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Jul 10 2014
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Wassup USA?

The Life of a Grown Ass, Improv-ing, Traveling Lady Nerd Ain’t Easy

nerd: (noun) (informal): a foolish or contemptible person who lacks social skills or is boringly studious. Synonyms: bore; a single-minded expert in a particular technical field. Synonyms: badass

nerd alert

nerd alert

Before all of this, before the improv glory and the blog fame, before I knew how to order coffee and shamelessly ask for water at bars, there was just me with a purse full of pens, and I was a nerd.

I did not realize this growing up. I didn’t think I was cool, but I certainly did not consider myself of the nerdly sort. There were, however, blatant clues that I missed, like the fact I listened to The Lord of the Rings soundtrack on repeat for much of my senior year of high school and tried to write a poem about track 17.

And now, years after high school, I’ve matured into a full fledged traveling, improv-ing grown-ass lady nerd, which pretty much means I do what I want and don’t give a s****j.

Maybe you’re like me. Maybe you’ve also felt the pull of the bookshelves at a friend’s house and spent 30 minutes perusing, and also using the word perusing in your head. Maybe your first destination in most cities is the public library or a museum. Maybe you read academic articles for fun and enjoy wordplay. Maybe you also relish finding used bookstores on your travels and then sit and enjoy a cup of coffee with your new book. Secretly, however, you’re peeking over the top of its pages and imagining a life with the man on the other side of the cafe who has a very ironic mustache and is reading something by Alice Munro.

Maybe you’re him. Maybe you’re that man. Are you that man? Is it you? Do you like the book Dear Life? I almost read that one, but I went against it for Empire Falls. Did I make the right decision? Should we be together forever? Oh oops, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Emily and you’re….

No, tell me your name! I mean, you’re clearly smart, funny, attractive, well-kempt, good-smelling, and you like reading, so just tell me your name. We have so much in common let’s grow old together! Wait – where are you going? Come back! I love you! No don’t leave me here!

(sits down in silence)

Being a traveling, improv-ing, grown-ass lady nerd might not get all the men. But it will get at least one. Eventually. Good thing I have my tennis shoes on. All the better for chasing you down with, my pretty.

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Jul 08 2014
5 Comments
Wassup USA?

10 Valuable Lessons I Learned Today that I’ll Probably Relearn Tomorrow

coffee spilling

                                                                    the worst thing in the world

They say you learn something new every day, and that’s partially true. What’s more true is that as you learn something new every day, you also re-experience the agony of about 10 lessons you already knew that haven’t sunk in yet. Here are just a few of the ones I went through again today.

1. Leave more room than you think you’ll need in your coffee cup. Otherwise, it will overflow when you add milk like it did yesterday and the 363 days before that.

2. When in doubt while hiking in the Kennesaw Mountain Battlefield Park near Marietta, GA, bear left on all the trail forks. That way you won’t end up having to trespass on a country-dweller’s land just to get back to the road where you’ll end up walking an extra 2 miles on a sidewalk-less highway in the sun with a dog with a death wish.

3. Don’t bring a house dog to do a woman’s hike. Some labradoodles aren’t meant to do more than 15 minutes of light jogging in the shade and will try to throw themselves under cars if made to walk more than 30 minutes.

4. If it takes more than one minute to open up the hot fudge jar, it means you’re not meant to have any. Don’t treat it like a physical challenge and then decide after finally opening the jar that it’s not good enough. Especially don’t spend another minute opening up a different jar of a different brand of hot fudge.

5. Don’t decide to write a one act, four part radio play about the Civil War to act out by yourself in the basement. You’ll just end up overwhelming yourself and then taking a nap.

6. Don’t try to impress your friends by using sophisticated terms to critique the improv show you saw together since you’ve taken some improv classes and know a thing or two. No one cares about whether or not the “players” made “strong choices” with “solid edits” or had “authentic relationships.” They just want to talk about what made them laugh.

7. The next time your suggestion is chosen at an improv show and the douchebag in front of you tries to give a different one, avoid yelling “SHUT IT” in his face. It’s not very endearing, and you don’t need to stoop to his level.

8. Gloating is never a good look, and doing fist pumps after the restaurant manager says he’ll give you half off is tacky. Wait until after you’ve left the restaurant to celebrate.

9. Don’t get yourself into a one-upping texting situation without an exit strategy. Say hahaha and leave it at that.

10. Don’t honk back at someone who honks at you because you made a driving error and it’s clearly your fault. Do something else, like swear in your car.

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Jul 07 2014
1 Comment
Wassup USA?

Are you in Georgia? Use this checklist to find out (or at least narrow down the possibilities)

Georgia

Georgia on my mind.

As of this moment when I am writing this sentence, I am in Georgia. I drove east from Nashville into the heart of the American Southeast and watched the sides of the highway fill up with those shapely Georgia pine trees. So I know that I’m definitely in Georgia.

Unless I don’t. Sometimes I forget where I am. Maybe I’m just in the East Bay where it also gets hot and there are a lot of trees. Maybe I just took the BART train one too many stops and got off in Orinda and started calling it Georgia like a crazy person.

Luckily, I made myself a checklist of ways to determine if I’m in Georgia. If you ever find yourself in this kind of situation, feel free to use this list. If you check off 5 or more of these, then you’re probably in Georgia or at least the Southeast portion of the United States or I’ll eat my socks.

You know you’re in Georgia when….

1. There are more deer, fireflies, squirrels and frogs than people.

2. Liquor stores are called package stores, which causes some people to think of genitalia and giggle.

3. When you accidentally oversleep and end up going for a run at 9:30 on a July morning, the experience is equal to being burned with the heat of a million suns while running in a sauna and choking down steam.

4. The trees are taller than 5 tall men stacked on top of each other.

5. There are more American flags than people and one on every porch.

6. American flags and colors are suitable for decoration in the months preceding and following the 4th of July.

7. Cheese sauce (also known as queso) accompanies salsa at Mexican restaurants.

8. You can say hi to the people on the street without seeming like a creep. They are friendly and will respond positively.

9. Front porches are everywhere and they’re filled with furniture.

10. Kudzo (an invasive plant that looks like ivy) is everywhere, and it is unstoppable. Longterm, it’s probably a more worrisome enemy than many other countries and militant groups.

11. The chicken biscuit reigns king.

12. Chick-fil-a has a presence in the local Kroger.

13. The forecast for every day in July is humid with a chance of thunderstorms and a 100% chance of y’all.

14. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the humidity, but something about the place seems timeless, like you could buy a home here and live forever while the world spins around you.

15. Jeep Wranglers.

16. Peach lore and Civil War generals make up 90% of local nomenclature.

You might want to hate it. You might want to love it. At the very least, you should sit on the front porch and enjoy a chicken biscuit. If you turn out to be in Orinda, take a walk and then head home, friend. Georgia will await you another time.

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Jul 02 2014
4 Comments
Travelling, Wassup USA?

What you don’t know about this Chicago suburb will in no way surprise you.

You might be familiar with the saying, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” A lesser known version of that phrase is, “When life throws you a Chicago hurricane that strands you in Evanston, IL for an evening, you might as well stay there the next day and judge / be jealous of everyone.” This is the version that happened to me.

Evanston is a Chicago suburb exclusively populated by people without any problems, beautiful churches made from white stone, homes that look like English cottages, and a creepy amount of trees. With a population of 74,000 (as of 2010), and a leaf count of just over 3 billion, Evanston is the home of Northwestern University (also the city’s largest employer), and the Grosse Point Lighthouse (on the National Register of Historic Places.)

I had the whole day to prowl around and figure out this wild suburb. You will not be surprised by what I found.

Here’s the low down on Evanston and its people:

dog-walking

People walk their dogs.

People leave their stuff outside when they go inside Brothers K Coffee to get something to drink.

They leave their stuff unattended.

They trust strangers. Even me.

They trust strangers.

They play badminton with their kids on the front lawn. (See lower left corner. Disregard my face. It's hard to take pictures behind you with an iPad.)

They play badminton with their kids on the front lawn. (See lower left corner. Disregard my face. It’s hard to take pictures behind you with an iPad while you’re trying to not look like a creep.)

They still use the word ethnic. I didn't know that was allowed.

They still use the word ethnic.

They have breakfast with their high school aged son and some of his engineering friends who are in a summer camp at Northwestern while a woman (me) sitting alone behind them eavesdrops on their entire conversation.

They have breakfast with their high school aged son and some of his engineering friends who are in a summer camp at Northwestern while a woman (me) sitting alone behind them eavesdrops on their entire conversation.

They enjoy a good font, especially this one that is popular with Northwestern University and Ye Olde English Pubs.

They enjoy a good font, especially this one that is popular with Northwestern University and Ye Olde English Pubs.

Even the street rodents are adorable and picturesque.

Even the street rodents are adorable and picturesque. (Those are rabbits.)

They have housing to spare.

They have housing to spare.

Which is shocking considering the world-famous board game night at the wine shoppe just around the corner.

Which is shocking considering the free board game night at the wine shoppe just around the corner.

All in all, Evanston seems like a pretty swell place to be. Especially if you like ethnic festivals, trusting strangers, and rabbit meat.

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Feb 25 2014
23 Comments
Food, Posts about Breakfast, San Francisco, Writing

Why I Ate 78 Breakfasts at 78 Different Places Last Year

A coffee cup I drew

A coffee cup I drew

I hereby declare that I have done it. For one year (from 1.11.2013 – 1.17.2014), I ate breakfast at a different Bay Area restaurant every Friday before work and on some weekends. I achieved both my written goal of eating breakfast at a different place every Friday and my actual goal of simply eating tons and tons of breakfast.

I went to the furthest reaches of San Francisco and the Bay Area, from the Marina to Glen Park, from Santa Rosa to Santa Clara. I traveled 441.7 miles by bus, car and train to 78 different places of breakfast-eating, consuming $1258 dollars worth of food, 131 eggs, 90 slices of bacon, 98 pancakes, and 234 cups of coffee. I also drew one coffee cup.

This is all well and good. I managed to spend a lot of money and eat many hash browns with my butt in many different styles of chairs and booths, but so what? Why did I do this? Why did I wake up so early and go so far, not even searching for the best food or service? Why did I spend so many hours and dollars on this project and persevere even towards the end when I’d eaten my breakfast passion into the dust (for the time being) and felt I’d seen everything and that I just wanted to sleep in for once.

It wasn’t just a meal, or just a restaurant. Breakfast for me was outer space. It was my Sahara and my Antarctica and the Wild West, the region I was destined to explore and chronicle. 

Pork Store Cafe BiscuitsAnd I wanted to find breakfast, to seek it in its natural habitat, to consume and know it inside and out and to know its people. From the crust of a sourdough loaf to the tenderness of a scrambled egg and the crisp release of grease that comes from biting into a perfectly cooked hash brown.

I wanted to make a portrait of a ritual and to examine it until I knew its every detail and their meanings, to paint a complete picture of breakfast, to tell its entire story and not miss a thing, to climb hills and descend into valleys, to walk on darkened doorsteps and to step into empty places, to look into the faces of strangers and try to place them, to ask of them to serve me food in exchange for money and some of my time and for some of my thoughts and skin cells and saliva left on the used silverware.

But most of all, I set out to eat, to consume mountains of hashbrowns and toast and eggs, stacks of pancakes, whole sticks of butter and gallons of syrup. I wanted to explore using my senses and let my brain take a back seat and just shut up for a second.

Friday morning was mine and it was special. Every morning that I got to work with my stomach full of breakfast and another journey under my belt, I’d squeezed a little extra life into my day. It was my secret, that before I started doing work for anyone else, I’d done something for me and my goals. I wanted adventure, and that’s why I did it and have lived to tell the tale. What’s next? I don’t know. But it’s gonna be epic.

By the way, this is not the last you’ve heard of this. There is much, much more breakfast to be served.

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