Image 01

emmanation

You like me! Of course, you probably don't know me very well.

why Irish

September 1st, 2015 by biscuit

Last post in regard to Irish citizenship for the mo’, I double plus promise.

(Also, I started a post about the dog park but somehow I ended up writing about adult strangers visiting kids parks and I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, so I decided that post should probably wait.)

Why Irish?

Straight up, cause I can.

I know, that’s fuckin’ lame. Or fucking lame, if you’re not a g dropper.

If I want to move to an EU country and work there, I will be able to. Do I want to do that? No, because moving the dogs would be terrible and I love them more than I love the idea of living somewhere else. If I want to travel without being identified as an American, I can. Do I want to? Well, every time I open my mouth ‘I am American’ is the subtext, so that’s actually a lie. I can’t travel as anything but what I am.

See?

No good reason.

Still damn cool.

things I thought I knew

August 31st, 2015 by biscuit

Here’s the promised twist: I didn’t actually get a passport from that whole process.

I know, minds everywhere are just blown.

Look, I know I’m overstating this, but I was so damn sure I was getting my passport. Like, I referred to the process as getting my passport, not my citizenship. In retrospect, that was dumb for many reasons, but if you can’t be honest about your failings on the internet …

(The end of that sentence was ‘where can you’. I’m sure you knew that, but I wanted to be clear in case you thought maybe I was implying something less predictable. I was not. I was going where literally every person who has ever gone ‘if you can’t do x in/on/at y …’ was going with the dot dot dot.)

Here was my logic. It is threefold. THREEFOLD, I say. First fold: when my mom went through her whole process, she got a passport. Second fold: my damn cousin (I call him that because he is moderately famous and therefore does not respond to my emails or facebook requests to tell me HOW HE DID THIS) got his passport when he went through the process. That one really set the bar, because his whole deal should have been exactly the same as mine. Third fold: I had to send them passport photos.

And here was my downfall. My mom was not applying to be on the foreign births register, so her whole deal was totally different. She didn’t even have to mail her application to Dublin, but rather got to pop it over to San Francisco. My COUSIN (I’m actually really irritated that he ignored me while I was investigating this. I’m older than him. And drank his mom’s breast milk, and vice versa, probably. I don’t know, that was a thing my mom and her sisters did.) travels a lot and possibly physically visited embassies. Also, I actually only have a guess of when he actually started, so it’s possible he went through this exact process. The passport photos? That’s still lame, Ireland. I don’t know what that was about. Crockett’s theory is that it was just the simplest way for them to define an identity proving photo, which I guess it makes sense that they would need?

OH! Guess what I forgot to mention? I had to get a lawyer from my office to sign the original application, because there’s no provision for a notary. The choices are, like, priest, school principal, police officer, bank manager, and lawyer. That’s who my Irish peeps trust.

So now I’ve sent an entirely separate application off for my passport. Boom. I’m a citizen so they’ll give it to me. That’s how that works. (I was about to say ”Merica!’ but that is completely irrelevant here! How often can you say that? (All the time. America is not everything. Easy to forget that when you live here. Oh my god I sound like Donald Trump. What am I even doing with my life.))

P.S. If you really are reading this to find out how the process works, follow the link from the first post and note that I sent my application in early February and got my birth certificate the final week of August. Plan accordingly.

blarney and … guinness and stuff

August 30th, 2015 by biscuit

Hey guess what I’m totally Irish now.

I realize that sounds like baloney.

(Hold on, googling the Irish version of ‘baloney’.)

I realize that sounds like bullocks.

(You know what, actual Irish people, I’m super sorry about all of this. I mean, I’m leaving it, but I am super sorry.)

So let’s recap. I don’t know how to use Irish slang and I am a dual US/Irish citizen. Both of those things are the absolute truth.

My maternal Grandma, the ever-patient mother-of-twelve Joan, was born in County Cork. That’s where Dublin is. (Did you know that? I did not previously know that.) Ireland, for reasons I cannot begin to explain (I think ‘they were super broke’ mostly sums it up but come on, darlings, I’m almost to my sounding like an idiot threshold for this post already and I have quite a few more things to say), has the easiest citizenship process for people who weren’t born there of any EU country. As in, if your grandparent was born there and never renounced his or her citizenship, you can make it happen. Compared to that lil sprint, every other EU country’s process is apparently a triathlon.

I did it. I have an Irish birth certificate (complete with my very Italian last name) in my hot sweaty hands, and one of those nifty red EU passports will join it in eight to twelve weeks.

I’m going to tell you, super quick, what I did just in case you want to do it too. Then we can all be Irish together!!!

***For clarity, what I’m talking about is getting yourself onto the Irish Foreign Births Register. As far as I can tell, once you’re on it, you’re legally as Irish as anybody else. The birth certificate they mailed me that was covered with words like ‘CLÁR NA mBREITHEANNA COIGRÍCHE’ and it’s getting me an EU passport, so, you know. Golden.***

First and very important: I think this was clear, but have an Irish grandparent. Otherwise, find out where your grandparents were from and try to get citizenship there instead. If it was America, try to join the DAR. It’ll be fun. Red white and blue rosette brooches, probably?

Then, you need to be able to prove that a) it is your grandparent, and b) that he or she is actually Irish. Here’s what I sent:

  • My grandma’s original birth certificate. It was bonkers, you guys. Like, of of those old docs that was busting at the edges and had (probably!) been written with a fountain pen. It was 1920. All pens were fountain pens. Astronaut pens (which is what we all use now in this futuristic year of 2015, right, guys?) weren’t invented until 1965. The name of the hospital she was born in had an appropriate number of vowels and consonants, but they’re in an order that makes no sense to my American English brain.
  • My grandma’s marriage certificate. Same deal, although somewhat newer, obviously. Old. Crackly. Originals only.
  • My grandma’s death certificate. Sad and also don’t know why, cause Ireland didn’t know she died and I could have applied while she was still alive. However, I sent it and was successful so … ymmv.
  • My mother’s birth certificate. I hadn’t really thought this through before, but obviously this was to prove the link between me and grandma. Duh. One of those fancy copies you get from the hospital. I don’t know if that counts as an original? When you say original birth certificate, I think the ones with the footprint on them. Is that a thing? Did I learn that from movies and it doesn’t even really exist? What IS EVEN REAL ANYMORE?
  • My mom’s marriage certificate.
  • MY birth certificate. Same deal as mom’s, originality wise.
  • A certified copy of my mom’s passport (Irish, because she had already gone through a simpler version of this process. However, nothing in any of the application documents stated that that was necessary. I could have done this with her American passport, theoretically.)
  • A certified copy of my American passport. With both of these, nothing made it clear that a copy was ok. All the info actually sort of implied that I should send the originals. However, I had to go to Mexico and mom didn’t want to hand over her shiny new passport, so I took a leap of faith.
  • A bunch of pain in the ass passport photos that I had to get taken at a specialty shop in Boulder. Around here, the normal places (FedEx, etc) couldn’t do the Irish ones, because they’re a very slightly different size.
  • A filled out application.
  • A buttload of money. (270 Euros. The application I filled out had a spot for debit card info so I filled that in, but in looking at the website I actually messed that up. The site itself says certified check or money order, and requests almost $50 more than I ended up paying. Whoops. Thanks for letting that slide, Dublin Embassy of Ireland! I DO NOT RECOMMEND DOING THAT, FOLKS. Send them a check.)

Did that wear you out, just reading it? It wore me out collecting it, and that’s after my family had done the hard work of getting all of my grandma’s stuff!

This is long, and there’s a twist coming. So.

Stay tuned for part two of Emma and the leprechauns! Coming soon to a theater near you.

 

 

what I golf

June 21st, 2015 by biscuit

My fabulous new company has a golf weekend year. For a mere twenty five dollars, we get to play with four coworkers in a scramble, and get lots of branded stuff, and get drinks, and breakfast, and lunch, and entered in a raffle. It’s fun. This is a short list of things that happened to me during the game yesterday.

  • I drove the golf cart alone,  fast, and while showing off with a tight speedy turn, I fell out of the cart. Turns out no one was watching, so I was neither embarrassed nor impressive.
  • (I just put on fake nails for fun and TYPING IS HARD)
  • When we went to tip the drink cart woman, I looked for cash. I had a ten, a one, and two twenties, so I gave her the one and felt bad and moved on. Then at the clubhouse during the raffle I bought a beer for 3.75, and the bartender brought me a dollar and quarter for change. I looked in my wallet and still had a twenty and a ten, and I had thought I was holding a twenty, so I told him I’d given him a twenty and he insisted I’d given him a five. He gave in and brought me my change, and I know for sure I couldn’t have given him something I didn’t have, but I still feel guilty.
  • One of my teammates let me use this super old brass-lookin’ putter, and I joked that it was haunted, and he looked at me quite seriously and said ‘the guy who used to own it was a jerk and a bigot’ and I stuttered ‘do you think his ghost will help me golf?’ and he was like uhhhh. But I did pretty damn well on the …putting part, so maybe the bigoted jerk ghost is working for me?
  •  Everyone semi-grimaced when I told them who I would be playing with (random assignment)  but my team was AWESOME. I was flipping them off by three hours in and no one was offended.
  • I did a sort of ridiculous number of cartwheels for a respectable 34 year old woman. Because there’s nothing about golf grass that doesn’t scream cartwheel.

Oh also, I wore shorts with a three inch inseam which seemed perfectly reasonable but I’ve seen some pics and you know what a three inch inseam looks like when you’re with coworkers? Booty shorts. Um, yay me?

tina what the fuck

May 21st, 2015 by biscuit

Therapy. Lesbians.

(This is much less dramatic than the intro made it sound, but the intro is accurate! Just wait!)

I decided to go into therapy, cause, you know. I think we can all use someone to talk to and stuff. My best friend is in school to become a counselor and sometimes she says brilliant insightful things based on what she’s learned* and I was like hey, lots of things have changed in my life, maybe I should stop exploiting my best friend for free therapy and talk to a professional.

*She said brilliant and insightful things before too. Like, one time, she accused me of wanting to spend the night at her house because I had a crush on her little brother and she was RIGHT!**

**We were maybe fourteen and her brother was a year or slightly less younger than her. Crushes on 13 year olds when you’re 14 aren’t gross. Crushes on your best friends little brother are gross. Too close, ladies, don’t do it.

So I found a therapist that was super close to work and a woman (important to me, I said to Crockett offhandedly that ‘I don’t want a male therapist because I’d probably try to make him like me’ WHICH WOAH I SHOULD probably tell my real therapist about that) and she was very much not my thing. She just agreed with me a lot.

Since I always think I’m right, that is not a helpful problem solving attitude.

If paid enablers were a thing I would totally call her first.

So I found another woman, further from work but still commutable during a work day distance, and she does all these wacky things, and she asked me questions, and wrote stuff down, and I just loved her. Unfortunately, lots of other people love her too, so she couldn’t work me in regularly until mid June. She called today with a cancellation for tomorrow, though, so I started the book that she recommended (The Happiness Trap) just a few minutes ago…

while watching The L Word.

Boom, therapy and lesbians. Do I deliver in the least exciting way possible or WHAT.