There is nothing that Atlantans love quite so much as walking their dogs in public (except, perhaps, drinking beer at festivals or patios, as a concept). And so it was not surprising that on the near-enough-to-room-temperature-so-we’ll-take-it Saint Patrick’s Day that we had this year, everyone and their mother’s great Dane was out walking the Chattahoochee trails with my friend and me.
The dogs came in all shapes in sizes. There were little terriers which were trotting along, and a few robust rottweilers, and 800 labby labs (“Are you a person? I love you!”) walking along with us.
But my favorite dogs were probably the paired set that I saw rounding the back of a muddy trail. As my friend and I were walking this side trail, we saw a couple with two dogs–one, a Great Pyrenees, and the other, a Bernese Mountain Dog.
For those of you who do not creep on dog breeds as a stress-reducing hobby, that’s basically 200 pounds of giant, fluffy dog. That’s a sofa’s worth of dog. They were completely great to see out and about.
Some weird part of me is, I think, fond of big dogs because I enjoy the fact that we as a species of ape have trained another species to walk on strings that we hold and be totally into it. I mean, really now: if those dogs had decided to peace out, they could have with ease. They are basically black bears, on leashes. Continue reading
I went as king cake.
So on Friday, I had a cake party (aka “the cakening”). The story as to why this happened is long and boring (short version: I like actualizing stupid jokes!), but the results were adorable, as my friends were game enough to actually come to my apartment dressed as cakes. My friends are delightful.
Costumes included a pancake (a girl with a pan), a poundcake (with a scale), a golf-based Portal reference, an Occupy Cake protestor sporting a “down with cake/up with crepes” sandwich board, a pair of birthday cakes (birthday banners, balloons, and a glitter hat the remnants of which I cannot for the life of me vacuum out of the apartment carpet), two carrot cakes, two cupcakes, and (the most surprising duo of all) two beefcakes. My favorite costume was a girl who came dressed as a bun(d)t cake in a baseball uniform and a bat, mostly because another attendee noticed that she could also play the costume as “cake batter.”
Basically I really like puns. And my friends. Continue reading
It has been an anxious week.
There’s nothing bad happening. I just am overcome–as frequently happens, particularly when my mind isn’t occupied with school and three jobs–with a creeping sense of existential dread. I blame my impending move to a new apartment. It’s the first time I’ve been in non-campus housing, and the idea that I might actually have to set up my utilities is causing me to stare feebly, sadly into space.
It’s not that I can’t do it. I am aware that, objectively, calling Georgia power is Not That Hard. It’s just that sometimes things seem to be a Bit Much on the adulthood front, and then I stick my head in the sand and spend another six hours looking at dog photos. As you do.
But eventually I run out of adoptable, house-trained, under-40-pound dogs to look at on the internet. And then I revert to my secondary, far less healthy coping mechanism.
My name is Emily, and I am freaking myself out by searching on LinkedIn.
Dear polos: I hate you.
Yes, you, you polyblend summer uniform sonsofabitch. In your men’s incarnation you are baggy and, somehow, despite that fact you still manage to make me twenty pounds heavier. How? I don’t know! If I did, I’d sell the technology to some Russians wanting to shame their enemies. And don’t get me started on the embroidered ones of you: either the embroidery awkwardly lies halfway up my shoulder, because polos don’t fit humans, or it lies halfway down my breast, making every interaction with a customer a morass of uncomfortable glances.
But you’re not getting off either, ladies-cut polos. No–if anything, you’re worse. What is it that prompted every polo manufacturer in America to size their polos for twelve-year-olds? They cling uncomfortably up top–both revealing the outline of your bra and giving the general public the impression you are some magical primate with a single breast–and bunch around your stomach. Even Jillian Michaels would have stomach fat the way these things fit. And, unlike the overlarge mens’ polos which give you an extra foot of fabric if you dare to tuck them in, these beauties manage to stop two inches above the waistband of your shorts.
It doesn’t matter what shorts you are wearing.