Embarrassing things I did when I was little (Volume 1 of 50)

So, I was listening to my newly downloaded Madonna songs the other day, 
and "Dress You Up" came on, which is one of her lesser songs, but when 
you're talking about Madonna, that doesn't mean much. Anyway, I had a 
flashback to a humiliating thing I did when I was in the 5th or 6th 
grade. When certain friends and I would play at each others' houses, we 
got this idea. I actually may've gotten the idea, but I'm going to say 
it was a collective idea so I don't seem like a complete loser, but the 
idea was this: "Hey, let's record ourselves on my Fisher-Price tape 
recorder singing love songs, and then we'll call the boys we like and 
play them...and they will fall in love with us." Oy...
 
So, on more than one occasion, I recorded myself singing "Dress You Up," 
in which the lyrics are "You've got style, that's what all the girls 
say, satin sheets and luxury so fine...." I was like 10...had no idea 
why that was crucial to the song...and called boys whose names I will 
withhold to at least protect their dignity, and play my tape recorder. 
Oh, the shame. They usually either hung up, or sometimes, even more 
humiliatingly so, their moms would get on the phone and say "I don't 
know who this is, but y'all need to stop playing on the phone!" Ah, the 
days before Caller ID. The prank calls were unparalleled.
 
Aiding this little stunt was the fact that Tiger Beat had the lyrics of 
all the popular songs listed, so if we didn't know the words, or 
sometimes, didn't have the music, we would just sing that a cappela. 
Which, I'm sure was a huge treat for the listener. I also remembering 
singing Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69," which even though it includes 69 
in the title, is not really even a love song. It's more of a buddy song 
about a guy who started a band with some friends that year and is 
reminiscing about the good 'ol days. We, okay, I, was a complete moron. 
And at the time, I thought this was a really super awesome idea, no 
small wonder that I didn't kiss a boy until I was 14.  It will  never 
cease to amaze me that Smitty married me; I'm still pretty much a giant 
dork. But he knew what he was getting into.

I am the entertainer of Flat Jillian

My sister sent me a text saying she needed me to help my niece Jillian with a school project. I said, "Sure, call me with the details," and here's what ensued:

Apparently, there is a book called "Flat Stanley" that was written in the '60s. While the era in which the book was published might not seem important, it will be obvious once I explain the rest of the project. Flat Stanley went to sleep one night and woke up "flat." He was flattened by a bulletin board, which I feel is probably a common occurrence among children..(maybe among "Hoarders?"). And while he's naturally freaked out at first, he then decides maybe this is not such a bad thing, as his parents start mailing him around the country in an envelope, and he has a lot of nifty adventures.

So, my niece's teacher has taught this book and now they are creating Flat ____(insert name here) and mailing them to friends or family so that they (me...here's where I come in) can let the flat replica have adventures. Once I receive Flat Jillian, I am to make up stories about her adventures, take pictures, and then send the stories and pictures and follow the accompanying instructions about what to do to fulfill the projects. When my sister told me this, I laughed for about a full minute..and then I saw the possibility.

I get to make up stories and photo captions for a 2nd grade class. This is perhaps my actual calling in life. Flat Jillian will have the adventures of a lifetime, and these kids and their teacher have no idea what they're in for, oh no...no idea. I will post pictures and the life and times of Flat Jillian as I receive my instructions and start her on her merry way..and if she knew I were doing that, I would hear, "Emily, you're embarrassing me," but, hey, that's what family's for..at least I'm not showing up at her school in my nightgown..I could do that..but I won't.

I cannot be silenced!!! (or even turned down....)

I think it hit home what a giant dork I am and also why I don't listen to my iPod in public a short time ago. I'm typing some stuff for Smitty's final in his class (aren't I the best wife EVER), and I decided to make a nifty playlist with all the stuff I downloaded last night. Well, you  know when you're singing to music that's in headphones, you're singing much louder than you know because obviously you can't hear yourself. So, while I was happily belting out "American Pie" and typing away, Smitty stood silently in the doorway thinking "Oh, God, she's finally gone insane," until I saw him and screamed b/c obviously I wasn't expecting him.

However, this brings back memories of my dad confiscating my Walkman on more than one vacation because I was singing louder than anyone was talking in the car, also numerous times of him or my mom walking in my room YELLING at me because I had no idea they were even talking to me. It's all coming back. If I were to take my iPod to work, I would either get written up, or I would make a complete jackass out of myself.

I was also thinking, speaking of singing, that I now have a need, not a want, mind you, but an actual  need to sing Concrete Blonde's "Joey" at karaoke. It would be awesome, as the song is mostly yelling, which I very much enjoy in musical form. I think maybe it's because I never actually yell, I like to sing really, really loudly. It's my repressed loudmouth, yearning to be free. I mean, honestly, I don't even know the last time I actually yelled. My normal speaking voice isn't even remotely loud, but I do so enjoy some sing-yelling. I think the last time I went to karaoke, I was called "Rocker Chick," which is funny because that's almost like calling me "Rapper Chick." Both are equally inappropriate. I'm more like "Easy Listening Chick" with a dash of '90s alternative rock occasionally mixed in. Really, I'm not cool at all. Smitty will testify to this...although he also thinks I need a reality show or at least someone recording me.

I do not agree with this assessment...unless there is cash involved and I get a wardrobe...

You Make-a My Dreams Come True

I love music...I love listening to it, I love pretending to dance to it, and I especially love thinking I can sing super-awesome-ly to it. I have a good voice, it's not a great voice..it has its alcohol-induced moments of greatness. I love karaoke so much, I could marry it, but I'd be cheating on Smitty and...sleep, my other passion.

I just spent like 2 hours figuring out how to get new music onto my iPod. I finally figured it out, and I got all my old favorites...Billy Joel..that's right, that's how I roll, BITCHES...."bottle of red....bottle of white..." can you handle that funk...Tori Amos, and my new favorite Regina Spektor..Clearly, I am not super cool when it comes to music. I don't even know how the kids find out about music these days. I hear stuff that I like, and I find a way to listen to it, unbeknownst to me that I'm listening to "new" music that's like 5 years old..that's right, that's how I roll.

I just like music I can sing to...ask Smitty, he once asked if I had the all-Joey, Concrete Blonde channel in my car, because I love, love, love singing/screaming along to that song in my car. It's cathartic. I do that, I sing along to music in the car, as opposed to everyone else in their cars who are talking on their stupid cell phones and driving like crap as a result. Are people afraid to be alone with their thoughts these days? Is that a thing? No one want to sing and get caught at the light singing "Sister Christian?" (been there) I will never give up singing along to the radio or the iPod or whatever fancy stuff the Interwebs comes out with...sing on, even if you sound like you've been smoking for 40 years or even if you don't. I fully support bad car-singing. I'm Emily, and I'm a Bad Car Singer. Have been since about 1984.

What's a nice wine like you doing in a girl like me??

I have had a BAD day. It's not like a "my car broke down, my dog died, my husband left me" country song kind of day, it was just one of those days that makes you look and feel like you've been pulled out of a drain. Trust me, I look rough. I'm choosing to revive this day with a woodsy Chardonnay, my hilarious husband, and later on, I will shamefully admit, I will watch "Steven Seagal: Lawman," because it is easily the funniest (by accident) show I have seen in a while. I'm not kidding..before you judge me, you need to watch an episode.

I hate having days like this, b/c I swear, in spite of my Prozac prescription, I try to be a sunny person, dammit. I think I'm a glass half-full kinda gal, although I would probably make fun of the glass. That's just who I am...an optimist with a side of sass..it's worked for me so far, so I don't mess with the formula.

Wine helps, I'll be honest. I have pretty much cut out all drinking except for a few glasses of Chardonnay now and again. Before anyone I've been more than buzzed around recently says "Dear God, lightning will strike this computer," I'm not saying I ALWAYS limit it to a few glasses, but recently, I have tried to cut back to just a few glasses to dull the edge. And white wine is my new, and by new, I mean for the past year and a half, favorite. It's just nice and mellow and makes me feel fuzzy and not like bloaty and whale-like. That's why I generally eschew beer these days...I get it, I retain fluid, I don't need a beverage to be a reminder.

And a note, apropos of nothing, nicotine patches are crap. They don't work...I'm just saying..

All creatures great and small....

I really don't care for nature. I like looking at pictures of it, and I 
appreciate the planet. I don't litter, I drive a tiny car made of 
recycled cans that gets like 100 miles per gallon, but I don't care for 
dirt, bugs, the outdoors in general and now I can add to my list...LIZARDS.
 
This morning, as I am sleepily fumbling around to get out of the house 
and get to work in a timely manner, I see a long, spindly "thing" in my 
peripheral vision. I first think "snake" and that I'm either going to 
die or pee on myself, and then I see the rest of its body, and realize 
"ah, lizard," which was a very brief relief followed with "OMG, what do 
I do, what do I do," as Smitty was at work, and I have no survival skills.
 
It calmly looked at me, not moving, as if to say, "what is your problem? 
I'm just hanging out by the floor vent," while I stealthily crept into 
the living room/kitchen/pantry area to find a mechanism with which to 
scoop it. I thought I could scoop it into a plastic bag, but then 
assumed that would make too much noise, and it would scamper away and I 
would subsequently fall down and suffer a head injury, (which I almost 
did once when a spider jumped on me..I don't deal well with these things).
 
So, my solution was to plug our bedroom door with plastic bags as to 
trap it, leaving it to try on my underwear and jewelry, until Smitty 
came home at lunch to catch it...which he did...which means I don't have 
to divorce him so that I never have to set foot in our house again. 
Crisis averted. I am attaching a picture of Milton, as I've named him, 
to demonstrate the emergency effectively. If you think he looks small,  
you are quite wrong. He was a foot long if he was an inch, and while he 
appears docile in these photos, I am almost certain I saw a tiny 
switchblade before I left him in our bedroom. He was bad news, but we 
(and by we, I mean  Smitty) nonetheless set him free, unharmed back into 
nature. Ugh, nature.

I guess it's due to being part of the Chardonnay-sipping lefties

I don't have a rapport with service people. I don't look down at them, I 
swear, but they just don't seem to like me. I've worked more places than 
I care to admit, and I've always been secretly jealous (alright, curious) of co-workers who 
seem to have this great friendship with security guards, cleaning 
personnel, receptionists, etc...I don't get it. I'm friendly, I always say hello. I 
even try to do small talk with them, and it's like they don't even want 
to speak to me. I've heard before, until people get to know me, that I'm 
quiet, which I find highly amusing. I'm thinking that people mistake 
quiet for "snotty" or "rude." I don't mean to be.
 
It's weird, I think this is something genetic, because my sister and I 
have compared notes and had strangers say to us, "Smile. It's not that 
bad," when all we're doing is existing with our regular, y'know, 
non-smiley, non-game-show-host-faces. I always wanted to say, "My husband hits me. Do you still want me to smile?" which is 
highly inappropriate, but I feel would perhaps drive the point home that 
it's not really any of your business if I'm smiling or not. That 
statement drives me mad.
 
So, I feel as though I'm misunderstood just for not walking around 
smiling like a jackass all the time. I'm happy, I swear. It's kind of a 
smug, sarcastic happy, but it's happy, nonetheless. I guess I'm doomed 
to never be the one that knows all the gossip from the people who know 
all the gossip because they think I'm a snob. The funny thing is, if 
they were super friendly to me, I'd probably be like, "Why the heck is 
the cleaning lady talking to me?" Maybe I just answered my own conundrum.
 

Vexed by food

I feel like food plagues my life. I have to think of what to cook, then there are dishes, there's the endless daily cycle of unloading and loading the dishwasher, food makes me gain WEIGHT, because I can't smoke like I want to, and so on and so forth. I love to cook, I really do, but when you cook for two people, there's only so many leftover meatloaves, pasta dishes, and pizzas you can eat. So, there we go, I think Smitty and I should procreate if only to make mealtime easier. Three is a better number to cook for than two, no?

I also revile the dishes. When I was living in my first apartment by myself, I'm fairly ashamed to recall my dishwashing skills. In my defense, I didn't have a dishwasher, (I realize that's not really a defense) so dishes would pile up until I would have to get creative about what to use. I can use the actual frozen pizza box as a plate, for instance, or just buy plastic cups so I don't have to wash any glasses. In sharp contrast, I am relentless about that never happening again, so now I have cat-like reflexes when it comes to dirty dishes. Oh, how I love Smitty and his usual OCD-ness, but the man will not rinse a bowl or a plate. I don't mind doing it, but if I don't know it's in there, everything coagulates on the dish, and it's way harder to rinse. This is one of maybe 4 things he does that irritate me, so I'll give him a pass, but, seriously, the dishes torment me. Funny how I don't have similar issues with a dirty car or piled up clothes or leaving my shoes everywhere. It's not something I can explain logically, it just "is."

And I find it highly unfair that you gain so much weight when you quit smoking. I feel like God should reward you by making you want to exercise when you quit rather than seeing how many slices of single cheese you can eat before you lose your vision. (I think it's 20) I mean, really...and you gain the weight EVERY damn time you quit, so if you relapse, and if you're any kind of real smoker, you will relapse, it just means by the time you actually quit, you can join the circus as the fat lady or perhaps the Single Cheese Eating Attraction. I'm sure that would be a huge draw.

My long-lost blog

I was recently inspired (thanks, Amy's Blam -- www.amyblam.com) to restart this blog, we'll see how it goes, but, wow, have things changed since I last posted. It's funny, a lot of the posts were my laments about the possibility of, egads, turning 30. And here I am at 32, inching towards 33, and I am far less scared in the reality of it than I was at the thought of it.

Granted, my life has changed so much since then. I started this blog after I packed up everything I owned and moved to Pennsylvania to work for John Kerry's campaign. That was a disappointing, yet extremely rewarding experience, feel free to look back and read my musings regarding that, and I ended this blog shortly after moving back to Mississippi to start a new chapter in my life.

However, that chapter was initially to start with my going to grad school to get my master's in English and then go wherever the wind blew me when I was done, so I could teach while wearing glasses and saying, "What do you think that  means?" to eager college students.

Then, I met my husband, a tall, smart-alecky fellow who beat me at darts, and therefore, had to be stopped by my smacking his ass to distract him...it worked....fast forward 4 years, and here we are, in Birmingham, just celebrated our 3rd anniversary, and we couldn't be happier. Life is strange, which is why I think, in general, any kind of plan, is pretty pointless. If you stay determined to stick to a plan, you miss out on all the surprises that pop up along the way...y'know, actual life.

Married life has changed me a bit, but not too drastically. Examples:
1. I'm in bed by 10 o'clock most nights, but I still occasionally catch things on fire when I attempt to cook.
2. I don't go out on the town anymore, but once drank enough that I put my nightgown in the toilet so I could take a bath. (I thought the lid was closed, I think)
3. I am vigilant about keeping dirty dishes clean, but I think my car has ants.
4. I am not really up on the latest music, but can still be caught singing at the top of my lungs to Concrete Blonde.
5. I love, love, love babies and little children, but we're, erm, not quite there yet, and the thought of a child calling me "Mommy" and my actually being their mommy scares the holy hell out of me..

So, I promise to write more if you guys promise to visit here now and again.