Nice Hair

So here’s how it all went down.

I was at the chiropractor, getting adjusted. For those of you whose insurance plans don’t rock your faces off and therefore might not be familiar with getting adjusted, just know that it involves lying on your stomach on a padded bench with your face shoved into a piece of butcher paper that’s been draped over what is best described as a padded toilet seat cover and that no matter what you do, when you get up, you will look like you’ve been ugly-face-crying.

When I was done, I stood up and quickly beat my hair back behind my shoulders. Before I could make it around the corner to commence damage control on the mascara blobs that had taken up residence on my cheeks and forehead, the lady at the next adjustment table smiled at me and said, “Nice hair.” I said, “Thanks,” and then disappeared around the corner without really thinking, because I was focused on the task at hand.

But once my face started looking a little more like a face and a little less like a Rorschach test, I really started to wonder...was that lady making fun of me?

I’d like you all to do me a favor. Flip your head over forward so all your hair hangs down to the floor. Now flip it back. It probably looks like crap now, doesn’t it? No? Well good for you. I guess you’re too suave and good looking to be my friend. The thing is, my hair would look like crap if I did that, especially if it was curly, which it was that day.

Here’s the deal: I’m lazy. (Pretending to be shocked isn’t gonna earn you any brownie points. I’m not actually sitting there with you. You know what would earn you some brownie points though? Brownies.) So on those days when I know I absolutely must wash my hair because it’s been three days since my last shower, if it’s a choice between sleep and having enough time to blow dry and straighten my hair, sleep is gonna win out every single time. Every. Single. Time. So yesterday, like most days of its kind, I spritzed some good-smelling sticky crap all over my wet hair and called it done. It's sloppy and it never looks quite as good as straight hair, but I got married for a reason! I don't need to impress you people!

I have half a mind to call my chiropractor’s office and find out who that “lady” (I wanna see some finger quotes here, people) was so I could show up at her next appointment, find out whether or not she was making fun of me, and then do one of two things.

1) If she was not making fun of me, I’ll present her with the cookies I will have prepared beforehand in case I should find myself in just such an awkward misunderstanding as this.

2) If she was making fun of me, I’ll kick things off (pun intended) with a roundhouse kick to the neck, effectively cancelling out all the corrective chiropractic care she’s undergone in the past few months, and then end by informing her that the dude who was waiting for her in the lobby the other day (I assume her boyfriend) asked me if I’d “care to join him in having a juice box,” because THAT HAPPENED. That’s right! Your skeezy excuse for a boyfriend hit on a married lady! WITH A JUICE BOX! Not only is he an unfaithful homewrecker; he’s also dumb as a brick. Congratulations! You made fun of my hair and I will see to it that you pay for it for the rest of your life!!! THE REST OF YOUR LIIIIIIIFE!!!!!! MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

UPDATE: Apparently they’re not “allowed” to give out patients’ personal information because that would be “against the law” thanks to a little thing called “HIPAA”...so I guess this is all a nonissue. Guess I'll just have to kick someone else.

I Want Candy. No, Seriously, Do You Have Some?

I’m having one of those days where all I want to do is eat candy. I’m pretty sure I could eat candy all day and I’d still want more candy.

Since lunch I’ve had a cookie, a blue raspberry airhead and a generous handful of peanut m&ms.

It’s been 20 minutes since lunch.

Now I’m on the hunt for more candy.

I’d settle for a soda or some other kind of sugary drink, ’cause that’s kinda like liquid candy.

I’ve got the shakes and my stomach feels funny...but I’m pretty sure if I can get my hands on some candy I’ll feel better.

----------------------------------

Elapsed time: 30 minutes

----------------------------------

I’m crashing. I’m crashing hard.

Somebody get me a fluffy pillow, STAT!

Stat means now.

Everything seems so much darker now that the candy is gone...I’m having trouble keeping my head up...my coworkers are starting to notice...it feels like all my blood’s been transformed into a warm, sleepy liquid...

How could you do this to me, Candy? I thought we were buds...I know I chewed you up but I thought I was just helping you fulfill your brightly colored destiny...I never suspected you'd be back to exact your revenge on my nervous system...

ERROR: TOTAL SYSTEM FAILURE. YOU HAVE EXCEEDED YOUR CAPACITY TO PROCESS SUGAR AND/OR THOUGHT.

Bad at High Fives

I’ve been thinking lately about how I might be giving people the false impression that I am good at everything. (Oh, you hadn’t gotten that impression? Consider yourself de-friended, on Facebook as well as real life.) But don’t worry, regular people, there is at least one thing that I totally suck at, and that thing is high fives. Other things I’m not good at include being dumb and getting people to stop liking me. (I almost typed licking instead of liking...as to that, I really can’t say, as the issue has ever come up.)

Oh and don’t even get me started on handshakes. I was given the nickname “Short-Shake” early in life, and it’s taken me years of practice to redeem myself. Now I approach every handshake with vigor and ferocity. I like people to feel like they’ve gotten their hand stuck in a particularly strong set of crab crackers.

I don’t really understand why I have so much trouble with high fives. The concept seems pretty rudimentary...slap the fatty part of your hand against the fatty part of somebody else’s hand, and BAM! You’ve physically expressed congratulations and/or success, and made a really cool noise in the process. But somehow when I try it, the only thing I manage to express is that I suck at life. Thank goodness handshakes, not high fives, are the professional way to end an interview, or else I’m pretty sure I’d be screwed for eternity (and by screwed I mean unemployed, and by unemployed I mean homeless, because Gary don’t want no scrubs, and by scrubs I mean jobless squatters eating his groceries and sleeping under his roof.)

“Well I was gonna hire her, but then I saw her biff that high five on the way out, and well...”

The fatty part of my hand is actually a little overdeveloped, which you would think would give me an edge in the hand-slapping department. Fact: The pads of my thumbs are so prominent that I am physically incapable of forming a “b” in sign language with either hand. But apparently bulging thumb pads are no match for a complete lack of coordination and aim.

A well-meaning coworker recently gave me a piece of advice. He said if you look at the other person’s elbow while you’re going for the high five, you’ll never miss unless you’re some new kind of uncoordinated mutant subspecies, because even the least developed human brains should be able to successfully navigate something as basic as a high five.

Well somebody call Science, ‘cause it looks like we’ve got a new kind of uncoordinated mutant subspecies on our hands! I tried to put his advice into practice earlier today and ended up smacking Sarah in the forehead, knocking her unconscious. Don’t believe me? Go check her cube. I just left her on the floor in there ‘cause I didn’t know what else to do with her and my fifteen minute break was almost over.

Cats Are...People Too?

I just finished Mockingjay and I can’t talk about it because I want to tell you everything.

Instead, here are a couple of things that both fascinate and terrify me.

1. Cat Appetizers

I ask you, who on EARTH is buying this stuff?

Every cat I’ve ever met was morbidly obese, and if it wasn’t, it was only because it had contracted some sort of parasite that was hogging all its nutrients. But you know what would be a good idea? Feeding them more.

Now let’s hear from one of our many satisfied customers.

“Three meals a day, well...that just wasn’t cutting it for my little poopsie woopsie. She is a fine feline specimen who exudes elegance and perfection. She deserves the best this world has to offer, and until they come up with a way for cats to shoot laser beams out of their eyes that would kill on contact, thereby finally allowing cats to carry out all their evil cat agendas in a timely and efficient manner, the best this world has to offer is appetizers for cats. I don’t mind the fact that feeding her these extra “mini-meals” guarantees she’ll be vomiting all over my carpet on a more frequent basis; in fact, I’m happy to oblige. Maybe if I continue to pamper her beyond recognition, someday she’ll deign to squeeze a few seconds’ genuine affection into her busy schedule of alternately ignoring me and scratching my face.”

2. This commercial, which doesn't seem to fit on my blog very well, but right now my brain hurts and I just don't care.




Hang on...were those dancing turkeys?
 
I don’t even know how to respond to either of these, but this lady sure did. Way to go, cat food manufacturers. You caused this.

All the Time

Last night we went to Frankie’s, just like we do every Tuesday night. Our friend Lisa is in from Virginia, and she was nice enough to drive us. Gary and I were in the backseat and Sarah was riding shotgun. On the way there, we were on the topic of TV shows we used to watch when we were kids, and Sarah and I were talking about how we didn’t have cable growing up, but whenever we went to our Grandma’s house we would always watch Eureka’s Castle. I mentioned that when I tried to watch it a few years later and found two clay worms “talking” to each other by emitting a series of unintelligible noises for several minutes, it caused me to wonder “what the hell was going on with this show”.

A moment later, I heard Lisa say, “God is good, all the time,” before continuing the conversation with Sarah as if nothing had happened.

I froze in the backseat. Oh my gosh, had I offended her?

Think, Emily! Have you ever heard Lisa cuss? NO! YOU HAVEN’T! Shhhhhh....OOT! Oh, way to go, cuss some more! That’ll help. I wonder if saying that whenever she hears a cuss word is her way of keeping negativity out and reminding herself that although her friends may be heathens, she is still going to heaven, and she is not taking any dirty cuss words with her. She must think I’m such a bad person.

This cycle of shame and regret continued for a couple more blocks, until I finally worked up the courage to lift my head so I could see whether or not she was giving me the stink eye in the rear view mirror. She wasn’t!

I should have known Lisa would never judge me! She’s my friend! She’s a nice person! Maybe she used to have a problem with cussing too, so now she just says that to keep herself from slipping back into the habit.

I was starting to feel a little less guilty when I saw the bumper sticker on the car in front of us.

GOD IS GOOD, ALL THE TIME.

As it all came together and I realized that Lisa had just been reading the bumper sticker aloud and therefore did NOT have a tic that caused her to break into praise songs every time she found herself within earshot of a curse word, I made a mental note to Google the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia when I got home.

Nobody Talk to Me

In a few hours, Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins will be mine (you may relive my obsession with this trilogy here) and after that I will be physically and emotionally unavailable for approximately 72 hours.

Seriously, don’t try to talk to me, especially if you read faster than me (Leah) because I’m a wiz at interpreting facial expressions, even if you’re trying to hide what you’re really thinking. If you smile, I’ll assume everyone dies. If you don’t smile, I’ll assume everyone dies.

Due to circumstances beyond my control, the emotional unavailability has started a little early, so here’s a link to a blog that describes my mood today.

**WARNING: This blog is much funnier than mine and might make you want to stop reading my stupid, non-funny blog and exclusively start reading this hilarious and interesting one instead. If you have disloyal tendencies, do us both a favor and don’t read it, because while this chick already has thousands of followers and probably won’t even notice if she gets one more, I can’t afford to lose one of the measly twenty I’ve accumulated. I’m very protective of my followers and will not allow any of them to wander.

**ANOTHER WARNING: This blog has lots of cussing in it, and I’m not talking about soft cussing like heck and darn. I’m talking about hard core sugar-honey-iced-tea and f-bomb dropping. I don’t use those words in my blog because I might get fired I don’t cuss ever because I’m a good person, but I also don't fault others for using them in a hilarious manner.

You’ve been warned. Click here only if you’re prepared to be hunted down and cussed at by me should you decide to desert me for this blog.


**SHOUT OUT: Thanks/no thanks to E. Bailey Sterling for turning me on to the funniest blog ever/reason I’ve decided to stop trying at life because I see now that someone is always better than me at everything.

Well Adjusted

I can’t afford this. I can’t afford this. I can’t afford this.

This was the constant stream of thought running through my brain last Wednesday afternoon as I found myself standing in a chiropractor’s office for the first time in my life. At the time, I didn’t really know much about what they did in there (I do now...boy do I know now) but I’d heard whispers that they might be able to make me feel like less of a geriatric, so I figured I’d give it a shot.

I walked in and then immediately turned to walk back out, but Sarah was blocking my path to the exit.

E: We’ve gotta get out of here.
S: Why?
E: I can’t afford this.
S: Our insurance covers it, it’s fine.
E: There’s stone tile everywhere, the entire back wall is a waterfall, and I’m pretty sure I just saw a glass-fronted mini fridge full of refreshing beverages.
S: Did you see any tranquilizers?
E: What??? Why would they have tranquilizers???
S: Because if you don’t calm down, you’re going to have an aneurysm.

Our conversation came to an abrupt halt when a waifish supermodel approached us to ask how she could help us. I just stood there staring at her for a second as all my worst fears seemed to materialize in front of me.

They are totally going to make me go on a diet.

I’d had some suspicions along these lines while I was filling out the paperwork they’d given me, because they kept using phrases like “optimal wellness” and “total body health”. Let’s get one thing straight here: I know I could stand to lose a few pounds, and I really do have plans to do so, but I’m pretty sure if someone told me that to my face I might have a mental breakdown – especially if that someone looked like Gisele, but with a better nose.

I resigned myself to my fate and followed her into the exam room.

So she’ll tell me I’m fat and I’ll cry in front of a beautiful stranger, big deal. I’m sure worse things will happen to me in my lifetime.

She spent about thirty minutes explaining what subluxation is, then told us she was going to take a series of $79 x-rays.

Seventy nine dollars?!?!? I KNEW I shouldn’t have accepted that juice box in the lobby! And now I’m stuck in this little room with no hope of escaping. I wonder if I could take this chick in a fight...doubtful, since I’ve never been in a fight in my life, plus she looks like she works out. A lot. Wait a second, what did she just say? Our insurance covers x-rays too? So it’s only gonna cost me $7.50? Well this is embarrassing...I wish I wasn’t holding my keys in such a threatening manner....maybe I would benefit from a sedative.

Once I stopped mentally hyperventilating, I was able to make it through the x-ray process with a reasonable amount of dignity. The chiropractor came in after a while and told me I carry fifteen more pounds on my right side than my left, and that my ears, shoulders and hips were all slightly higher on the left side (that second part really isn’t much of a surprise if you’re familiar with the concept of gravity.) I stood there and waited for him to deliver the death blow and tell me all my problems stem from the fact that I have the body composition of a walrus, but he never did. In fact, neither of them ever mentioned my weight at all. Sure, they clued me in on the fact that I’m a big ol’ lopsided awkmonster, but a fatty? No sir.

This morning I went back for my first adjustment, and things went a lot more smoothly for me this time around. Gisele told me I looked cute, I didn’t worry about money because I know we have at least $7.50 in our account, and the adjustment was not the painfest I had anticipated; in fact, you could almost say it was enjoyable. I walked out of that office a little taller, a little prouder, and just a little less disfigured.

Makin' You Feel the Rhythm Is His Occupation.

I don't want to alarm anybody...but I think I might be married to Mark Wahlberg.

Allow me to present you with the evidence that has led me to this conclusion.

Exhibit A: The entire movie Invincible

A1) Gary played football in high school; so did Mark Wahlberg's character in Invincible.

A2) Gary has a tendency to break stuff when he gets real angry; Mark Wahlberg's character smashes up his house when his wife leaves him. (Note: The major difference here is that Gary's wife would never leave him because she knows one day he'll make it big in the NFL become a helicopter pilot.)

A3) Just look at that hair.

Exhibit B: Squinty/Crazy Eyes

Gary and Mark (we're switching to first-name-basis mode to save time and energy) both have tiny eyeballs, meaning whenever they break out the crazy eyes, it just sort of looks like what everyone else's eyes look like every day. This is a deadly weapon, because it allows them to catch their enemies unaware before laying the smack down. So the next time you decide it's ok to let your guard down around a big dude with regular looking eyeballs... just don't say I didn't warn you.

Exhibit C: The Hulk

In the feature film The Other Guys, Will Ferrell's character references The Incredible Hulk when talking about Mark's character's fits of anger. Similarly, this kid I used to work with at Taco Delite frequently referred to Gary as "Bruce", as in Bruce Banner. Every time we worked together it was the same. "Hey Betty, how's Bruce?" This same kid also liked to call Sarah and me Mary-Kate and Ashley. After a while I started to wonder if he was just trying to mask the fact that he had a really hard time remembering names with humor. It's okay, buddy. There's help out there for people like you. 

Exhibit D: Rap Music

Ok, maybe Gary never had a burgeoning rap career that would later come back to haunt him when he attempted to emerge as a serious actor...but he did marry me. As you all know, I'm going places, and rap is the twin-engine jet airplane that's going to take me there. Why yes, I was referring to the Gulfstream G6. How very urban of you to notice!

I've laid out the facts. Now you be the judge: is my husband Mark Wahlberg? If he is, then he's got some serious 'splaining to do about those four kids he has with his other wife...and also about why we don't have a whole lot more money. 

I'm the Worst

Me: Ughhh I had SUCH a bad day at work today.

Gary: Oh, I’m so sorry sweetie. I didn’t have a great day either. This guy I work with always talks down to me and treats me like I’m stupid. At this point I’m essentially doing his job as well as my own while he just sits there and barks orders, even though he doesn't have any real authority over me. It’s a really terrible environment to work in. Also I moved about a thousand pounds of pipe today, so I’m really tired. But what happened to you?

Me: Um...nevermind.

Gary: No really, what happened?

Me: Well...they were giving out free ice cream and...all they had was chocolate and...I was really craving vanilla.

See, my job is kinda like sitting on a rainbow with cherubs singing over you as they rub your shoulders and then having an Alaskan Eskimo puppy pedal its little puppy bicycle over to tell you it looks like you’ve lost some weight...but somehow I still manage to forget how good I have it a lot of the time. Gary, on the other hand, does manual labor 50 hours a week for minimal pay with no vacation, no benefits, and an expiration date at the end of the summer. But don’t worry everyone! There is a glimmer of hope in the distance. Soon Gary will finish flight school, and after that his only job will be to be awesome full time, and by “awesome” I mean “a helicopter pilot”.

Well, I'm off to my company picnic. They're probably gonna do something horrible like make me play fun games and eat free food. My life is so hard.

Not Gonna Reach My Telephone

As many of you know, I answer phones for a living. Today I’d like to introduce you to my three favorite kinds of calls.

Favorite Call Number One: Silence...then, “Oh, whoops! I just put a potato chip in my mouth!”

Um...I’m pretty sure you called me. Do you understand how phone calls work?

Favorite Call Number Two: Angry Lady Who Just Wants to Yell at Someone

“Yes, I want my name taken off the mailing list RIGHT NOW.”

“Ok, what’s your name?”

“I’M NOT GIVING YOU ANY MORE PERSONAL INFORMATION. JUST TAKE MY NAME OFF THE ******* LIST!”

“Ma’am, if I’m going to take your name off the mailing list...I’m going to need to know your name.”

Favorite Call Number Three: Casual Cool Guy Who’s Toootally Not a Solicitor

(I’ve taken the liberty of color coding this one for ya. I’m in green, because green is good, and this guy is in red, just like the devil. The parts in italics represent the inner workings of my mind. You’re welcome.)

“Well hey there Emily, how are you doing on this blessed day?”

Oh, I get it...blessed, because we’re a Christian organization. You know that’s really not necessary...contrary to what you may have heard, we don’t actually use the word ‘blessed’ in every sentence.

“Pretty good, how are you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you Emily.”

I hate you already. Tell me what you want so I can deny you of it.

“Well Emily, I was wondering if Dennis was in.”

Oooh, wrong answer.

“Dennis?”

“Oh yes, Emily, you know, the president of your organization? We’re besties. I’m just calling to see how the old boy’s doing.”

Somebody’s pants are on fire. If you were really besties, you’d know the secret password, and that word is Denny. No one calls him Dennis.

“Oh, I’m sorry; we actually can’t transfer these types of calls to his office.”

“What types of calls, Emily?”

Seriously, stop saying my name. I know you’re trying to make me think you care, but all you’re really doing is making me want to punch your face.

“Solicitations.”

“Oh, Emily, this isn’t a solicitation; I just want to personally extend Dennis an invitation to a super exclusive event for CEOs and presidents of organizations such as yours.”

...at which you’ll discuss whatever product you’re selling.

“Ok well I can’t transfer solicitations or super special invitations.”

This is usually where the claws come out.

“WELL, EMILY, YOU’RE KIND OF A WORTHLESS B****. YOU CAN TAKE YOUR ****** AND SHOVE *** ****** ********* **** ***********.”

Honorable Mention: Guy Who Refuses to Leave A Voicemail and Just Keeps Calling Back and Asking if There's Anyone Else Who Can Help Him Because He Waited Until the Last Minute to Get His Volunteers Approved as Drivers and Is Now Having an "Emergency" Because They're Leaving for Camp in an Hour

Gold Digger

I was hoping it would never come to this, but it looks like I’m gonna have to get a gold tooth. I’ll never make it big if I don’t do everything I can to be exactly like Ke$ha.

Oh...except I don’t plan on brushing my teeth with a bottle of Jack. That’s just gross. Although...I imagine it probably does kill germs...but I don’t mess around when it comes to bad breath.

Plus I’m not a sloppy drunk. Or any other kind of drunk for that matter.

And I don’t find Zach Galifianakis all that attractive.

...also I don’t want to make it big.

I can remember a time when I thought I did want to be famous...but eventually I realized I’m just too lazy to get very far.

For example, I considered trying out for Glee earlier this year, but once I really started to think about what that would mean, I decided against it. Let’s get one thing straight: if I tried out, I’d make it. I mean come on, look at me. Right now I bet you’re thinking you’d like to hire me for that underdog high school show choir television program you’ve been working on, aren’t you? (Yeah, I’m talking to you, Kelley Dixon. Don’t act so surprised. Everyone knows you read this blog. Everyone.)

But when I think about flying to Hollywood to film, spending hours in the studio recording, trying to make small talk with people who are famous even though I’m already awkward enough with regular old non-famous people, never getting to see my dog...it all makes me feel kinda sleepy/nauseated. Mostly the dog part. My dog completes me. Lucky for me, he sheds a lot, so no matter where I go I always have a little piece of him with me. Actually, hundreds of little pieces.

I’m pretty sure I’d be excited for about a week, but after that, the celebreality would set in and I’d start to lose it. It would only be a matter of time before the angry mobs set up camp on my front lawn because I never have time to blog anymore and they’re all having withdrawals, and then before you know it those pictures of me during spirit week at the service center would surface, causing the media to question my sanity, which would send me into a spiral of anger and a quest for revenge, resulting in my arrest on grounds of having beaten a member of the paparazzi within inches of his life with the spiked heel of my favorite Louboutin shoe. My lawyers would get me a shortened sentence of course, because although I’ve only been on the show one week, I was an overnight sensation, but it'll be too late because by then I will have already lost the respect of all those youngsters out there who used to look up to me as a role model and fashion icon and, to be honest with you, I just don’t have the energy to deal with that kind of pressure.

I’d really prefer to stick to my regular routine of coming home, having dinner with Gary and Sarah, and then settling in for a fun-filled evening of watching Better Off Ted and wondering if people ever stop outside our house and try to figure out what we’re watching since our windows are always open and we keep the sound up really, really loud because I’m nearly deaf from all those years of driving around in my old Malibu with Rage Against the Machine blaring as high as it would go.

Also, some day I really want to have a kid so I can stick him in a corner and make him memorize poetry,  and how on earth will I find the time if I’m constantly flitting off to awards shows and filing slander lawsuits against Star magazine? I won't. So for the sake of little Tom Sawyer Gray, I think I'll just stay a regular kid for the rest of my life.

Goodwill Hunting

It’s that time of year again when we all get to come to work dressed like complete idiots. That’s right; it’s spirit week!

When I made the decision to go balls out* last year, I had no idea I’d be setting a standard for myself that would be darn near impossible to sustain. Last year’s themes were easy enough: country day, 80’s day, sports team day, etc. But this year’s a whole new ballgame. 70’s wasn’t too much of a challenge, but sailing? I’m pretty sure we all live in the middle of the country. And don’t even get me started on Friday’s theme – 1940’s, but casual because we’ll be outside. Any ideas? Anyone? Yeah, me neither.

What do you do when you have no appropriate clothing for any of next week’s spirit days? You hit up Goodwill, of course! I went with my mom once when I was about 12 years old so she could buy some clothes for these little fake trick-or-treaters she was making as a Halloween decoration. I remember feeling absolutely guilt-ridden because I thought only the needy were supposed to shop there, and there we were, comfortably middle class and taking advantage of their precious resources. You’ll all be happy to hear that as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become slightly less of an idiot.

I’ve never been much of a “thrifter”, mostly because I can’t handle the chaos. Out of necessity, I’ve started shopping for work clothes at Ross and TJ Maxx, but this is a very recent development that still requires a good deal of determination and resolve. It’s like I walk in, see all those clothes haphazardly jumbled together, and my brain explodes on contact. Then when I open my wallet and a cartoon moth flies out, I remember I have no other options.

Although I’ve never bought real clothes at a thrift store, I’m not above shopping there for other things, like clothes for a costume or my kitchen table ($8 dollars at the ARC). You just can’t beat their prices when you’re looking for an outfit you know you’ll never, ever, ever wear again. I managed to find a dress I thought was perfect for 70’s day – a dark red v-neck with a collar and blue paisleys all over it. It looked like something the mom from That 70’s Show would have worn...and that’s pretty much my only frame of reference. Apparently, even though I hot-rolled and attempted to feather my hair, my costume didn’t quite translate. Here are a few of my favorite reactions:

“Oh you look like you’re about fourteen!”

“You look like you just stepped off the set of Little House on the Prairie!”

“I don’t remember wearing anything like that in the 70’s.”

Well, guess what everybody! I wasn’t alive in the 70’s, so how about you all just cut me a little slack. I'd also like to take this opportunity to point out that none of those three people even bothered to dress up.

My plan for sailing day is to just look as much like a toolbag as I can manage. Maybe pop my collar a little and just generally try to look like a snob.

And I did find something that’s 40’s and casual! I’m gonna be the We Can Do It lady.

My thrift store adventures this past Saturday were a complete success. Three outfits for $16 dollars. Not too shabby.

Except that it was a little bit shabby. The day’s accomplishment filled my nostrils with the sweet aroma of success...but after a while I realized that success kinda smells like a mixture of dust and body odor. I didn’t notice it while we were in the store, maybe because that’s just how the whole place smells...but it was perfectly evident once I was back in the safety of my own home that something was terribly wrong with the garments I had purchased – and that something was a serious case of stank. I threw them in the washer with a little extra Apple Mango Tango fabric softener, and we all lived happily ever after.

The End

P.S. I’m pushing for dirty hippie day as a theme next year.


*Yes, I realize I probably shouldn’t be using this phrase in a post that also mentions the Christian non-profit by which I am employed, but I just can’t help myself. Spirit week makes me a little bit caraaaaazay.

One Giant Leap

My little Sarita Bonita is growing up so fast. It seems like just yesterday we were fighting over which one of us was the true owner of the purple Mermaid Barbie, ‘cause everyone knows that nobody wants the dumb old pink one. The power is in the purple.

Before I begin this coming-of-age tale, you need to know three things about Sarah.

Number 1: Sarah is really quiet. I believe she’s had this problem since birth. It comes and goes depending on who’s around. There are special cases during which this may fluctuate, but as a general rule, strangers flip the switch from normal volume to super-soft-voice-that-only-dogs-can-hear.

Number 2: When we're walking together and we come upon a narrow space, Sarah falls back always. Maybe it’s because she’s younger than me, so she’s had years of practice following in my footsteps...maybe it’s just because I’m selfish and pushy and in those awkward situations where you run into someone and you’re not sure who should walk first, I always jump out and walk first before the other person knows what hit ‘em.

Number 3: Sarah has been using my Safeway card since she moved here over one year ago. This wouldn’t be a problem except that a) in an effort to make their customers feel special, the checkers at Safeway always use your name when they thank you. (This is the least they can do since they price gouge like a gas station during an oil shortage. Hey Safeway, is there a shortage on Oreo cookie filling? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure the same package of cookies cost me half this much at Wal-Mart. Well I would go to Wal-Mart but it takes twice as long to get there! WELL YEAH, I GUESS THAT IS THE PRICE YOU PAY FOR CONVENIENCE. AND IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS WHY I BUY OREOS SO FREQUENTLY. MY BINGES, MY BUSINESS.)

Whew....let’s take a breath and steady ourselves since it seems like some of us are getting a little worked up. Also this next paragraph is a doozy.

Alright, where was I...oh, yes. This wouldn’t be a problem except that a) (see above) and b) Sarah and I do all our grocery shopping together, meaning the checker thanks whichever one of us is first (usually me, for reasons that can be found about three paragraphs back) by saying, “Thank you Mrs. Gray,” and then when they go to thank the second one of us (Sarah, because she falls back always) they say, “Thank you Miss.....Gray....?” with a suspicious glance between the two of us. Here’s why: I wear a wedding ring. Sarah does not. We have the same face. It’s clear one of us is lying, because there are only two possible alternatives: either I’m not really married and our mom named us both Emily (maybe she really liked the name?) or we’re just two girls named Emily who happen to have eerily similar features and who married brothers named Gray. One of us is ashamed of her choice of husband and, in an effort to avoid public humiliation, refuses to wear her wedding ring. If I learned anything from Angels in the Outfield besides the fact that Joseph Gordon Levitt is awesome, it's that "it could happen".

Ok, now that you’re up to speed, I can tell you the big news: Sarah applied for her very own Safeway card yesterday! And it doesn’t stop there! She also spoke at a normal volume when turning in the completed form (because the girl didn’t hear her on the first go ‘round, and you know what they say about desperate times), and then topped everything off by walking through an automatic door with gusto, forgetting for a moment her secret fear that it wouldn’t open for her à la that episode of the Simpsons where the doors don’t sense Bart because he sold his soul to Milhouse for five bucks. This could also explain why her first response when I upset her is to scream, "Why you little!" before choking me in a hilarious, albeit completely inappropriate manner.

So good luck, all you Safeway checkers out there, on your attempts to accurately pronounce Howrey. It sounds just like it looks, but people seem to have an amazingly difficult time saying it. If you’re having trouble, just silently say “how ridiculous” in your head, and you’ve got it. Minus the diculous.

Grays: 1 The Man: 0

Oh, you thought you were gonna raise our rent, did ya? THINK AGAIN.

As you know, over the past few months we’ve been checking out a few other housing options in an effort to save a little money. It seemed like each house we visited was worse than the one before, so we decided to stick it out where we are for at least another year. That is, until Gary reviewed our lease agreement and discovered that our rent was suddenly $20 higher per month.

He called me with this news early one morning last week and asked me if I wouldn’t mind looking for some more houses we could check out. I cried a little, then did as I was asked because I’m a good wife and when I don’t complain Gary buys me presents. (Kidding! We can’t afford presents.)

Gary emailed our rental company and, calmly and politely, told them that he felt it was unreasonable to raise our rent at this time considering the fact that we live next to an abandoned crackhouse that caught fire last weekend. I’m no real estate expert, but it seems like something like that would actually decrease the value of a home.

While we waited for a response, I trolled Craigslist for rent houses. As I was wading through the usual trash, I stumbled upon a house listed at an intersection that’s just a couple blocks from where we live now. If we have to move, it would really be best for us to stay close since I rely on Sarah to get me everywhere, and right now she lives approximately 200 yards away from us. I called and made an appointment to go look at the house, and actually felt kind of excited after I drove by to see what it looked like. It was in a non-scary neighborhood and none of the exterior seemed to be crumbling or infested with anything; in fact, it was mildly adorable!

With the change in our rent, this house would save us $80 a month, so I entered into the process with a positive attitude. I gave myself a nice little pep talk before we went to look, assuring myself that even if this house wasn’t as nice as the one we have now, it would be worth it to save that much money every month. Formidable as the idea may seem, I think if I tried my hardest I could find a way to survive without a stained glass window in the bathroom.

Gary and I walked through the house with the current tenant, and I managed to remain optimistic. None of the windows in the living room open...but there’s a sun nook! And sure, the kitchen counters are an ugly white tile with grout that I’m pretty sure used to be white but which has turned black over the years...but there’s also a breakfast nook! Apparently whoever built this house went a little nook-crazy. They have linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom, but maybe that means we’d actually be able to use that Swiffer WetJet we bought when we got married, since it seems to have been rendered absolutely useless by the ridges between the beautiful stone tiles in our kitchen and bathroom...okay, stop thinking about the tiles before you burst into tears. Alright...tiny bathroom, but I can deal with that! Just because our bathroom is the size of a basketball court doesn’t mean we need that much space. I’m sure we can find somewhere else to practice our layups. The backyard’s about a third the size of ours, but they do have a garage where Gary could set up his woodshop so he could finally build me the adult-sized racecar bed I’ve been asking for all these years.

In all seriousness, the house was not bad at all. It was just old, so of course it wasn’t quite as sparkly as our house, which was completely redone right before we moved in. We took an application with us, and when we got into the truck, I told Gary that I would be totally down with living there if he was. Apparently I should have included him in my pep talk, because he wasn’t biting. In fact, I’m starting to think he doesn’t want to move any more than I do. I mean, I think he wants to in theory, because everyone knows that saving money = good idea. But when it comes down to it, he’s actually pickier than I am. He can’t reconcile with the idea of Brutus not having a football field to run around in or the idea of me carrying a heavy laundry basket down to the ancient washer and dryer in the basement every time I do laundry – which is sweet of him, but let’s be honest: if I did laundry more than twice a year, maybe the basket wouldn’t be so heavy.

In a surprising turn of events, none of this ended up mattering, because we came home to find an email from our rental company saying they had spoken to the owner of the house and they agreed not to raise our rent this year! We didn’t miss the implied hint that they’re gonna try to raise again it next year, but we’ll be ready for them when that time comes. Word on the street is that the good people over at All Seasons Rental Co. are extremely superstitious, so our tentative plan is to claim that the house next door is haunted with little crackbaby ghosts.

Full House

Tonight will be the first night in almost two weeks we haven’t had people staying with us...and I already feel a little lonely. I think Gary and I are gonna go out to a crowded restaurant for dinner so at least it will feel like we’re surrounded by friends...

You would think we’d be relieved, but you'd be wrong. Because our guests are the best guests – and not just because they have a habit of doing our dishes every day while we’re at work. First Jenny was here, who is super fun and laid back, followed by my parents. Maybe I’m biased, but I think they’re pretty stinkin’ awesome.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that my dad really only comes here to visit Gary, his favorite child, so I was extra excited to find out that my mom decided to come along at the last minute. We usually have months to plan out every moment she’ll be here, and by the end of the visit we’re all tired and sad and wondering how the time could have gone by so quickly, but not this time! All we knew was that the men would be spending the weekend fishing every lake in Colorado.

Somehow Sarah and I got our mom to agree to watch just one episode of Glee after the boys left in the morning. Have I mentioned this? I’m obsessed. Not because of the popular music choices or the fantastic acting, but because of the deep personal connection I feel to the characters. I can’t help but wonder how different my high school life would have been if this show had come on back then. Probably not different at all...but I imagine at the very least it would have made me feel just a tiny bit cooler for being in show choir – even though my choir director was closer to Sue Sylvester than Will Schuester. I’m fairly confident that I was her favorite – only because I spent so much time and energy sucking up to her – and she still didn’t like me very much. She was allergic to children and fun, and she once told me that while I was good at pop songs, my choral voice was just average. I later made a voodoo doll of her and dressed it in a turquoise and purple wind suit and a scrunchie for its bleached-beyond-repair ponytail...but that’s beside the point. The point is Glee is cool.

Up until this weekend I had been wary of recommending that my mom watch the show because there is a little bit of sketchy business going on. I know she’s seen Grey’s Anatomy more than once, and they have WAY more sex on that show than on Glee, but I thought the fact that Glee’s about high schoolers might make things seem worse. However, since my mom’s hip to the jive, she was able to overlook those few scenes and fall deeply in love with the show. So deeply, in fact, that instead of watching one episode, we ended up watching the entire first season. That’s twenty-two 43 minute episodes in two days...meaning we pretty much didn’t leave the house or even bother to change out of our pajamas for two straight days. That also means we had to watch the final nine episodes in sub-standard quality on an illegal website since the second half of the season has yet to be released on DVD. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of breaking the law in your pj’s.

My mom left on Monday, and my dad stayed for a couple more days after that. Gary has often said that my dad’s the best houseguest imaginable because he’s so laid back. He doesn’t like for us to go to any trouble for him. He put his foot down when I told him I wanted to make chicken fried steak for dinner one night while he was here...little did he know that the only kind of chicken fried steak we ever eat at my house is the frozen kind. I tried to make it from scratch once, and I’m not sure Gary’s ever fully recovered.

My dad left at around 2:30 this morning to drive home because he’s a little bit crazy. The house seems pretty lonely with an empty guest room, so I’m off to go create some life-size cardboard cutouts of my friends and family who don’t live here to place strategically around my home.

Ode to Leah

Leah Karen Mae Armstrong is 24 today!

I called our local radio station to dedicate a few songs to her: Don't Stop BeLeahvin' by Journey, I HonestLeah Love You by Olivia Newton-John, Leahving On A Jet Plane by the Beatles, and my personal favorite, TruLeah MadLeah DeepLeah by Savage Garden...but by the time I was finished listing them off, they had hung up on me.

I've known Leah since she moved to Wylie in the fifth grade, meaning our friendship is 13 years old and still going strong. Over the years, I've learned a thing or two about her.

Here are some fun facts:

Leah spent most of her developmental years in the hood, so if it came down to it, she could beat you up.

Leah makes fantastic desserts. Her sopapilla cheesecake has gotten me through some tough times.

Leah is fluent in Spanish, Pig Latin, and whatever language it is that would cause her to pronounce my name “Opmoplop”.

Leah is real pretty.

Leah is a world-class Frisbee thrower, and yet she’s still nice enough to let me play and assure me repeatedly that I’m doing great, even though every time I throw a Frisbee it somehow ends up landing in the nearest body of water.

Leah has read every book ever written, at a rate of a thousand words per minute.

Leah loves all the same things that I love, including Glee, Harry Potter, and making fun of Kristen Stewart. This is probably why our friendship has lasted so long.

Leah would do anything for her friends, and that includes murder. Trust me, I would know.

Leah moved to Colorado just so we could be together. Also because her husband lives here...but I believe it was mostly for me.

Leah and Carly (our other best friend who completes the circle of love) are the Snap and Crackle to my Pop.




HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEAH!!! I'm glad you're my friend.

Safety Dance

My beautiful and talented friend Sam brought something to my attention after yesterday’s post.

Doesn't she look beautiful? And talented?

“Your friends in Texas who read this probably think you live in like the worst neighborhood ever.”

I’d like to set the record straight. Although for a time we did have one set of neighbors who enjoyed cooking meth in the basement…my neighborhood is awesome and totally safe.

Join me as I take you on a tour of the Magical World of DoToCo Springs. (That’s our special cool kid slang for Downtown Colorado Springs. No I did not just make that up! Yes I did.)

This is my house.

It’s held together with Marshmallow Fluff and painted with gumdrops!

This is the view from my front yard. And no, your eyes are not playing tricks on you; that really IS a Volvo!

Everything’s just a little bit fancier here.

This is the median.

Those trees taste like pancakes. Go ahead, have a lick!

This is the house on the corner. And there on the right is a statue of Jesus playing baseball with a sign that says “He’s going nine for America.” It’s Jesus! Depicted in a totally non-ironic manner!

How much safer could this place get?!

This is the park where I once saw a dude throwing knives I sometimes avoid because it’s just TOO safe and unscary for me to handle!

Um…I guess I should stop here, because my best friend who lives a couple blocks over just called and told me someone broke into her car last night and stole her purse. Turns out no matter how awesome you are, some people still have the gall to shatter your car window with a rock. I mean, just look how awesome she is!

If something like this could happen to Leah Armstrong...no one is safe. NO ONE!

Leah: I hope you can forgive me for having "Bust Your Windows" stuck in my head ever since you called me this morning. I blame Glee.

Hot Hot Heat

 

My house smells like a giant cigarette box.

My parents are in town, and last night my mom woke me up at around 11:30 to tell me there were several fire trucks outside and that they were shining their spotlights at my house. Awesome.

I got up and looked outside, and sure enough, she was right. (Not that she would lie or anything; I was just hoping I’d get out there to find that she’d had a particularly lifelike dream so I could go back to sleep.)

I was pretty sure our house wasn’t on fire, ‘cause I feel like they would have at least rang the doorbell to give us a heads up. (Rang? Rung? The Texas public school system has failed me yet again.) My first thought was that it was Sergio’s house, and I was really worried, but when I saw the smoke billowing out of the upstairs window of the Crackhouse, I breathed a sigh of relief. No one was in there; the whole place was boarded up when it was condemned.

Judge me if you will, but I couldn't help but get a little excited at the idea that they might finally be forced to tear the place down. Don't get me wrong; I feel for the owners. I really do. But they had to have known those kids were paying them with dirty money (not the sexy kind), and yet they repeatedly chose to turn a blind eye to what was going on over there, so I can't say I'm surprised that it all went up in flames. Terrible pun intended.

By the way, wanna know the worst possible way to wake your husband up?

“Um...honey? The house next door is on fire.”

I know I should have phrased it differently, but I was tired and irritated that there were so many flashing lights coming in through my windows when all I wanted to do was go back to bed. Come to think of it, that’s pretty much all I ever want to do.

After uttering a few choice words, Gary quickly got dressed and then went outside with my dad so they could do whatever it is men do in situations like these – chit-chat with the firemen...discuss arson theories...I don’t know. That’s really not my area of expertise. I can tell you that what women do is watch through the window as some burly firemen (and one burly firewoman) use an axe to break down the side door, and then send all their friends a cryptic text message mentioning a fire and hinting that their lives are probably in danger, but that it’s totally nbd.

I camped out on the couch for a while, occasionally suggesting to Gary that we go back to sleep since it looked like the firemen had a handle on things. He wanted to stay up in case they needed to ask us any questions. As a rule, I like to let Gary handle all our PR. He’s the likable one, and unless they wanted my opinion on whether or not the landlords had it coming for ignoring our many complaints over the months (yes), I knew I'd be of little use to them, so I went back to bed.

I woke up this morning with a headache, a stomachache, burning eyeballs and a serious case of ashtray mouth. There were still a few firemen hanging around outside, and Gary spoke with the fire marshal on his way to work. He said they still hadn't determined the cause.

By the time I got home for my lunchbreak, all the emergency vehicles had gone and things had calmed down. From the outside, the house bears almost no sign of a fire, except for the jagged axe marks outlining the hole where the side door once was, and the smell, which can only be described as that of a recently doused campfire laced with methamphetamine.

Here are the facts:

1. The roof was not on fire, suggesting that lightning was not the cause.

2. All electricity has been shut off in the house for months, so an electrical fire is also not likely.

3. Those crackheads were pissed when they got kicked out.

Now I’m not necessarily saying I think the former tenants are responsible for the fire...but that’s exactly what I’m saying.

That brings me to the obvious follow-up question: Could our house be next?

I've been thinking it over all morning, and I'm gonna have to say no. I've dealt with enough crackheads in my time to know that they are unstable and unpredictable, and for that reason we were always careful to avoid direct contact. While Gary did have to speak sternly to them a couple times about their general volume, he also lent them his gas can once...which, in hindsight, might not have been such a great idea, seeing as they seem to have developed a penchant for setting buildings ablaze.

Return of the Crack (heads)

Looking back, I suppose it was foolish for me to think it was really over. I should have known things were going too well to last.

Last night, Gary and I were in the kitchen discovering what happens if you don’t let the pan heat up enough before attempting to make french toast when we heard the booming bass from a car outside. Gary commented that it seemed really close. We’ve become accustomed to enjoying a good deal of quiet during the months since the city took care of the infestation next door. He went to the living room window to check it out, and sure enough, a black mustang had parked in front of the abandoned house.

Gary returned to the kitchen with a sigh. “Well, I’m afraid our neighbors two doors down are a little shadier than we had hoped.”

We always knew some young-ish people lived on the other side of the Crackhouse, and we assumed they were in cahoots with our shared neighbors, because that just seems to be our luck. After the house was condemned, however, we began to notice that they were coming outside a lot more often, having parties, playing softball in the backyard...almost as if they were celebrating right along with us. Eventually we met one of the guys who lived there (who looked remarkably like Sean Astin), and as it turns out, they had been celebrating. They hated the crackheads as much as we did, which Gary and I felt created a special bond between us.

And so it goes that we were a little disappointed that a group of people with whom we shared a mutual respect (and, dare I say, love?) would associate with someone with so little consideration for the city’s noise ordinances. But wait! As Thugly Duckling got out of his car and gangster leaned his way up the sidewalk, we realized that he was not headed toward our cool neighbors’ house, but to bang his bony fists on the boarded-up side door of the Crackhouse! SUCCESS! Or so we thought.

We were so busy patting ourselves on the back for having accurately judged our neighbors-once-removed that we never stopped to consider that this might not be the last we would see of Thug E. Fresh. As a result, we were caught completely off guard when his sunken-cheeked, shifty eyed mug appeared just outside our kitchen window.

Gary was the first to react.

“Heyyyyyy, brother! How ‘bout you meet me around the FRONT of the house?”

I was torn as to what my next move should be. On one hand, I’ve never seen Gary in a fight, and I’ve always secretly wondered what it would be like to watch him kill someone with his bare hands. On the other hand, I knew that if I stayed in the kitchen I’d be able to tell the police I "didn't see a thing" with a relatively clear conscience.

The conversation didn’t last long.

Vanilla Lice: Hey, do you know what happened to the people next door?

Scary Gray: The house is boarded up, unlivable, condemned by the city. Also, if you don’t mind...

I can only assume this sentence was going to end with "...I'd like to pummel you now," but I'll never know for sure. Apparently Dim Shady managed to pick up on the fact that Gary was somewhere between Bruce Banner and the Hulk, and before Gary could get another word out, he started backing away with both hands up, mumbling apologies as he scurried back to the hoopty.

I was only slightly disappointed that it hadn’t led to a physical altercation. I guess my morbid curiosity will just have to remain ungratified. Besides, he struck me as the kind of guy who’s likely to be carrying some sort of homemade shiv, which is cheating, so really it's for the best.

Alexander Graham Bell Just Turned Over in His Grave (His Body’s Been Reanimated)

I’m due for an upgrade on my phone, so I’ve been browsing the AT&T website to see what kinds of free phones they can offer me.

I have to ask, am I the only person left on earth who isn’t looking for a pocket-sized supercomputer? Here’s what I want out of a phone: the capability to talk and text. That’s all.

I don’t need 24/7 access to my Facebook and email because I have a desk job, meaning I already have 40/5 access.

Let’s pause for a moment and acknowledge that that’s the worst joke I’ve ever made.

Need more time?

Ok, now you’re just being mean.

I don’t need a full QWERTY keyboard because I have no immediate plans to compose a lengthy work of literature on my cell phone. Also, my thumbs have enough fat days as it is. It’s okay, thumbs. Here, have a cheeseburger. That’s right. Stuff those feelings right down your little thumb gullet.

If Frustration and Malice got married and had a baby had an illegitimate lovechild outside of wedlock, I’m pretty sure its name would be Touchscreen.

I’m not gonna put any music on my phone because I don't want to make my iPod jealous.

I don’t think I’m prepared for 4G because I’m still not sure what 2G and 3G are. Was there ever just a 1G? Or did we just skip over that to make things more exciting?

Bluetooth? Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure I have a wool Bluetooth jacket.

Wow, one of these phones has a built-in pedometer. I really like to know how many steps it takes for me to get from the couch to the other side of the couch. You see, I never have to leave my living room anymore because when we bought the iPhone, iPad, and iPod, they threw in a free iPotty. (We use the iPad to prop up the uneven leg of our dining room table because we couldn’t figure out what else to do with it.)

“See friends' contact information linked together from online sources and social networks in the same view.” Stalker.

“Flip from one open app to another using the touchscreen and intuitive gestures.” While you’re at it, flip pancakes! This phone doubles as a spatula.

“Browse and talk at the same time thanks to AT&T's powerful 3G network.” DISCLAIMER: This feature works best if you are also driving and applying lipstick in the rear view mirror.

I had to close out of the AT&T website because I blacked out for a moment and awoke to find myself trying to choke my computer monitor. Looks like I’ll be sticking with my trusty LG Shine until the bitter end, because a mirror is an extra feature I can get behind – or better yet, in front of.

Life: Complete

Let me start by saying that while I hope American Idol dies a slow and painful death, I love me some karaoke bars.

My love affair began with a little place called The Ramblin’ Rose. To say it’s a seedy dive bar is an understatement. It is a dirty, smoky, over-pouring, toothless patron-loving honky tonk nestled in the winding back roads of Rowlett, Texas. I once witnessed a knife fight in there. I wish I wasn’t serious.

Now, the Rose isn’t strictly a karaoke bar. They only do it on Friday and Saturday nights, probably because on any other night of the week they have an average of about eight people in there. But on karaoke nights the place is packed with townies, leather-clad motorcycle dudes, moms, creepy old guys with hair down to their elbows, college kids, cougars, smokers, and the occasional group of really cool normal kids who just like cheap drinks and bars where nobody cares if you show up wearing sweatpants. That’s where we come in.

This fusion of young and old, rich and poor, lame and awesome provides the ideal crowd for karaoke. If you suck, they’ll support you anyway. If you’re funny, they’ll always laugh. Sing an upbeat song and the dance floor will fill up in a second. Throw ‘em a decent rendition of Broken Wing and they will absolutely go wild.

I’m telling you all this so you’ll know that I am no stranger to singing karaoke. However, in my heart of hearts, I’ve never been quite satisfied. Sure, Whitney Houston and Martina McBride songs tend to elicit a powerful response...but deep down I always knew I was capable of so much more. I used to sit and wish I could find a way to express who I really am inside; to show people what I really feel.

Last night, all my wishes came true.

Jenny’s friend Jordan (the trash bag alien) works at a bar called Frankie’s on Tuesday nights, and he invited us to come out and do some karaoke since he’s the “KJ”. Of course we agreed, not knowing that one of my life’s dearest ambitions would be fulfilled as a result.

It turns out that Jordan is the best performer on earth. He sang Mary Jane’s Last Dance, Black Dog, Fortunate Son, and Roses by OutKast, all with perfect accuracy. Leah put all those years of perfecting her Cher impression to good use with a fantastic interpretation of Believe, followed closely in quality by Shakira’s Hips Don’t Lie and a heart wrenching duet of The Boy Is Mine with none other than Jenny Hubbard. Jenny closed out the evening with Say My Name. You may not know this, but Jenny’s got soul. Gary and Levi were supportive as usual, and Sarah spent most of the night trying to convince Jenny to sing ‘N Sync songs. I’ve got a plan in the works to force Sarah to sing the next time we go*.

All that on its own would have made it a night to remember, but what turned it into a night I’ll never forget – the night my life was changed forever – was Jenny’s suggestion that I sing Grillz. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down my spine. I knew this was it. My chance to show everyone my true colors. It was finally time to unveil my alter ego: Emily Black.

I’ll tell you one thing. Rapping is hard. It leaves you out of breath. Your mouth somehow becomes simultaneously bone dry and full of spit. You get tired. But I’ll also tell you that it was the most rewarding experience of my life. That includes the time I saved a baby from a raging bull.

I might cause a cold front if I take a deep breaf.





*Oh yes, Howrey. You’re next. Because I’m about to tell everyone a little secret: Sarah Howrey is a fantastic singer. She’d probably deny this in a court of law because she’s kind of a criminal, but I’m telling you the truth. Once people hear her, she’ll probably end up with all kinds of offers to be the front woman for some awesome indie rock band, and I’ll be honest, I could use a friend at the top. To further my rap career.

How Would You Like Your Brains?

Scrambled.

I can’t seem to focus today, so here are a bunch of semi-unconnected thoughts.

I’m making four vegan meals this week for my vegan friend who’s vegan visiting. Vegan. Two down, and nobody died.

I thought an alien landed in our front yard late last night, but it turns out it was just Jenny’s friend on a bicycle wearing a homemade rain suit he had fashioned from several trash bags.

Speaking of hazmat suits, Jenny has asked me to point out to everyone everywhere that even though it was cancelled, Better Off Ted is a good show. Hear that, Bailey? Stop watching Dexter and start watching BOT.

Gary scared the crap out of me last night by sneaking up and talking to me through an open window I was sitting in front of, causing me to scream and risk destroying our very expensive laptop by throwing it into the air...because if there’s an intruder, the best way to scare him off is to throw whatever you’re holding straight up into the air – not at him. Never at him.

A four inch memory foam mattress topper seems like a really good idea. It’s not. When you first sit down on your bed, you’ll think you’re living that scene from The Little Mermaid where she sits on the side of the bed with her new legs and just sinks in, but when you wake up in the morning, there will not be a sassy Jamaican crab on your bedside table and you will not be feeling like P Diddy. You will be feeling like your bed is trying to swallow you whole, and it will take years of chiropractic therapy for your spine to return to its normal shape.

The O.C. – Season 1 – Episode 5: Some kid gets shot in the arm. THINGS JUST GOT REAL.

I bought myself some organic butternut squash soup to have for lunch. I distinctly remember thinking it looked appetizing at the store, but now that I’m at my desk and it’s almost lunchtime, I find myself craving some Arby’s sauce, perhaps with a roast beef sandwich on the side.

THUN-DER (ah-ah-ah-ahh-ah-ah-ahh-ah)

This morning at approximately 1:15am, Colorado Springs peed its pants.

I’m pretty sure I know what happened. The largest lightning bolt in the history of lightning bolts struck my entire block (accompanied by a proportionately deafening thunderclap), causing every man, woman and child to shoot straight up in their beds and cling tightly to whatever was within reach, even if that meant leaving finger-shaped gouge marks in the arm of the poor guy lying next to them. I’m not referring to any one specific case; I’m just saying...it could have happened.

If you’d like to know what it sounded like, find a large metal pot. Place it securely over your head (making sure it completely covers both ears) and then ask the roid-raginest man you can find to pound it with a metal serving spoon.

Thunder always seems to be louder here, I assume because it echoes off the mountains, but this was the worst I've encountered by far. I couldn’t go back to sleep because I knew that at any moment, I was going to receive a phone call notifying me that Sarah’s house was on fire and she was trapped on the top floor. It didn’t occur to me until this morning that we were in the middle of a monsoon, making the chances of anyone’s house being on fire extremely thin. Apparently all logical thought goes out the window once I’ve entered crisis mode. (Kinda like how every time I hear sirens, I have to fight the urge to call Gary and make sure he's not dying in a terrible car accident. I say I have to fight it because I used to actually call him every time and he threatened to have my phone disconnected.)

Eventually I did get back to sleep, but it was not a peaceful one. I dreamed that a tree had fallen on our house and that parts of the trunk and branches were visible through the gaping hole in our kitchen ceiling, and I was terrified because we don’t have renters’ insurance. I also dreamed I was being chased by a giant hammer. I feel like those are related somehow, but I can’t quite put my finger on it...

Note to Self (And All Other Young, Married Females)

Don't ever tell anyone you're sick unless you want them to ask if you're pregnant.