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emmanation

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

lil sebastian

July 13th, 2017 by biscuit

I MET A TINY HORSE TODAY.

Work does this thing called ‘summer of service’ (patent pending for my work because literally no one has ever said those words in that order probably and the insta and twitter hashtags are all stolen from my work prolly right? right). It means they organize a bunch of volunteer opportunities that take place during working hours, and they encourage people to participate in them with pay.

No snark, it’s super.

Today’s volunteer thing was to go to a historic site in Longmont, Colorado, and paint a bunch of very old buildings white. Well, repaint. They’ve been white off and on for like 100 years I think? I joined the day and the painting enthusiastically but wasn’t really listening during the history explanation. In my defense, it was sunny and there were two donkeys and two white cows and two pigs and two goats and two sheep and two Belgian horses….

and one mini horse.

Now that I’ve laid it out, does it feel a lil ark-ish? If the ark were built by a mini horse hater?

Did you know pigs run around like dogs sometimes?

We primed and painted a milk house (house with a water channel through it that keeps everything cold), a garage, some fencing, and … a building that we never saw inside of so I’m assuming it’s a parks department park hangout and was filled with video games and mini fridges.

The people who came from my work were mostly fun, mostly young, and mostly women. Coincidentally, the man the parks dept sent us was (takes a deep breath and tries to be a lady) very attractive.

I had a great time. Nothing like being the only woman with a wedding ring in a group to make you not care if you look like an idiot in front of a parks guy. Everyone else was maybe a tiny bit thirsty (including this very little man I’ve never seen in our building who brought his own ladder for gold stars, I guess? He *got* the gold stars from the cute parks guy, too, which means next volunteer day he’ll show up with a ladder and his own primer, probably.)

Despite my fab time, I was left with two questions.

First, can mini horses breed? I don’t really know how horse junk works. If they can, then I strongly object to the farm only having one mini horse.

Second, do insects have a sense of smell? The number of bugs I saw walk into pools of wet paint today leads me to believe that no, they do not, but also how do they find food and flowers? I’m oversimplifying? I’m oversimplifying.

Third (of two, shut up), what is whitewashing? (Tom Sawyer wise, not Oscars-so-white wise. That I get.)

(Today in Emma’s life, see ‘questions that can be answered by googling’.)

I miss my new donkey and mini horse friends. Who wants to move to a farm with me?

cursed

July 6th, 2017 by biscuit

Oh hai I got a new tattoo.

So did my mom – same thing, opposite arm.

Our reasons were manyfold (not a real word probably? But didn’t get spellchecked plus language is a constantly evolving medium and anything’s a word if you get enough children to clap while you say it.)

First, I wanted a tattoo. I was just feeling that itch. I wanted something major, and I also wanted something simple. I’m a big fan of words and I was ready to commit to ‘patience’ along my collarbone, but … things went a different direction. Obviously.

Second, my mom is going to be 70 in four years, and she’s going to be fully covered in tattoos by the time that happens (citation needed).

Third, she and I had actually discussed this after my grandfather passed away eight years ago, and then again after we lost my grandma, and somehow it just seemed like time. We had only two blurry pictures of what we wanted, but we took it to an artist I’ve used before and he squinted out his best interpretation.

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Here’s the deal as I understand it. (Grandma and Grandpa, if you’re fact checking from the afterlife then … I’m sorry but probably you should have told me the story yourselves instead of trusting the telephone game that is your twelve children to tell it for you.)

They got married when my Irish grandma was a mere babe (in more ways than one *wink* (ew)) and my grandpa was in the Air Force (or the US Army Air Forces, at the time, because there wasn’t an Air Force yet). He’d been stationed in Egypt and she went back with him after the wedding, and he bought her the necklace you see above from a dealer in Egypt named Maguid Sameda. I know this because I’ve got a terrible photo of the paperwork Sameda gave my grandfather on purchase. Here’s what it says, medium (it’s an old school form so some is printed and some is handwritten in a brutal script, I’ve transcribed it as well as possible):

I the undersigned, Maguid Sameda, guarantee that the necklace with the cat of goddess Isis sold by me to Mr L W P- (ed: L Wildman!) on 11 (September?) 1943 is Genuine.

The object is of the 16th Dynasty BC 1600.

Found at the (?) of the (?, ?) of queen (?), 1943, and was added to my collection of antiquities on 1943.

Interpretation of art or heliographic inscription

The cat represents Goddess Isis Goddess of love who is worshipped by the greeks as venus There is a great resemblance in Cat and a woman for that they made the Cat her sacred animal

This guarantee is given to ensure that the above described object can be examined at any of the world Museums.

No 1 Fouad Street, Maguid Sameda, Egyptian Museum License No 108

So, my original understanding of the story was that at some point our family had been like ‘heeeeeyyyy is this a real thing from 3600 years ago orrr…..?’ and shown it to someone, but I think we actually have just been trusting this paperwork. Which is not unreasonable, because it turns out that a huge amount of Egyptian antiquities that are currently totally legit have passed through Maguid Sameda’s hands. (Ex: this wacky statue and this codex, among many others.)

Crucially, also, this relief from the tomb of Akhtihotep.

Tomb.

So, the first word that I couldn’t identify above looked sort of like nelly. Or … belly. Rally? Then there was something about a table, maybe? Here:

the words

The first word starts with a … n? W? Does anyone see something I don’t? It’s DEFINITELY NOT TOMB, though, right?

I mean, here’s the thing.

If this came from the tomb of some queen …. probably I shouldn’t have tattooed it into my skin. I don’t believe in curses, per se, but also I 100% believe in curses. My family’s been ok, so far (although, gruesomely, husbands of daughters actually  don’t have the best survival rate now that I think of it?) but what if there’s something about ink that really kicks it into high gear?

Seriously, what’s that first word.

Also, I don’t know where the necklace is so please don’t report me to the Egyptian museum. If I ever inherit it, I’ll send it over immediately for a promise of a curse free existence. Promise.

 

thanks, that was fun

July 2nd, 2017 by biscuit

I wonder if I was any good when I sang in a band.

Indications that I *was*:

  • The boys whose band it was actually let me join and I did audition first and everything
  • People clapped?
  • Sometimes people bought me drinks?
  • We were in a battle of the bands and didn’t get kicked out after the first round

Indications that I wasn’t:

  • Literally everything above can be explained by the fact that I was a 24 year old woman who was willing to wear short skirts and wholesomely flirt with a whole room full of people simultaneously (<- real skill, still have it … think I could spin a TED talk outta that?)
  • WE DID PRIMUS COVERS – how could I possibly have done those well? Primus is a) not meant for a female alto and b) the worst

I was going to see if our old website was still out there so I could glory in pictures of myself in pinstriped skirts and mens ties as belts, but there’s a new band in Denver that seems to have co-opted our name. Which is weird, because The Take didn’t make that much sense as a name the first time around – we were constantly having to explain it. The boys were constantly, constantly high and I think they came up with that and ‘Barefoot Dan’ and made me choose between the two options. Actually, I guess it’s pretty reasonable to think that the new The Take got there the same way …

I’m going to start a new band, and it’s going to be me playing guitar as well as possible (so, you know, poorly) and doing nothing but solo versions of Barenaked Ladies covers. I *am* going to call it Barefoot Dan, because I have no better ideas.

If THAT takes off, we’ll know I’ve got skills and the sky’s the limit, babies.

loss

June 30th, 2017 by biscuit

(There is nothing fun or funny to follow, so … move along if that’s what you’re here for.)

I don’t mean loss in the way that people *lose*. Not a parent or a spouse or a child. I’m talking about those losses that, when you explain them to other people, they rate like a splinter. ‘Oh, bummer’, and then moved on from, never to be considered again.

Or worse, those losses that you don’t feel justified mourning. My personal examples are just that … the best I can think of that I’m willing to share are things like when I sent my book to a few very famous agents and none of them were interested. Overall: pipe dream, best I can expect as far as sympathy was a nod and a smile. Still, internally, I mourned. I love my book like a baby, and I thought it was meant to be. And it was, but under different circumstances, and that makes sense to everyone who hears this story. But to me, it felt like it was meant to be with who I had in mind and everything else was just treading water.

Or worse, when my Clo died. Cloey was a terrier but also my best friend and the companion who grew up with me, from college graduation through breakups and apartments and a house that belonged to just me and her. People understand when your dog dies, but most of them in an ‘oh bummer’ way. I railed and cried and missed her like a person, but … ‘oh, bummer’.

The thing is, everyone tells you that kind of thing feels better later. Wait it out, etc, etc. My losses of men from my younger years (the kind of thing that hit hardest when I was a baby person)? YES. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I’m not the girl who was with Andrew in college, when he realized he’d always been in love with Andre. Or how glad I am that I’m not married to Monte, who now has beautiful twins and a lovely wife.

Of course, in retrospect, Monte did make out with the girl who is now the woman he’s married to while we were in the process of permanently combining our lives. And Andrew … I don’t know, man. I want to pretend my gaydar was good, but it wasn’t. He was cute and I dodged a bullet, that’s where that lies.

My book, though? If I’d been tough and tried harder, more times, maybe I would have gotten what I wanted. If I’d been braver and strong enough to let Cloey go through chemo at the animal hospital up at CSU, maybe I would have had her for longer. (I checked the archives and this post is the closest I got to writing about how hard it was when Clo died, but suffice to say my choices there are some of my biggest what-ifs.) There are losses that are just that – losses. They are things that make your life less for the lack of them. I have them and know I’ll have more, but it doesn’t make them hurt any less.

I miss the things that I think should have happened, the things that belong in my life but aren’t there.

(In other news, sometimes I’m a fucking drama queen.)

GLAMPING

June 29th, 2017 by biscuit

I always knew the Nederland in me would come out.

I just signed up for a yoga retreat.

In Moab.

In tents.

I’m not a hippie, like, overall. I work for corporate America in a BIG WAY. A big brother way, not to put too fine a point on it. I spend a lot of money on clothes. I mean, they’re mostly meant to look like they don’t cost a lot of money, but that’s probably worse, right? Is bourgeoisie the word for that? (Don’t tell me, I’m well aware. Bobo as fuck over here.) I do believe with all my heart in taking care of people who need help and giving what you have available to give, and I do have a lot of love … but I think that’s just being a democrat, right?

(I also get very cranky with a lot of people. Please see my archives for 1000 proofs. Or ask the guy I scolded at a bar on Tuesday for saying something VERY racist and then saying he couldn’t be racist because he went to school with black guys who got more girls than him. (Yes, he said pussy, but, come on, ew – there’s a time and place for that word and a bar with acquaintances is neither). SRSLY WUT.)

However. I love yoga, and I’ve been leaning really hard into self care while I’m working through some stuff. Like, beyond yoga – journaling and drinking a lot of wine. New American Cool Girl, right here.

This retreat I signed up for is women only. It’s three nights, yoga in the evening and in the morning and rock climbing and hikes to waterfalls in the middle. Made for insta, except no electricity and no reception.

Plus, there are cots and the tents have wood floors (hence the glamping). I mean, I wake up on either side of 5 am every morning already, and I love a good cactus. (Is there bad cactus? Yes. They’re the stumpy ones that animals run into accidentally. They don’t mean to hurt you, cactus, and it’s very hard for furry desert mammals to remove cactus spines, so that makes you a bad cactus.) I don’t love scorpions.

(My brother had a pet scorpion. Her name was Princess Tiffany. He’s an fantastic artist, and when Princess Tiffany died he made a huge stencil of her likeness and spray painted it in pink on the side of his Jeep. )

Princess Tiffany notwithstanding, I don’t want to find a scorpion chilling in my sleeping bag. Wood floors and cots will really facilitate that.

What I do want is a stranger assigned to my tent with me. We’ll be best friends for 48 hours at a minimum. And I want a group circle after dinner on Saturday that involves a moon deck. What is a moon deck? Your guess is as good as mine. I originally pictured a tables and umbrellas kind of deck that you watch the moon from, but it appears to be the card kind of deck. The moon part? I do not know, but damned if I won’t find out with a bunch of women I don’t know, sitting in a circle in the dessert.

Because, my inner Ned is rearing her head.