Let’s Build A Sand Castle - A Guest Blog Post from the Black Sheep Theorem

Hello, friends! Over the next few weeks, I am away for my wedding and honeymoon, so I've invited some of my favorite writers to keep you entertained in my absence! Enjoy!! 


Many many eons ago (This was back when I was a kid in the last century) I was idly sitting at my grandparents home doing what I usually do best. Eating chocolate. 

Good times. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon with clear blue skies and a gentle breeze flowing. So I was rather enjoying the day sitting out front on the patio.

This is too good to be true. In comes mom to disrupt what would be the last few moments of peace that I would enjoy that day. Apparently, mom and the other ladies of the town had decided it would be “take-your-kids-to-the-beach-day!”

Unsurprisingly, I was not quite thrilled about this invitation. I said NO. I grew up in a beach city, used to holiday at my grandparent's town which was again a beach town. So a trip to the beach does not really fascinate me. The allure of something very precious is lost when you have easy access to it.

Mom was growing concerned that I would grow up to be this fat hermit, who hates social interaction and is incapable of the mundane conversations. (I liked to think I would grow up to be a fucking lone wolf)

She threw my sand sculpting tools (which I had bought a few weeks ago…... because reasons) at me and told me that I shouldn’t have bought the tools if I was never going to use them. Well fuck. I was being guilt tripped. It worked. 

I reluctantly got dressed picked up the tools and met mom at the patio. The gang was all there. 

3 other women who I couldn’t care to know (even today) and 8 other kids whose names I still don’t care to know. I mean 8 other evil little boys. I don’t know if they were really evil. But somehow I judged them to be evil the moment I saw them.

Anyways, we commenced our walk towards the beach. Me clutching my tools and those 8 little assholes being as loud and obnoxious as possible. I did not understand why were they so excited about going to the beach. So most of the walk to the beach was spent me judging them and the other ladies trying to rein them in.

After few minutes of walking, we reached the beach.

The boys were onto business. They immediately removed their little flip flops and started using them as tools to somehow mold the wet sand to resemble a sand castle. Amateurs. 

Not one to be subdued, I made a suggestion that we could use my tools to build this sand castle. It would turn out better and possibly even prettier. 

One by one each of them turned their heads towards me. There was a look of disapproval in their eyes. This was intimidating. I felt like this is some kind of a board meeting wherein I made an objectionable opinion.   

I knew I had to be strong. I looked each one of them in the eye daring them to overrule this suggestion.

At last one of boys who was the tallest and the skinniest of them all spoke. “or maybe you could remove your flips flops and help us. It would be faster this way.”

I was appalled. As a child, I was told that hygiene and quality were of utmost importance. And this rabid monkey had just suggested I do something that completely defiled those sacred rules. Naturally, It was getting clear that we were having creative differences on this project. Our philosophies did not align.

This was a matter of quality vs speed. It’s what you believe is the right thing to do. And I was being horribly outvoted 8 -1. 

I did what I believed was the right thing to do and to this day I stand by my decision. I walked out. 

I set out building my own perfect sand castle a few feet away from the boys. It was a solo operation and it was very, very slow. I had to first decide on the structure of my new sand castle. After being reasonably satisfied with the image that I had built up in my head I set off with building the foundation.

I looked over at the boys. Naturally, they had built a huge form of deformity that resembled what I thought looked like an ant hill. Heck, even ants build better shapes than this monstrosity. They were now trying to pile up the sand higher and higher. I assumed they were trying to make the structure bigger than it already was.

After some time sun was near setting and the world was covered in a soft orange hue. The ladies told the boys and me that it was time to wrap up and leave. 

The boys meanwhile had built this monstrosity.

I had pretty much finished building my castle and was really happy with it. I thought it was perfect for a first attempt at building a sand castle. 

I was proud of my accomplishment. It would stand tall like a monument for the next few hours for the visitors to look and marvel at. It was a welcome reprieve from the monstrosity that the boys had built.

My suspicions were true. The rabid monkey was really evil. He got intoxicated by the power of his followers and the castle he had built. He became the mad king. This always does not end very well. He announced to his followers “You know what would be a great idea, destroying the sand castle we built by kicking the shit out of it”. 

 

What. The. Fuck. 

He was the first one to kick. Something must have snapped in him. His followers were obviously enchanted by him. They followed suit. 

One by one each one of them participated in this debauchery and I saw them tear down the mountain of sand. 

The demolition was nearing completion when a little boy ran towards my sand castle. 

I only saw madness in his eyes. He had gone insane by the sudden rush of adrenaline by destroying something.

It took me a few seconds to register what he was about to do. He was about to destroy my sand castle.

I wanted to put myself between him and my beautiful sand castle.

I was a hair of a second late and the damage was done.

Rage consumed me and I quickly shifted gears from wanting to be a roadblock to wanting to ram this zombie with full body force onto the floor. 

I used all my might and pushed him as hard as I could. I don’t know where all that strength came from. There is something about you wanting to protect what you love. He staggered a few feet back and lost his balance and fell butt first. He wailed in agony. I screamed. I was half annoyed that he hadn’t got hurt or had a nosebleed or something. The rest of the boys looked at us as if in a trance. One of the ladies who was apparently this little asshole’s mom ran towards her son. 

I charged at the boy once again.

Someone caught me mid-action. I thrashed and wailed while they furiously tried to constrain me. I was blind with rage. I did not care.

The kid’s mother was by this time comforting him who was by now sobbing uncontrollably.

I felt no remorse. I yelled  “let me go! he shouldn’t have done it!”

Anger filled every bone in my body. I don’t think my body had known this emotion before to such an extreme degree. Tears welled up in my eyes. I continued to thrash and try to break free. I hated that I was restricted by the strength of my little frame. My body was weak. 

I gave in after few good minutes of struggle.

The boy’s mother looked at me with disgust like I am some sort of feral creature whose place is supposed to be in the zoo. I looked back at her channeling the same disgust. 

Mother looked at me, her face fuming. She told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t apologize to the kid I would be sent packing back to our home in the city and it would be the end of the vacation. 

I did not apologize. I was not the one at fault here after all. I merely tried to protect my little kingdom. 

As if on cue the kid wailed even louder. He knew that would make everyone even more sympathetic to him and his mom looked at my mom like “well what are you going to do about it now?"

I knew his evil game. I was not about to give in. I looked at my mom like  an adult. Eye to eye. I calmly said, "I am not apologizing to this monkey.” Warning laced in every word as I spoke. 

With that, I picked my tools and kept walking away like a champion with my head held high. Gracefully. 

I do not remember a lot that happened next. I have a vague memory of my mother profusely apologizing to the lady on my behalf. I don’t know. 

Needless to say, we are not friends with this mother-son pair anymore. If I ever came across this asshole again, I might challenge him to a duel 'til death, because this is the war that lasts for generations. 

There was supposed to be a lesson in here somewhere I think, but I can’t seem to figure it out.

P.S: I may have exaggerated the story a bit. Okay, a lot. If there is some zombie youth welfare act or something please don’t sue me.


TheBlackSheepTheorem.com is a blog illustrated by zany ridiculous drawings and the posts are often the result of being

high on caffeine. This blog was also started on a whim during one of the caffeine-fueled nights. These are one of those mistakes that are often regretted after coming down from the high.

 

 


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Humor or Beauty? Or Maybe Just Awkward and Peculiar - A Guest Post from Tom Lagasse

Hello, friends! Over the next few weeks, I am away for my wedding and honeymoon, so I've invited some of my favorite writers to keep you entertained in my absence! Enjoy!! 


When Emelie asked if I would post on her blog while she and Fiancé Husband were on their honeymoon in Scotland (re-enacting scenes from Braveheart?  Searching for Nessie?), I asked if I should focus on humor or beauty, since I noticed a slight shift from the former to the latter after she posted about how to live with dog hair – well, that’s not quite the way I wanted to say that.   

I’m afraid I’m not qualified to offer insight on either topic.  As a pudgy, middle-aged bald guy (and that’s assuming I’m going to live past 105), I am not licensed to provide the secrets of beauty – inner or outer.   And humor?  It’s one thing to be a smart ass.  It’s a whole other thing to put something in writing with a coherent beginning, middle, and end that consistently makes a total stranger recognize herself, find the humor, and laugh, let alone to amuse Emelie’s millennial audience.

My hope is I can string together enough paragraphs to complete Emelie’s request and fulfill my requirement, which sounds like I’m approaching this more like an assignment on the Peloponnesian War than how happy I am to help my friend.

So here goes:

Having known Emelie and subscribing to her blog for about a year, I not only read what it’s like for her to be awkwardly alive and pleasantly peculiar, but I witness it several days a week at the bookstore as her co-worker.

And, I have to admit – like most, although less publicly than Emelie – I, too, consider myself awkwardly alive and pleasantly peculiar.  Perhaps this is why we get along so well.

Naturally, in trying to meet this life force, I had to ask myself - What have I done lately that was awkwardly alive or pleasantly peculiar or both?  

It’s been a little over a year since I was nearly literally (yes, literally) murdered by my cat (short version: he bit me; overnight the infection spread up my arm and traveled towards my heart; I went to the hospital and where I received a two-day stay), and the week following my release, I accidentally wiped my eyes with poison ivy covered hands (short version: I looked like I had been punched in the face by a mixed martial fighter).  And it’s been more than a couple years since I almost set the house fire:  Once by doing some electrical work I was ill qualified to do (obviously), and twice by trying to start a fire in the fireplace.  I’m now banned from both by the lovely Teresa (my version of Fiancé Husband who supervises Emelie’s use of the oven).

Sure, recently, I may have taken a Charlie’s Angels gun pose while wearing a promotional Captain Underpants cape on a bland Tuesday afternoon.  My surprise move made Emelie laugh.  The store was empty, and none of this was recorded.  You’ll have to take my word on both – except if Fran and Pat from the bookstore are reading this – then it’s a complete fabrication for the purposes of humor.

I may been more than happy to play with dinosaur hand puppets or read Dragons Love Tacos 2 to dragons, well, stuffed animals, at the children’s table.  And recently, Emelie and I posed for selfies in full Anthony Horowitz Magpie Murders in full Magpie regalia.  A murder of magpies?  I thought it was a murder of crows.   For the record, it’s a parliament of magpies.

However, I view these as neither awkward nor peculiar but as marketing – we’re fun people at the bookstore (just ask us) and not just complete book nerds (we may be those too) even if we’re reading Nietzsche or John Green in our off-hours.  

Otherwise, for me, I have nothing, nada, zip in my accounting for being awkwardly alive and pleasantly peculiar.  The fact that I can’t recount a single other event of being awkwardly alive or pleasantly peculiar, signals to me I need to be more courageous and keep pushing towards authenticity.

However, it’s not that I’m advising everyone be more awkwardly alive and pleasantly peculiar.   For example, I don’t think our President should be, although he seems to be not so much awkward or peculiar but just plain crazy.   There are certain places normative behavior would be greatly appreciated.

There is one beauty secret I can offer:  embrace your inner peculiarities.  There is nothing more attractive than people being utterly themselves.   However, I think a working definition would be helpful.  Being awkwardly alive and pleasantly peculiar is one thing.  Embrace that.  But when those unpleasant peculiarities like bigotry or misogyny or just plain hatred, we could all use a lot less of that from you and on behalf of the rest us, we ask you become more mainstream and vanilla.   

Working my way towards being a little more awkwardly alive and a little more pleasantly peculiar has been invigorating.  For that, I hold Emelie responsible.  I’ve learned Millennials can offer wisdom to us older folks besides simply showing us how to use the latest apps like podcasts, Angry Birds, and Pokeman Go.  

Thank you, Emelie and Fiance Husband for your help and friendship.  Best wishes on a long life together filled with all the love, awkwardness, and peculiarity you can handle!


I’m a freelance writer and work with Emelie at The Hickory Stick Bookshop in Washington Depot, CT.  In July, I will have an article on climate change that will appear in Edible Nutmeg.  A short story “Beyond the Finish Line” was published by The Feminist Collective (www.femininecollective.com)  in March.   In January 2017, I was interviewed by Tracy Mumford for Minnesota Public Radio's segment "Ask A Bookseller."

I live in Bristol, CT.

 

 


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Sometimes I Make Things Weird - A Guest Blog Post by Breann Griffin

Hello, friends! Over the next few weeks, I am away for my wedding and honeymoon, so I've invited some of my favorite writers to keep you entertained in my absence! Enjoy!! 


The other day I was going home and I got into the elevator at the same time as one of our more serious security guards. We stood in silence for a few seconds. Then I tried to strike up a conversation, because not doing that felt too awkward. Me: Thank goodness it's 5 o'clock. Are you headed home soon too? Security Guard: I'm on the clock until 11 tonight, actually. Me: Ah, bummer. SG: At least someone's going home, right? Me: Yeah. True. Then I stared ahead at the doors. Staring at elevator doors to open is like looking down the street for the bus to come. It makes no sense and doesn't make anything happen faster, but it makes me feel better. When I felt the elevator do its little dip and recovery, which announces our arrival at the floor before the little voice does, I turned toward the security guard to say goodbye. SG: *raises his hand* Have a good... And then I high-fived him. This is how I imagine it played out internally: Eyes: Hey Brain, there's a hand being raised, palm forward, shoulder height, no movement. What do you make of it? Brain: Seems like a high-five situation to me. Hey Hand, you better get up there and return it. Hand obeys because Hand does what he's told. Ears: Brain, he just said “Have a good”... Brain: “...night.” Hmm. OH! No Hand, NO HAND! STOP! Hand high-fives. Brain: *sighs* Not again. But you know who waves at me every time I see him? That's right, the SG.


About Breann:

I don’t like waiting for the crosswalk signal and only run if I’m late for the bus. I buy myself flowers every week because they make me happy. I have a terrible habit of putting two spaces after a period.

I have an irrational fear of spiders, but not snakes. I really dislike the feeling of velvet and the texture of oysters. I try my absolute best to focus on the positive, smile at drivers who let me cross the crosswalk and say good morning to the door guys at my office building.

Basically just trying to always be the best person I can be, while covering up the weird quirks until the 3rd date. At least.

Does that sound like an Okcupid profile? That’s because I copied and pasted it from my Okcupid profile.

Does it sum me up pretty well? Yep, this baby has gotten me about 25 bad dates and 2 good ones. That’s an 8% success rate, for those counting, and if that doesn’t scream “This person is an excellent judge of character”, then I don’t know what does.

More of Breann's work can be found at https://myoldstumblinggrounds.wordpress.com/


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Thank you, ACLU - A Guest Post from Fee de Merrell

Hello, friends! Over the next few weeks, I am away for my wedding and honeymoon, so I've invited some of my favorite writers to keep you entertained in my absence! Enjoy!! 


I have discovered that buying a house is not only hard on finances, it's also hard on one's sense of identity.  The prospect of home-ownership has revealed that I'm a despicable and fallible creature, that my so-called principles are worthless. And I have the ACLU to thank for this painful but necessary learning experience.  

It began with the drive bys (a phrase I found confusing until I realized it just meant driving by houses I might be interested in  - clearly I've spent too much time watching crime dramas and not enough discussing property investment). My real estate agent said, "Do some drive-bys before you commit" (which seems like sensible advice regardless of whether you're talking about homeownership or a life of crime).  

So I did some drive-bys. Have you ever wondered to what depths you'd sink if you were really pushed to the limit? How your values would hold up if you were teetering on their brink? I don't need to do that, because mine began to crumble on the first drive-by. If you asked me before, I'd have told you I embrace all people as equal, I challenge prejudice, and I never take my own privilege for granted. But as a potential homeowner, I suddenly saw everything and everyone as a threat or problem. Every house I drove by became a helpless target for the criminals of Connecticut. I no longer cared what social injustices might have pushed any of my theoretical criminals into a life of crime. I just saw danger on every street corner. "They" would be out to get me as soon as the moving truck left, they'd be watching me, checking my movements, breaking into my home, searching for non-existent valuables, and being unpleasant to my cat.   

And it wasn't just my woman-of-the-people image that was swept away while I drove-by. I was transformed from a reasonably optimistic-it'll-all-work-out sort of person, into a fear-driven-everything-I-do-will-inevitably-lead-to-ruin nut-job, imagining the worst, convinced that as soon as I committed the rest of my working life to thousands of dollars of debt, the roof of my new home would cave in, the furnace would stop working, and a sink hole would swallow up my house, leaving me and my cat homeless, penniless, and forever in debt.  

But that wasn't the end of my painful self-awakening, because the next thing I did was complete a spending plan worksheet. I thought I was doing this to see where I might have unnecessary expenses, but apparently I was doing it to see what a terrible human being I am. The section for fixed expenses wasn't so bad. After all, rent, car payment, utilities are all necessary and reasonable, and of course I had them. But when I got to the "variable expenses" section, the real me began to emerge from the depths of my psyche. I wasn't completely honest, of course (for example, I put zero dollars for the amount spent on clothes every month, because I decided then and there that I wasn't going to buy any new clothes, ever again, and apparently I'm also only spending $25 a month on going out to dinner or the movies, and you should bear that in mind if you're thinking of asking me out).   

Even with my creative accounting skills, all those variables added up to a whole mortgage payment. I needed to be ruthless. I looked at my monthly charitable donations and my TV subscriptions, and I decided to cancel everything except for causes (and TV shows) I really believed in. I cancelled my Netflix subscription (well, I say "cancelled" but Season Five of House of Cards was about to start, so I decided to cancel it after that. Definitely). I kept Hulu and Amazon. Planned Parenthood made the cut. The Obama Foundation was out (I felt kind of bad, but I figured they'd get along fine without me). And this is where it gets really bad. This is where it came to pass that I found myself trying to decide whether I should cancel my $10 a month donation to the ACLU, or my $10 a month subscription to the WWE pro-wrestling channel. I agonized. For five whole minutes. For reasons I won't go into here, I'm extremely attached to the WWE, but I'm also quite attached to constitutionally ratified liberties and freedoms.

So I googled "how do I cancel my donation to the ACLU?" And it turns out you can't do it online, you have to call someone in New York. Devious bastards. They'd found the bedrock of my principles. I was damned if I was going to talk to an actual human being at the ACLU and tell them I was cancelling my $10 a month donation, because they might ask me why, and although I'm a terrible person, I wouldn't be able to lie, which would mean I'd have to tell the truth, and I wasn't about to tell them that wrestling was more important to me than defending civil liberties.   

Reluctantly, I went instead to the WWE website, and felt a real sadness as I hit 'cancel membership'. They make it very easy. They don't insist you call Vince McMahon and explain to him why you don't care about wrestling anymore. They don't even bother putting a little box on the screen that says, "Are you sure you want to cancel?" They don't have to. They know you'll be back for the next pay-per-view event. I guess the ACLU doesn't have that luxury, but at least it's smart enough to realize it, and hang on to all those $10 donations from ethically compromised people like me.  

So thank you, ACLU, thank you for making me retain a shred of decency during this whole process, even if it did come from a place of fearing to expose myself as an asshole. Thank you for teaching me who I really am. And regardless of whether I ever become a homeowner, in the leafy suburbs or urban metropolis, I publicly vow never to cancel my donation to you. Unless I need the money for a new home security system. Or a new dress. Or therapy for me and my cat.


More of Fee de Merell's writing can be found at jaggedhead.com

 

 

 

 


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Do you write words? I need you!

First of all, thank you for all of your well-wishes over the past week! I'm happy to say that I survived the plague and everything except for my voice is back to normal. I did an amazing Fran Drescher impression the other day and I regret not capturing it on film now.

 

via GIPHY

This weekend is a holiday weekend, but it's doubly special for us, because it's also Fiancé's thirty-first birthday, which we are celebrating by pretending that we live in the woods like wild people... wild people who happen to have access to grocery stores and air mattresses. We're not exactly glamping, because we're still doing the tent thing and we do have to hike to our campsite, so I'm giving us a pass with the decadent sleeping arrangements.

Anyway, all of this is to say that this isn't really a real blog post as much as it is just an update, but also... a request:

I am getting married in less than a month and I'm also going to be going on a honeymoon for two weeks! Yay!

BUT I don't want to abandon you all, soo..... I need you! Specifically, I need guest bloggers. This gig does not pay in dollars, but it pays in gratitude, and hopefully some new fans for you, so if you're interested, please email me: samuelson dot emelie at gmail dot com.

That's all for now! Tata!

 

via GIPHY


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The Misadventures of John Hamm & Lemon - Part 2.

Hey, Duckies! I'm still in NYC, so John Hamm and Lemon took over my blog! Yesterday was just a preview of the ridiculousness that was to come into their lives... strap in, y'all. This ride is crazy. John Hamm: Welcome back, Ducklings! Welcome back to Hamm & Lemon’s Dance Fever! If you recall we were your intrepid hosts and damsels, and we are back again to bring you the second and final installment in our harrowing tale of late night drinking. We are armed with wine (again) and are prepared to let the weird train roll right along.

Lemon: Perhaps you remember when we last left you:

Picture 2

JH: Hereafter referred to as O’Generics.

L: We sat at O’Generics for quite a while without incident.

JH: We talked about love, life, philosophy...

L: Like ya do.

JH: But when we decided to move to the patio?

L: That’s when stuff started degenerating.

JH: It began innocuous enough. A bespectacled man offered to buy us shots. He shall be referred to herein as, simply, Bartender.

L: Because he was a bartender. And we are creative.

JH: We declined the shots, but continued on with some harmless bar-chat.

L: And then John Hamm went to the bathroom.

JH: Now, as far as women are concerned, bar trips can be summed up as the time your drinking companion takes bathroom breaks.

L: Bartender left us be to return to his group, John Hamm went to the bathroom, and I was briefly alone and all was well. That is, until John Hamm returned with ominous news.

JH: As I was exiting O’Generics with literally no avenue of escape who should stop me but Thing 1 and Thing 2. The conversation went something to the effect of:

Thing 1 - It’s you!

Me - Yeahhhhhhh...

Thing 1 - Mind if we come out and join you?

Me - Surrrrrrre...

L: We spend the next half-hour watching them unsubtly through the window to ensure they stayed at the bar.

JH: Perhaps our obvious discomfort finally dissuaded them, because they left again without accosting us any further. But the mystery of how they found us in the first place?

L: Remains unsolved. With Things 1 & 2 now dispatched with, we dared to think we were safe. But no.

JH: Enter Baby Alan Moore.

L: So named here for his prominent beard. Basically, picture a younger version of this:

Picture 1

Good?

Now picture it in a NASA t-shirt.

...

...

Good?

Now we can continue.

JH: Baby Alan Moore engaged us on our tastes in music.

L: Unfortunate for him, we can both be infuriatingly difficult when asked about music taste.

JH: We are not picky.

L: We have almost zero discernment. We listen to anything.

JH: And everything.

L: When confronted with our non-committal responses, Baby Alan Moore responded by giving us a handful of quarters, and telling us to play the jukebox.

JH: Ultimately, our selections pleased him.

L: And then he vanished. Don’t worry, he will return.

JH: Then came Lemon’s turn for a bathroom break.

L: Cue the awkwardness in 3, 2, 1...

JH: With almost supernatural timing and prescience, Bartender reappeared and asked me out. This is a good time to mention how awkward I am in these situations.

L: Just for clarification: how awkward we both are, especially considering I am very much married.

JH: This is true. Now, Ducklings, remember Emelie’s guest post about how to charmingly stop people from hitting on you? Well I only wish I could be that suave. Instead, I stutter and dance around the turning-down part of the process. I will make the point too that I can’t bring myself to say “yes” to those who ask women out in bars.

L: That is just a pro-tip... for life.

JH: Anyway, by the time Lemon got back, I had sidled awkwardly away from Bartender. It was weird, yes. But I thought I’d made it work.

L: That assumption would prove wrong. I kicked him out of my chair. He offered again to buy us shots.

JH: Which we again declined.

L: We told him we were leaving.

JH: Which, to be fair, we had every intention of doing!

L: And almost did!

JH: We say “almost” because we proceeded to stand by my car for another 45 minutes.

L: The whole pesky love, life, philosophy, etc...

JH: Re-enter Baby Alan Moore.

L: He awkwardly approached and began faltering speech. Something akin to: “I just want to tell you ladies... Well, you are very well-dressed. You’re very put-together. And I just want to tell you... I just want to tell you that... you’re women, yes... but you are also goddesses.”

**momentary stunned silence**

JH: Frankly, we were at quite a loss for the proper response.

L: We couldn’t exactly leave. Leaving would be nothing less than right then getting in the car and accelerating out of the parking lot.

JH: After further faltering speech, and its accompanying awkwardness, he finally dismissed himself.

L: And skipped away.

JH: Yes, skipped.

L: Seriously. He literally skipped.

JH: In hindsight, it is probably our own fault that we didn’t leave then.

L: But we didn’t.

JH: No, Ducklings, we stayed and kept talking by the car.

L: Love, life, philosophy...

JH: Etc...

L: Re-enter Bartender: “I thought you guys were leaving!”

JH: Nope. We were still there.

L: Cue the three of us sitting on the ground. In the parking lot. By John Hamm’s car. With Bartender still trying to get with John Hamm. There was light leering.

JH: Yeahh...

L: Bartender’s tactic was a strange one to listen to. Essentially, every thing John Hamm said, he agreed with in the most general of responses.

JH: Yeahhh..

L: And then John Hamm went to the bathroom.

JH: Yeah...

L: What follows is an approximate replay of my conversation with Bartender:

Bartender - So what do you do?

Me - Not much. I’m rather boring.

Bartender - So what are you? Single? Dating? Married?

Me - I’m married.

Bartender - Do you like being married?

Me - ... ... ... ... Yes.

Bartender - So why is it boring? You saying you’re bored being married?

Me - ... ... ... ... No. I meant I’m not usually out. I’m usually at home playing video games or watching movies or tv.

 **weird silence**

JH: I returned to the car, and we gave in and ended up back on the patio.

L: Enter Purple Beard.

JH: Purple Beard’s story, in the capacity that we knew him, isn’t long or complicated.

L: He really did have a long, purple beard.

JH: Which he paints with. That is his story.

L: Bartender leered at John Hamm some more, finally talked her into a shot, and continued his efforts to try and get a date with her/take her home.

JH: To no effect.

L: It tapered off from there.

JH: We truly did leave.

L: Got in our cars safely. Drove home safely.

JH: And so concludes our saga.

L: I do not think either of us will be returning to O’Generics anytime soon.

JH: Perhaps some self-esteem was gained, but at what cost?

NEXT TIME ON HAMM & LEMON’S 30‘s ADVENTURE DANCE FEVER (that works, right?):

We imagine a comic book universe where Clark Kent really does work in a fancy restaurant, and does his good deeds for cigarettes and whiskey.

John Hamm and Lemon Tell Tall Tales of Strange Men Part 1

Hey, Duckies!! Sorry for not posting yesterday. I'm currently in NYC for Book Expo and I wasn't able to get to a computer all day, and my phone wouldn't let me post either. I know, it was tragic for me, too. But don't fret, Duckies! I've got you covered! Or rather, John Hamm and Lemon do! They've graciously offered to cover my blogging butt while I'm out of town and do a 2-part guest posting for me. This is a true story about what happened to them just a couple of weeks ago. I'm sure you'll love it just as much as I did when I first heard it.

So without further ado...

John Hamm: Greetings, Internet Ducklings. John Hamm here, writing a guest post while Emelie’s fingernails dry.

Lemon:  Lemon here too, making my debut on this blog. I’ll be your plucky co-pilot throughout this post, as I was directly involved in the soon-to-be-recounted bizarro tale.

JH:  Believe it or not, as we write this, we are sitting down the bar from a middle-aged, married businessman who mildly stalked Lemon and me the other night.

L:  This is true. And as good a lead-in as we will get...

JH:  The other night, Lemon came out to the fancy restaurant where we work to keep me company on a slow night.

L:  Also to drink wine in the process.

JH:  I finished up my shift and joined her at the bar which was empty except for the two of us and two businessmen.

L:  Two, shall we say... gregarious businessmen...

JH:  ... Hereafter referred to as Thing 1 and Thing 2. Naturally, since our only intention was to talk amongst ourselves, Things 1 and 2  immediately began to talking to us.

L:  And by “talking to,” we mean “hitting on.”

JH:  And by “hitting on,” we mean “tried to buy us a bottle of champagne.”

L:  Thing 1 specifically mentioned Cristal.

JH:  And the only Cristal we sell is a $325 bottle.

L:  So to us, “Strings Attached” Cristal.

JH:  Hoping to avoid any further progression, the next move was for Lemon to quietly excuse herself and completely un-ironically seek out our co-worker, "Clark Kent", to save us.

L: Oh god! That is exactly what we did, isn’t it? **takes a minute to laugh** Anyways, what follows is a rough replay of my conversation with Clark Kent:

Me -  So there are those two guys at the bar and --

Clark Kent -  Want us to get you out of that?

Me -  Yes. They are trying to buy us a bottle of champagne.

Clark Kent -  I can get you out of that. Give me a cigarette and I’ll come over and get you out of that.

Me -  Deal! Thanks!

JH:  Meanwhile, I sat at the bar trying to avoid eye-contact as Thing 1 and Thing 2 tried to stare at me, and yet simultaneously hit on our bartender

L:  Thankfully, by the time I returned to the bar, two regulars had descended, distracting Things 1 and 2 enough for John Hamm and I to mount an escape.

JH:  And so we fled to our local franchise Irish pub. Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait until Friday to read how things got weirder from there.

L:  It’s like a 30s adventure serial, but in a pub. So tune in next week --

JH: Friday.

L: Tune in Friday to hear how things only got weirder for our intrepid damsels!

JH: Seriously, guys, we can’t make this crap

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And Then Someone Thought I Was Funny Enough to Guest Post.

It's Tuesday, everyone! Do you know what that means?? Plenty of things! Today is actually an awesome day because on of my blogging BFF's GK Adams had me do a guest post today for her! How exciting!! First of all, this woman is hilarious, so the fact that she asked me to guest post for her is like... an honor to the nth degree! Not to mention, this means that I'm in one extra place on the internet today, so that's extra awesome! Go check out my guest post now!:

How to Get Men to Not Dance with You While Still Being Perceived as Cute and Adorable. 

I was actually super nervous about this guest post for some reason. It took me weeks to come up with something that I thought was worthy of showing up on someone else's blog. I mean, I know you all come here for my amazing insights on life and, of course, for the educational aspect, but when you're showing your stuff off on someone else's turf? It gets scary!

I actually almost just did a guest post about how I was scared about guest posting... And then I thought of the gem that is this story, if I do say so myself. I'm actually legitimately proud of this one, which is always exciting!

So yeah, you should all really go check out the post on GK's blog and then read her stuff, too! She's the best :)

Thank you, GK Adams for letting me take over your blog for the day! Can't wait for you to do the same for me some time!!