Words to Live By

If you are smitten with obsession then you will survive and the world will be larger for it…
If not, you might simply make a living or simply go broke.


I wanted to be a Unicorn.

When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina, a model, a nurse, and most of all- a unicorn. Yeah. A unicorn. I just had really high hopes for myself, okay? So anyways, I dropped this a-bomb on my parents at the ripe age of 3. They found it absolutely adorable (not that I can blame them) and said “You can be whatever you want to be!’ I took this as an insult. W. T. F. Why weren’t they taking me seriously? Here I am planning my life out and they are treating me like the 3 year old that I am! Blasphemy. Absolute blasphemy. So I did the only logical thing I could think of and decided to run away. I packed up my blanket that folds into a pillow (SO convenient!), a juicebox, some bandaids, a clean pair of undies, and a plastic Minnie Mouse umbrella. I was fully prepared to float away into the sky Mary Poppins style.
I stood in that yard for a solid 2 hours waiting for the wind to take me away. Thanks again, Disney, for giving me false hope. Not only could I not be a mythical creature, I also could not run away properly. Again: W.T.F.

Cut to about 15 years later and I am applying to colleges. After enduring the question “So what do you want to major in?” “What are you going to do with your life?” about 2784398423 times, I finally said to my mom:

“You know what? I’m just going to move to Vegas and become a stripper”

I didn’t really know what to expect from my mother after I made this statement. Would she laugh? Would she throw me out of the car? I did not know.

“You should, Em. Why not?”

No I know she wasn’t serious. I DO know this. but…um. What? Wait…what?  I am glad my family thinks so highly of me. I consider this 30 second conversation the reason why I went to college in the first place. There was a little while where I was thinking otherwise.
I mean, not only am I wildly talented and full of potential, I am also dripping with talent. Especially for exotic dance. Next time you’re in Vegas, holla at me!

Cut to 6 years later. I now have a bachelors degree from UMass in SOCIOLOGY (aka nothing) (aka not exotic dance) (aka glad that motivation went somewhere positive) (aka question mark) and I am working at a photography institute. So….not Lamplighters or Centerfolds.
Now, the other night I came home from work and I turned on MTV to find out that they are making a show based of the Jersey Shore called Massholes. UMMM…I AM PRETTY SURE THAT I TOLD PEOPLE THAT THEY SHOULD MAKE A SHOW CALLED MASSHOLES TO COUNTER ACT THE JERSEY SHORE. And by pretty sure, I mean DEFINITELY. I’ll say it again: W.T.F. First off, I would make a GREAT cast member for this show. I am pretty sure that if you looked up the word “masshole”, my picture would not only be in the dictionary, but there wouldn’t even be a proper meaning next to the word. It would just be my picture and everyone would say “oooooh! okay, i get it!”

So in other words…I’m thinking I should probably make a career change. Actually, I don’t even have a career at this point so it wouldn’t even be THAT big of a deal, right? Plus, if it doesn’t work out I could always fall back on stripping.

Or being a unicorn.

There’s no crying in baseball

Ladies and gentleman, it is baseball season. Spring has officially sprung. The Red Sox are officially playing games and kicking ass. Clearly, they will win this year as they are 1-0. All signs point to ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY. I really love baseball season. Pre-season, regular season, post-season. I love it all! I love nothing more than cracking a summer brew and sitting back on the couch and watching grown men stand around in a field chasing a little ball. I know that sounded sarcastic, but trust me, it was not. I’ve had “Tessie”, “Dirty Water”, and “Sweet Caroline” on repeat in my car for the past week and I don’t hate it at all.
I haven’t been to a game since 2007. Wtf. Double-you Tee Eff, guys. I love Fenway. I hope to one day get married there Legally Blond style. There isn’t anything better than climbing the stairs to the seats and seeing blue sky a the green monster (*monstah) growing right in front of you. And watching Pedroia, Papelbon, and Ellsbury stretching of the field doesn’t hurt either (call me!).
Unfortunately, this year is going to be different. Since I am a grownup and have to work my life away in a tiny office (yeah new office. possible rant post in near future) until all hours of the night, I will miss the beginning of most games. Luckily, my dear friends at NESN has a 60 second update online for every game. If I had TiVo or DVR, this would not be a problem. HOWEVER, I am not rich like my parents so I miss out. Welcome to real life, Emily. It is going to be a struggle for me. Very rarely during the regular season do I actually miss a game on television. Am I slightly obsessive? Perhaps. Do I care? Not at all. Meanwhile, my parents are going to games like its their damn job. They sit in EMC luxury boxes, use my uncle’s KICKASS season tickets that are 3 rows behind home plate, are just given tickets like it ain’t no thang. Where do I sign up for this? Please let me know.

To recap: Love baseball. Go Sox. Yankees Suck.

Peace out homeskillets.

Happy Easter, fuckers.

i. cant.even.

Sometimes you’re the windshield & sometimes you’re the bug (part 2)

Seeing as a I left off on a creepy/disturbing note last time, I figured I’d start on a good one.

The day after the dealership fiasco, I FOUND A MINI. It was love at first site. I mean, really. I was obsessed with Minis to begin with, but finding one that I could afford and that was BEAUTIFUL just took me over the edge. I slapped a down payment on that baby faster than a Thai Hooker. Now all I needed was a loan to actually purchase the car. Why I thought this whole process would be easy, I still have no idea.
I had to persuade Drew to join UMass Credit Union so I could open an account there and get a loan with a low interest rate. Sidenote: Fuck not being a student anymore. All my perks are GONE. Anyways, we open a joint checking account and throw $10 in there so I could get a loan.  Done and done. Or so I thought. You need insurance to get the loan. You need the title of the car to get the insurance. You need the money from the loan in order to get the title of the car. You ALSO need the registration to get the car, but you need the insurance for the car first. WHAT THE WHAT!? All of a sudden my week seemed like 2 minutes long. I actually needed another day. Kill me in the face, please.
Please remember-  I have been driving Drew’s car to and from work everyday while he rides his bike. So one afternoon I was driving home from work. I am admittedly going a little faster than I should’ve been, but who doesn’t, seriously? I’m bopping along to the Glee soundtrack (JUDGE ME) and I whiz by a cruiser on the side of the road. FUCK. He pulls out after me and follows me for a good 5 miles. I have NEVER gotten pulled over before. I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t even keep the gas pedal steady. After 10 minutes of following me, I started to relax thinking he would’ve done something by now. As I drive about 10 mph through some road construction, he immediately pulls me over. Ok. What the fuck could I have been doing? I nervously rolled down my window and before I could say anything he says

“Well. You don’t look like an Andrew”

ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME. Do you really think I stole this 23 year old car? In my sweetest Disney princess voice I said

“I am borrowing this car from him, officer. He is my boyfriend!”
“Does he have a front plate for the vehicle?”

I was fuming. Why didn’t he have a god damn front plate? SERIOUSLY. This wasn’t even my fault.

“Well…I assume he does. Maybe it fell off? I am not sure, I guess I never really noticed either way.”
“I’ll be right back”

As soon as he struts back into his car, I started tearing up. THIS ISN’T M FAULT. I AM TRYING TO BUY A CAR AND I CAN’T GET A TICKET FOR THIS. WAAAAAAAH! I texted Drew immediately: WTF where is your font plate!??!?! I got pulled over because you don’t have a fucking plate!”
The police officer came back over and saw I was on the verge of tears

“Oh honey! Don’t cry! This ticket is for Andrew, not you!”

HA! HA! HA! justice. finally. I thanked the policeman in my Disney princess voice and was on my merry way. Drew, on the other hand, wasn’t so pleased. He’s a big boy, he’ll get over it.
The next evening  I was driving home from work. Once again, I am driving Drew’s car. As I am driving down a back road, I see a woodland creature leg in my left hand headlight disapear. FUCK. That would’ve sucked if I hit that deer, huh? I quickly looked to my right and I saw a gaggle..A GAGGLE of deer on the side of the road. Seriously- 7 or 8 of them. Naturally, I slammed on the brakes. I missed hitting them by like 3 feet.

WHAT THE FUCK. Why can’t I just have a normal car ride? No transmissions blowing up. No leprechauns plotting my death. No cops pulling me over. NO HITTING WOODLAND ANIMALS IN SOMEONE ELSES CAR. I couldn’t handle it. I STILL can’t handle it. This whole driving thing just really isn’t working out for me. I am hoping that I make it through the coming weeks with myself and my mini intact. Nothing crazy. If anyone has any advice on how to have an normal car ride, please advise.

Sometimes you’re the windshield & sometimes you’re the bug (part 1)

Fucking cars, man. We just don’t get along at all. My beloved (erm..question mark) Jetta shit the bed a few weeks ago. Naturally, I was devastated. Mostly because if I don’t have a car at my disposal at ALL times, I die. So in order for me to get to work and run my daily/useless errands, I had to borrow Drew’s car. Now, what you must understand is, Drew is WAY into cars. I am not. This actually causes the biggest fights in our relationship.

“Wanna go out to dinner?”
“No, I have to save money for a new steering wheel.”
“What’s wrong with the one you have now?”
“I want a new one”
“Okay, but whats wrong with the one you have now?”
“Nothing. I just want a new one.”
“You JUST got a new one a few months ago!”
“I know, but I’m bored with it.”
“OH MAH GAHD. I’m bored with you. Kill yourself!”
“No, YOU kill YOURself!”
“We never do anything! waaaaaaah!”

Ok, I know from that piece of dialogue, I look like the bitch but trust me, I’m not. I’m just not. This is my life.
Now since Drew puts all this unnecessary  shit on his car that is 23 YEARS OLD, its really no easy task driving it. The car itself is about 4 inches off the ground. If you drive on a road that even slightly uneven or bumps-game over. You’ve most likely ripped something from the bottom of the car and everything is dead. Including me, because it was probably my fault.
Moving forward- so I really wanted a mini for my new car. Looking at a mini is like playing with 50 puppies all at the same time. Its so adorable, you just die. So, drew and I went to a dealership so I could test drive one. I have never been to a dealership to look at a car for myself so I didn’t know what i was getting myself into. Nothing..and I mean NOTHING could’ve prepared me for what was to come. I had zero intentions of buying a car from this place anyway. Even I knew it was way overpriced and they didn’t even have the color car I wanted (lets be serious, that was the only reason).
After about 10 minutes of waiting around, a little ginger came over and started helping us. He couldn’t’ve been more than five feet tall and 50 pounds. I’m so cereal, too. CRAZY awkward looking. So after about 20 more minutes of questions, he is finally able to bring the mini around. As he is leaving the building, I turn to Drew and say “I do NOT want him in the car with us. He’s creepy and totally cramping my style!” When he comes in, Drew tells him to stay put and we’ll back back in a jiff (not really, but along those lines). So, I take it out for a spin and I am giggling like a little school girl the entire time. After 20 minutes of driving around and temporarily getting lost,  we pull back into the dealership. Not 2 seconds later, the little ginger dude comes sprinting out the door and starts freaking out:

*vacant blank stare back* “uh, what?”
“I don’t know…you put them on, not me!”
“Dude, I honestly have no idea. We didn’t steal them if that is what you are getting at.”

In a fit of exasperation, he practically pulls me out of my seat and shoves me into the back. While he is speeding out of the parking lot, I shoot Drew a nervous look. Were we going to die? Get arrested? Was this little whisp of a man going to be the death of me? I had no idea. I couldn’t handle it. Then, through the grey clouds and rain (did I mention it was raining? it was) came a beam of sunlight. That is when I saw the license plate lying in the middle of the road. I shit you not, this little ginger leprechaun let out a squeal of delight and he scampered out of the car. As he sat back down, he turns to me with this huge ass grin and says “So, how do you feel about the car?” are…are you serious? Did you REALLY think I was going to bust out my check book after that ordeal? NO THANKS.
Its 3 weeks later and I am still getting calls from this guy asking how my mini search has been going. You’d think after calling 5 times and leaving messages EVERY SINGLE TIME, he’d take the hint. Nope. He has even gone as far as hiding his number so it comes up as “restricted” on my phone. Nice try ginger, I may be a girl (who DOESN’T want an automatic, but thanks for assuming I did) but I am one smart cookie.

Stay tuned for part 2…where the REAL good shit starts.

Well, I guess this is growing up.

Being an adult as seriously gotten in the way of my social life. Everything that I did six months ago has been deemed completely unacceptable: drinking myself into a drunken stooper at 8pm on a Tuesday, wearing my pajamas and slippers into the grocery store/packy/target/any public venue, listening to old pop punk/somewhat gangsta rap (which I am still afraid to admit that I sometimes enjoy), drinking any beer that is beneath budlight, sleeping past 930am, and getting away with coming into work in un-ironed clothing.

What exactly did this happen? When did I cross the threshold of real adult life? You know what? It stinks. It all stinks. Someone took a steaming shit on my life and it stinks to the high heavens. I just really don’t see why this is all necessary. I was completely fine with staying in my PJs, eating buffalo mozzerella sticks, and watching Friends/The Office/Sex in the City/Daria reruns on my computer. No complaints. No qualms. WHERE DID I GO WRONG?

Why is that just one year ago when I was running around campus I was thinking to myself “Fuck I can’t wait to be a grown up”. No. NO EMILY. If I saw my 22 year old self today, I would smack the shit out of her immediately and quote the always appropriate Billy Madison:

Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that. Stay here. Stay here as long as you can. For the love of God, cherish it. You have to cherish it.

I would give anything to roll out of bed, stumble into class at 1030am in my pajamas, sit at a desk for a total of 2 hours a day, and then skip on home. Why did I think that was the worst thing in the world? Past Emily- your life was awesome. You could get away with using mom and dad’s credit card on just about everything. You could shut your alarm off at 9am and skip class if you wanted. You could even waltz into class with a hangover the size of Canada and STILL have that reassurance that you would be back in your bed in 2 hours.

This is not what I signed up for! 50 hour weeks are the fucking worst. Everything about the real world makes me want to stab myself in the eye.

Hey, when they get that Delorean (right?) up and running, let me know.