument that I'd actually like to have. Boyfriend and I are both Christians, and we both argue for the books. In his post, Boyfriend touches on postmodern morality, but neither Boyfriend nor I would call ourselves postmodern. As Gen Y-ers, we can't pretend we aren't affected by postmodern thought - we've been culturally steeped in it since birth - but we believe in definite truth and we downright scoff at, "Well that's what you believe and that's great for you but I believe this and it's true for me and let's all pick flowers and draw puppies and eat rainbows." What I'm trying to say is this: speak freely on this topic. We'd love to debate it.
To make my one argument for why you should read Potter, I say only this: Linda Pickerill LOVES them. Hear that, Mom?
Warning: this post is looooooonnnngggggg, but fun.

Why You, Yes You, Should Read Harry Potter

This is not a book review of Harry Potter, nor will I discuss in any details any plot points or facts about the stories. This is an argumentative piece on why you...yes, you, should read Harry Potter, the best-selling book series by J.K. Rowling. (Though I may mention the movies at some time in this article, this piece is about the books and the books alone.)

Let me start out by telling you how I see Harry Potter. The Potter series has been a shockingly profound and insightful view of the pressures and pains of coming of age. It has been an emotional roller coaster dealing with morality, spirituality, philosophy, physicality, and anything else you can stick a "y" on the end of. It has been an intricate story of a wide cast of characters, meticulously thought out from the profoundest event from one's past to the slight twitch of anticipation a character may give away during a critical scene. In Harry Potter, the lines between good and evil have been laid bare, blurred, erased, and laid bare again. (Ever heard the phrase: “You think you know, but you have no idea?”) And even when you do know, Rowling’s sense of morality, though hyperbolic at points, does not patronize and is refreshingly left up to you, oh future reader. (Some will call this “post-modern,” but the self-aware and non-self-righteous will call it “real.”) But mostly and above all, Harry Potter is an outright thrilling (and let me repeat, thrilling), suspenseful, funny, endearing, and enjoyable adventure, covering almost any and every reason anyone would ever pick up a book.

I myself was skeptical before starting. Having finished the first book, The Sorcerer's Stone, I was pleased though not blown away. Do not misunderstand me, this is a very well-written, enjoyable book, but do not judge the series by it alone. What is in store in the coming books is more than a little bigger and better than this modest, concise initial offering. Upon completion I was eager to read the second book, The Chamber of Secrets. By the time I had read two chapters of this I was hooked and bought the third book, The Prisoner of Azkaban, the very night I had finished. I have spoken with others who, while thoroughly enjoying the first two installments, did not fall head over heels for these books until the third. Like I said, I was hooked early into the second book, but I can at least understand where they are coming from. However, one thing is certain: once you move into the third book and beyond into The Goblet of Fire, The Order of the Phoenix, The Half Blood Prince, and finally into The Deathly Hallows, a tale so immersive and well thought out is being so woven, literally, woven together, that you will understand why Rowling has boxes and boxes of background stories for each character written, most of which will never even make it into the books. Not only do the books take a darker, more mature tone with each installment, but the smallest details that you thought inconsequential from past books begin to resurface and reveal themselves to have been clues and foreshadowing in hiding all along. Potter may or may not be a children’s story once it is all said and done (that is your opinion), but it is surely more than just a children’s story; it is an epic. The character development in these books is literally second to none that I have ever come across. I am not claiming to be an intensely well-read man, but having read classics like the Lord of the Rings (my favorite book of all time) and The Chronicles of Narnia, along with a lot of other genres spanning from recent times to poems of Dante and Homer, I can still say this with confidence: if there is one thing Rowling does better than or as well as anyone, it is character development. You will become attached to these characters. You will love some, you will hate some, and surely, you will always want to read on to the next chapter to see what happens to them. Get used to this sentence, because history will come to embrace it: “Oh you know, you’ve got Holden Caulfield, Tom Joad, Samwise Gamgee, Odysseus, and Harry Potter.”

Now, I address those of you who think (incorrectly) that Harry Potter is not for you. You may think that you are above Harry Potter and your reading tastes are too good for something so childish and terribly "popular." It’s true, Potter does not possess the prose of a Steinbeck novel, but please hear me, prose is but one, less important factor in great writing. Do not get me wrong, healthy and intellectual prose should not be overlooked; it should be praised and enjoyed as it is another avenue toward enlightenment. But there are other ways of telling a story, and believe me, Rowling’s prose is nothing to be scoffed at. The simpler style she pursues is not just passable because her story is so good; it works better for this kind of writing. To call her less-complex writing style a sacrifice would be a grievous error and would prove that the criticizer had wholly missed the point.

For those of you who feel that you are above the Harry Potter phenomenon because it is so popular and common, if you would get off of your high horse for a moment, you will see that, just because something is popular that does not necessarily mean it is watered down, easily accessible, mindless tripe. Admittedly, often that does turn out to be the case with popular art, but please realize that art sucking is what makes it suck. Being popular is an effect, not a cause. But those of you who are too self-important to see that the Beatles, The Lord of the Rings, Nirvana, Casablanca, and The Divine Comedy (to name a few) are some of the most popular works of art or artists of all time, must be so caught up in your quest not to be trendy that you don't see how trendy your very attitude is. The real thinkers will always be those who decide for themselves what is great and what is not.

Now for those of you who say, "Well I'm just not a reader," to you I say, "Well now you are." These books have somehow found a way to be completely accessible (see the discussion on prose above) and enjoyable, while remaining well-written and extremely thoughtful. Forget how you feel about reading. If you like stories, if you like fun, if you like sunny days, warm breezes, puppies, or ice-cream, then so help me you are human and will be compelled and entertained by the Potter epic. I almost guarantee that you will thank me if you finally decide to crack these books open.

To further my point to all parties, here are some of the people that I know personally who, like myself, love the Harry Potter series: an engineer, a psychology major, another engineer pursuing a Ph.D., a degree holder in philosophy and Ph.D. holder in interplay between theology and the arts, a philosophy professor at Kings College in PA, an English major, a foreign policy major, a singer/songwriter pursuing an M.D., an office manager, a legal secretary, a communications expert, a half-Asian, a firefighter, a preacher, a future supreme dictator of the world, and of course, me. These are only a few of the people I know personally who love these books. Believe me when I say that some of these people are very, very intelligent, well-read, and cultured to what I'm sure would meet even the highest of an elitist's standards. And I have never, ever met anyone who read these books and did not love them. I'm sure these people exist…I guess. I think one guy once said they weren't good in some stupid book review, but let me assure you, this man is an imbecile and an ass.

J.K Rowling has sold millions upon millions of books, and millions upon millions of people can't be wrong, am I right? No, I am not. Millions of people can be wrong; just look at the Left Behind series or Nickelback. But I'll tell you this, the millions upon millions of Potter readers are not wrong. If you haven't seen the movies, consider yourself lucky. (They're not bad, actually. Three and four are really good and are worth watching AFTER reading the books.) But you still have the opportunity to take Harry Potter as a completely new experience; this is truly a great thing - take advantage of it. For those of you who have seen the movies and enjoyed them, READ THEM ANYWAY. The movies don't even begin to cover as much as the books, meaning there is an astounding level, not only of detail, but also of main story that you had no idea even exists. To those of you who saw one or more of the movies and didn't like them, READ THEM ANYWAY. I didn't care much for the first two films, but really liked the third, fourth and fifth. However, to put it simply, the books put the movies to absolute shame.

Some things are not for everybody. Pulp Fiction, for example, is brilliant, devious, disgusting, and beautiful, though some will flat out hate it for its over-the-top crudeness and vibrantly unique (and therefore hard to get used to) style. Coldplay, while catchy, and generally well thought out in their progressions and compositions, may be too soft or easy to swallow for the tastes of some looking for more groundbreaking or edgy themes. The Harry Potter series, however, is funny, heartbreaking, intense, exciting, lighthearted, extremely dark, profound, fun, heavy, light, and everything in between. And somehow, it does them all right - very, very right. If you do the right thing and take my advice, you won’t just read about Hogwarts, you will go to Hogwarts. You will spend time in its massive, enchanted walls. You will spend time with its students and teachers. The idea that something beyond our day-to-day reality could exist will not be a fantasy; it will be true. If you haven't read the Potter series, do yourself a favor. Go, read them...Now.

Fair and Balanced

2008-08-08T16:29:00.005-04:00

Due to Boyfriend's ~~excuses~~ protests, here is an assortment of pictures of Darth Pumpkin so you have a better idea of its coolness (or lack thereof).

Don't forget to check out the only picture necessary of Prince John and Sir Hiss below. Vote or die.

Pop Philosophy

2008-08-07T18:28:00.007-04:00

Today on I Have a Hat, we're going to talk about Dr. Pfil. No, that's not a typo. Dr. Pfil is the name I've decided to give Boyfriend's dad on this blog. I've chosen this name for him for several reasons.

I don't want to give his real name because, let's face it, the man has enemies. I don't particularly want said enemies to associate my name with his, so let's all become friends of anonymity.
He's a doctor, at least of philosophy (whatever that means), so "Dr." is appropriate.
He's my Prospective Father-In-Law, so Pfil is appropriate.
He shares a few characteristics with the real Dr. Phil:

They're both bald...ish.
When I think of them, I think of Mel Brooks' Roman character in History of the World Part 1. Brooks plays an unemployed stand-up philosopher who goes to the unemployment office to collect his check. His conversation with the clerk goes something like this:
Clerk: Occupation?
Brooks: Stand-up philosopher.
Clerk: What?
Brooks: Stand-up philosopher. I coalesce the vapors of human existence into a viable and meaningful comprehension.
Clerk: Oh, a bullshit artist!
Brooks: Hmmmmmm...
Clerk: Did you bullshit last week?
Brooks: No.
Clerk: Did you try to bullshit last week?
Brooks: Yes!
This is what goes through my head when the Dr. Ph(f)ils speak.

This is the last reason, and I think perhaps it's the most important and compelling: I think he'll get annoyed at being associated with Dr. Phil. Since Dr. Pfil's chief delight in life is raising my ire, I'm only too happy to return the favor. Ha!

So why is Boyfriend's father featured on I Have a Hat today? Because he's a character of characters, and given that he is guaranteed to pop up here from time to time when he annoys me, I think it only proper that he be given a fair and impartial introduction while my feelings waver in the realm of neutral toward ~~the big dumb jerk~~ him.

And okay, so he's got degrees from Yale and Princeton and Notre Dame, and so he's published all sorts of intellectual books, and so people pay him the big bucks just to hear him motivationally speak. So what? Most of the time, I'd pay him the big bucks just to get him to shut up. But I suppose he does ask me about my day every time I see him. And I suppose he fixes a mean cup of Assam whenever my day isn't going so hot. And I suppose he's endearing when he tears up the moment anyone starts singing "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. (That works without fail, by the way. Try it sometime.) And I guess you could describe him as generous and supportive and enthusiastic, and you could even say he raised one helluva son.

I still contend that he leaves his kitchen cabinet doors open all the time on purpose, just because he knows I can't stand that. He also purposely pushes my buttons whenever he senses an opportunity. In the end, I know only this: Dr. Pfil is as provoking as he could possibly be.

But I love him...the big dumb jerk.

Synesthe-what?

2008-08-06T17:47:00.003-04:00

Boyfriend has a quirk.

Correction: Boyfriend has several quirks

He constantly sings about Bilbo Baggins from the Shire. Pick any tune, any tune in existence, and I guarantee he’s sung it, replacing the real words with, “Bilbo Baggins was a hobbit. He was from the Shire.” Sometimes he adds on a “Today” at the end.
Every time he belches, he either burps the words “weep” or “Geoffrey Chaucer.”
Sometimes he gets so excited about Notre Dame Football that his hands go numb. His hands go numb. And then we laugh at him because he can no longer work the remote. He also used to quit kissing me so he could talk about recruiting and stats, a habit of his that I quickly squashed, but I consider that less a quirk and more a failing of his gender in general. He might retort that my hysterical breakdowns that mysteriously occur every four weeks are a failing of my gender in general, and I would have to grant him that point. But I digress.

These three are mere samples of his quirks, to which all his friends can attest. And I love him for them. I really do. If he were any less eccentric or spastic I’d be bored out of my mind. Today’s post isn’t about those idiosyncrasies, however. Today’s post is about the strangest of all his quirks: synesthesia. Synesthesia is a real condition, and he’s got it. Specifically, he has lexical-gustatory synesthesia. Thankfully, this isn’t one of those conditions where your skin flakes off and you think you’re a raccoon. Simply put, synesthesia means your senses kind of crisscross. Commonly, synesthetes associate musical notes with colors, or letters and numbers with personalities. Think Remy in Ratatouille. When he tastes food, he sees colors and shapes. When I was taking piano pedagogy, one of our students called out colors as he heard chords.

“That’s green! Do you see it? That chord is green,” he said.

The mark of a true synesthete is that the the associations remain consistent throughout time. If the number "4" is jealous and smug, then the number "4" will still be jealous and smug two years from now. Boyfriend’s particular brand of synesthesia causes him to associate all words with tastes, and he's had this ability for as long as he can remember. Every word has a taste. Can you imagine that? Some words are bland. “John,” for example, is the taste of a wet washcloth if you were to suck on one. “Brad” is brownies. “Emily” is strawberry kool-aid. “Audra,” unfortunately, is the taste of vomit. But it’s not just names - this goes for all words.

He explained synesthesia to one of his psych classes one day, and they all started throwing out words. One girl asked him what “sex” was. Unfortunately, she didn’t live through the end of her sentence, so I guess we’ll never know the answer. At least, that's my version of the story.

His synesthesia influences other areas of his life, as well. I’m convinced that the strong senses he was born with cause him to appreciate art and beauty (and food) more than most. It’s probably had a hand in his creativity, too. That’s why he loves Ratatouille so much – it’s a celebration of beauty in what could otherwise be ordinary, imaginative care in what could easily be mundane. When I look at Boyfriend, the creator in him reflects the Creator in him, and that’s quite a sight to see. If the Lord of all the earth saw fit to put a few million unnecessary, but pleasant, touches on His work, then I can take special care and pride in the finishing touches of my own work. To remind us of that principle, I gave Boyfriend Ratatouille for Christmas last year (well, that and a bright red union suit with a drop seat).

Green Thumbprint

2008-08-05T17:34:00.024-04:00

I have killed two spider plants. I'll allow that to digest for just one moment.

I can blame both deaths on cats, on neglect, on hyper-attention, and on a combination of all three. Both spider plants were shoots from my sister's plant, which, in turn, was a shoot from my grandmother's plant, and my sister, my mom, and my grandma have all managed to grow beautiful plants from that original. You see, my first one was doing...ok...until a cat decided to munch on it. Then it was doing not so ok. And then it shriveled up and surrendered its spirit. I might have also, ahem, overwatered it a bit.

The second plant started with such promise. My sister gave it to me last Christmas, another shoot from the daughter plant of my grandmother's plant (you follow?), and my sister even presented it to me in its own beautiful blue pot. My former failure of a plant was in a little tupperware-ish ice cream container. The new spider plant was just splendid for several months. I took it in and out of sunlight, I fed it Miracle Gro-enriched distilled water on a careful schedule, and I checked on it daily just to ask it how its day had gone. I loved it, and it tolerated me. Then one day, the cat, a different cat in a different house from before, ate it. Pete just chewed it down to nubs. I considered chewing Pete down to nubs, but decided against it at the last moment. He has fleas, after all.

Emotionally destroyed, I vowed to never grow (<-- split infinitive) a plant again (read "a-gane"). When I recovered from my grief a few weeks later, I thought to myself, "Perhaps I was a bit hasty about swearing off the gardening forever. I still have the pot, after all. I'll make a fresh start. I shall overcome this. I shall!"

A few days later, one of my housemates accidentally knocked a full-sized stage sword onto the pot, smashing Old Blue to bits. I took it as a sign from Heaven and gave up on spider plants, at least for now. I don't have a green thumb - I admit it. I may never successfully grow anything for the rest of my life. Heaven help my children, should they ever actually exist.

So now I see my sister and my mom's pictures of lush plants on their blogs. They play the gardening game with each other, and I just kind of stand on the sidelines, the klutzy kid with the inhaler and the head gear whose only participation points come from shaking hands and calling, "Good game," after the final whistle.

Until now.

A miracle, ladies and gentlemen. A miracle. Technically, it's not my miracle, but I'm going to claim it for myself anyway. You see, last October, Boyfriend and I went to a local orchard to gather pumpkins for Halloween. Here we are being happy and pumpkiny.

We then carved said pumpkins. Mine was Prince John and Sir Hiss. Boyfriend's was Darth Vader (of course). Which do you prefer? Hint: if you vote for mine I'll like you better.

The pumpkins had their heyday on Halloween, and then the candy was gone, the kids assumed their normal identities, and those mysterious costume stores that always spring up every September went away to whatever mysterious costume store land they go to for the rest of the year. Boyfriend and I left the pumpkins in Boyfriend's front yard, even though it was traditional pumpkin smashing time. We did this not out of compassion for the forsaken squash, but out of pure laziness. Pure. Laziness.

And thanks to our total irresponsibility, Boyfriend now has this in his otherwise barren front yard.

That's right. I have a garden. Ok, so technically it's from Boyfriend's pumpkin and it's in Boyfriend's front yard, but I'm claiming this victory for myself anyway. I was there for the whole pumpkin choosing, carving, and neglecting time. It's redemption, and it's sweet. Now Erin, how's abouts another spider plant?

Tacos Tonight

2008-08-04T12:00:00.001-04:00

This is an old post that I'm recycling for a backwards Works-for-Me-Wednesday hosted by Shannon over at Rocks in My Dryer. Since I have little shame or tact, I offer this dilemma to you, the Rocks in My Dryer world. Please, please help me. This is no way to live.

You know that incredible feeling when you get home from work after a long, hectic day, you walk through the door, and there's the man you love, waiting to receive you with open arms? You throw your arms around his neck and look deep into his mind-bogglingly blue eyes as he whispers those three little words, "Eww. Taco meat." Yep, taco meat.

You see, if you're like me, then your boyfriend has strong smell-to-taste connections (which I'll blog about in more detail at a later time), so he always associates body odor with taco (or chili) meat. If you've never noticed the similarity between the odor and the delicious Mexican dish, then pay close attention the next time a hippie cyclist pedals by. Two-bits says you'll have an uncontrollable and unexplainable craving for enchiladas that night. Boyfriend has no trouble telling me about my special scent. He doesn't find it awkward or unromantic; it's simply fact. He usually precedes it by, "I have a secret." "I have a secret" has never brought me anything good. It's never, "I have a secret. I'm so in love with you that if we were separated for any reason I'd cast myself into the sea and pray for the Lord to take me quickly to stop the pain of being parted from you." No, no. It's, "I have a secret. You need a breath mint," or "I have a secret. Something green is stuck between your two front teeth."

If you don't have a boyfriend of many secrets like me, then do you at least have uncontrollable underarms like mine that stubbornly defy every solution presented by life, the universe, and everything? I've tried everything to help my little "problem." I pick out a new deodorant every single time I go to the store. No, really. I've tried gels, solids, invisible solids, invisible invisibles, sprays, sports, powder freshes, tropical paradises, men's, women's, strong-enough-for-men-but-made-for-women's, clinical strengths, and other kinds of clinical strengths. I've tried natural solutions: anti-bacterial soap coupled with bacteria-fighting deodorant crystals, all-natural, non-aluminum anti-perspirant coupled with all-natural spray of sage, lemon, and chamomile. A word of warning: "all-natural solutions" is an oxymoron.

The only thing that's really worked so far is washing myself three times a day and keeping a 4-foot bubble between myself and others at all times. I can also pin my arms at my sides, but that just exacerbates the problem by making everything swampy. Too gross? Too much? Well I think so too. I welcome any and all suggestions, but be warned, I think I've tried everything. I'm considering a move to China, because they're much more relaxed about it over there. "B.O.? Hey, me too! Come on over." So that's a possibility for the future.

In the meantime, I'm getting used to the words "taco meat." Makes you look at this picture a little differently, doesn't it?

Testing, testing

2008-08-01T15:17:00.001-04:00

Ahem, is this thing on? Hello? Hello?

Hi, folks! ~~I've decided it's about time I joined all you freaks out there in internet-land and~~

Hi, folks! ~~After years and years of stalking your every move from my dimly-lit home office, I decided to~~

Hi, folks! ~~I wish you'd all quit hassling me about starting a blog, you no good, pea brained, lowlife,~~

Hi, folks! I started a blog.