We've moved!!!!

Can't Argue With That can now be found on the official Emily Steele website at www.emilysteele.com . Please come visit us there!

Come Hell or High Water

I decided to take a break from my typical, side-splitting laughter-inducing blog entries to write something of a more serious nature. It seems in light of recent events in my part of the world, it is only appropriate that I take a moment to give the just attention to these occurrences, which has, for some reason, been denied by most of the rest of the country.

If you're from Tennessee or even Kentucky, you know about the devastating floods that swept through the state just over 3 weeks ago. If you're from any of the other 48 states, you probably don't. I won't even begin to speculate to as why the largest, non-hurricane natural disaster this nation has ever seen (at least as far back as we've been keeping records), which claimed 31 lives and impacted thousands more than that, received virtually no national media coverage. I can't conjure up a possible explanation for why when I sent out a mass email to my out-of-state friends and family, reassuring them that I was alright, the overwhelming response was, "About what?" But whining and carrying on about how Nashville and the rest of the state were virtually ignored by every major news source, with the exception of The Weather Channel, is not my point in writing this blog. (Although I couldn't resist getting it in there!) My point is to give thanks and praise for the amazing city I am so proud to call home. I had fallen in love with Nashville when I first loaded up my little, gray Honda and moved down here. And now, six years later, I am more bold than ever to say, I am a Nashvillian.

I grew up in upstate New York so I've lived through my share of natural disasters that took on more of the sub-zero temperatures and white-out conditions. And it's not to say that New Yorkers don't ban together to help each other out in such times. I definitely recall stories of people being stranded on the New York State Thruway, back during the blizzard of 2000, and huddling up in cars with people they'd never met so they could all conserve gasoline and avoid freezing to death. I always remember our next-door neighbor coming over during those winter white-outs and snow blowing our driveway, because the snow blower sitting in our garage hadn't worked since before I was conceived! But never in my life have I seen a community response to a tragedy like I did here in Nashville when the floods hit.

When the rains finally stopped Monday morning, I rushed right over to Kroger (our major grocery store chain) to buy supplies to donate to Red Cross emergency shelters that had popped up all over the city. Basic necessities like shampoo, razors, toilet paper, pet food (we often forget that pets are rescued during these disasters too and need supplies, just like people do), and non-perishables food items. I was astonished to find the shelves virtually empty, due to the fact that so many other people had beaten me to it. That Tuesday, I went up the high school where I work. The county had been hit pretty hard and been declared an official disaster area, but by some miracle, my school was undamaged. Instead, it was being used as a shelter. Since school had been canceled for the week, I decided to go volunteer my services at the shelter. When I arrived, I was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the flood victims had left, having been taken in by other friends and family. I also found many of my students there, sorting through clothing, cleaning bathrooms, serving food, and lugging supplies back and forth to different areas of the school. Wednesday, I decided that, with my background as a veterinary technician, perhaps my services would be put to best use at one of the local animals shelters that had taken in rescue animals. I called three different shelters only to be told that they had more volunteers than they knew what to do with! Wow...what an amazing city where rescue organizations have more volunteers than they can use!

And that's not even the thing that makes me most proud. While I find it amazing that so many people jumped up and seized the opportunity to assist their neighbors, there almost wasn't anything for me to do to help, I was even more taken in by the things and services people have thought of. Being somewhat of an animal activist, my first thought is almost always to pets that need rescuing during times of disaster. And usually, they are an after-thought to the people who need services. But by Tuesday afternoon, the Nashville Humane Society had been given so many pet food and litter donations that they were literally spilling out the door! For Mother's Day, which was the following Sunday, people went to shelters and gave out roses to all the mothers who were staying there. I even got several emails from wedding venues offering emergency venue relocation services for brides and grooms whose venues were destroyed by the floods. Sure that doesn't seem like an important thing....unless you happened to be getting married in the weeks after these floods and you not only lost all your deposit money, but you had nowhere to have your wedding either. No, Oprah didn't come here to do a segment for her show. But we didn't need her to. Nashvillians took care of their own, making sure that everyone's needs, no matter how insignificant they might've seemed to outsiders, were taken care of.

So now, the rebuilding process begins. It's been 3 weeks and most Nashville business that flooded have reopened, countless flood-relief concerts and other benefit-type shows have been held, and millions of dollars have been raised (mostly by our own residents). We are well on our road to recovery. I'm certainly not saying people will ever fully get over what happened. Some people will never be able to recoup the things they've lost. And no one will ever forget the historic flood that nearly sunk our city, but never dampened our spirits. But I know, at least for me, the events of May 1st and 2nd will forever be a reminder of why I am proud to say......I am a Nashvillian!

Dream Row Magazine

I just want to apologize to all my faithful readers for my hiatus the past few weeks. Due to the overwhelming popularity of this blog, I have been asked to be a writer for the new online publication, Dream Row Magazine. This is a freelance position but it does require me to write new articles twice a week, so it's been keeping me pretty busy. I promise I will still be blogging my "Can't Argue With That" column, but I apologize in advance if my entries are more sporadic over the next few months. Thank you again to all of you who keep coming back to "Can't Argue With That". It's awesome to know my opinions are tolerated! Please check out my articles at www.dreamrow.com and keep coming back for new ones. I bet you'll find that you like it and you can't argue with that!

Is That a Pole Between Her Legs...?

I mentioned in my previous blog how I possess esteemed membership in the elite organization known as "the guys". Over the years, this membership has granted me access to any and all testosterone-exclusive events....with one exception. Even though I was affectionately dubbed as the "cool dude with long hair", there was one ritual of male bonding that my ovaries and I were not permitted to partake in: The Canadian Ballet. Better known to non-Buffalonians as the strip club. (I don't know why they call it that. Perhaps if I had been allowed to go, I might have an answer!)

I didn't know this clause in my contract even existed until one summer when everyone was making plans for our friend, Monty's, birthday. Nathan suggested a serious beer pong tournament at our apartment, for the coveted belt. But Allen and Jason had other plans in mind. After several intense seconds of debate, it was decided that the guys would take Monty across the border for some front-row seats to see chicks and their poles. "Cool", I replied. "I've never been to a strip club before. This'll be fun!" This was followed by several moments of awkward silence, while the guys exchanged twisted looks. Barry finally delivered the blow. "Busty" (their affectionate name for my potential child-bearing self), "you can't go." I was stunned! What did they mean I couldn't go? I could go everywhere! I practically had a Y-chromosome! I was deeply offended. But as much as I protested, argued, whined, cried, pouted, and hissy-fitted, it was to no avail. There was one cardinal rule that could not be tampered with. Girls were not allowed in strip clubs, unless they were employees!

When I think back on it, I'm pretty sure that's where my deep-rooted, subconscious desire to be a pole dancer started. So five years later, when a girl friend of mine mentioned a pole dancing class she had tried, I knew my time had finally come. OK, so I wasn't really contemplating a career in exotic dancing. But the idea of learning how to move around a shiny, brass pole in a manner that men would find sexy was appealing to me. I called up Gym 5 and signed up for the "Goddess" package. I was on my way to sensual stardom.

There was just one problem. I have a severe coordination disorder. It's pretty bad, and I don't like to talk about it very often. I think I'm the only person who has ever managed to severely sprain her ankle by tripping over a water ski. I once had the wind knocked out of me during tap class. And, when I was 12, my softball coach pulled me out of a game for throwing 1 strike in 8 batters. (I probably could have lived through the humiliation of that one, except that my coach was my father!) So what in the world made me think I could excel at at something as physically demanding as pole dancing is beyond me.

The class started off with simple yoga-style warm ups. I figured I could handle that. I mean, how hard can an exercise routine involving a "relaxation pose" really be? After 30 minutes of contorting my body into poses affectionately known as "the cow", "the cat flow", and my personal favorite, "the downward-facing dog", my abs were shaking worse than an epileptic at a rave! I didn't even know I had abs until then! I was concentrating so hard on not falling on my face that the instructor had to keep reminding me to breathe! Just when I thought my legs would collapse beneath me from "the chair pose", the instructor decided it was time to move onto the poles.

Everyone starts off learning the same basic spins. The first one was called "the fireman", which believe it or not, consists of spinning around and down the pole like a fireman at a firehouse would. That one I mastered fairly easily. My grandfather would have been proud. It was the next several spins where my disability started to hold me back. After a couple rounds of spins known as "the Tinkerbelle", "the Candy Cane", and the "Camel Spin", I was so dizzy I probably would've failed a sobriety test. When I moved on to "the Do-Si-Do", which involves kicking my leg out and around the pole while only holding onto it with one hand, I lost my grip and practically flew right out the window! It was becoming painfully clear that I probably should've just audited the class.

I stuck with it, though. After a few weeks, we started to move on to climbing and inverting on the pole. This means you pretend you're a monkey or Chinese acrobat and move yourself up the pole with the tops of your feet. The prize for not ripping all the skin off your bridges is that you then get to hang upside down and panic. The idea is that you use the strength of your legs to hold yourself on the pole and hang your arms to the side like a bat. That would be all well and good if I had any strength in my legs! And I've never seen a bat with killer thighs so something tells me that's not how they do it anyway. I did attempt to take my hands off the pole, but instead of looking like a cool Twilight character, I slid slowly down the pole, burning off any skin I had left on my inner thighs, and landing on my head. Trust me when I tell you, it wasn't even the slightest bit sexy.

Sadly, I am now nearing the end of my "Goddess" package. But despite my disability, I have decided to renew my package and continue with the classes. I feel I owe it to myself and all the others who suffer from my condition. (And if any of you reading this do, please join the class so I don't look so bad!) Besides, I wasn't allowed to go to the strip clubs and see pole dancers with my boys. And I figure the old adage holds true: "If you can't beat' em, join 'em" (whether they'd want you to or not!)... and you can't argue with that!

Just One of the Guys

So I met the perfect woman last night. Seriously. If I were endowed with male parts, I probably would've asked her out! She was about 5'6" with beautiful blonde hair. She was friendly and sweet and you could tell right away that she wasn't one of those stuck on herself sorority girls. I asked her what she did outside of the pole-dancing class where we met (yes, I pole dance. But that's next week's blog!) and she said she was a student at Vanderbilt, trying to graduate early, with a degree in civil engineering and a minor in math!! And if that wasn't enough to make you want to kill yourself, she was awesome on the pole! She climbed and swung around that thing with such style and grace that it almost made you believe strip clubs could be classy. Yup, she was definitely the most perfect female I'd ever met. And I couldn't wait to tell my boys about her!

You see, I'm not a K.D. Lang fan. I don't play field hockey or wear flannel. I don't "play for the other team". But something happened to me about 7 years ago that I think may have done some irreversible damage....I became one of the guys. Not in the literal sense, mind you. I still sit to pee and any of my boys could tell you that I haven't the slightest ability to aim. But in 2003, without even fully realizing it was happening, I joined the not-so-elite society of "the guys". It all started with Nathan (my identity protected male pal)*, who I met by random chance one night at a Buffalo "nightclub" when a creepy guy kept trying to hit on me and Nathan came to my rescue, pretending to be my boyfriend. A heart was crushed, a friendship was born and Nathan and I proceeded to hang out virtually every day. Then came Nathan's buddies, Allen and Barry, who as soon as we met, we all linked arms and skipped down the yellow-brick road. Sometimes Mick and Bobby would tag along. Then Jason served a short-lived stint in the group until we discovered his double life as a professional douche bag. But no matter who came along to wherever we went, one thing remained constant....I was the only one with a regular gynecologist.

And I have to tell you, I loved it! (Being one of the guys....not going to the gynecologist!) I used to feel sorry for Elaine Benes, Kate O'Brien, or Sweet Dee never having someone to go to the bathroom with or talk trash about behind her back. But I was greatly underestimating the benefits of being the odd woman out in a gang of testosterone. The times I had as a full-fledged member of "the guys" were some of the best of my life. Not to mention all the important life lessons I learned. Before my boys, I never knew that cheap beer tastes better when chugged. I found that overly revealing outfits actually make a girl less approachable. It turns out that liquor greatly increases the odds of hitting a double bull's eye, a flush beats a straight, a blue shell can completely turn a game of Mario Kart around, winning at beer pong is all in the wrist, Armageddon is not a bad movie, and a two-point conversion is only successful 48% of the time. I learned what qualities make up the perfect woman, that I am capable of remaining rational in an emotional situation, and most importantly, how to honor the sacred "bros before hoes" code.

It's been a few years since I've been an active bro. I moved to Nashville several years ago and most of them still have the unfortunate fate of living in western New York. I've settled into a network of friends who raid the clearance racks, worry about looking fat in pictures, and get bikini waxes. And I'm not complaining! I thoroughly enjoy my girls' nights of watching Beaches, drinking wine, complaining about cramps, and trading stories about "that stupid bitch" we work with! But sometimes, I long for an Irish car bomb, some dirty jokes, and a good game of A@#hole. I only get to be a "bro" once or twice a year now, but I look forward to those times all year long. Hey boys.....I miss you!

And let me tell you that you all would have been drooling over this girl I met at pole dancing class! She was the perfect woman....and trust me, you can't argue with that!


P.S. I apologize if this blog lacks the side-splitting humor of my previous blog. Allen has been in the hospital for the past 2 weeks and it's made me a tad sentimental. Anyway, he's going home today so hopefully those laugh-on-the-floor-while-you-try-not-to-pee-your-pants blogs will return next week!

*Again. for those new readers who have accidentally stumbled onto my blog in recent weeks, I give everyone mentioned in my blog fake names so as to protect their identity from possible embarrassment of association with me.

Always a Bridesmaid, Finally the Bride

Well, I must apologize for my prolonged absence from this blog. I know it's been a difficult month for you, not having access to my well-researched opinions on current affairs. But alas, I am back! So you may all breathe a long-anticipated sigh of relief....Emily's inarguable arguments have returned.

The reason for my extended absence is rather inconceivable. In a world where many climates are reaching record-low temperatures during a global warming epidemic, where people pretend their children have been carried off in a balloon in an attempt to get their own reality show, and in which Alec Baldwin has a hit TV series, something even more unbelievable has happened....I have gotten engaged.

That's right. It's finally happened. After years of racking up enough bridesmaid dresses to give Katherine Heigl's character in 27 Dresses a run for her money, I finally get to be the one with a cheap, plastic replica of myself on top of a 4-tiered buttercream cake. Like most females, I have been dreaming about walking down the aisle ever since...well....I could walk down the hallway! So as soon as Derek got up from his knee outside that public restroom off of Interstate 81, I began planning. Little did I know, I was already way behind.

I remember secretly mocking those friends of mine who started planning their weddings before they were officially engaged. As in, they already had churches, reception halls, and videographers booked and had distributed their bridesmaid gown requirements to me before their boyfriends had even begun layaway plans at Zales. (I hope neither one of them is reading this, because I'm not making this up!) At the time, I stuck my nose up at the thought of how far they were jumping the gun. But now it seems the joke is, in fact, on me. It is now their turn to laugh sadistically as I scramble to find an affordable DJ and a florist who is available on a mere 9-months notice. (Well, at least the one who is still married gets to laugh!)

Seriously, with all the stress of finding a photographer who won't charge me 2 grand for a dozen pictures or a church that will overlook the fact that we may have slacked off in our Sunday worship routine for the past 237 weeks, I haven't even had time to notice how beautiful that diamond looks on my left hand! I'm so busy agonizing over whether we should serve chicken or steak at the reception and figuring out what possessions I can sell in order to pay the $850 that my dress is going to cost, that I've nearly forgotten what Derek looks like. Now it all makes perfect sense. Those girls planned their weddings ahead of time so they could actually enjoy being engaged! Who would have known that these impatient princesses were actually brilliant, strategic minds plotting a giant victory in the war of the wedding plans?

I admit, I mocked them at first, but I have now become a full-fledged advocate of their cause. After attempting the more traditional path, I now say plan the wedding then get engaged. After all the sleep I've lost trying to do it in reverse...I can't argue with that!

Stressing for Christmas

Now don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love Christmas. I truly believe it is the most wonderful time of the year. Everyone’s house is beautifully decorated with colorful lights or dull and boring white ones. People smile at me in the check out line at Walmart, instead of running me over with their carts to beat me to the “speed-thru line”. Friends and colleagues are giving me frosted, green and red, sugar cookies. Radio stations play “White Christmas” until I think I might actually vomit snow. The ACLU is trying to make everyone call them “holiday trees” to avoid offending all the non-Christians who decorate them this month. No, I certainly can’t deny the warm feeling I get starting the moment I finish my Thanksgiving pumpkin pie to the day I finally return all the clothes my mother thought were “so me”.

But, I can’t suppress the other feeling I get after I’ve finished the last piece of Halloween candy that didn’t find its way into a trick-or-treater’s sack. That sudden wave of nausea in my stomach. The tightness in my chest from the inability to breathe steadily. The clumps of hair that mysteriously wind up in the center of my fists. That dreadful feeling that somehow someone has stolen pages from my yearly calendar because it could not possibly be here already. We all know what I am talking about. Holiday stress! That mix of emotion between Christmas cheer and Christmas I-want-to-bang-my-head-into-a-wall-‘til-New Year’s.

Come on now. I work a full-time job. I own my own business which takes up most of the remaining 16 hours of my day. I have 5 four-legged children to take care of, one of whom does not use a litter box. Plus, I require at least 6 hours of sleep to prevent my turbo-bitch side from surfacing. (So we’re already up to a necessary 29-hour day.) I do all this while also attempting to keep friends and relatives occasionally reminded of what I look like and now I’m supposed to throw Christmas into the mix too?! You’ve got to be kidding me.

How the heck does anyone find time for fighting the Target crowds over the last two blu-ray players in the entire world? Who can actually wrap a teddy bear? What people seriously have the leisure of sitting through Rachel Ray’s “Holiday Eats” episodes and go into the kitchen and reenact what they witnessed? Who manages to create a magnificent electrical display on their front lawn using only the lights from the previous 16 Christmases? Why would anyone want to drink eggnog? Where are all the people like me who have no idea what dancing visions of sugar plums would look like because they haven’t slept all season?

I don’t know if I can take it another year. I think for 2009, I’ll hire someone to celebrate Christmas for me. I haven’t had a free moment to consider what I'd like from Santa anyway! So if you’re looking for any gift ideas for me, a Holiday Celebratory Specialist would be perfect. How can I argue with that?