Interlude: Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas, all!

I hope your Christmas was as lovely as mine, and filled with excellent pie, many games of Quiddler (guess who came in third? that's right, dear old "rhymes-with-fatty"), and the annual familial kvetching about Lieberman -- all of which, of course, no Christmas would be without. And thanks for the socks, my dear relatives. I hit a new record this year with a grand total of 26 pairs.

Other news? Not to brag, but I got both a PedEgg and Push-Up Pro. That, coupled with my birthday Bump-It, is pretty much proof that my family reads my blog. (Shout out to DICK KLEM!) Here's a picture of my PedEgg (in my hand, duh -- the things lying next to it are my Push-Up Pros, but there's a better picture of them coming):

And my Push-Up Pro (I still, by the way, have no idea what the purpose of the Push-Up Pro is; however, some of the younger members of my family have found that you can jam one foot in one of them, and then push off on the carpet and spin really quickly [in the spirit of blogging/science/inquiry/what have you, I thought I'd give it a whirl as well -- much better than doing push-ups, let me tell you]):

While that's not the most flattering picture of my forearms, I think you get the gist.

In conclusion, dear reader, I hope your day was lovely. Now get some rest, finish up that pie, and get a head-start on those thank-you notes.

Rant #21: Holiday Letters

Before I begin, I'd like to apologize for my disappearance over the past few days; I've been quite busy with a number of things. Some highlights of the past five days or so:

• My birthday was lovely, thanks for asking. My father got me a Bump-it. It's marvelous. A blog will come soon.
• I matched my personal record from last year -- that's right, I went to Starbucks four times in one day. A total of over 7 hours.
• I read the most fascinating article about the Snuggie vs. Slanket vs. the Freedom Blanket vs. a $350 option made out of alpaca wool. Really, you guys, go check it out. It's heartbreaking, but **SPOILER ALERT** the Snuggie falls flat.

Yup, that's pretty much what I do when I'm not a'bloggin'.

In the past few days, I've been inundated with holiday cards. You would think that I would love holiday cards, because I do love mail. Most of the time, that's true. I love handwritten letters with little sketches of doves. I love witty little cards with political cartoons on them. I even love cards with pictures of the grinning family bundled up on top of a mountain, clutching their ski goggles, with a "peace on earth in 2010" message plastered in shiny blue writing on the top. I'm really not a grinch.

What I can't stand are the letters. These aren't warm, hand-written letters I'm talking about. These are the stapled, two-or-three page, single-spaced litanies about how this family is doing. They always start, "dear friends", and continue with "2009 was a busy/fun-filled/eventful year for the ____s!". Then they go on to the parents: "Greg had such a busy year! With work, the kids, and the occasional trip to the gym", (and here you know they think they're being all clever and warm and such), "he barely had time for his pottery classes, ski trips, bungee-jumping lessons, volunteering at the soup kitchen, helping out at the temple, training our new dog, playing the guitar, violin, ukulele, and didgeridoo!" It then goes on to detail exactly what Greg is working on on the didgeridoo.

And then we move on to the wife. And then the kids (if they're teenagers, their SAT scores are shared). Sometimes, if we're really lucky, we get an update on the dog and the four parakeets, too ("If you can believe it, our beloved parakeet, Lisabette, turned out to be a BOY!!! We were astonished when we took her (him, I guess I should say!!!!) to the vet for a swine flu immunization, and he said 'let's see how he's doing today!' We've changed his name to Carlos, after our little Margie's favorite Mexican writer!!!!!")

Look. It's not like I don't care about people's parakeets. It's just that I don't care about yours. If we were friends, I would know about your didgeridoo classes. If I didn't already know, quite frankly I'm not interested. Holiday cards are not a chance for your 'friends' to catch up with you and all your 'exciting' news. They are simply a chance for you to express well-wishes and season's greetings to your friends. If you really wanted me to know about your didgeridoo classes you could pick up the phone and call me.

I know there are some people out there who disagree with me. My own mother loves holiday letters. (I think it's because she likes to know what's going on in people's lives, though she refuses to use her FaceBook account). Take it up in the comments.

Rave #18: Childhood Toys

I find it quite sad that Oprah's retiring. It's really the end of the era. Because, you see, Oprah was the first true reality tv star; she was the first to talk about "normal people", and JoShmo and whatnot. She also made lists ubiquitous. Lists of books, lists of foods, lists of favorite things: Oprah did it all.

Now that Oprah's retiring, she's going to need a viable replacement. I hear David Letterman and Ellen DeGeneres are up for her replacement; thus, I am too. A lot of people seem to be rooting for Ellen. I guess then I could be the next Ellen. I suppose that would work for me too.

While clearly I've digressed, that was all meant to be an elaborate prelude for introducing my list.

Emma's Top-5 List of Favorite Childhood Toys, in No Particular Order:

1. Play-Doh. Play-Doh is the best. My specialty is a bear. Especially neon green bears. Those are my absolute favorites.
   
2. Silly Putty. I actually keep some silly putty in my purse at all times, just in case. (You know... just in case... just in case a silly-putty necessitating emergency occurs. Like I need to fill up a dam or something. With silly putty. Look, it's good to be prepared, okay you guys?! I was a Girl Scout). 
   
3. Chalk. My brother and I spent hours carefully divvying up our driveway with chalk, and making elaborate two-dimensional houses. I would draw in flower-vases and chimneys. My brother would pour water over them. Fond memories.
   
4. Biloonies. I don't know if all of you remember these, but I saw them recently in CVS and had to get them. They're these little tubes of highly flammable... stuff, that you dab onto a little straw and blow bubbles out of. Then you have these little plasticy bubbles you can bob around and play with. The only drawback is that you can't use more than half a tube or so without getting a splitting headache.
5. Hula-hoops. I'm the bomb at hula-hooping. I challenge any of you.

What are your favorite childhood toys? Go to the comments. 

Twee Update #9: Present

And today's twee headdress is...

Puns have been made all day, my favorite of which is "I'm honored to be in your presents". I love compliments that double as puns. They're really just the best of both worlds.

It's made out of a coffee grinder box, wrapped up and attached to a black headband with a smidgen of tape and a couple pipe-cleaner.

Shout-outs go to my muse and inspiration, Mr. S, as well as people who gave me materials. You guys are awesome.

Rave #17: Hannukah

Happy Hannukah, my dear readers!

That's right; tonight is the first night of Hannukah. (For those of you who may be confused, what with my Santa hats and all, I am, in fact, Jewish, and celebrate Hannukah, though I also celebrate Christmas with my mother's side of the family. Though I suppose I should say, to quote a lovely book on Jewish humor I received in 7th grade, "Jews don't celebrate; they observe. The Smiths celebrated Christmas. The Goldsteins observed Hannukah.")

Brief plot summary for those of you who don't know: Hannukah is the Jewish holiday celebrating the defeat of the Syrian king and the subsequent miracle (the candle in the holy temple burned for 8 days, though there was only enough oil for a day or two). That's right. Didn't even go to Google for that one. Right out of my own head. 

Contrary to popular belief, Hannukah's really not an important holiday. Most Jews don't even go to synagogue to celebrate it. Mainly, people observe Hannukah by lighting the menorah with friends and family and then ingesting carbs with friends and family.

I love Hannukah. In fact, I love it so much I'm going to make one of my infamous top-5 lists.

Emma's Top 5 Reasons of Why She Loves Hannukah in No Particular Order:

1. Dreidel. I'm the bomb at dreidel. I spin that dreidel like nobody's business. I also accompany my spinning with great gestalt and sound effects and groans and shouts of encouragement. I've been known to leap to my feet and scream "GIMEL, baby, gimme a GIMMEL!". I get pretty into it.
   
2. Gentiles. I love gentiles all year, but at Hannukah it's the best. They're always all, "May I observe your religious traditions, and have the wonderful opportunity to share your beautiful ceremony?" and I'm always all "sure, let's partake in the oldest gambling game!". Then I take advantage of their total lack of dreidel skills, and steal their gelt (chocolate coins). It's great.
3. When I was younger, my siblings and I would always come home from Sunday school with these elaborate paper-mache dreidels and Play-Doh menorahs, and my mom always whips them out during Hannukah and pretends that Sunday school was an adequate substitute for family bonding making Family Fun projects. It's a nice childhood memory there.
4. All the alternative spellings. Hannukah? Hanukah? Channukah? Chanukah? Channuka? Nobody knows. Thus, you can't get it wrong. Throw a C on that baby or omit it; pop an H at the end or not; go crazy with two N's, or stick with one. There's just no wrong answer. I find that so amusing.
5. As loathe as I sometimes am to admit it, my family's mildly amusing, and it's fun to spend time with them.

Any Jews out there? What are your favorite things about H/Ch-a-n/nn-u-k/kk-a/ah? Christmas-celebrators, wait for your turn. We'll have a Christmas blog post, don't you worry.

Twee Updates #7 & #8: Dreidel Hat

Sorry guys, I didn't have time to post yesterday. But it was awesome. Here's a review: 

I made it myself, if you can believe it. A paper bowl, a couple dreidels, a lil bit of tinsel, a few pipe cleaners, and a ridiculous amount of tape were all I used. And a bow. A bow at the top of the spiraly thing.

Today's twee headdress was a little more low-key; here's the picture:

Not my finest, but, you know, simple. Classy.

On a different note, I'm sorry I've been slowing on the blogging; it's been a pretty busy, hectic time for me recently, and between several trips to Starbucks a day and making dreidel hats I'm a busy woman. While I can't promise daily posts for the next week or two, after that we should be back to normal.

Rant #20: Certain Fashion Crimes

I'm not a fashion snob. I think we spoke about this before. I'm not all, "oooh, white pants after labor day, tsk tsk", or even "mm, shoes and bag clash, tsk tsk". I'm definitely not all "ack, _____ is so last year". That said, there are still some fashion crimes that annoy even me.

Let's make a list.

Emma's Top 5 Fashion Crimes, in No Particular Order, by Emma:

1. Leggings. (Shout out to KATERINA. I believe we had a deal...) Unflattering, goofy, and, above all, not pants. It doesn't matter if they're dark or white or acid-wash; they're still not okay. Your argument "at least they're not white!" falls on deaf ears, darling. Take them off. Take them off, take them off, take them off. Throw a pair of sweatpants on; if you're feeling up to it, be daring and go for the jeans. For God's sake, even a floor-length corduroy skirt is better than leggings.

2. Jumpsuits. (Shout out to BLAKE LIVELY!) You'd think this one would be self-explanatory, but evidently not. If Blake Lively can't work it, neither can you.

2a. Rompers, the jumpsuit's plumper, shorter, more risque cousin. Again. Blake Lively doesn't look good in it. Neither do you. I don't care who you are. Take it off. 

3. 80's throwbacks in general. This includes:

• Acid-wash. K-Fed does acid-wash. That should be enough to dissuade you from ever attempting it.
• Leggings. Let's just reinforce one more time that leggings are NOT OKAY. 
• Neon. Unless you're under the age of 8, you should not be wearing colors with the words "key-lime" "fuschia" "teal" or "florescent" in it. (Shout out to CLARE!). This includes nail polish. No highlighter yellow nail polish, please. We're not watching a boring movie on tapeworms in science class while fantasizing about Zack asking us out bowling; thus, we don't wear highlighter yellow nail polish.

4. Uggs with miniskirts. There are far too many tweens running amok in Ugg boots and miniskirts, or shorts, or, worse of all, dresses. It's unflattering; it makes their legs look stubby. It's also totally ridiculous. If it's cold enough for Ugg boots, it's too cold for a mini skirt. To steal a good friend's phrase, perioddotend. (You say it really fast so it's kinda slurred together, like "elemenno" when you're singing the ABC's).

5. Anything with a dollar sign on it.

Twee Update #6: Lego

Sorry it took until now to get up, but today's twee headgear is...

Another original. Made with a headband, a little tinsel, a couple pipe-cleaners, and a few PlayLand lego things.

Twee Update #5: We Are Santa's Elves

And today's twee hat is...

The elf hat.

Now, you think it's good now. But you, my dear readers, haven't seen it in action. For my elf hat not only looks stylish and oh-so-fetching, it lights up, sings "We Are Santa's Elves!" in upbeat, tinny elf voices, and twitches around on its own accord .

So pretty much, it's amazing.

My father actually procured this one for me -- I believe he got it at CVS.

Rave #16: As Seen on TV Products

Some (by which I mean, all) of the best products out there are Seen on TV. In my aforementioned interest of keeping my blog posts shorter, I'm going to make a list.

Emma's Top 5 Favorite As Seen on TV Products, by Emma

1. Bumpits. You stick 'em in, and it poofs up your hair instantly, a la Sarah Palin. I wanted to throw a video in here, but I don't think I can; you'll have to make do with this picture instead:

  My personal favorite part of this picture is her expression. It's as if this girl is saying, "Come hither, and touch my remarkably stiff yet playful hair, reminiscent of a mullet, and yet not, for I am a serious business woman with seriously coiffed hair, and yet not, for I have a hidden side with flowing hair and heavily made-up eyes that only you, my dear television viewer, are privy to." Yup, that's exactly what she's saying.

2. The Snuggie. C'mon, guys, it's now a classic. I want one. (Shout out to CHARLOTTE GROVE [c'mon, Charlotte, I'm all ready to monogram 'em once you get them. I have the daisies and the lettering and everything] and YMANI MONET, who actually owns one and is thus my idol in every way).

3. Spray on hair. That's right. It's called Good Looking Hair; GLH, by those in the know. Forget expensive weaves, or hair plugs; simply spray paint a lil' color right on there! Comes in silver, black, and white. And don't worry, guys, it's rain-proof, though not water-proof.

4. The PedEgg. I'm not posting a picture, because, um, ew? I will tell you, however, it will give your feet the "the incredible baby soft look and feel that everybody loves". It's also "ergonomically designed to fit perfectly into the palm of your hand". The commercial involves lots of seductively scraping dead skin cells off of feet and one slightly repulsive scene where aforementioned dead skin cells are deposited tenderly in the trash can.

5. Push-up helpers. Now, I'm not an exercise snob, as you know, but I fail to see the point of these:

You hold them while doing push-ups. And while, according to the commercial, grunting loudly and somewhat sexually.

What are your favorite As Seen on TV products? To the comments you go...

Rant #19: Inane Mass Emails

Sometimes, a regular blog post just can't sum up how strongly I feel about something. (It's rare, of course, but it does happen). And sometimes, I am forced to resort to the classic expression of rage and loathing: the limerick.

Stop It, You Guys, An Original Poem by Emma:

There once was a girl named E-Grace,

Who lived in a mighty fine place.

Her life in full swing,

Except one little thing,

A little thing Emma found in distaste.

For Emma got many emails,

That she found quite as painful as nails.

They were frequent and dull - 

Made her want to tear out her skull

Though her patience was that of a whale's.

"Help us save our concert hall please!"

These entreaties smelled worse than blue cheese .

Kittens and lace

"I lost my neck brace!"

It made poor E-Grace scream "oh GEEZE".

For the emails just never did stop,

"you're a beautiful woman" and other such schlop.

E-Grace got it, you know,

She knew she made people go "whoa!" 

But through email? Now that is just cropp. (**author's note: Use a British accent for this line**)

So E-Grace entreats you to stop it, you guys,

And dreams of your sudden demise.

She doesn't care 'bout your trip,

Or your kid, (smart as a whip!)

And hopes we soon will cut ties.

The End.

Rant #18: Foods I Find Weird

There are some foods out there that I just fine plain weird, for a variety of reasons. I'll make you a list.

Top Five Foods Emma Finds Weird in No Particular Order, by Emma:

1. Jello, because of the texture. It's all jiggly and wiggly and yet defined. It's so weird-looking
2. Celery. It's the sound. Celery makes this funny crunching sound as you eat it. It's like it's saying "crunch crunch, whisper whisper, listen to me! I'm a diet food! You burn more calories eating me than I give you! Crunch crunch!" I do like the taste, though.
3. Orange juice without pulp. Orange juice is supposed to have pulp. Pulpless orange juice is just weird.
4. Tofu. What is it, anyway? Soybean mush? It's the concept of tofu I find weird, more than anything else. Soybeans should not be pretending to be meat. They're not fooling anyone.
5. RAISINS. See rant re: raisins.

What foods do you find weird? You can take it up in the comments now, even if you don't have a blogspot account. Because I know you have an opinion.

Bee tee dubs, this is the shortest blog post I've ever done. Some people have been kvetching about how lengthy some of my posts are. I'm working on keeping it pithy.

Twee Update #4: Christmas Tree

We have officially veered into homemade.

It's attached with a hard black headband; you can't really see that in the picture. Also, please note the star at the top; I made it myself with two cheap bracelets and a little floss.

I'd like to thank Kat for the headband and the base, Martha for the tree (that I gave her), Kelsey for the ornaments and the hooks, Cady for the tape (pronounced "Katie"), and Ajayi for the floss. 

The ingenuity was all mine. 

Twee Update #3: Tinsel

And today's twee headdress is....

Now, I realize that the face blurring is getting progressively creepier. But you know what else is creepy? Beer-bellied 50-year-old Internet lurkers preying on unsuspecting (or in my case, probably suspecting) women. So we'll be continuing with the creepy face blurring.

I also realize that today's headband is rather tame compared to Tuesday and yesterday's. Sometimes I just need a break. Also, I'm quickly running out of purchased headdresses, so in a few days I'm going to have to move on to hand-crafted headbands and such. (I'll check Family Fun, of course.) 

Sneak preview for tomorrow: I'm thinkin' Hannukah.

Interlude: House-Keeping Stuff

Great news, you guys!

With a smidgen of fiddling, angst, screaming at the computer, and screeching with exasperation, I have managed to change the settings on this blog so that anyone can comment. You read that correctly: anyone, with or without a blogspot account, can now comment on a post. (Hopefully. If I really got it to work correctly. The Ludite upbringing is manifesting itself again.) 

So please, feel free to do so. It makes me feel really loved when people comment. And I love people who comment. (Shout outs to MARTHA and "TOFER", my two favorite comment-ers. [not really commentators, I don't think, but comment-ers. Is there a word for that?]).

Rant #17: Celebrity

I am a discerning woman; I am a woman of taste. (I'm pausing here for you to come up with a scathing witticism at my expense. If you don't, it's a missed opportunity. Kat, that's not funny.) And I think my taste in celebrity antics reflects that.

By celebrity, I don't mean "famous people". I mean people who are famous without merit. I mean heiresses and socialites and reality tv 'stars'. As a general rule of thumb, if someone's genuinely talented, I'm not interested in him for his celebrity value. I don't much care about Aretha Franklin's private life, or even about where India.Arie gets her socks. Pretty much, if I listen to your music or watch your movies or read your novels in an un-ironic way, I'm not interested in your social life.

But I love celebrity too. I love the concept that these people are placed on earth solely for my enjoyment and mockery. I admit that I truly care about Lindsay Lohan. (In fact, I have written a letter to Dina. Didn't send it -- I couldn't find her address -- but it was long. A good three pages. And quite diplomatically phrased, if I do say so myself.) I like my celebrities over the top and deliciously tacky. Simply 'weird'? 'Odd'? I'm so not interested.

Above all, I need my celebrities to have an edge of self-deprecation. Nobody likes a celebrity who takes herself seriously and honestly thinks people like her for her personality. With this in mind, I give you a list of my Top Five Least Favorite Celebrities, in No Particular Order:

1. Jessica Simpson. She takes herself seriously. In interviews, she comes across as so smug and self-righteous. She thinks she's talented. Someone has to slap her. Ashlee's not as bad (and so cute with the red hair! what happened to that, anyway?), but I'm still not so interested in her.
2. Speidi. I actually find them so disgusting I can't even value their tackiness and their desperation for any sort of fame. Their book was titled "How to Be Famous", but I didn't buy it, I'm so over them. 
3. Jon from Jon and Kate Plus 8. He's such a tool. Plus he's not even witty or intelligent, so I'm actually bored by him. It takes a rare man's personality to make 8 kids, Kate's haircut, and a 21-year-old girlfriend some people think is an ex-you-know-what boring, but Jon Gosselin does it.
4. Angelina Jolie. She's so gorgeous, and has such an interesting life, and I'm bored by her. I see her and go "meh". ( :)  Hi Daddy!). I just want her to give more interesting interviews. Secretive will only get you so far, honey. Make it juicy or go away.
5. Megan Fox. She's always so self-righteous and bashes women in all her interviews (ie, "Women are jealous", etc). She's not so attractive that she can be a brat to everyone. It's not that she doesn't have female friends because they're jealous; she doesn't have female friends because she's so obnoxious.

And now, Emma's Top 5 Favorite Celebrities in No Particular Order:

1. Paris Hilton. I actually think she's intelligent. She gets it. Her, Paris Hilton's My New BFF Season 3 Set in Dubai, is incredible. (Watch it online. You won't regret it. Trust me.) She waves to the camera, is charming and slightly ditzy and surprisingly witty in interviews, and fights with Lindsay Lohan, all while wearing what I suspect to be a Bump-it. What's not to love?
2. Lindsay Lohan. I have this incredibly intense one-sided relationship with Lindsay. It's hard to explain. See me in person for this one.
3. Lady Gaga. Just so over the top and ridiculous. Gossip Girl? She brought it to a new level of, to quote the esteemed Fug Girls (www.gofugyourself.com), crazy awesome. She wore this, for God's sake, and this. (Because, you know, black is always classy. Click on the links.) And give her credit here: considering her recent red carpet fashion, she's gotten much better at wearing pants. 
4. Nicole Richie. She's ridiculous. Her book is amazing; in the center, there are a good 20 pages worth of pictures of her looking seductively wasted and about to pass out. While wearing an obscene amount of eyeshadow. Truth About Diamonds chronicles her "friend's" downward spiral, and eventual turn-around of her life. It's awesome. Now if only Nicole Richie writes another book explaining why she named her poor kids Harlow and Sparrow, all life's mysteries will be solved.
5. Madonna. Sorry guys, I just can't help it. Plus, she works out so much. I admire anyone who works out that much. And who has those arms.

What do you guys think? Who are your favorite and least favorite celebrities? Take it up in the comments. The word "talent" should not be used, unless in the sentence "she has done remarkably well for herself, for someone with no discernible talent whatsoever". (See above, #1: Paris Hilton).

Twee Update #2: Antlers

Today's festive wear...

The little dots light up and sparkle.

The only problem with this particular headgear is that it's a little small. (I have an especially large head. Thanks Mommy. That and the lopsided shoulders.) However, I am bravely persevering. 

Sneak preview for tomorrow: tinsel is involved.

Rant #16: TMI

Today, I went to Starbucks with two dear friends of mine, one of whom is the queen of TMI (Too Much Information). Now, if you haven't picked up on this by now, either through reading my blog or through, you know, actually knowing me as a walking, talking, Santa-hat-wearin' person, I'm not exactly the coolest cat in town. In fact, on this particular day, I started singing songs from a fabulous children's album, Philadelphia Chickens, whilst bobbing my head and giggling as the pom-pom on the end of my hat bounced. (Don't worry. We were sitting outside Starbucks.) I think it's pretty clear that my standards for conversation are not high. However, I do have my limits.

There are loads of things I like to talk about, and hear other people talk about. A sampling of my favorite conversation starters:

• Tool Academy,
• Paris Hilton (actually a genius; see me for explanation),
• Lindsay Lohan,
• parenting books,
• Madonna's various relationships,
• any and every Kardashian,
• words & wordplay & bad puns,
• Shakespeare,
• most books,
• anything I've blogged about

Then there are the things that I'm reluctant to talk about, and probably won't have much to contribute to the conversation. However, these topics -- and your opinions on them -- don't really fall under the category of TMI; for example, the situation in the middle east, or movies.  These topics bore me, but don't make me want to hide under the comfy chairs in Starbucks.

And then there's TMI. Too Much Information. Some things I just don't want to hear. Sometimes because it's boring and you're boring me; sometimes, what you're saying is disgusting and you're grossing me out. Whatever the reason, some things are just off-limits. This includes:

• your cat. Anything about your cat, really. I'm not interested.
• anything about any bodily function. Or anything about any of your child's bodily functions. 
• any more grousing than "ugh, I have the worst cramps", ladies.
• anything along the lines of "you know what's weird? Sometimes when I'm really tired and I fall asleep wearing my leotard and tights, and then, you know *gesture* and then when I wake up and I take my tights off and the hair is like all flattened out and it's really gross."

I can assure you: if you think your own body is gross, I think it's infinitely grosser. Don't tell me, please.

Rave #15: My Santa Hat

It is December 1st. That means two things:

1. My birthday is in 15 days.
2. I am officially allowed to wear my Santa hat.

Oh yes. I have broken out the Santa hat. Right now it's 10:44am, and I've received 19 compliments. Now, I don't want to put a picture of myself up here, being a product of my generation and Just Say No and Internet safety classes and all, so here goes:

And some people say I don't know how to work Photoshop.

From now until Christmas I'll be wearing different festive hats or bows or head decoration of some sort. (Sneak preview for tomorrow: light-up reindeer antlers will be involved.) I'll keep you posted.

Some of you (shout out to LOMA LARNEY) are thinking, "you are so embarrassing yourself Emma." I say otherwise. I am not embarrassing myself. (Now, I may be embarrassing you, but that's a totally different situation). Some of you (shout out to KATERINA LOPEZ) are smiling indulgently at me. Some of you are sneering; some of you are smirking; some of you are beaming at me proudly (shout out to TILDA SWINTON, my idol. You go girl. You ROCK that glittery cape). Whatever your response, I'm okay with it. For I am a blogger.

Is it a little twee? Absolutely. Does Clare think it's tacky? Yup. Does Loma think it's embarrassing? Sure. Do I brighten people's days? Maybe. But the most important question is: does it make me happy? The answer to that is clear. Yes. Yes, a twirly Santa hat does make me happy. And isn't that what really matters? (That's the end of the rhetorical questions for today, promise.) 

A brief note on my new favorite word, "twee". The official definition, according to my computer's dictionary, is "excessively or affectedly quaint, pretty, or sentimental". Most of the time it has a negative connotation. When I use it in reference to decorations or fruit baskets, you can normally assume I'm being condescending. When I'm using it in reference to myself, it normally has a positive connotation (ie, "But whyyyyy can't you give me that last cookie? I'm adorable and winsome and oh so twee!")

**Edit: the day is over. I actually only wore the Santa hat until 3:30 or so, when I had my Pilates class (HA, but another post) and thought I ought to take it off for that, so put on a little athletic red-and-green bow in its stead. So, from 7-3:30 or so, I received exactly 31 compliments on it. Let's see how we do tomorrow on the reindeer antlers.**

Rave #14: Microwaves

I don't mind cooking, but I also don't like it. I share my mother's mentality towards cooking: I cook to make edible food. And as chores go, it's preferable to ironing.

That said, I love microwaves. I think they're the most brilliant invention ever. My first year at boarding school, I became remarkably adept at making anything and almost everything in the microwaves. (My specialty then was a simple baked potato with broccoli and melted cheese. Now, one of my staples is a snazzy pea-and-chicken teriyaki dish. You have to actually grill the chicken beforehand, though. I don't recommend cooking meat in the microwave. There are limits, I am forced to admit.)

Microwaves are great. Ya'll know of my love for lists; let's make one.

A List of Why I Love Microwaves, by Emma:

• Vegetables are actually better when cooked in the microwave. It's faster, so they retain their flavor better, and you don't add salt and butter and stuff to them since they're fine on their own. Just a little smidgen of pepper and I'm good to go.
• It's so dang fast.
• I don't need to risk my life with a stove. I am not good with hot surfaces. Even with microwaves, I've had my share of incidents. (Let's just say that no matter what the Internet tells you, you can't make fried eggs in the microwave. Scrambled eggs, on the other hand, are totally doable.) I'm definitely not responsible enough to handle a real stove or oven. 
• It's actually not dangerous. 

So there, "Marsha".  

Rant #15: Hovering Academic Parents

I don't have anything against neurotic parents. My one mother is on the neurotic side. When I was growing up, she made lists every morning on the white board detailing who's going where, when, and with whom. Color-coded, naturally. All our au pairs were terrified of her. But you see, she was never hovering. Neurotic? Definitely. Over-protective? Probably. Did she show up to my school conferences with a thick notebook, a list of points to cover, and sometimes drag me along? Yup. But she never pushed me, and never bragged about me. I give her credit for that.

Recently, I was speaking to a young man applying to college and his mother. "What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Oh, we're looking for a strong law program," his mother replied chipperly. "We're visiting Yale tomorrow."

"Oh." I replied. "So, Liad, what about you?" His mother looked confused. I smirked.

Parents: you are not applying to college. (Shout out to SAM, who hates bolding and italicizing.) I know that you have no fulfillment in your own life, forcing you to spend your days having brunch with the girls, and living vicariously through your 18-year-old son. I know. I get it. But it's still not okay.

So stop telling me where your kids are applying to college. Frankly, I couldn't care less. I don't ask you; don't offer it up. And for God's sake, stop telling me your kid's score on the SAT. Even if he almost got a perfect score on the math section, I don't care. Likewise, I don't care about how impressed the crew coach at Duke was with her. Even if she got into Harvard, I don't want to hear about it from you.

As a general rule of thumb, actually, I don't want to hear about your kid's academics from you. Ever. If he's failing in Spanish? If he tells me, fine. (Not that any teenage boy would share that with me. I'm not exactly an open, comforting person. But that's his choice. It's okay if I don't know. It's better that I don't know that if you tell me.) But why should you bring it up while we're out for dinner?

If I want to know how your kid is doing in school, I'm going to ask him. Not you. I'm not interested in gossiping about your kid with you.

Rave #13: Family Fun magazine

As you know from my last post, (rant: Tacky Christmas Decorations), I adore Family Fun magazine. 

I don't have children, and I'm not married. I'm not looking to start a family any time soon, either. And yet I spend hours upon hours pouring over Family Fun, fantasizing about making little paperclip-and-eraser farm animals. Actually, though, I'm not fantasizing about making little paperclip-and-eraser farm animals with little adoring children. I want to make little farm animals by myself. I want to sit down at my kitchen table with Family Fun and unlimited craft supplies, and make miniature menorahs out of popsicle sticks until I get tired and have to take a break and eat my whole-wheat sandwiches with the crusts cut off but with little carrot shavings added in the shape of a tail, giving the whole sandwich the appearance of a turkey. (See my last post for the explanation behind why, exactly, I'm so infatuated with arts-and-crafts. It's my mother's fault, and her lack of artsy-crafsty-ness.)

I don't want kids any time soon. Trust me. If you knew me, you'd agree. (Hehe...) Not that I'm immature; I'm just, ah, not ready for kids. And please don't suggest that I become a camp counselor or anything along those lines. I tried that once. Never again. (Though let's clear the record once and for all: it was not my fault that that child cried. He should not have been coming anywhere near me with that coal. And I was totally in the right to call that other girl a drama queen. You should have seen how clingy she was.) No. I want to do my Family Fun stuff all by myself. 

But I just can't bring myself to sit down at my kitchen table and go through all the Family Fun arts-and-crafts. Just call me self-conscious. And so, I will spend countless more hours staring longingly at pictures of candle-shaped cookies:

And, with that, I say good night.

Rant #14: Tacky Christmas Decorations

As I was driving home from a lovely Thanksgiving, I realized that It had started. Oh yes, It had started. As I drove along, I first saw some Christmas wreaths. I smiled to myself, thinking, "how lovely! I do love a nice wreath". I then saw a tree with those little white lights. I thought to myself, "how pretty! how nice that this season of joy and delight has started!" (I had had a lot of pie, and was feeling pretty lovey-dovey towards the world at this point). And then I saw It. The house. Not my It, but a different town's It: the one house that goes totally over the top, with the bright neon Christmas decorations and the total, absolute, unquestionable tackiness.

You know what I'm talking about. Every town has that one house, the one house that goes totally over the top for Christmas (and sometimes for other major holidays, but especially for Christmas). I'm not talking colored lights; although they're not my favorite, my own Nana dresses her tree in colored lights every year. I get colored lights; they're fun, bright, and attention-grabbing. No. I'm talking life size blow-up Santas and reindeer, and giant blow-up snow-globes. Just Say No to the giant blow-up snow-globes.

When I was growing up, there were 2 houses in my town that really decorated for Christmas. They ended up representing the two ends of the spectrum for me: the first house, owned by a family with small children, was decorated, but fun and classy; the second house, owned by God-knows-whom, was decorated with 12 glow-in the dark life-size reindeer perched gaily on their pond.

You see, I'm not a grinch. I love good decorations. The first house decorated well. They had obviously home-made candy canes on their lawn, made with hangers and pipe-cleaners. They had miniature wreaths on each fence-post, and hand-strung ropes of cranberries and popcorn decorating their porch. I was deeply envious. (Partially because when I was seven my mother refused to do those artsy-craft things I thought all real mothers did, leading to my pouring over Family Fun magazines longingly. Whenever I went on play-dates, little Becky's mother would suggest elaborate arts-and-crafts involving toothpicks and paper-towel rolls, and serve us dainty pretzel-sticks-and-marshmallow concoctions that looked like reindeer that I had seen in Family Fun. When Becky came to my house, my mother would shoo us up to the attic, and say generously that we could help ourselves to whatever was in the fruit bowl. But yet again, I digress.)

And then there was the other house. The house on the lake. The house itself was ostentatious, I thought in my seven-year-old wisdom, but it was infinitely worse during Christmas. For, as I mentioned, they had 12 glow-in-the-dark, sparkly, life-size reindeer perched merrily on their pond. They had a blow-up giant Santa, and a giant snow-globe. And so, so much more. It was (is) disgusting.

What's The House like in your town? To the comments you go.

A Brief Interlude: Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving, you guys! I hope you ingested obscene amounts of carbs, kept the familial bickering down to a minimum, and drove home safely. I did. And while Nana did decide that this was a good year to experiment with a mincemeat pie, I also won both team Hearts and Spades, so all in all I had an excellent Thanksgiving. 

Some of you may have been aghast that I did not blog yesterday, I know. You were sitting down for your Thanksgiving meal, but frantically checking your CrackBerry under the table to see if I posted anything new. I didn't. I've made an executive decision that I don't post on major holidays.

So now, as we enter the holiday shopping craze, I invite you to take a deep breath, and consider these four questions: do I need it? or is it just on sale? where will I put it? what will my wife say if I come back from CostCo with a ball of mozzarella cheese the size of my ample belly? And if you consider these four questions and then deem the 45-pound ball of mozzarella cheese necessary, I invite you to go for it. You can always put some in salad, eh?

Rave #12: FarmVille

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: FarmVille is the best virtual farming game on Facebook today.

For those of you who don't know, FarmVille is an application on Facebook (and if you don't know what that is I really can't help you). It involves virtually "farming"; you can plow land, plant seeds, and then, depending on what you plant, wait 2 hours - 3 days before you can harvest your plants. If your reaction is along the lines of "that sounds like such a waste of my time, Emma, go make some pies for Thanksgiving", you are oh so wrong.

You see, FarmVille is incredible. Something about it is so addicting. Is it the way you can arrange your peonies and rice and soybeans in neat rows without dirtying your hands? Perhaps. Is it the way my poor heart jumps with joy when I find one of my neighbors has fertilized my eggplant? (Thanks Eva!) Maybe. Is it the way I can dress myself in these adorable little overalls and pigtails (sounds twee, but my farm girl rocks those pigtails. Trust me). Maybe. All I know is that it is incredible.

Now, I get really into FarmVille. Some people just buy whatever seeds "look pretty". You know who you are. Not I. For I carefully look over each plant's information: the cost, the time it takes to harvest, how much you get per plot, and what the return rate is. I am not swayed by silly things like "it takes too long to harvest", or "I really like the way the rice looks with the water". NO. You need to plant whatever has the best return rate, but that's not the only thing to take into consideration. For you also have to determine how much money you're making in a certain amount of time and how quickly you can turn over the land. It's confusing, I know, but someone has to overanalyze it.

For maximum profit, I recommend a mixture of soybeans (15 coins for a return of 60! by far the best return rate out there), strawberries (10 coins for a return of 30, which is still relatively good, and they're ready to be harvested in 4 hours), and daffodils (not an especially good return rate or harvest time, but they're a good way to get closer to the "flower power" prize, which gives you 1000 coins!). 

And if you're in the FarmVille area anytime soon, I could use an elephant. That or a cow.

Rant #13: Certain Types of Snobbery

I am a pie snob.

I will be the first to admit that I and my mother's entire side of the family are total pie snobs. We know that strawberry rhubarb and peach melba are the way to go, and we mock cherry and key-lime pie eaters. With the exception of Thanksgiving and Christmas, we do not make our own pies; no, our taste is far too discerning for that. (Also, it would be awkward if someone spent 5 hours slaving over a pie, only to have it dismissed as subpar. It's less personal to buy them. Though during family reunions, with shrieks and accusations of poor taste and broken taste buds flying, even store-bought pies are far from impersonal.) I like pie snobs. I respect pie snobs. I will get into a screaming match with someone who claims key-lime is real pie, but I will respect my opponent.

Because, you see, some things you can be snobby about. Pies, for example. Or -- I have a good idea -- let's compile a list of things it's okay to be snobby about:

• Pie.
• Coffee. I'm not a coffee snob myself, but I don't mind coffee snobs. And when I say I'm not a "coffee snob", that's not to say that I don't enjoy good coffee, or I drink instant. No no. I love coffee. (See my rave re: Starbucks). I freshly grind my coffee in the morning. It's just that I don't hold a strong opinion on Columbian vs. Venezuelan vs. Argentinean, or wherever coffee's grown, and I don't mock people who add milk and sugar. (Except one certain family member; let's call her Aunt Mellon. Aunt Mellon puts the milk in first, and then adds a little, teensy smidge of coffee.)
• Cheese. While I'm not a cheese snob in the way some other people are, and can't really carry on a conversation using all the cheese connoisseur  lingo, I do love a good cheese.
• Literature. If you've read War and Peace, I give you full leeway to be self-righteous and obnoxious about it. That's a good 120 hours of your life you're never getting back; you might as well get to feel superior about it.
• Tea. 

And then, the things you can't be snobby about:

• Wine. Ugh. I can't stand wine snobs.
• Movies. Please don't prattle on and on to me about the brilliant usage of lighting in Where the Wild Things Are. Please eradicate the phrase "cinematic genius" from your vocabulary, or we can't be friends.
• Designer clothing. If you ask me "who are you wearing?" any chance of a friendship is gone. Likewise, if you inform me chipperly without prompt "who" you're wearing, you're an elitist social-climber, and we're not going to be friends. Sorry. (But not really).
• Music snobs. Now, that doesn't mean I can't stand people who appreciate good music; I can and do. It's just the phrase "well, I used to like X, but then they got popular and became all mainstream" that I can't stand. Just because it's obscure doesn't mean it's good. You don't get brownie points for educating me on a band I haven't heard of. Stop burning CDs (or burning onto my iPod [except for you, Martha, I asked you to, LOVE YOU!]) of obscure indie French rap "artists" for me. I'm not interested. And stop being so smug that you "discovered" some new obscure indie French rap "artist". Nobody cares.

What do you guys think? What are you snobby about? What types of snobbery do you find obnoxious? Take it up in the comments.

Rant #12: Tanning

Ahem. I have to be somewhat diplomatic about this one, as I have a certain family member who's in the tanning booth business. So, dear family members, I leave this up to you: Uncle ***'s not reading my blog right now, and let's keep it that way, okay? No need to bring this post up on Thursday while munching on carbs and feeling all familial.

Some people claim I'm just bitter about tanning because I turn red as a lobster myself in the sun. Meh, I say. Meh. That's really not it. I'm not bitter towards thru-hikers because I'm not athletic myself; I'm not angry at Beethoven because he's a better composer than I; I'm not annoyed at Holden Caufield for being angstier than I am. Some people think so little of me. No, my annoyance with tanning is far more complex than bitterness because of my own pallor. 

Now, I like lying out on the beach in the sun as much as the next girl, don't get me wrong. But I do it with sunscreen. Because I am afraid of this. (Don't worry, it's safe. I considered putting in a gory picture of skin damage caused by sun, but decided against it. Trust me. Click on the link.) 

There are only 2 reasons people don't wear sunscreen: 1) because they're lazy, and 2) because they want to tan. The first, actually, annoys me less. Laziness I get. However, this is just a case of making your priorities. Do you want your skin to wrinkle and shrivel, and develop huge ugly moles all over your body? And what about all those health-related effects of skin cancer? (I'm way too lazy right now to go do Internet research on what exactly they are.) Forgo making your bed in the morning; applying sunscreen is one thing you just have to do.

Now, purposely setting out to bronze in the sun's harmful rays is totally different from mere laziness. It's stupid. It's goofy. It's risking your life (and risking your attractiveness 15 years from now) for the sake of being a few skin tones darker. Nobody but you cares. No Prince Charming is saying to himself, "ho hum, I was going to ask that woman out, but now I see that she is pale and not the golden bronze I in my infinite wisdom and good taste prefer in women. Guess it's time to move on to her stepsister, Tiffany, she of the golden bronze hue." 

Self-tanning is a little different. Is it goofy? Yes. Is it a total waste of money? Yes. Is artificially changing your skin tone to something you feel is more attractive contributing to the shallowness and eventual demise of our society? Yes. However, it's not dangerous in the way real tanning is. And so while you do look like Lindsay Lohan, circa now, (see below)

and you do look like this:

at least you won't get skin cancer.

Rave #11: Sunscreen

It sounds weird, I get it. But I love sunscreen (shout out to OLIVIA, my sunscreen buddy).

Now, obviously there's the whole health aspect to sunscreen (keeps you from getting sun spots, keeps you from getting skin cancer and dying a gory death, etc). That's important, yeah. That's certainly why my parents (mother) always put sunscreen on me as a kid. However, since then my love for sunscreen has surpassed the normal health paranoia.

I think first there's the whole childhood memories thing. Whenever my mom put sunscreen on me, she'd accompany it with a song: "Goop goop goop goop goop goop goop goop goop! Goooooop!" (She'd be happy to sing it for you. Ask her the next time you see her. Shout out to MOMMY!) Now, every morning when I apply sunscreen, I hear my mother's voice in my mind. (Awwww).

Secondly, there's that sunscreen smell. I love it. (Shout out to CAROLINE MCCANCE. God. Evidently I have a lot of sunscreen buddies). It's like the smell of the ocean and tacky beachside tchotchke shops and family games of Spades all in one. 

And then, obviously, there's the whole health thing. I don't want to get skin cancer and die. Or get skin cancer and get unsightly spots on my skin. 

So next time ya'll (shout out to LOLA, EMILY, and MARTHA) mock me mercilessly for my love of sunscreen, and for wearing sun screen in the middle of November, I shall refer you back to this post and you'll feel guilty for bashing my treasured childhood memories.

Rave #10: Passive-Aggressive, if You Do it Well

I've been called passive-aggressive more times than I can count. Normally I take it as a matter of pride.

You see, some people do passive-aggressive well. And then some people do it cattily and immaturely. Keying someone's car because he parked diagonally across two spots? That's catty. Sprinkling your ice cream with salt because your roommate keeps stealing it? Totally legitimate and totally admirable. It's a fine line, but I think I walk it well. 

The key to passive-aggressive is not to rely too heavily on it. See, I know when to be direct, and when to be passive aggressive. Let me give you some scenarios of when to be passive aggressive, and when to not:

My roommate: Do you mind me practicing piano at 6:30 in the morning?

Me: Yes.

(shout out to MARTHA, who always wore headphones, and never woke me up in the mornings. Except for those few times she fell off her piano stool because she never was able to set it up correctly. But that was hilarious, so I was okay with it.)

If something is truly bothering you, you can't be passive-aggressive about it. Anybody I have the slightest interest in being friends with can ignore passive-aggression in a scenario like that. Leading to a conversation like:

My roommate: Do you mind me practicing piano at 6:30 in the morning?

Me: Oh, no no, not at all. I mean, I know you have a lot of work and are really busy, and sometimes don't have time to practice piano until the morning of your lesson. I'm really busy too; sometimes I barely have time to sleep! So no, it doesn't bother me.

My roommate: Great! I'm thinking of taking drum lessons, by the way.

Sometimes you just have to be direct.

Here are my basic rules for passive-aggression:

1. Know whom you're dealing with. Know what your relationship is like. I have one friend who's absolutely brilliant at passive-aggressive (you know who you are, bunny), but I won't take passive-aggressive from most other friends. 
2. Don't lay it on too thick, or people will roll their eyes.
3. Don't do it all the time. Save it for the moments when you're going for a real guilt-trip.
4. Don't always expect it to work, meaning don't always expect to get your desired outcome (a companion to the 5-hour-long Hemingway reading, someone to sample your new homemade tofu, etc). Often, your victim will be wracked with guilt for days to come having denied you. This sometimes is way more fun than whatever your initial desired outcome was.
5. Don't put on a pitiful puppy dog face while being passive-aggressive. That's just too much.

If you have any doubts on whether or not you're pulling off passive-aggressive, you're not. If you're not sure you're doing it well, don't do it. 

And please, stop denying your passive-aggressive tendencies. Rock it. When someone calls you out, look at them innocently and say, "I know not of what you speak". Then smirk. Don't instinctively go to passive-aggressive when you don't get your way. It's a tool. Don't overuse it.

Thoughts? Opinions on passive-aggression? Stories of your mother's infamous guilt trips? To the comments you go.

Shout out to EVA, my MUSE and INSPIRATION.

Interlude: Smiley Emoticon

Words cannot express my delight. And thus, I am forced to resort to the classic sign of extreme joy: the smiley emoticon.

:)

Why, you ask, do I use the smiley emoticon? Because, my dear friends, today I have hit 100 profile views. (And I'm relatively sure that no more than about 50 are mine).

I'm speechless with delight.

:)

Oh so speechless.

:)

Have a nice day. Because I LOVE YOU, DEAR READERS.

Rant #11: Poor Driving Etiquette

There are so many things drivers do that drive me crazy. Here are a few the worst.

1) Taking two parking spots. It is beyond obnoxious, especially when They do it in a crowded parking lot, in two good parking spots. If you're so maniacally protective of your lump of metal, go double-park it far, far away. And don't argue that it's some spiffy vintage car with some jungle animal in the cat family name. Nobody cares. Whenever I see a car taking up 2 spots, it takes all my maturity and self-control to resist the urge to leave an angry note and key it. (I do resist the urge, but is is dang hard. [I try not to swear on this blog. Both because it's stupid to swear on the Internet where everyone has access to your blog, including your boss and possible employers, and because my mother is a follower and I don't want to disappoint her after my grades freshman year in high school.]) At Stop & Shop I always drag a shopping cart really, really close to the car. Just to worry 'em a bit. 

2) Texting while driving. It is beyond stupid. Put the damn phone down. There is literally no excuse for texting while driving, or for checking your email on your Crackberry (shout out to MY FATHER). If you truly think that it's a life-or-death situation that can only be resolved by your quick wit and tapping fingers, pull over to the side of the road and text to your heart's content.

3) Tailgating. I don't get it. Is it supposed to encourage me to drive faster? Because frankly, I want to slow down (or tell whoever is driving and complaining about the obnoxious tailgater to slow down) to a snail's pace. Ugh.

4) Speeding. I'm not talking about going 65 when there's a 55 speed limit. I'm talking about going 70 with a 35 speed limit. Slow down. Wherever you're going, and however late you are, it's not so important that you have to risk my life. Especially teenage boys. So many speeders are teenage boys who think they're cool or daring or whatever, zooming around in the minivans they borrowed from their moms. I personally think that people under the age of 25 who speed should have their licenses taken away for 6 months.

5) Kids sitting in the front seat. My mother didn't let me sit in the front seat until I was 5 feet tall, 100 pounds, and 12 years old. I hit 5 feet well before I turned 12, so that wasn't really a problem. Before I turned 12, however, I had to make a concerted effort to gain the extra 7 or 8 pounds I needed to hit 100. (I did in time, don't worry. Hi Mommy! That's another adolescent story you missed until now.) So while I suppose I may carry some residual bitterness when I see some 11-and-a-half year old in the front seat, it's still unsafe. No, really, it is. They NEED to be 5 feet tall, 100 pounds, and 12 years old.

What do my loyal readers think? What are your worse driving pet peeves? You know the drill -- the little comment button right under this post.

Rave #9: Thru-Hikers

As I've said before, I'm not athletic. I'd like to be. But I'm so not athletic. However, I respect athletic people. Some non-athletic people complain that athletic people are all smug in their athletic-ness. That may be true, but I get it. I emphathize. If I were athletic, I would be totally smug too. (Whenever I begrudgingly decide I'll walk up stairs, and then at the top see someone emerge from the elevator I get all excited and self-righteous and then go have three gingersnaps. You can imagine how insufferable I'd be if I ran a marathon. Actually, that's why I don't exercise. I don't want to subject people to my self-righteousness). 

That's why I love thru-hikers.

If you don't know, a thru-hiker is someone who hikes the Appalachian trail in one season. The Appalachian trail is 2175 miles, from Georgia to Maine, and so takes a good 6 months to hike. (You have to leave in March or something obscenely early, since, you know, you don't want to hit the snow in Maine. Which will happen if you're too late).

I met a thru-hiker. His name was HellBender. I met him at a little station on the top of a mountain in New Hampshire. (A mountain, obviously, that I had driven to the bottom of with my family, and had spent about an hour and a half hiking up. HellBender was not impressed). I met Hellbender when I arrived at the little hut at the summit of the mountain at about 11:30, panting and sweating, and saw him sitting at the table, shoveling pancakes into his mouth. Having heard myths of thru-hikers (have you read the book A Walk in the Woods? I haven't, but everyone else in New Hampshire has), I decided to strike up a conversation.

As I sidled up next to HellBender (who, I must say, was remarkably attractive for someone who hadn't bathed in several weeks -- 19 days, I later found out), the first thing I noticed was the smell. He smiled apologetically, and said, "You're definitely not a thru-hiker. I like your shampoo." I smiled at him. "Sit down, sit down." I sat down. We chatted for a while about his thru-hikin' experiences. When Smoose joined us, with his pitiful, hungry look I knew it was time to break out the snacks.

Apples, oranges, grapes, and peaches -- I gave them all my fruit. HellBender and Smoose were quite appreciative. (Evidently what thru-hikers crave most while hikin' is fresh fruit). Once I had 'em all buttered up and full of red grapes, I asked to see their packs. (HellBender's was 32 pounds. Smoose's was over 45, which is heavy.) I learned more about their lives, which I won't share here, both because it's creepy and to respect HellBender and Smoose's privacy. (Though you guys, if you made it out alive and have Internet access and for some inexplicable reason are reading my blog, shout out to YOU! You guys are AWESOME! Congratulations on FINISHING!)

Anybody who can be bribed with fruit to share his life story is a friend of mine.

Thru-hikin' in insanely intense. They cut the ends of their toothbrushes off, because, you know, that's an extra .3 grams they just don't need to carry. It's hardcore. You need to be somewhat crazy to want to do it. It's not something that college students do because they don't want a job. I think it really does change you as a person. And while I, to quote my mother, would literally rather go to jail than thru-hike the Appalachian trail, I love the people who do.

Rant #10: Not Having a Sense of Humor About a Pet

When I went away to school, my parents got a dog on Craigslist. My mother named it Marley. And before you ask, yes. This was after the book/movie came out, and Marley was the tritest dog name around. Now, to give my mother some credit, when we got the dog his name was Charlie; however, that's my grandfather's name, and for some reason my mother didn't want the dog to have the same name as her father, so we had to change it. However, we didn't want to change it too much, so we wanted the new name to end in "-arly". But really, Marley? What about Farly, Mommy? Harley? Snarly?

To make matters worse, Marley's a cockapoo. A cockapoo. God. If I were a dog, I'd be so embarrassed by that. "Aww, what a cutie!" people say when I'm walking him. "What kind of dog is she?" 

"A mutt." I reply, matter-of-fact. "And actually, he's a boy."

"What's his name?" they ask, rubbing his floppy ears.

"Harley," I reply with a polite smile, and Marley and I walk away together, his eyes thankful, entreating me to persuade my mother for him to legally change his name.

Now, for all my kvetching about Marley, and for all of my jealousy issues centered around his and my mother's relationship, I do like him. He's kinda cute, in a doggy sort of way. And I think that animals are hilarious by themselves.

I hate it when people think their animals are little people. You should not be calling your cat "my darling", people. It is not a baby. It is a cat. Don't be dressing up your dog in little sweaters now. He's not cold. He has fur. You know why he's not cold? Because he's a dog. Not a person. A dog. 

And for the love of God, stop putting pictures on Facebook of your cat lying on your bed next to the remote, with the caption "i haz da POWA!". It's not funny. It's not clever. It's stupid. The cat does not have the power. The cat is just trying to take a nap, and you keep on putting the remote next to him and trying to orchestrate a "funny" picture to put on Facebook. Stop that.

Please stop talking about your animals so often. One story about how your dog knocked over the garbage can and made a huge mess and then you found him looking contrite at the foot of your bed with his tail between his legs? Fine. You can tell that story once, if it's under 60 seconds. A daily update on your hamster's caloric intake? A ten-minute story about how you had to take your cat to the vet because you weren't sure if his matted fur was just matted fur or something more serious, and then the vet told you how happy he seemed, and how good of a job you were doing reading Greek poetry to him every night and that's why he's such a well-adjusted young cat? I'm so not interested.

Rant #9: Restaurant Problems

Let me tell you a story about Lil Granny, for Lil Granny emerges once again, poking her wispy grey-haired head out of the door of her condo in Florida, and clucking in disapproval at the state the world is in nowadays. Specifically, Lil Granny is clucking in disapproval at the state restaurants are in nowadays.

For whenever Lil Granny goes out to eat with the grandkids, she finds it to be a dreadfully unpleasant, nerve-wracking experience. The moment Lil Granny shuffles into the restaurant, leaning heavily on her cane, the bubbly maitre' d' shows them to their table. If it's a booth, Lil Granny will have to ask to switch tables, for she doesn't like booths. (She finds them too constrictive; they hurt her back; there's no spot to stash her cane). When she politely thanks the girl for showing them to her table, the girl chirps "no problem!". Lil Granny rolls her eyes. No problem was mentioned. Why did the girl have to assume that Lil Granny thought that it was a problem? What happened to just saying "you're welcome"?

As Lil Granny opens her menu, Lil Bobby is distracted by the football game on the television by the bar. "Bobby!" she chides. "What do you want?"

"I dunno", he says, staring blankly at the television. Lil Granny sighs. "Oh, wait, yeah, I know. I want a hotdog." Lil Bobby always orders a hot dog. Lil Granny scans the menu, hoping that there are no hotdogs. It would be good for that child to try something new. But there are hot dogs. There are always hot dogs. Lil Granny is forced to concede this time.

She turns to Lil Sarah, and asks how school is going. Lil Sarah mumbles something that Lil Granny doesn't quite catch. "Speak up, darling", she admonishes. 

"IT'S OKAY", Lil Sarah screams in her ear. Lil Granny nods. The music is loud here. Very loud. How are they meant to carry on a conversation? The group of boisterous teenagers at the booth over screech with laughter. A man barks into his cell phone. And all Lil Granny wants to do is turn on her orthopedic shoes and bolt out of there.

Though in a previous post I've complained about poor cell-phone etiquette, that's not all the unpleasantness I experience in restaurants. So many restaurants themselves contribute to the rowdy, crass atmosphere with loud music, blaring televisions, and general noise. Why? I truly don't understand restaurants' motivation in playing loud rock music. It doesn't make it a more enjoyable experience for anyone. Even "mood music" can be played too loudly; I've been to one restaurant that played whale noises so loudly I could barely carry on a conversation. Whale noises.

And the louder the music is, the louder people have to talk to make themselves heard; the louder people talk, the louder other people have to talk. It's all a vicious cycle. 

Televisions? Please. It's totally unnecessary to have televisions in restaurants. All they do is detract from the conversation. Nobody would say that it's acceptable to whip out a book and start reading in a restaurant you're at with family or friends (shout out to EVA!); why, then, do people find it okay to stare at the television? I find it unbelievably rude on so many levels. Restaurants just don't need to have televisions in the first place. 

Lil Granny does not approve. 

Rave #8: Dinosaur Bob, and Other Children's Books

When I was little, my parents read to me every night (and by "my parents", I mean "my mother". My father sometimes read to me -- shout out to DADDY! -- but I greatly preferred my mother's reading. Because a) she had better voices, b) would get really into it and keep on reading aloud way past I fell asleep, and c) she was the one who made me food and I liked her more. JUST KIDDING DADDY). I had a lot of favorite books; and, sort of like what I do now, I'd go through stages where all I was obsessed with a certain book and only wanted to hear that. 

I love children's books, and I love being read aloud to. (I hate books on tape. I can't follow the plot. Though I suppose I don't really follow the plot when books are read aloud, either. I just like making people read to me. It makes me feel loved). As we enter the holiday season, and you have free time on your hands (HA, jokes, but skip folding the laundry and do what I say instead), I recommend you take a few moments to share some fine literature with your family.

Dinosaur Bob, by William Joyce, is my personal favorite. It chronicles Bob's adventures with the family Lazardo. (Bob plays a mean saxophone [that was one of my favorite lines as a child. I always had a mental image of this giant green dinosaur grasping tightly to a scowling, flailing saxophone]). I'd put a video of me singing the The Ballad of Dinosaur Bob here; however, I'm afraid of creepy Internet stalkers and I wouldn't know how to attach a video anyway, so that's not happening. Ask me and I'll do it for you though.

Dr. Suess is always a good bet. You need to get the rhythm right, though. When I was nine or ten, I would listen to my au pairs read to my younger siblings, and they always messed up Dr. Suess. There's a real beat and rhythm to his books. Green Eggs and Ham is definitely a classic; I love Oh! The Places You'll Go too (shout out to AJAYI, who lent me her copy when I was having a bad day. You're adorable Ajayi). 

The original Grimm's fairy tales are wonderful. Some are a bit gory, too, so they're excellent for the growling teenage boy at the Thanksgiving table (that slight twitch at the corner of his pierced lip? that is a smile you see).

What do you guys think? What are your favorite children's books?

Rant #8: PDA

This is many directed at teenagers (shout out to KAT CHMIELESKI!), though I suppose it applies to people of all ages to a lesser degree: please, for the love of God, stop it with the PDA.

Let's compile a list of the do's and don'ts of PDA. Of course, we need to specify the age group we're talking about here, so that'll go into consideration too:

Teenagers (and people under the age of 40): you may not:

• kiss on the lips in public. Ever. Not even a peck. Totally not okay.
• grope under the table, please. You have your whole lives ahead of you. No need to go at it like hot little rabbits right now.
• hold hands while walking around. When sitting at a table, fine. No need to clutch at each other while walking around the mall.
• prolonged hugs. Nothing more than 5 seconds.
• anything more than:

teenagers (and people under the age of 40) may:

• kiss each other on the cheeks upon greeting each other.
• hug briefly. Under 5 seconds. You can say "Mississippi" between counts.
• hug their parents/grandparents/other family members in public. Don't go home and be like "I can't hug you! Emma said not to!"

People between the ages of 40 and 65 may not do any of the things teenagers may not. However, they may kiss on the lips (BRIEFLY) at airports, if they are going to be apart for more than a month. 5-second-hug rule still applies.

People over the age of 65 can: do whatever they want (shout out to CHARLOTTE GROVE!). If they've gotten this far, they don't have much time left to go anyway. Let them enjoy it. They can have three slices of pie, too, and I won't even mock them.

Rave #7: Tube-Flops

Have you ever gone through the dreadful experience where your toes were sweltering, and yet your calves were absolutely freezing? That was rhetorical, because I know we all have. And day after day, I have yearned for a solution for this predicament. But now, my life is complete, for tube-flops are here (shout out to CAROLINE DILLINGHAM and someone who may choose to remain anonymous so let's call her MANDREA LOTHENBERG):

**author's note: this is my first ever picture posted directly to my blog. I do hope it worked. If not, here it is: http://www.tosh.ca/media/entries/SanukAd_TeenVogue_TubeFlops.jpg** 

You saw that right. They're flip-flops, with knee high socks attached. And just when you thought life couldn't get any better, shaBANG! and they come out with tube-flops.

I'm personally partial to the tan-and-white streaked tube flops, which have the additional benefit of making it appear as if you got into a gory shaving accident whilst wearing your tube flops:

Oh yes. Now if only Lady Gaga will wear them onstage with a giant sparkly red cape (shout out to BRIDGET!) on Gossip Girl, my life will be complete.

Remember, guys, my birthday's coming up... I'm a size 8.

Rave #6: Starbucks

Firstly, shout out to CLARE, who kinda sorta gave me the idea for this one (she wanted me to rant on Starbucks). LOVE YOU GIRL.

Now. I have complicated feelings about Starbucks. Some aspects are great; some are mediocre; some make me cringe inside; some make me want to scream and blog. My feelings are really very complicated. So I'll make a pros and con list.

Pros About Starbucks:

• Their little stuffed moose. Absolutely adorable.
• Their gingerbread lattes.
• the way they have extra cinnamon and nutmeg for me to add to my gingerbread latte.
• the background music.
• the mirrors are always very flattering in Starbucks bathrooms. They're angled downwards, so you look really skinny.
• the comfy chairs.
• at the Starbucks nearest to me, they have loads of board games and card games and stuff. So I can go, sit on a comfy chair, sip my gingerbread latte, and play (aka cheat at -- shout out to ANNIE!) Uno. 

Cons about Starbucks:

• Everything's absurdly overpriced.
• The pretentious drink orders. I can't go to Starbucks with my family because they mock me mercilessly. A certain friend who shall remain nameless (but whom I referred to earlier as "Marsha") always orders a "grande mocha frappachino with extra whip". I used to (when I was a young, naive, and un-self-conscious) order a "tall extra-hot skinny vanilla latte". God. In retrospect, I should have been slapped. Anyway, now I either get a plain coffee, a decaf coffee, or my gingerbread latte.
• The way everything's over 175 calories. Which seems like a lot for a small drink.
• The food is terrible. Absolutely terrible.
• This Via stuff they've come out with recently. Instant coffee? Please. I'm not a coffee snob (LIES, I totally am. Thanks, Mommy. That and the funny hairline. I really hit the genetic jackpot with you), but instant coffee? It's baaaaaaad.
• In general, it's a little overpriced and pretentious.

And yet, I go to Starbucks. Several times a week. (My birthday's coming up. A gift card would be a nice idea too. If you're still looking for ideas, even having browsed SkyMall online). And there we have it.

Thoughts? Opinions? Snarky remarks? Take it up in the comments.

Rant #7: Harry Potter vs. LOTR vs. Twilight

People should not be asking me, "Twilight or Harry Potter?" They are totally different. Twilight is awesomely terrible. Harry Potter is just regular awesome. The real question is "Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings?"

Now, my opinion here is pretty clear: Harry Potter all the way. I love Harry Potter. One of my many email addresses is "hermionewannabe". I spent the entirety of 7th grade writing Harry Potter fanfiction (don't judge. And shout out to CAYLIN, my fanfiction buddy). Harry Potter is genuinely well-written. Fabulous writing? Probably not. But absolutely above adequate. And the plot is great. Loads of hidden syntax and stuff to analyze. I love analyzing. And theorizing. My mother and I had loads of brilliant theories before the 7th book came out. We had an especially good one about how Voldemort was really Harry's grandfather. And we knew Snape was in love with Lily. And R.A.B? Please. Within 6 hours of finishing the 6th book, we knew he was Regulus.

However, my mother also adores Lord of the Rings. And while I never got further than The Hobbit, and could never really get into it, I appreciate that LOTR is good. (I think I'm forced to concede the the writing might even be better than Harry Potter). There's lots to analyze in there, too, which my mother and brother do with great frequency and amplitude.

So I won't growl at you if you ask me "Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter?", and will give you my answer. "Harry Potter or Twilight?" I might just come up with an elaborate plan to destroy your life, starting with stealing your cookies and blogging about you.

Comments? Thoughts? Opinions? Take it up in the comments.

Rave #5: Twilight

It may surprise some of you that I'm raving about Twilight. That's understandable. Because it is terribly written, totally over the top, cheesy, cliche, and generally abysmal. However, you're just going into it with the wrong mindset.

Twilight transcends normal bad writing. It's so bad, it's good. It's crazy awesome. The phrase "his smoldering eyes" is used with remarkable frequency. One time, you roll your eyes. 75? It's HILARIOUS. You have to read it; if you have read Twilight, and couldn't stomach the bad writing/over dramatics/Bella's simpering, you have to give it another chance. Twilight is the Paris Hilton's My New BFF Season 3 of writing: so bad, and yet so, so good.

Here's an example of some Twilight writing: "As the clock began to toll out the hours, vibrating under the soles of my sluggish feet, I knew I was too late, and I was glad something bloodthirsty waited in the wings. For in failing at this, I forfeited any desire to live." Intriguing? Maybe not. Hilarious? Most definitely.

So go for it. Read Twilight. Don't think that just because it's terrible writing you have to hate it. You don't. Love it. I won't judge you for it. I promise.

*author's note* Unless you start writing Twilight fanfiction and putting up posters in your room. Ironic posters are great. Don't be serious about it. Please. Then I will judge you.

Rant #6: Poor Cell-Phone Etiquette

Now, I have a couple of nicknames, but my favorite by far is "Lil Granny". I think the person who gave it to me (shout out to VERONIKKA!) meant it to be somewhat mocking, but you know what? I like it. I think it's kinda catchy. A good name for a rapper. I briefly considered telling people to call me Lil Granny, but then realized that I already have a blog and wear Santa hats, and don't want to go over the top with the tweeness of it all. Twee is good in small quantities. Anyway, I'm sure Lil Granny will catch on quickly without my help. I've always wanted a rapper name, though.

This is a lengthy introduction to a granny-esque rant: poor cell-phone etiquette.

There is nothing I find ruder than people on their cell-phones in restaurants. Especially teenagers. If you're nine months pregnant and your water breaks while you're at Starbucks, fine. You can call your husband. Keep it brief, but I won't begrudge you a 30-second phone call to your mother asking her to drive you to the hospital. Teenagers are a different story altogether.

Let's talk about texting first. I don't text. My parents never got me texting. (I'm not saying how old I am out here on the world wide web, what with all those creepy stalkers out there. But I will say that a friend told me that my blog read like I was a 35-year-old mother, and my immediate reaction was "YES! That's EXACTLY what I was going for!"). So many people don't understand when to put the phone down. Let's make a list. I love lists.

A List of Why You Need to Break Your Texting Habit (shout out to LOLA!)

• The inanity of so many of your conversations is astounding. It's totally unnecessary to have a conversation that goes "wats up" "nm, hbu?" "nm".
• I find it pathetic when people have a conversation about feelings/emotions through texting. A break-up should never be done through texting. Just pick up the phone and call. (Shout out to JOE JONAS!)
• It's incredibly rude to be texting when you're with someone else. It's essentially saying "thanks for coming to Starbucks with me, Emma, but I find this lump of metal more interesting than your conversation".
• It makes you look like Heidi on The Hills (shout out to YMANI MONET).
  
• Texting is for people who can't be witty in person, and need the extra time to think up some clever, flirtatious banter. 
• It's an addiction. 
  

So please, please, just stop.

Phone calls, too, are rude. Just wait until you're home. Nobody wants to listen to you schedule a gynecologist appointment in Starbucks. (Trust me. I've seen someone do this). Nobody wants to hear you kvetch to your best friend about your nanny, either. And if you say, "it's not a big deal, I talk quietly, it's just like a conversation with someone who's there", you're wrong. It's not like a conversation with someone who's there, because it's just you. Would you discuss your gynecologist appointment face-to-face with someone in Starbucks? (That was rhetorical. For God's sake, don't say yes. I'm already emotionally unstable right now, having accidentally spread butter on my bagel this morning instead of cream cheese.) 

Put the phone away, and enjoy your life. Thank you.

**Author's note** EMILY CARR, in fact, was the one who came up with the clever nickname "Lil Granny". Not Veronikka. Please congratulate Emily if you see her. She's incredibly witty.