Twee! 2010

As my long-time readers know, last winter I blogged about a series of holiday-spirited hats that I wore, a new one every day, from the first of December to when I left school on the eighteenth. You'll be pleased to know that I'm doing the same this year; however, many of the hats I'm wearing are repeats from last year. Thus, I'll only be blogging about the new ones.

WHICH, incidentally, today's is! (New, I mean.) Without further ado, I present to you the Green Tinsel & Mini Green Flamingo With a Santa Hat (as I have dubbed this creation -- trips off the tongue, doesn't it?):
One might argue that this is really more of a headdress than a hat, per se, which I accept. (Remember, last year I had several headbands/bows.) And since I know you're all dying to know the materials I used and the steps I took in the creation of this masterpiece, here goes:


Materials: 2 elastic bands, 1 green flamingo with a Santa hat pen (my mother found this one for me at the $1 section at Target), 1 small-ish tinsel wreath (green is best, as it looks like a super-classy lawn for the flamingo. Sorta)

Step 1: Make a ponytail on top of your head. Not on the side. Not a high ponytail. On top of your head.

Step 2: Wrap the ponytail around itself to create a bun effect. Secure your bun with the other elastic band.

Step 3: Place the wreath on top of your head. I had to rearrange it a bit so it fit better.

Step 4: Jam the pen into your bun. This look is probably only achievable if you have relatively long hair. Or, I suppose, you could pop one of those funny-looking hairpieces on and then jam the flamingo into that.

And there you have it! A look fit for a Christmas goddess.

Oh, and several of my readers might be wondering why I didn't blur my face out, the way I have with pictures in the past. See, I have decided that in order to really show off my hats I need to have my face visible. (The problem many people have with hats is that they let the hats wear them. I assure you, I wear my hats.) Also, this way, you can admire the way the light reflected in the tinsel bounces off of my cheekbones.

Stay posted for more twee updates!

Interlude: A Year

Dear Followers,

A year ago, I was sitting with a girl named Emily, studying for chemistry, talking about our Desktop Design class. She gleefully exclaimed that she was going to start a blog. I determined I would as well, and my blog would be better than hers. She did, I did, and it was. (I mean, hers was lovely, for the two weeks she had it, but we weren't all born to be bloggers. See First Post: The Inspiration.)

It's really been a year, you guys. And this is the 80th post.

Thank you all for following Insipid Rants on Insipid Things. I've loved writing here; in the past year, it's been incredibly fun, and an awesome way of distracting myself from my chemistry (now biology) homework. Shout-out to my dedicated followers, especially Carolines, Tofer, Mommy, Papa, Martha, Amelia, Tora, etc. Thank you, stay posted, and please comment.

Love,
All of us here at IRIT

Rant or Rave?: Gifts

I love receiving gifts.

Now, before you think I'm a horribly shallow person, let me explain. It's not about the gift; as cliche as it is, it's all about the thought and the wrapping paper. Knowing that someone was thinking about me, got or made me something, and then remembered to give it to me makes me genuinely happy. Though of course lovely, thoughtful, personal gifts are always the best, it doesn't really matter to me what the gift is. And yet, I'm not a mature gift recipient, since it's about quantity over quality for me. Unwrapping is my favorite. Stockings are my favorite part of Christmas, because they contain so many little presents. I would find it ideal if, instead of a small package consisting of a pack of hair-ties, each hair-tie were wrapped individually. Or if each sock were wrapped individually.

I love wrapped presents. I like admiring the neatly wrapped package, thinking of the time my family (mother and grandmother) spent hunched over the dining room table, tucking away the glossy ends, slicing their fingers on the tape dispenser, and wrapping the presents. There's something so aesthetically pleasing about a neat red package with a silver bow. I appreciate a nice wrapping job. I'm not a very good wrapper myself (I wrote "rapper" first, and corrected it, though I'm not a very good rapper either), but I like wrapping. It makes me feel like a good person, slaving over something people will destroy. (It's sort of like one of those sculpture-paintings monks make in the sand.) I also love unwrapping presents. Even when I know exactly what it is, it's the act of tearing off the paper that makes me delirious with delight. It's this savage, ungracious pleasure, the act of destroying the wrapping paper.

My problem is that I realize the vast majority of the world doesn't see gift-giving like that. I think most people would prefer to receive a connected pair of socks over having each individually wrapped. Since I love stocking gifts so much I struggle over what to get other, more mature people, who prefer useful gifts.

Some people are easy to buy gifts for. For example, my brother appreciates art supplies or materials to turn into sculptures. (For his sixth birthday I gave him Scotch tape. It was his favorite gift.) I also have made an executive decision to not get presents for my parents, since, you know, I'm a teenager without a job, so it seems kinda silly to use their money to get them presents. (I make them cards, as I've done from the age of 6. Pop-up cards are my specialty. I think they really appreciate it.) Children are easy to shop for, since they, like me, go for quantity over quality (though in general their parents feel otherwise). As you all know, however, it's pretty much impossible to find presents for some people. We all know those sorts.

And so, while I don't especially enjoy shopping for presents, I do it anyway. I like giving gifts, and wrapping them, and so it's really just the act of shopping I dislike. I also understand the concept that if I want to keep receiving gifts I have to give people gifts. I'm not unreasonable. I both give and receive. (At this stage in my life, I receive more than I give, but in principle I give too.)

Some people hate gifts, both giving and receiving. (My father is among that type, that being another reason why I don't feel guilty not getting my parents gifts.) And it is a real argument: a grown adult should buy himself anything he really wants. So it's hard, the question of gifts. Where do you, my dear readers, fall? Love 'em? Hate 'em? Ambivalent towards 'em? Take it up in the comments.

Rave #29: Retirement

Unfortunately, I have not yet had the opportunity to experience retirement. However, I'm confident that it's going to be fantastic.

My last blog post was on teenagehood, which I argued is nice. I'm not too worried about being an adult; while some aspects, like being able to vote, sue, and buy "As Seen on TV" products, I'm looking forward to, and others, like taxes, working, and it not being socially acceptable for me to watch "Gossip Girl", are less exciting, I think I'll do fine. I remember enjoying early childhood, and while I don't really remember being a baby in retrospect I'm sure it was lovely. However, one stage of life is the best, and that's retirement.

My maternal grandparents, Nana and Big Bear, are retired, and they love it. They live in a college town, and fit right in. They have way more fun than my middle-aged parents or my stressed adolescent friends. They are not the type of grandparents to stay at home, baking cookies to send to their grandkids (although, ahem, their eldest granddaughter wouldn't object) and watching soap operas on television. They're quite busy. They're both very active in their town's Learning in Retirement program; Bear's also very involved in Habitat for Humanity. They go on cool vacations, have dinner with friends, go to concerts, visit their family, and go on nature walks. Their lives are awesome.

My paternal grandfather, Papa, is not retired, but he's still enjoying life. While he's not involved in LIR he's been in school for as long as I can remember. It makes me happy, actually, because it's clear that he values learning for the sake of learning. (At this point, he's, what, 75ish, so he's definitely not defending his thesis so he has another thing to put on his resume.) Papa's very social, and has lots of friends. His life seems pretty awesome too.

Many of my peers are afraid of getting older. I don't quite understand why. I mean, sure, those in their golden years don't always understand technology, but so what? I'll use technology I like, and disregard the rest. (For example, Nana's cell phone is for out-going calls only, and we don't call Bear on his since he once answered it while he was on a ladder working on a Habitat house, but they love receiving emails with updates or pictures of their grandchildren, and are avid participants in the mass family emails when, for example, there's a lice epidemic at someone's school that must be mocked.) And sure, when you're older you get a little softer around the edges and a little rounder around the middle, but so what? You don't care by then.

I think the best part of getting older is that you learn what makes you happy. You're more confident, and you know yourself better. And when you're retired, you have time to pursue whatever makes you happy. Why not be excited?

Rave #28: Adolescence: Let's Enjoy It

As a self-professed expert on adolescence -- or, if you don't accept my expertise, as a real live adolescent -- I get it. Teenagehood is certainly not all swishy hair, square-jawed boyfriends, and perfect SAT scores. But is high school really a hellish place designed for the elevation and worship of the swishy-haired and to brutally stomp on you misunderstood, creative types? In a radical move, I argue not. I argue that we should appreciate our angst-ridden youth for what it is.

Right now, you might have zits and puffy hair. Your hair might be greasy, your face oily, and your braces humiliating, but you have to look on the bright side. Your metabolism will never be better than it is at age 15. The consequences of eating 7 bags of cheez-doodles will never be as minimal as they are right now.

Right now, you might think all other adolescents are worthless, fake, drama-ridden shells of humans. Only part of that is true. What I have found from my vast observations is that teenagers are far less fake than they pretend. Even with all that dark poetry of how they hide, hide from the world and keep all their pain inside, their misery -- all their deep pain, if you will -- is really very obvious. Not at all hidden. (I recently read an article in November's issue of Vanity Fair about various comedians' books; among them, Jim Norton's. In it, he recounts his time in rehab, and some of the poetry he wrote, intermingled with his later commentary: "I hid my pain down deep inside, I tucked it all away. Apparently I thought slicing my wrists and calling the FBI at 3:00am were exercises in subtlety. Not only did I not keep the pain inside or tucked away, but I wore it on my sleeve and irritated people until they acknowledged it.") Many an adolescent spends far too much time discussing her innermost secrets and the mask she wears to really be wearing any mask at all -- that is to say that her facade, when she bothers with it, is not very good. Now, this may seem to be a disparaging comment about my peers, but really it's something I appreciate, that nobody can keep up a good facade. It's really a positive thing. At adolescence, it's easy to tell what's going on in everyone's lives.

Right now, you might be miserable. I assure you, everyone else is as miserable as you, and that's a good thing. Adolescence is the only stage of life in which the vast majority of people are in the same nervous, awkward boat. As people get older, they tend to get happier and more self-confident, and misery loves company. It's better to be miserable with a pack of teenagers than to be the lone kill-joy at age 40. Right now, in fact, it's expected for you to be miserable! Go with it. I complain all the time about how tired I am, how stressed, how disappointed in the futility of life, and I totally get empathy. My friends are so with me, because they're tired, stressed, and despondent that this is all life has to offer too. When I'm older, I won't be able to do that anymore, because I'll be expected to be reasonably content with my life. How tragic. (Sarcasm, of course, because I too fully expect to be reasonably content with my life when I'm older.)

Right now, you might be desperate for love, and spend hours upon hours dissecting the minutia of every encounter with your object of affection with friends. Now, forget about the whole relationship drama (because the vast majority of teenage relationships just don't work) and think about these friends who are listening to you wail. As my mother has said, only in adolescence do you get hours upon hours of free therapy. (It might not be very good therapy, but the fact remains that you have people who are willing to listen to your analysis of the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled at you.) Once you're an adult, nobody cares.

In fact, this is a good way to look at your teenage years: once you're an adult, nobody cares. Nobody will care about what you wore to the homecoming dance, and nobody will care that your boyfriend didn't like your favorite movie. Nobody cares, and nobody wants to hear about it. For now, however, they do.

And so, I invite you to tell your friends all about the way your object of affection's eyes crinkled up when he smiled at you, because for now, they are genuinely interested. In return, listen to your friend's concerns about the shape of her knees and console her that they are as normal as anyone's joints. Let's enjoy adolescence while it lasts. See the humor in your lives, but don't step too far back to see it. Laugh at your life while being involved in it. Don't be too cool for teenagehood, because it's awesome.

Next post: Why Being an Adult Stinks and Why I Can't Wait to Retire.

Rant #31: What's in a Name?

Sorry it's been a while, guys. Shout-out to MAROLINE. All you Marolines out there. (Caroline has consistently been in the top 100 names since the Middle Ages. Fun fact. That I just made up. But I'm pretty sure it has. I just don't have the science to prove it yet.)

Speaking of names . . . (SEAMLESS TRANSITION.)

My dear mother has a very popular name among middle-aged women; let's call her Spam. When she was pregnant with me, in 1994, she made a deal with my father: I could have his last name, if she could pick my first & middle names. 

Since it's pretty clear who the dominant one in that relationship is, he agreed. 

And thus, she decided to name me Lily Clare, both being her respective grandmothers' names. She, being naive and young (30 -- perhaps she was more naive than young, then), thought she could share this information with her friends, coworkers, and family.

Among the people she shared this top secret super confidential information with was her coworker, also named Spam. Who was also pregnant. (Now, we all know where this story is going, because we are not young and naive. My mother, however, who has never read chick-lit in her life and doesn't understand proper pregnancy defense mechanisms, did not.)

Spam stole the name Lily.

She had no relatives named Lily, no history with the name whatsoever. Nope, that name-stealer just liked those four little letters so much she felt she had to steal them from my poor hormonal mother. And what's worse? In the course of her pregnancy, in the course of several conversations with my mother about diapers and strollers and car-seats and names and whatever else pregnant ladies talk about she had never once mentioned her intention to steal "Lily". 

When I was young, I wanted nothing more than to be named Lily. I loved the sound of it, the lolling slope of the "l's" and the finality of the "ee". I thought it tripped off the tongue in a way "Emma" could never trip. "Emma" -- a name so classic, so boring that I had to add my middle name in a desperate hope for originality: "Emma Grace". I would squirm in jealousy when I met people with interesting names: Juton, Summer, Shanton, Zamari. Cool names.

As I got older, I got more comfortable with Emma Grace. It's not an interesting name, but it's a nice one. It's a pleasant name; it offsets me when I'm not so nice myself. "I'm disappointed in you, Emma Grace" -- the smoothness, the comfort of the name lessens the harshness. Someone named Emma Grace can't be that much of a disappointment. It would be like a Polly being into death metal music.

Different names have different connotations, I think. Olivia: it's a smooth, comfortable name, a lot like Emma Grace. Someone named Olivia who goes by Olly: you can something about her personality, that she's chosen to diverge from the classic Olivia. A Martha who goes by Muffy, a 40-year-old Ted who goes by Teddy -- it really tells you something. Not always bad, but something nonetheless. 

My 4-year-old self was wrong. Double-l names (Lola, Leila, Lila, Lolly, and, yes, Lily) don't trip off the tongue; they roll. They glide. And I'm not a gliding person. My 4-year-old self was right, that I'm a tripper, but I was wrong about the name Lily. I'm not a Lily.

I'm an Emma Grace.

What about y'all? How do you feel about your names? Could you see me as a Lily?

Rant #30: Metal Baseball Bats

I'm currently spending time with my cousins (and some more distant relatives; I'll write about this fabulous island later), both of whom are avid baseball players. Over dinner, an interesting topic came up: baseball bats.

Now, in major leagues they use wooden bats; however, in kids' leagues country-wide they use metal bats.

This annoys me to no end.

Now, I was not an "sporty" kid. I like to think I was athletic in my own way; for example, I was -- still am -- unsurpassed in hula-hooping, and I held my own in jump-roping and musical chairs. Be that as it may, I still hold strong theories on how children's sports should be run. Since, to my dismay, there were no competitive hula-hooping teams when I was in elementary school, I did soccer. (I was not the best, or even average; in my father's words, I was a defining endpoint of the range of talent.) Did I harbor visions of myself winning an Olympic gold medal at soccer? Of course. I was seven. (I was also not so clear on the differences between the Olympics, World Cup, and Superbowl.) But was I led to believe I was any better at soccer than I was? Absolutely not. My coaches (Bella's dad) called me back every time I wandered off the field to pick daisies. They wouldn't make the cones a little further apart for me when it was time to do drills. They didn't tell me I was a superstar. And in the face of a daisy-free ponytail, a mother who refused to slice the oranges for a team snack, and a total lack of talent, I persevered.

I was not aided and abetted by a metal bat that led me to think my swing was more powerful than it really was. (Or ... whatever the equivalent of that would be in soccer. I never really picked up on all the rules either.) I never really believed I was good at soccer. I just believed that I'd get there, through lots of practice and an up-beat song and a montage involving lots of panting, wiping sweat from my brow, and soulful looks at the camera. No self-delusion for me.

I feel somewhat angry towards leagues that give kids metal bats, but, more than that, I feel sad for the kids. I imagine that one day that kid will pick up a wooden bat for the first time, and swing, and realize that he's not a superstar. He was never going to be a superstar, because in the major leagues, you need to use a wooden bat and he can only use a metal bat. (Also in my imagination the ball can only go about half as far with a wooden bat as with a metal one. Of course I have no factual support for that, but I'm really bonding with my imaginary kid here who grew up hitting with a metal bat so you'll have to excuse factual slip-ups.)

I just don't get why they want kids to practice with metal bats. Isn't it setting them up for failure? Am I the only person in the entire world who's concerned? Comfort me, dear readers. Make me understand.

Rant #29: Excerpts from My RV-ing Journal

As you know, earlier this summer (at the beginning of July) I went on a trip with my extended family to Michigan. To go RV-ing. My dear friend Caroline entreated me to keep a journal documenting my experience, and I did so. Now, I would like to share some excerpts with you.

Keep in mind I'm not as witty when I'm writing in a journal as I can be when I have time to go back and edit.

Tuesday, July 6th, 9pm:

Upon departing from the plane, the pilot chirped, "Make it a great day!". I thought that was deep, and, for several minutes, pondered his meaning, and decided I would make it a great day. I smiled benevolently at my mother. She raised her eyebrows. When the teeny-bopper with the minuscule skirt rammed into me, glared at me, and resumed texting furiously, I thought, "oh, foolish, unfortunate child; she has not learned the secret I know -- that is, that one has to MAKE it a great day", and said "excuse me" sincerely.

And then, I saw a sign. It read "Welcome to Mackinac. Make it a great day!".

And I promptly strode by that teeny-bopper, rammed my shoulder into her, and smiled sweetly.

You see, if it's that town's slogan, it can't also be the secret to happiness. That my pilot was an angel sent to teach me a secret I can believe. But that an entire town in Michigan got to hear the secret before he told me? Please. False prophet or a tourist gimmick.

Friday, July 9th, 11am
Currently in car w/ Nana, Bear, (my mom's parents), & Uncle Sport (mom's brother). We're driving from Sault Ste. Marie to Escanaba, where we'll pick up our RVs and depart for that segment of our journey. For the past hour and a half, Nana and Uncle Sport have been discussing Nana's taste in music & why she doesn't listen to anything made in the past 40 years. (To summarize: Nana doesn't like bands; she likes good ol' soloists, like the ones from her youth. Nana also dislikes guitars or "yeah yeah"s or "noisiness". Uncle Sport agrees that there's some of that, but also encourages her to try some modern stuff too, as many recent artists aren't "noisy" the way she claims. Like Elvis, he suggests. Or the Beatles. You know. Recent stuff.) Now they're debating over how loud music should be played. The phrase "oral assault" was just used. As was "the 1812 overture SHOULD be loud". Not sure how that fit into the conversation. I'm kinda drifting in and out here.

I wonder what's going on in the other car.

So last night, GP1, GP2, and I shared a hotel room. I asked the concierge with an eyebrow raised if that was okay. She assured me it was. My father glared at me to stop talking. I asked, "you know I'm fifteen?". She nodded and looked confused. (*comment deleted because it's not very nice -- thus is the trouble with sharing your innermost diary on the World Wide Web*).

I figured that I had taken a self-defense class, so I'd be fine, and so I shut up. Evidently laws don't apply in Michigan. I considered asking the concierge for a lottery ticket or directions to the nearest bar, but resisted the urge.

There was then a bit of dissension in room 308 over the remote control. My mom's trying to bribe us with an elaborate check minus/check plus check system, rewarded on basis of good behavior, with the winner after our first 3 days in Michigan getting the grand honor of having his first choice of beds in the RV. (First choice, that is, after my grandparents, parents, & uncle. So 6th choice.) However, yesterday at lunch my mother casually remarked that I, having received check minuses for the last 2 days, was essentially out of the running for 1st or 2nd choice. So I'm pretty much free to be a total brat with no repercussions. I love it when my mother's attempts at bribery result in chaos. This check system was doomed from the start, though, since the only prize at the end was a CHOICE OF BEDS. I mean, for God's sake, it's an RV. All the beds are narrow and uncomfortable. Personally, I think that I should win triple check-pluses for being the first to recognize that. Next time my mom should try bribing us with cash.

Saturday, July 10th, 11:20am
*Editor's Note: I started this entry by drawing a really detailed diagram of the RV, detailing who's sleeping where, but unfortunately am unable to share it here. The gist of it's that I shared an RV with Nana & Bear (mom's parents) and GP2 (7-year-old sister), while my parents, Uncle Sport, and GP1 (11-year-old brother) were in Big Rig A.* Yesterday evening, once we had gotten our RVs:


and settled into our campground for the night, I hitchhiked for the first time.

You see, Uncle Sport and I hiked to the far end of the campground to pick up some firewood (that's right, to make a fire; we're pretty intense campers, I'm telling you) and ice. Once we got there, however, we realized Uncle Sport had forgotten that we would have to carry the wood & ice BACK. I was all ready to strap the wood on top of Uncle Sport's head when he strode over to a parked minivan, brazen as could be.

"Excuse me," he said to the attractive 35-year-old woman and what looked to be her mother, "we're staying at campsite 73 and misjudged how heavy this would be. Would you mind --"

"Not at all!" the woman chirped. "Just put it in the trunk and hop in the back." Uncle Sport did just that and smirked at my horrified expression. I reluctantly clambered in next to him. As we rode to campsite 73, Uncle Sport flirted with the woman (he's 41 and single and living in Singapore, all 3 to Nana's dismay) and I prayed silently. We made it back alive, by the grace of God, but who knows what could have happened? I don't even want to think about it.

Though in retrospect, I DID take a self-defense class. I probably could have broken their noses or something. But Uncle Sport would have been on his own. Officer D didn't teach us how to protect someone else.

July 10th, 3:45pm
Stopped at gas station on way back from Fayette (iron mining town; just my dad & I went, and the rest of the family didn't miss much). The gas station had neither of People magazine for me nor a New York Times for my dad. It did, however, have a remarkable supply of beer and $5 wine, as well as an ample display of porn and chewing tobacco.

Not [east-coast state we live in; you didn't think I was going to share THAT, did you?! I totally took an Internet-safety class too]. So my dad picked up several six-packs of beer, and moved the eggs out of the refrigerator so they would all fit. He also got some more wood, because we're campers now, and we go through a lot of wood. And evidently the wood Uncle Sport & I bought yesterday was obscenely overpriced at $4.50 a bundle. The gas station wood was only $5 for a REALLY BIG, Costco-sized bundle. My dad assured me that it's an investment.

It's gone from fun, driving in the RV, to being acutely embarrassing clambering down at epitomizing white trash (Uncle Sport's phrase, not mine) every time I go to a gas station in search of a People magazine. Or to a Hilton in search of a decent bathroom.

Luckily the windows are tinted. I think.

Sunday, July 11th, 9:30pm
Lovely dinner of cheeseburgers, carrots (slightly undercooked to Uncle Sport's exacting standards), & salad. GP2's bonded with several girls at this campground, one of who (Hannah, age 11) informed me that while most teenagers are mean to her I was very nice.
It kinda made my day.

Because you know what? I AM very nice. I really am. And if you ever doubt that, you can just ask Hannah. She'll vouch for me.

Monday, July 12th
After lunch, we went to yet another lighthouse, with a dinky museum attached. Equally boring, though we were greatly amused by a small sign in front of the museum: "We ask our guests to please turn off their cell-phones."

"Please," my dad snorted, "As if anyone has service". Sure enough, none of us did. And none of us turned off his cell-phone.

Tuesday, July 13th, 11am
The greater falls were pretty, and we had to take a rowboat out to get to them. A certain contingency of our group didn't want to spend an extra $12 to rent another boat, however, so all 8 of us crammed into the 5-person boat. It sunk dangerously low into the water, but we made it across without incident. I also got GP2 to believe that all the foam near the waterfall was soap bubbles, from people further up the river who had bathed in it, leaving a soap residue. So all in all the greater falls were quite enjoyable.

Tuesday, July 13th, 9pm
This afternoon at approximately 3pm we landed here in the Munising tourist park. My mother claims that this is posher than our other option, but I'm not so sure. We have bathrooms here that flush, but those showers SO aren't doing it for me. We're spending 2 nights here (tonight & tomorrow, Wednesday, night), and I took a shower this morning, so I figure that if I'm careful I can make it to Thursday afternoon without showering, though it's a stretch. Quite a stretch.

After we arrived, I took a walk on the beach. As my mother's pointed out over 17 times in the past week, it's incredibly weird to be along the great lakes, with the rocks & sand & waves, and to not smell that salty sea-water smell. (Because, you know, the Great Lakes are lakes, not oceans, and thus have fresh water.) My mother refers to this as "sensory dissonance", but I'm going to go with "weird".

Those excerpts were the highlights. There was more, of course, but I can't go on for TOO long here. Now let me give you one last image of our trip:


That's my dad. Emptying out the, ah, tank, over in Big Rig A.

Rant or Rave?: The Adventures of a Floppy Hat

Hi all! I'm currently in Macinac Island, in Michigan. We've spent 2 days here; soon, we're going to be departing for the RV segment of the journey. (We'll get back to that in another post. I promise.)

There are 8 people in my family: me, my parents, my 11-year-old brother (let's call him Guinea Pig 1), my 7-year-old sister (GP2), my grandparents (Nana and Bear), and my mom's brother, Uncle Sport (that's actually what we call him). I've promised my dear friend MAROLINE STILLINGHAM that I'll keep a journal, and I've been making good on my promise. Perhaps I'll share a few choice moments of our trip when I return.

Back to the floppy hat story.

Yesterday, I was poking around town with Nana, and found a hat. It's a fabulous hat. It's floppy, and has a black-and-white ribbon/scarf attached to it. I bought the hat.

Now, I'm not really a hat person. My mom's a hat person. My grandmother's a hat person. Me? I define myself in other ways. For example, I'm a chocolate-croissant person. I'm a person who blogs. I'm a high-heels person. I am not a hat person, and I am not a people person. But I bought that hat. (It was on sale, and I am a bargain-person. In fact, I believe my hat was under $6-- a steal.)

Yesterday evening, I wore my hat. With my dark dress and my straw hat and my bedazzled sandals, I was a vision of loveliness. I strutted around those car-free streets of this island like the vision I was, confident in my belief that I was one of the best-dressed people in Mackinac (pronounced Mack-ih-naw). My family assured me that I looked fabulous. Audrey Hepburn was mentioned. I was delirious with pride.

As I got dressed this morning, I centered my outfit around my hat. (Since I know you were wondering: pink t-shirt, black capris, and [different] pink bedazzled sandals). When I learned that we'd be biking around the island, I clutched my hat in horror and declared that I would not be wearing a helmet.

We biked. I kept my hat on, and felt the wind on my back, and thought that Audrey Hepburn had nothing on me. (Did her hat have a black-and-white scarf attached to it? I think NOT.) When we had gone around the island (8.2 miles. NBD. I'm kinda a champion biker) we returned the bikes, and went to a few tourist-y shops.

When GP2, my 7-year-old sister, strode out of one of those shops, I gasped in horror. There was an absolute monstrosity on top of her head. It had blue stripes, and an aqua ribbon. It was straw, and, while not as floppy as mine, fell down low on her face. It was horrific. I glanced at my mother.

"Oh, GP2!" she cried. "You look fabulous! Emma, let me take a picture of you and your sister. You two look so adorable together."

You look fabulous? That's what they had said to me. I stared at my mother, searching her face for a glimmer of amusement. I couldn't detect one. She honestly thought that GP2 looked adorable.

Just like she honestly thought that I looked adorable.

As my mind raced to comprehend all this, I remembered Vietnam. You see, several years ago my family went to Vietnam, and my mother bought us all rice-farmers' triangular hats (you know the kind). And they wore them. On the plane ride home, my father, GP1, GP2, and I all refused to wear our hats, and, since we didn't have room for them in our luggage, my mother stacked them all on her head and wore them proudly.

And so, outside of the shop, my mother gesturing for me to stand next to GP2 so she could get a picture of us with our hats, I realized something very important.

My family has lost all credibility when it comes to hats.

I took off my floppy hat, chagrined. I am not Audrey Hepburn, and I am not a hat person.

Later this evening, as we were in the hotel room getting ready for dinner, my mother asked me if I was going to wear my hat. I said no. She asked if she could wear it. I shrugged, and said she was welcome to if she wanted. She put it on, and asked how she looked. I examined her carefully. I thought she looked okay, but I wasn't sure. How does she know she's a hat person, anyway? Why is my mother so confident about her choice of headgear?

"You look good", I said. At dinner, she and GP2 wore hats: my mother wore mine, and GP2 wore a different sparkly silver page-boy cap. At the time I thought they looked ridiculous, but now, sitting in the hotel room and pondering what exactly makes a hat person, I'm not so sure. Maybe I'll try my hat again tomorrow.

Rant #28: Sounds I Hate

Earlier, I did several top-5 lists of my least favorite things in certain categories (Rant #26: Least Favorite Songs and Rant #18: Foods I Find Weird are coming to mind, though I know I did a couple others). They were part of my effort to be less wordy. (I've been better at keeping it pithy, I think. With the exception of that last post. And the one before it.) Due to their, ah, tremendous success, I'm going to launch into this one:

Top Five Sounds Emma Hates the Most, in No Particular Order:

1. The drumming of someone's nails; that little tap-tap-tapping that says, "I'm bored, and also immensely superior to you." I also have no nails (I pick at them. I know, I know, bad habit), so maybe I take it a little too personally, but it makes me feel like people are mocking me.
2. The sound my laptop makes when it gets too hot; that whirring sound, like it's getting ready for take-off. It infuriates me.
3. The sound of dentist tools; that threatening clattering sound. It's even scarier when my dentist's face is right above them and invading my personal space. (My dentist goes to my synagogue. Nice guy, but I'm always super awkward around him. Whenever I see him chanting or whatever I always think, "he knows what my back molars look like". And then I wonder if he's thinking about my back molars when we run into each other at synagogue. It's gotten to the point where I'll dash over to and hide in the classrooms if I see him coming. But I digress.)
4. The buzzing of a bee. I immediately regress to 7-year-old mode, and stand there motionless and mutter to myself "they're more afraid of me than I am of them". I'm not sure why. I've been stung by bees before, and while obviously I don't like being stung I'm always a big girl about it. It's not that bad.
5. Children (anyone, really) just learning the violin. There are few things on this earth as excruciating as a bad violinist. It's a testament of my love for my younger sister that I've listened to her practice her violin, oh, at least twice. (And she's not bad, per se; she's just 7 years old, and, well, no Mozart.)

Comment away if you have additional hated sounds.

Rant #27: That Woman Who Passed Me Over

I have a sad story today.

Well, upon further reflection, it's not that sad. It's not about the situation in the Middle East, or about the oil spill crisis, or about the state of Darfur. It won't ruin your day. It's safe to read on, I promise.

A couple days ago, I went to New York with a few friends, two of whom -- let's call them Lona and Yibamani -- are native New Yorkers and understand the subway system and everything. (Which is great. My sense of direction isn't exactly that of a homing pigeon. Instead, our other friend [whom we'll call Marsha] and I just -- to continue with the bird metaphor here -- followed them around like ducklings as they dragged us along to all these fun places. It was excellent.) Anyway, I doubt they remember this incident. But it stuck with me, and actually made me rather sad.

We were walking along some street (no clue; I was in duckling mode at that point) where loads of people were shoving pamphlets at passersby and trying to recruit people to donate money to various causes (or maybe they were advertising something; I'm not quite sure). For things like that, I always -- like the vast majority of people -- say "no, thanks". But anyway, we were walking along, and several yards away there was a woman offering pamphlets to people. We got up to her. I made eye contact, and smiled politely, if distantly. And you know what that woman did then?

She walked right by me, without saying a word, and proffered her pamphlet to the people behind me.

It made me kinda sad.

Well.

Yes. Kinda. Kinda sad.

Obviously I didn't want the dang pamphlet. I would have said "no, thanks" had she offered it to me. And yet, I was all ready for that brief human interaction. And I have to admit that it was a smidge depressing to be immediately passed over.

You see, slightly overweight, mid-fifties, shoulder-length puffy gray haired woman handing out your pamphlets, I'm not a jaded New Yorker. I won't scoff at your cause. I won't be mean to you. I'm worthy of a pamphlet and a smile, even if I am a teenager. I have to tell you, pamphlet woman, you hurt my feelings. I'm sure you're a nice woman -- maybe you had a bad day; I can certainly see how handing out pamphlets is a hellacious job -- so next time, please just smile back at me. You made me sad.

Kinda.

Kinda sad.

Interlude: My Book

Now, I try to keep my age ambiguous here. (After all, I took a computer safety class.) I try to make this blog read like I'm thirty, and a stay-at-home mom, but the truth is, I'm not. And while I'm reluctant to share my age with all my Internet fans whom I don't know personally ('sup Buddy the Elf?), I really want you to share this with you.

I wrote a parenting book: How to Parent Emma and Other Young Teens, by Emma.  (The elaborate prelude re: my age was written under the assumption that you'd go ahead and use your deductive reasoning skills and realize that I'm a teenager). I just got the first author copies today:

That's me, with the book. (Wow. I guess I really am going all out today -- K, my computer safety lecturer, will be disappointed in me -- with my age AND face). I, like my mother, am a wee bit of a Luddite, so I wasn't able to turn the picture around, but you get the gist. 

Many of my friends have wondered why I wrote a parenting book. I'm not a parent. I'm merely a wordy high-school girl. And yet, I wrote a book, because I feel like I have a lot to say.

When I was in 8th grade, I figured that everyone can use a bit of constructive criticism, even my own dear parents. Thus, I started writing. I gathered quotes from friends and classmates, and realized I had more to say than I had anticipated. So I kept going. It was relaxing, writing; it was a useful exercise, having to articulate everything that was annoying me about my parents, and looking at our relationship from a different perspective. As I read more parenting books, and learned about more parenting theories, I started coming up with my own theories and opinions. It just went from there, and the book was written.

It was a long process getting it published -- over 2 years, I guess it took. But it's almost done. Now, I have the author's copy, and while I have a few more tweaks to make on the formatting and spacing, the writing's totally done and edited, and I promise it'll be over very, very soon. Then, you'll be able to buy it on Amazon or on the Barnes and Noble website, and I hope that you will.

It's called How to Parent Emma and Other Young Teens, by Emma, and it's by me, Emma Dubin. (Oops. Last name. Sorry, K.)  I hope you enjoy it.

Rave #27: Thru-Hiking, continued

Oh. My. God. You guys, my Internet sleuthing has led me to a marvelous find.

As many of you know, I'm slightly infatuated with the concept of  thru-hiking the Appalachian trail. In New Hampshire, I met a lovely man named Hellbender, who was a thru-hiker. We bonded. I gave him my fruit. He showed me his pack.

Recently, I was wondering whatever came of Hellbender, and whether or not he managed to finish. So, I with my computer skills, did a little Google research: "Hellbender" + "(his first name; I'm not saying it in case you're a really really good Internet sleuther -- even better than I -- and go all crazy stalking him, which would be creepy!)" + "Appalachian Trail". Guess what I found out?

He made it. On September 2nd, 2009, Hellbender finished hiking the Appalachian Trail, having left on March 13th, 2009. (Do the math. I'm in the midst of finals right now -- well, currently I'm in the midst of my study break -- and am in no mood to do the math for you). 

Thus, this post is dedicated to him. Hellbender, you are my inspiration. While kosher pigs will fly before I thru-hike, I admire your chutzpah and packing skills. Good job. I'm proud of you.

Rave #26: My Self-Defense Class

A few weeks ago, I took a self-defense class.

Let me give a little backstory here. My mother, dear woman, is so desperate to spend time with me she's game for just about anything. When I was in eighth grade, we took a belly-dancing class together (we wanted to take the didgeridoo class, but it was sold out). I was the youngest in the class. She was the second youngest. (Then we took a second belly-dancing class at a local college, and we weren't the best in the class anymore.) She's very game, my mother is, so when I mentioned that my school (yes, I'm still in school, but we recently had a lecture on Internet safety [plus I totally took a self-defense class] so don't try any funny business, all you stalkers out there) was hosting a series of self-defense classes, she was so up for it.

Thus, one Sunday, my mother came up to my school to take our self-defense class. This class was taught by Officer D., a beloved presence on campus. I've never done anything like it before (see various other blog posts, including Thru-Hiking and Olympic Fever), and, as I'd hope ya'll know by now, athleticism is not my thing. That said, my mother was game, and so we decided to do it together.

It was awesome. My mom and I got really into it -- in fact, she managed to draw blood on two separate occasions. (My right elbow is still recuperating, four weeks later). A punching bag was involved. I fell in love with aforementioned punching bag (turns out punching sand bags is a remarkably effective way of getting out my pent-up anger). My mother was quite skilled as well; afterwards, she remarked that she was the second-best in the class. (We tend to be competitive about that sort of that. That and Quiddler. [Which, incidentally, I won on Saturday, though Lannie Mill put up a good fight]). Unfortunately, we weren't able to attend the next week's class, but I hear pepper spray was involved.

If anyone's wondering what I want for my birthday next year (or as a National Limerick Day present [May 12th]), a punching bag would be greatly appreciated.

Totally unrelated, but shout out to MAROLINE STILLINGHAM and SCARLOTTE STOVE. Thanks for the "oi vey!" mug. I love it.

Rave #25: My Favorite Things

Some of my loyal readers have been kvetching that I don't update my blog often enough. And it's true; when I first started out, back in November, I was certainly more prolific. The first day I had my blog, I believe I posted 6 or 7 times. Now, I'm down to once every one or two weeks. I know you guys want more. I do, believe me. And I truly wish I'd post more.

Because, you see, I do love blogging. It makes me happy. Whenever I have something to blog about, I do.

But I don't. 

I just don't have inspiration.

If you want me to blog, give me an idea. Give me a topic. I love comments. Even anonymous ones. And, if I like it, I'll blog about it. (I'm not going to blog about something boring, though. Or anything intense. So don't be all, "what's your opinion on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict?", because I'm not going to share that).

In the meantime, I'm going to give you a list of my top 5 favorite websites that I peruse weekly. When you're feeling sad, go look at these, and remember: I'm only a comment away. (Note: all of these are horrifically addictive, and my time procrastinating rose exponentially with the discovery of each). 

Emma's Top Five Favorite Website in No Particular Order, by Emma:

1. http://www.promtacular.com/ chronicles horrifically bad prom dress, background, and date choices and mocks them mercilessly. Especially fun now, when the school year's winding down and we're getting into prom season.
   
2. http://notalwaysright.com/, which is a collection of hilarious interactions between customers and workers. Quite funny.
   
3. http://www.people.com/people/. I like to keep up with current events.
   
4. http://www.etiquettehell.com/. Absolutely addictive. It's a collection of etiquette & manner horror stories, and it's incredible.
   
5. http://insipidrantsoninsipidthings.blogspot.com. Check it out. 

Have a lovely evening.

ONE LAST THING: shout out to PAYLIN SNO. Happy birthday, darling. 

Rant #26: Least Favorite Songs

I think I have to acknowledge what day it is today, and get this nonsense out of the way. Happy 4/20. I just learned what it meant yesterday -- if you don't know, Google it -- and will not be celebrating it, other than lying in my bed with a People magazine and some crystalized ginger. And if you're celebrating 4/20, don't tell me about it. For God's sake, my poor mother reads this. (Shout out to MOMMY.) That's all.

Now, recently I was having a conversation with a dear friend -- let's call her Yibamani. The subject of Justin Bieber came up. I don't have a strong opinion on Justin, other than that his recent SNL appearance was disappointing, he can't sing live, and his hair is ridiculous. (Who am I kidding? Of course I have an opinion). Yibamani, however, finds several of his songs -- he's quite prolific -- "catchy". If you don't know, Justin's songs consist of the same few words: over, and over, and over again. Normally I'm ambivalent to this sort of thing; in general, I just don't listen to music I don't like. In Justin Bieber's case, however, I make an exception.

Because the title of one of his popular songs?

One Less Lonely Girl.

That's right. Less. Not fewer. Less. I'll give you a moment to let that sink in. I'll give you a moment to shut your gaping mouth, and relax your astonished eyebrows, and to stop muttering "dangkidsdangschoolsnobodyteachingthemgrammarnowadaysandtheyjustdon'tcareohWHATisthisworldCOMINGto?!". 

And he sings it OVER, and OVER, and OVER again.

Dang kids. Dang schools. Nobody teaching them grammar nowadays, and they just don't care. WHAT is this world COMING to?!

I'm feelin' a list comin' on.

Emma's Top Five Least Favorite Recent Popular Songs in No Particular Order, by Emma

1. Justin Bieber's "One Less Lonely Girl" [sic].
2. Trey Songz's "Say Ahh". What does that even mean? It's universal in its inappropriateness. Shout-out to those with me last night, who brought up this crucial question.
3. Taylor Swifts's "Fifteen". First of all, she did not "give him all she had". She had far more than what she gave him. This fifteen-year-old girl will be just fine. My second problem is the line "when you're fifteen, and/someone tells you they love you". Someone: singular. They: plural. It's not a hard concept, Taylor Swift. My third problem? This song is so dang catchy. And remarkably easy to belt out in the shower. Temptation abounds. Shout out to Chris.
4. Nickelback's "If Today Was Your Last Day". I think most of you can tell what my main objection to this song is. Grammar is not a hard concept. We have all sorts of examples of good grammar. Fiddler on the Roof, for one, with "If I Were a Rich Man". Even Beyonce got it right, with "If I Were a Boy". Also, this song is totally schmaltzy and over-the-top.
5. Pussycat Dolls' "I Hate This Part". Most inane, insufferable, interminable song ever.

What do you guys think? What are the songs you loathe the most?

Rave #24: Passover

As all the MOTs out there know, we're currently getting towards the end of Passover. For all the gentiles out there, happy Easter. (And for you, you know who you are: happy Sunday.)

For the gentiles: Passover is the Jewish spring holiday of rebirth. It's for seven days and eight nights, this year extending from last Monday evening (March 30th) and running until tomorrow, Monday (April 5th), at sundown. It celebrates the Jews' exodus from Egypt, led by Moses, and is celebrating by having seders, or ceremonial dinners involving lots of prayers, songs, and the re-telling of the exodus from Egypt. That's the mini-mini SparkNotes version, at least.

Every year, my grandfather hosts a seder at his house for the first night of Passover. My parents then host a seder at their house on the next available weekend. (Thus, last Monday Papa hosted his seder, and last Friday, my parents hosted theirs). Both are excellent.

Passover's one of my favorite holidays. Why? I'll make a list. While I know my mother would prefer 8 reasons for 8 nights, I really only have 5. I'll go for it anyway.

1. The communal aspect. For all my/their mockery, I love my family. They're always high entertainment value. This year, I convinced my 10- and 13-year-old male cousins that all the toilets at my all-girls high school were hot pink.
2. The food. While I can't stand matzah, (and before you object, let me explain: no Jews like matzah. It doesn't taste like anything, and, after only eating it for 7 days, the novelty wears off), the other food I love. Charoset, chopped apples with honey, wine, and nuts, is my favorite. 
3. The songs. I love almost all Passover songs. Every year, there's great debate in the IRIT household about the key we should go with (my father always complains Auntie Melon starts too low; Auntie Melon always accuses my father of starting too high; my mother then complains that that whole side of the family needs to stop kvetching). Go Down Moses is my jam.
4. Elijah. At my grandfather's seder It's excellent. Elijah comes. Wearing a sheet, bearing gifts, and, this year, for the first time, wearing bifocals. (Progressives, Elijah insists, but they are, in fact, a type of bifocals). 
5. The time of year. I love spring. Everyone's in a good mood. While this doesn't directly relate to Passover, it's still nice. Plus, I like how Passover coincides with Easter because that means a lot of chocolate's on sale.

Happy Passover, happy Easter, and happy spring. Have a lovely week. :)

Rant #25: Disney World

It's been a while since my last blog post, as many of you have oh-so-politely informed me. That's because I've been, as Aunt Brenda would say, making Floridians rich. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, I went to Disney World.

I've been to Disney World before. When I was seven, I loved it; now, I'm ready to send Walt an expletive-filled letter. Let me explain to you my major grievances re: Disney.

1. First of all, the people. There are a lot of people in Disney World (true story, I promise). I'm not a people person. I'm especially not a people person when people are wearing jeggings, wedge heels, and Ed Hardy, and they're sitting in the middle of the dang street chomping on their meat on a stick. 
2. That brings me into Disney World Etiquette, some not-so-delicate courtesies that so many people fail to understand. You walk on the right side of the road, people. If your kid is screaming during It's A Bug's Life (most traumatic experience of my life [other than that airplane bathroom], I was absolutely terrified and don't recommend it), take him outside. Don't have your extended family wear singing, blinking leprechaun pins on the line for Buzz Lightyear. These are simple courtesies, guys.
3. My reservation angst. We had made reservations for literally all but one lunch and dinner. However, in each place, we had to wait for at least 20 minutes -- with a reservation! -- to get our table. It's a ridiculous policy. 
4. The forced chipperness of the people working there. After any interaction with a Disney employee, they chirped, "have a magical day!". Now, this isn't the employees' fault; they've clearly been instructed to say that. However, they need to stop. A magical day? What does that even mean? Also, for the love of God, stop calling me "princess". As in, "one towel or two, princess?". I'm not a princess and I'm not seven. So stop.
5. I might as well throw this in here: all the lines. I hate lines.
6. The people in the costumes definitely need more creative freedom. Because when I asked to see what shoes Aurora was wearing, she giggled nervously like it was the first time anyone asked her. And when my brother interrogated Cinderella as to whether she was a real princess or a princess by marriage, she tittered and said "oh my" as if Prince Charming were slow-dancing with the mouse. They need more creative freedom, cooperate Disney. Besides, these princesses are already wearing butt-bows. Don't you feel sorry for them?

I mean, Disney does have some redeeming factors. I like the Buzz Lightyear ride. (14,000 points this time! Only beaten by my father. But he always wins. And I beat him in Quiddler, so it all evens out). And I'm partial to Epcot, too, especially the countries' showcase, and especially Germany's beer garden. (HIGH entertainment value, I assure you.)

What do you guys think of Disney World? Do the cons outweigh the pros, or the other way around? Take it up in the comments, as usual.

Rave #23: Skiing

Before I go into my recent story, let me give you, my dear reader, a little history on my skiing experience.

I went downhill skiing last year -- with the extended family -- for the first time. It was not my personal favorite extended family vacation. (That award would probably go to polka/curling weekend, but that's a different story). I had an especially difficult time mastering the chair lift (the first time I ended up scooching ahead to far, and the young buck lifter-helper had to violently  grab me out of the way; the second time, a man whom we'll call Uncle Sob ran into me; the third time, I forgot to get off the chairlift and had to dramatically jump off six feet into the air. Unsurprisingly, I did not make it.) And then Uncle Sob "accidentally" brought me to a double-black-diamond, "freestyle skills required" slope and left me there, right below the chairlift, to forlornly take off my skis and butt-slide my way down. Being the eternally stoic woman I am, however, I made it through the weekend, cold toes, Uncle Sob's inability to read a trail map, and our hotel's lack of curling be danged.

This past weekend was much better. I went Saturday evening, with two dear friends -- let's call them Maroline Stillingham and Scarlotte Stove. Scarlotte's a marvelous skier; she bends down really low and does these impressive jumps and everything. Maroline used to snowboard a bit, but hadn't in several years; she, like I, was a wee bit nervous prior to the expedition. Scarlotte assured us that she'd stay with us and help us out. Accompanying us were Scarlotte's father and brother, who were both lovely. (If you're reading this -- hello! Thanks again.)

And I can honestly assure you, my dear readers, it was fabulous. Maroline had a wee bit of difficulty getting off the chairlift (she claims it's harder for snowboarders -- is that true?), and I had one tiny incident where while I was trying to get on the chair lift my ski managed to fall off, leading to a valiant effort of the man behind me to grab it, leading to his falling off, but all crises were averted and we had a swell time. I especially enjoyed the slower parts (turns out I don't like to go too quickly; on the steeper parts I did an elaborate, soon-to-be-patented move involving lots of turns and stabs of the ground with my poles [that's right, I took physics, I know how momentum works]). Scarlotte was quite game about pulling Maroline around during the flat parts, and I tried to help out, but I haven't quite worked out the spiffy walking-on-skis-in-the-snow thing Scarlotte can do.

My new-found fondness for skiing may surprise you, and I accept that proudly. Because, you see, I've found skiing to be the perfect athletic medium. A lot of it is about technique; it's about listening to Scarlotte's instructions carefully, and as long as I do that, it works. And I can follow instructions. I highly recommend trying it. It's fun. I promise. Just wear big socks, and go with some fabulous people like I did.

Rant or Rave?: Olympic Fever

As many of you have learned, I'm not an athletic person. (I ran a mile once, in eighth grade gym class. I'm not sharing how long it took me, but I swore never again). But in this Olympic season, there's an athletic buzz in the air. I can feel it; I walk past the gym and I see people running frantically on the treadmill like there's a black quilted Chanel purse on the other side. I can sense that more people are taking the stairs. Yesterday evening, as I sat in Starbucks drinking my (skinny!) vanilla latte and nibbling at my butter croissant, several people jogged by. (And this is at 6pm, mind you, and the light was quickly fading). I call this phenomenon Olympic Fever.

My theory is that in this time of the year, with everyone all hyped up about the Olympics, normal people feel guilty. Joe Schmoes want to, if not emulate the Olympians, at least understand them; understand why people would want to spend thousands upon thousands of hours stuck inside a bobsled, risking life, limb, and sanity for a pretty medal and bragging rights. (If you haven't gathered from the tone in this post, I've managed to hold strong against Olympic Fever). Thus, Joe Schmoes watch the Olympics, and feel guilty about their own inadequacies. They make resolutions; they go to the gym; they plaster their refrigerators with pictures of Lindsey Vonn. This can last up until a few weeks, when spring break rolls around, Michael Phelps whips out the bong, Walmart has a sale on Twinkies, the local bar has a St. Patty's Day All-You-Can-Drink-for-$5 special, and all is back to normal.

I have mixed feelings about this. At one level, I suppose it's nice that people want to be healthy and work out and such. Bully for them and all. At another level, athletic, healthy people are so smug. And even if they're not trying to, they always make me feel bad about myself. (Not guilty per se, but inferior). At a third level, I enjoy some of the Olympic events. Skating, for example. I like the costumes. And the music. It's fun, for a half hour or so. At a fourth level, some of the other sports are just boring; hockey, for example (shout out to CASEY, if you read this -- yes, I did just go there). And at a fifth level, some of these sports are just for crazy people. I mean, for God's sake, Shaun White's mother must be a nervous wreck. So my feelings are mixed.

What about you guys? What do you think of the Olympics? Take it up in the comments.

Interlude: Banner Time

As ya'll may have noticed (I sincerely hope you did; otherwise, I doubt you'll be getting far in life -- no offense, of course), I now have a banner. At least, that's what I think it's called. It's the big picture of the jellybeans with "Insipid Rants on Insipid Things" written in fun lettering on the top of the home page of my blog.

My bestest friend Clare did it for me. (Sorry about the usage of the word 'bestest', you guys, but I'm so delirious with delight -- and so impressed with my bestie [same deal applies here] Clare -- that I just can't help myself. We all have our moments of regression back to fifth-grade recess and hissed gossip about who was allowed to watch R-rated movies. Anyway.) Gold star for Clare:  ☆. (Fine. So I just learned how to do that, and am showing off. So sue me.)

On a different note, IRIT now has reached 26 fans, and that makes me ☺ (smile). You guys are all awesome, gorgeous, witty, and have impeccable taste. 

Lastly, to whom I believe to be my first real Internet blog-reader whom I don't know in person: Crumpet the Elf. (If I do know you, I'm very very sorry!) I literally shrieked when I saw your name pop up. Quite clever.

And with that, I say ✌ (peace). I ♡ (love) you. Be good, and remember to always carry an ☂ (umbrella).

Rant #24: Valentine's Day Misdemeanors

Today is a day of love. Today is a a day of chocolate, flowers, cheesy cards, general camaraderie, and, above all, bad music. 

Valentine's Day is one of my favorite holidays, for all aforementioned reasons. And yet, there are people out there who are just ruining it for me. Downers, you could say. Naysayers. Malcontents. What you will, these people are the ones who are stomping around today, arms crossed, glaring at happy people, occasionally muttering under their breath "damn commercialized day of unprotected lust". I want these people to stop.

Is Valentine's Day commercialized? Of course. Should happy couples lavish affection upon one another every day, and not just on February 14th? Duh. Is a tacky pink bear clutching a lumpy heart declaring "I Luv U" proof of undying love? I sincerely hope not. But under the tackiness, and under the sickly sweet vanilla candles, Valentine's Day is a sweet sentiment. 

Men: nobody's out there demanding that her boyfriend get her a diamond necklace today (well, she might, but in that case, dump her. Please, please dump her). We're not expecting you to spend a lot of money. It's really not as much pressure as you'd think. And women: it doesn't matter if you're single. Stop whining about being alone today of all days. I see you in Starbucks, dabbing at your eyes and tearing into that chocolate cupcake. I see that romance novel you're reading (by the way, what is that on the cover? does that woman really think that that constitutes a shirt?). You look ridiculous in those black sweatpants and that ugly brown sweater thing. And please, stop glaring at me. For God's sake, I don't even have a date. I'm justi innocently sitting in Starbucks reading Graham Greene and sipping my skinny vanilla latte. Just because I'm wearing a red shirt and pink heart earrings doesn't mean I'm about to come over to you and start talking about my boyfriend, Brad, and the rose petals I've strewn across our bed in (giggle) preparation.

On the opposite end of the spectrum from the downers are the gigglers. Oh, God, the gigglers. The Brads who do spread rose petals across the bed in preparation. Here. Let me give you a list of what exactly the gigglers do.

Emma's List of the Most Annoying Things Couples Do on Valentine's Day, in No Particular Order:

• PDA. PDA is never okay. It's disgusting, and rude, and awkward, and gross. Teeny-boppers, pressed up against one another in the corner of the movie theater (by the way, guys, Valentine's Day was the best movie ever. I cried. I highly recommend it. But I digress): you're, what, thirteen? Fourteen? You shouldn't be doing... that, let alone in public. It's not sexy or mature. It makes me gag.
• Stuffed bears. What in the world are you supposed to do with a dang stuffed bear? Put it on your mantel and admire a $5 red bear from CVS? Chat with it about your innermost feelings and angst? If you decide that you have to go the stuffed animal route (and I really, really advise against it) at least go for a hippo, or a dodo, or something cool.
• Bad cards. I'm all for cheesy, but to a degree. Schmaltz is one of those things you just have to go for; like blogging, you have to go big or go home. Lacy-looking cards that say "My shoulder to cry on, my constant support: I love you for being there for me" are gross. I want giant hot pink hearts, and I want an ode, and I want the phrase "my passion for you burns with the red hot intensity of a thousand suns" (source: Fairly Odd Parents). Handmade cards are the best, and original odes are the best. Don't worry. I won't judge if you can't find a good rhyme for "thousand suns". If "astounded nuns" is the best you can do, it works for me.
• Kinda goes under the PDA category, but couples sitting at the same side of the table. It messes up the feng shui of the room, and the qi (alternatively spelled "chi", but I go with "qi" -- great Scrabble word, by the way) flow is all screwed up. Also, you don't have to cuddle while eating. You really shouldn't be cuddling while eating. Even at Starbucks, I don't want you to be sitting at the same table. You look ridiculous.
• Also under the PDA category, but sharing chairs. I'm so sick of these hooligans, snuggling in the comfy, squishy chairs in Starbucks. I love those chairs. But when you're all making out and sprawled all over each other, I'm not about to go sit down across from you. Also, adolescent girls: stop dragging five or six of the squishy chairs together, before forgoing them and sitting on each other's laps. Firstly, you don't need to sit on each other's laps; there are plenty of chairs. And secondly, you're hogging the comfy chairs, and Lil' Granny's knees are sore.

If you have any other Valentine's pet peeves, let me know and I'll add them to the list.

Happy Valentine's day. :)

Rant #23: Automatic Sinks

This past Friday, I went to synagogue services and then out to dinner with my family. After services, my mother, sister, and I went to the bathroom.

Now, I'm rather picky about my public bathrooms. Airplane bathrooms, for example: I definitely do not do airplane bathrooms. I can easily do a flight from JFK to Heathrow without using the facilities. I haven't used a Porta Potty since I was seven, and I've been known to demand that, during long car rides, we pull off the highway and stop at a Marriot or Hilton, because I'm terrified of gas stations. But I digress.

So I appreciate a nice bathroom. And the bathroom in this temple was perfectly adequate. Not great, but fine; it had a little waiting area with flattering lighting and mirrors, and had a nice art-deco decor. Somewhat cramped, but altogether adequate. Except for one thing.

As I went to wash my hands, I saw that there were no handles. I mentally groaned; I knew what was coming. I braced myself. I waved my hands under the faucet. Nothing. I brought them up closer to the faucet. Nothing. I slapped the faucet angrily, stomped my foot, and said, "I need water, dangit". 

As my mother says, ask and you shall receive. The water came swooshing out with remarkable force, spraying me with cold water. I leapt back; my sister laughed at me.

You see, every time I use an automatic sink, it's a dreadful experience. I don't see why they were invented in the first place. There are so many problems with them. Firstly, the water temperature: how do they know what temperature I want? ("They", of course, meaning the tiny little men who live inside the faucet and turn the water on when they see me.) They don't. And so, instead of going with a neutral, warmish temperature, these little men giggle and make the water freezing. It's actually a scientific fact that automatic sinks produce water that's less than 45 degrees 97 percent of the time. (That's right. Scientific.)

Secondly, the water pressure is always all wrong. It's either a whooshing, spraying, you'll-have-to-change-your-sweater stream, or a teeny-tiny little trickle, where it takes about 6 minutes to wash your hands because the water's so dang slow. Either way, it's bad.

Then there's the element of surprise involved. You never know when those little men will turn on the water. Sometimes they wait a good 45 seconds; sometimes they turn on the water as soon as they see you approach. And then sometimes they like you to wave your hands like an idiot under the faucet, and sometimes they like you to raise your hands so close you're almost touching the tap. Each little man has a different preference.

So call me old-fashioned; call me naive. But I'm perfectly capable of turning the handle on the faucet, and I assure you I can work regular liquid, pump soap too. Stop with the automatic, and let me wash my hands in peace.

Shout outs to my baby sister Stella, and the woman who birthed me and continues to use that against me. 

Rave #22: CostCo

Now, I need to be careful here, because as I'm here, admiring my 8-pound tub of jellybeans, a David Sedaris essay is coming to mind. I love David Sedaris; his essay (I believe it's not on CostCo, though, but that other store, you know, that southern one I'm blanking out on -- Uncle Jim's? Bob's? Something like that) is infinitely funnier than I could ever be. But I'm going to go extoll the virtues of CostCo anyway. Because I just love it.

Right now, I'm sitting on my bed, having spent the past 2 hours eating jellybeans and reading bad chick-lit. Thrown across me is my oversized blanket, purchased from CostCo; it's about 12ft by 12ft, and it's marvelous. I'm weeding through my jellybeans now, tossing out all the dark purple and brown and icky light pink bubblegum ones, and it's just swell.

CostCo is a marvelous store. Row after row of bargains, I march in with my hair tied back, my comfiest sneakers on, and my list thrown carelessly into the depths of my cart -- for, faced with such a variety, such bargains, why limit myself to some scrawled Post-it list? I pass the 300-pound woman, her own cart laden with 12-packs of pasta and 10-pound bags of Hershey kisses, and I smile benevolently at her, for she is my future, and I am her past, and we are at one with the universe, here in CostCo. 

I scamper nimbly through the aisles, stop to examine a 16-pack of toothbrushes, before throwing it gleefully into my cart. I weed through grey sweatpants, searching for a size under 16, before giving up and going for the $10 one-size-fits-all fuzzy bathrobe. I push past the rows of cleaning products and toilet paper, because I am not here to stock up on such mundane, cost-saving items, but to save on things I have real use for, like that 3-pound tub of cream cheese. 

And now, oh now we enter the baked goods sections. When I pick up the paper platter of 18 danishes, I say to myself, loudly enough for everyone to hear, "hmm, I wonder if this will be enough for the party", and I know that people around me are wondering what kind of party this is, what my mysterious, danish-filled life consists of. I smile mysteriously, and step away from the danish, not because of their impracticality, but because these 18-packs have 6 raspberry, 6 cheese, and 6 lemon danish, and I hate lemon danish.

I merrily skip through the produce section, gently placing great tubs of blackberries and strawberries in my cart. My heart skips a beat when I see my favorite pre-sliced mangos, and I almost hug my new friend, the 300-pound woman who now is closely examining a 24-pack of apples. I grin at her, and let her know with my eyes that she should go for it; a 24-pack of Granny Smiths for only $15 is really a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and she will regret it forever if she passes them by. I think she understands my heartfelt message, because my friend places the apples tenderly in her cart.

By the time I reach the check-out, I'm ready to fall right down on my new 8-pack of extra-firm pillows (not sure where I'll put them, but everyone needs pillows, right?). The cashier mmhmms as she pushes my items through, remarks, "yeah, these seem to be going fast", and I mentally pat myself on the back for being such a savvy shopper. 

Rave #21: My Favorite Words

Recently, I was chatting with some friends, when the word "serendipity" came up. (I'm not entirely sure how, though it may have stemmed from a conversation about Starbucks [a topic that comes up with remarkable frequency in our conversations] and their hot chocolates, which then led to the topic of the Serendipity cafe or whatever it's called, famous for its hot chocolate.) As my friends nattered on, I was distracted by the word "serendipity". Serendipity. Serendipitous. Say it out loud. Dipity. Seren. Serendip. Rendipity. Each part is good, but combined, serendipity is one stellar word.

I just love certain words. Serendipitous is my favorite (that's right, even over serendipity; the "-dipitous" ending is even better than the "-dipity" ending), but I have several other words I adore. I like fat words -- words like "bubble", or "droop", or "plop". These words just sound nice and fat, and they kind of pop in your mouth when you say them. Written out, too, they look round and happy. P is a fat letter, and so are o and g; b is positively obese.

Some tall words are nice too. They're less happy than fat words, but they're thin and elegant: "trill", or "twee", or "lilt". L, t, and i are all thin letters, and the "ee" sound is the thinnest, reediest of them all. Written out, thin words don't necessarily look thin and elegant; "twee" certainly doesn't look thin on the page. You really need to say these words aloud.

And then some words are just fun. Some sound fun; some look fun. "Skiing" looks fun and exotic, but sounds merely adequate. "Scrounge" sounds fun, but doesn't jump out at you from the page. "Bling", "hop", and "spiffy" both look and sound exciting.

Serendipitous is still my favorite of them all.

What are your favorite words? Help me out, here. Don't make me out to be the crazy woman muttering "dipity? dipitious. rendip. serendipit. endipitious" to herself in Starbucks. Everyone has favorite words. Share yours with me.

Rant #21: Facebook Misdemeanors

Yesterday, I got a Facebook inbox message. It was along the lines of, "omg u guys change ur status 2 da color of ur bra!!!!!!! and dnt tell guys so their cnofuesd!!!! LOLZ".

I was, naturally, horrified. Why on earth would I do that?! But when I rolled my eyes, and went back to my homepage, I saw the statuses. "Black!" "Pink lace!" "none ;)". I shuddered. I went down a little further, innocently looking for a cow to adopt on FarmVille, when I saw my aunts' statuses. Aunt N -- "Leopard print!". Aunt Melon -- "Beige!". When I saw my mother's -- "mostly grey, sometimes black" -- I knew it was time to get a'bloggin'.

For this is an example of an epidemic sweeping our nation: the epidemic of TMI. I've blogged about it before, but I fear that it's time to get specific. As in, posting the color of your bra on facebook: not okay. I don't care if it's some huge girl power thing. (By the way, sorry for, ah, spilling the secret to the men of the world. Consider it my blogger's duty). Being on the virtual world, you have responsibilities. 10 of them, in fact. Let's go with what we know and call them commandments.

The 10 Commandments of Facebook, in No Particular Order:

1. Thou shalt not post pictures of thyself, with the comment along the lines of "omg im so ugllyyyy lol".
2. Thou shalt not make thou's profile picture a picture of thy cat, dog, or child that thou are not in.
3. Thou shalt not partake in "facebook wars", and shalt not indulge in petty bickering in the virtual world.
4. Thou shalt not use the terms "lolz" "omgz" or "lmao".
5. Thou shalt not join a ridiculous number of groups, or become fans of such inane things such as "i hate it wen i thnk of a rly good comebak after da argumnt" or "He/She May Be Ugly To You, But To Me They Cant Be Anymore Perfect <3">
6. Thy's status shalt not be more than 2 lines long.
7. Thou shalt never use more than 3 exclamation points. We understand. You're happy.
8. Thou shalt not post pictures of thyself giving birth.
9. Thou shalt not join groups like "If I get 10,000 people in this group, my dad will pay for surgery for my dog" or "If 1,000,000 people join, my girlfriend will marry me!" or "WE NEED 500,000 PEOPLE FOR OBAMA TO BE FIRED". Come on now, people. Think a little.
10. Thou shalt not post pictures of thyself taken with thou's cell-phone in the mirror in an un-ironic manner.

That should give you a starting base. See me for the other 613.

Update: I've recently been informed that this posting your bra color thing is to "raise awareness for breast cancer". A nice sentiment, but no go. Firstly, if you don't tell people what it's for, you're not raising awareness. You're just being random. Secondly, the vast majority of people don't know that it's for breast cancer when they post their bra color; they're just doing it because they, like me, got emails that say "omg u guys change ur status 2 da color of ur bra!!!!!!! and dnt tell guys so their cnofuesd!!!! LOLZ". Thirdly, I'm not a believer in this whole "raise awareness" thing. People know that breast cancer is bad. Changing your status to "lime green with pink polka dots!" is not helping find a cure for breast cancer. Donate money, time, and work, but not your facebook status.

Rave #20: Commercials

My dad's side of the family plays a game that I adore. It combines my favorite aspects of any familial gathering: junk television and competition. You all gather around the television, and watch the commercial. Whoever shouts out what the correct product being advertised is first wins. (Then, of course, there are sub-rules; you have to be specific; that is, you have to scream "HONDA!" and not "GAS-GUZZLING SUV!"). 

I just love commercials. The more boring, insipid, and useless the product the better. (I think you all know of my love for As-Seen-on-TV products). I love getting angry with the company and boycotting the product if the commercial is over-sexualized, or demeaning to women, or whatnot. (It's pretty much the closest I'll get to making a political statement). But I love the heart-wrenching commercials too. And the cute commercials. And the semi-artsy ones. 

In fact, I'm going to make a list.

Emma's List of Her Top 5 Favorite Commercials, in No Particular Order:

1. That AT&T commercial where Amos Lee's Sweet Pea song is playing, and it's about the dad who goes on a business trip, leaving his daughter and wife behind. When he's opening his briefcase on the way to the airport he finds a little stuffed monkey his daughter stuck in there, and proceeds to take a picture of it at various landmarks (Eiffel tower, some bridge, etc.) and sends them to his wife and daughter from his cell phone. And then he takes a picture of it on the front porch, and they get it and run outside and it's so sweet, you guys. The first 10 or so times I saw it, I was bawling. Then I moved on to quiet sniffling. Now, I just sort of tear up a little, so we're definitely making progress. But it's great. An absolutely fabulous commercial. Actually, a lot of AT&T commercials are excellent. I also really like the "IDK, my BFF Jill?!" one that's all over the InterWeb, along with all those "use your roll-over minutes!" ones. At least, I'm pretty sure those are all AT&T.
2. The online college commercial, or something like that. I'm not even sure what exactly it's for. But the girl is singing about how she needs more cash while balancing a tray of ketchup. I know every word.
3. Along a similar musical vein, the Freecreditreport.com commercials. My personal favorite is the Renaissance Faire one (I LOVE Ren Fests. Blogpost to come), but they're all good.
4. All of my As Seen on TV product commercials. This includes the BumpIt (which, incidentally, I recently discovered is "patent pending", which I find unbelievable for such a fabulous product) , the Snuggie, the PedEgg, the Push-up Pros, and spray-on hair.
5. The army & navy commercials. I find them ridiculously inspirational. Although kosher pigs will fly before I enlist in the army, I love these commercials. Plus, the way they flip the guns around is really cool. I especially like watching these commercials with a certain friend, who always hisses "propaganda" at the television, before stomping angrily out of the room and making herself some Easy Mac.

What are your favorite commercials? Why? What are your least favorites?

Rave #19: New Year's

First of all: I'm sorry, okay guys?! I have a lot going on, and I haven't been blogging with my normal regularity. So stop staring blankly at my last post on holiday letters, refreshing the page every 20 seconds in the hopes that a new post will appear. I'm only human.

That said, happy 2010!

I love New Year's Eve. Now, obviously I'm not one to go out and get drunk and partake in all those ridiculous traditional antics. In fact, this year I spent New Year's playing an intense game of Monopoly. (I was about to win, having cleverly bought up a strip of hotels taking up a fourth of the board, before the rest of my teammates ganged up against me and refused to sell. Shout out to Chris, my faithful blog-reader and Monopoly buddy.) 

You see, my favorite part about New Year's is making resolutions. I'm terrific at making resolutions; in fact, it's my main God-given talent. My own resolutions, resolutions for my friends, resolutions for my relatives, whatever -- I make 'em all.

In fact, you're going to get a rare opportunity to see what's going on in my mind, with this little list of my top 5 New Year's Resolutions. (You may use them yourself, as long as you cite your sources when proudly reciting them to your mother.)

Emma's Top 5 New Year's Resolutions, in No Particular Order:

1. To read more. While I do technically read, the vast majority of my reading material is bad chick-lit. (In fact, Chasing Harry Winston is lying next to me as I write this). Maybe I'll even get through all those Lord of the Rings books in 2010.
2. To eat better/exercise. I know, I know, boring, but it's a classic. I always throw it on my list. It's just low-hanging fruit.
3. To stop picking at my nails and biting at my lips. It's gotten to the point where I buy Chap-Stick at CostCo in 16-packs because my lips are always so dang chapped. And my nails are absolutely pathetic, as any of my friends will attest to.
4. To become friends with my parents' dog, Harley. (Marley, as some of them call him. See my other post on this). **note: this is the only one I actually have any chance of achieving. I'm already the dog's second-favorite, after my mom. I think it's because I look like her. And because of my sparkling charisma and winning personality, of course.**
5. To be nicer.

What about you guys? What are your New Year's resolutions? To the comments.