Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Like A Little Matthew Perry

Reason number 7 why I probably won't be mistaken for the gay one this week:

The puddle of drool around me that appears whenever I watch 17 Again and Zac Efron is shirtless. Or shirt-clad. Doesn't matter really, I know what's under there.

Reason why I will probably have to stay 500 yards away from elementary schools, and go around and introduce myself to all my neighbors as a creepy pervert:

See above.

Like Having A Trainer But Weirder

Just as I was about to be upset that I was getting passed up (for the second time) by a line of Army recruits on my very rainy run this morning, one of them smacked me on the butt and said, "Keep up the good work ma'am" and then took off to the front of the line.

I should be offended. But then again none of you has ever seen me sweaty and drenched in dirt and rain water - not the prettiest I've ever been. And dang it if I didn't finish my run a minute and a ten seconds faster than normal. See. . . objectifying women with a side of encouragement does do some good in the world.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Take The Stairs

You know how you have those moments in your life where you're like, "If only I'd taken the other elevator!" or "Oh my gosh I could have been on that plane, but I had to check my deodorant situation and ended up missing my flight and because I care about my body odor I didn't die!" Those moments? Well, I had one of those the other morning.

Ok, maybe it wasn't as serious as that, but it was pretty close. Or. . . it was looking at close from atop a mountain range with high visibility binoculars, but still - it could see it.

Anyway, it's 9am and I'm cooking chicken, and plugging in my iron, and turning on my hair straightener - because I like to do all hot things at once. If I had a dryer in my apartment that would be going too. Unfortunately, my timing was a little off and I had too much waiting for things to heat up time, so I decided I was gonna be even more productive and take the trash out (because Regis and Kelly was on commercial), and I get to the elevator and somehow - like by sheer force of gravitational evil - my keys leap out of my hand and fall down the mother loving elevator shaft. It was like a movie where something falls and you just wait to hear the crash, I don't know what I was waiting for - like maybe if I don't hear it, it didn't happen and the keys are still in my hand?

But I heard it.

Luckily, I was supposed to meet my manager right around that time anyway, and about thirty seconds later she comes out of the elevator looking mighty pissed. Then she sees me and says:

"I just dropped my keys down the elevator shaft."

Uh...what now? I think I actually spun around like, did I just say that and it came out of her mouth?

"No," I started. "I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft."

Pause where she looked at me much like I was looking at her.

"Just now?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's why I'm standing here in my pj's with Quiet Riot hair."

"Shit. I just dropped mine down there."

"Who is gonna let me into my apartment then?"

She shrugged, "We could try to lift the elevator?"

"We could try to lift the elevator?"

That's when I realized I was never getting back in. I would be stuck in my sister's 'Class of 2000' t-shirt, boxer shorts with bears on them, and black business socks forever. Correction - black business socks with bright orange bottoms, because that's what happens to them when you mop your floor with something bleach laden and then walk across it before you rinse it down. James was going to burn himself on my straightener, run to the kitchen sink for safety and water, trip on my iron which would land on my curtain, setting the whole place ablaze, and then, because it's on and I'm not there to watch it, the oven would explode.

"Well, shit," she said again. "Do you have anywhere to be today?"

"Just work."

She looked me up and down. "I guess you could wear my sweater."

"Can't we call a locksmith?"

"My phone is locked in my office, is yours hiding in your (**more looking my attire over**) hair?"


"Well, then this might be a while."

"But my cat and all the hot things!" I yelled at her.

"You have a cat?"


And thank god, before she could tell me cats were illegal in my building someone walked out of what was supposed to be her locked office and scared the bejesus out of us. Turns out her office wasn't locked after all, spare keys were found, and after what seemed like the longest elevator ride ever, I got into my apartment which was in tact and James was casually sleeping in my backpack like 'What? Oh it's just you. That chicken smells done.'

She didn't manage to lift the elevator herself, but the handy elevator people did it and got our keys back, along with a can of Budweiser (which is apparently a magic shape shifting can). And this is why I'll be glad when I move, because my elevator can summon things at will, and if I have to go to work one more time in my pjs I'm afraid people are gonna start to talk.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

A Rash of Calls

I like medical stuff. I always watch when they draw blood, I don't shy away from asking the dentist what she's going to be stabbing with that three-pronged shiny metal thing, I started nursing school for goodness sake, and once, when we were about 8 and 7, I set Bub up in one of our parents recliners, positioned the needlepoint magnifying lamp over her open mouth and proceeded to retract a stubborn piece of plum from in between her molar gums because I care.

But, that doesn't mean I always like it or want to hear it. I'll spare you the phone call about someone's exploding something that sent blood flying all over something else, but a day after I got that phone call, I got this one:

Me: Hello?
Mom: Have I told you about my new rash?
Me: Mom?
Mom: Who else calls you?
Me: Lots of peop. . . you and Bub do. What do you mean your 'new' one?
Mom: Oh, it's been a weird year for me and my skin.
Me: Ew.
Mom: Don't ew me miss sends her sister a picture of her healing stitches everyday.
Me: She wanted to see it.
Mom: It's all over the place, and it's spreading even farther.
Me: Your new rash is?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Did you see the doctor?
Mom: Yes he told me to take these two pills and use this cream that smells like a lavatory.
Me: What?
Mom: No, not a lavatory.
Me: You smell like a bathroom?
Mom: That's not the right word . . . lavender.
Me: Those are totally different smells Mom.
Mom: I look like I have an allergic reaction.
Me: What did the doctor say it was?
Mom: An allergic reaction to this cream I was using for a different rash.

Thank you Lori. And so it went. Then, later on Bub called me:

Me: Hello?
Bub: Did mom tell you about her rash?
Me: Why does everyone want to start conversations with me that way?
Bub: We went to Starbucks together today.
Me: Does it look as bad as she says?
Bub: No. Well, it looks bad, but she doesn't look like a leper.
Me: I think lepers are missing limbs and chunks of skin and stuff.
Bub: Right, she doesn't look like that.
Me: Ok...
Bub: So, we walk in - me, her, and the rash - and she yells, right after she steps into the door, 'It's not contagious! DON'T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING AIRBORNE! I'm not contagious!'
Me: Nice.
Bub: We got free coffee though.
Me: You did?
Bub: No, but we should have. She looked gross.

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Hot At 5am Is Too Hot

Dear Marathon Training in 85 degree weather,

Way to make a girl suicidal.

The girl who was sweating so much she stopped mid-run at one point to yell, "My eyes! My eyes are burning!" and then had a (turned out to be) good-natured fellow jogger splash her in the face with Gatorade to try and help. It didn't. It just made me sticky.

So, when I woke up at 5am it was blazing, and I thought it won't be that bad outside, and then I got outside and proceeded to sweat my balls off for the next three hours.

Normally I love my long run days because I get a weird feeling of joy when I know I've worked so hard it's gonna be a struggle lifting that leg over the bathtub to get out of the shower, and because there's an odd sense of euphoria and ridiculous emotional stuff that comes after about mile 15 when I either want to break down sobbing because that tree is just so pretty, or start giggling uncontrollably because I've suddenly decided something my mom said to me the night before about her rash is hysterical. But today was not all fun and games. Today was so hot I was soaked before I finished my first mile. And I was sure Chicagoans must have sensed I was having a hard time today, and wasn't gonna make it without their support because for the first hour or so everyone that passed me smiled. Smiled big. And I smiled back. And said hi more than I usually do, because damnit, if they were rooting for me the I was too!

And then I stopped to refill my water.

I glanced down while I was trying to fight off the urge to strip naked and try to bathe myself in the water fountain and noticed my shirt was a lot wetter than I'd thought. And then I noticed it. Two huge wet circles right where my boobs live. It looked like I'd forgotten to put in my breast feeding pads and was leaking. Turns out if you carry your water bottle kinda up high and don't pay attention to how hard you squeeze it sometimes, it can leak. It can leak in some very noticeable spots.

Thanks for the support Chicago.

Anyway, the Gatorade throwing guy immediately said, "Oh shoot! I thought that was the one filled with water." It didn't matter, I was so hot he could have doused me with cool kerosene and I would have been fine with it.

By the time I finished my run I headed straight for the lake, stripping off my shoes and shirt as I walked, fairly certain this song started playing all around me in a building thing of song wonder(thanks weird running hormones) and dove into the freezing, icy, colder-than-actual-ice lake, and it was amazing. It was such a shock that it knocked the breath out of me and when I came up for air gasping, with a weird ice cream headache, an old woman who was inching her way in said, "Did you swim here dear?" I wanted to ask her where she thought I swam from, or just tell her yes, yes I did - but instead I just said no, I was hot, to which she said, "F yeah it is." She censored herself for me, which of course made me start to giggle and then I knew it was time to get home and eat something (everything) in my house.

It was really sucky most of the time, and I certainly don't ever want to run in that sort of heat again, but the lake, Gatorade guy, and the lady totally made it all seem worth it. Totally f-ing crazy. But worth it.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Not Hannah Montana

So, Gige went ahead and had that baby! She was all, "Ok, I'm ready. I don't wanna wait two weeks." And Hailey was all, "Fine, lets get that mucous plug out HOW ABOUT THAT?!"

We talked yesterday for an hour, her doctor said she was 3cm dilated but that it would probably be a few days and she should just go ahead and go to work tomorrow. So we were chatting about nothing really, maybe a little bit about how her life was going to change FOREVER, but other than that it was all - I'm so excited to see Time Traveler's Wife, and how she liked the smell of her loofah (seriously, the loofah took up a huge chunk of the conversation; we don't accomplish much in the way of world peace when we talk, but we do solve a lot of the world's problems regarding good things to smell).

Anyway, I started to get hungry and Gige was like, "Yeah I have to go to the grocery store but **yawn** I'm tired." Cut to a few hours later and she's bringing a human to life. All I did was vacuum. It seemed like a good accomplishment at the time but she just haaaaad to one up me.

And holy crap she did.

Goopy eyed babies are so dang cute. It makes my ovaries hurt just looking at this.

I got Bryan's text that he was a dad right before I went on my run this morning, and then proceeded to immediately lose my cool and cry at a stop sign. A homeless guy stopped to ask me if I was ok and I just nodded and told him my best friend had a baby, and he then asked me for a quarter.

These two people....

...made this.

And that, is pretty fucking awesome.

Monday, August 10, 2009


So I threw my back out this weekend. (Because I'm 80 apparently?) And since I am the opposite of having my shit together when it's ninety in my house, it's the one time I decide to forget Advil exists. Normally I down that stuff like its M&Ms if I think I might get a headache, you know, someday. I once gave Gige a dose of what I take during a (sorry boy readers - or reader - hey Nels!) special lady week and she looked at me like I was trying to help her with some sort of friendly, way-too-early, Euthanasia.

Anyway, I made my way to 7-11 to get some Ibuprofen and when I walked in my neighbors were standing there chatting with the guy who runs the place, and who you have to scream at over the radio if Guns 'N Roses comes on because he turns it up so loud the wine bottles rattle and sometimes knock the milk cartons over.

"I used to!" I screamed.
"I love it!"
One of my neighbors walked up to us at the counter and high-fived me. I think. The second I slapped her hand I realized she was probably just waving hi.
"YOUR NAME ISN'T EMILY!" she yelled.
"It is when I get free ice cream from them."
"Nope it's totally not!"
When the song ended the volume got turned down but everyone was still semi-screaming, like when you leave a concert and are walking back to your car and you can hear some guy yell clear across the parking lot, "I DON'T CARE THAT YOU PUKED A LITTLE IN MY MOUTH. WHO HASN'T?"

I paid for my Advil and flaming hot cheetos, and waved to my neighbors and the 7-11 guy - waved like a little kid, up and down, something I haven't done since I was four - because I didn't want to have the same high-five/wave mix up again, which really just made me feel even more weird than if I'd just tongue kissed everyone goodbye. Just as I was backing out into the safety of oncoming traffic the guy said, "Emily! You stand up so straight!"
"Oh, yeah I tweaked my back a tiny bit, it's fine."
"You look so tall."
"It's probably just these pants."
"No, really. You stand up like that and you get a nice man."
"Uh. . . "
"Maybe you hurt your back, but you should keep doing it."
"I don't really think. . . "
"Yup. Nice man."

Thanks 7-11. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go lift a couch without bending my knees in case Ryan Reynolds walks by.

Also, have I mentioned Gige is gonna have a baby in like two days?!?! Ok, like two weeks, but that sucker is gonna fly by. She had her baby shower a few weeks ago and sent me some photos from it, her favorite being this one I like to call - "Amy in the background, discovers there's another pitcher of Sangria, and this one IS NOT getting spilled on the white carpet."

So excited for it I answer the phone, "Are you in labor?" every time she calls, and when she says no I hang up. Because maybe if she feels offended it'll speed things up.

Monday, August 03, 2009

Some Days We Talk About Politics And The Meaning of Life, All The Others - Not So Much

People always ask me if it's hard to be so far away from my sister (ok, people don't ask me that, maybe *a* person has asked me, and it's fairly likely that person was my sister herself, but still...) and I always tell them, No. Not so much. Not because I don't love that little sucker, but because I talk to her more now than I did when we lived in the same city. We usually talk at least once a day, but today was one of the ones where we talked five - oh yeah that's right, FIVE - times. Nothing thrilling happened, there was no major catastrophe or something exciting going on in our family that we just had to talk about (even that day we found out our older sister went off and eloped - for the third time - even that day we only talked once, and I'm pretty sure the rushed wedding came as filler in between talking about the latest episode of Weeds and me making her listen to James meow).

And from the following conversations it's pretty safe to assume the two of us decided talking to each other about nothing is actually making us dumber, just like when we read Twilight. Melon-sized scoops out of the brain.

Me: Hey what's up?
Me: What?!
Me: Unplug it.
Bub: I don't know where the outlet is.
Me: Unplug it from the box.
Bub: Oh.
Me: Did you do it?
Bub: Yeah. But, I just ate dinner staring at the blue screen because I didn't know how to fix it.
Me: Seriously?
Bub: When I eat dinner I'm supposed to be sitting here staring at something on tv.
Me: . . .
Bub: That's really sad. Isn't it?
Me: A little.

And then, later on. . .

Bub: What are you doing?
Me: Nothing. What are you doing?
Bub: Nothing.
Me: I'm lying.
Bub: You're doing something aren't you?
Me: James and I are playing with my magnet pen.
Bub: Oh, Jesus. . .
Me: It's so fu. . . he's so cu. . . you should see how he jumps . . .
Bub: . . .
Me: Shut up.
Bub: I didn't say anything.
Me: I hear you making fun of me.
Bub: You're playing with a magnet!
Me: You watched the error signal!

Tomorrow we talk about Michelle Obama's muscles and how to get melted peanut butter out of your favorite pajama pants - you know, the important stuff.