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

Archive for July, 2010

dear self

Friday, July 23rd, 2010

I’m sorry to tell you this, but you can’t be sick.

You’ve done really really well this year – you haven’t been sick since February (that you remember), and I know that when you get all stressed your immune system starts to wear down, and that you’re pretty stressed now.

I also know that you spent several hours hanging out in the hospital yesterday, and that there are germs there.

You don’t feel good, but probably it’s all in your head.

You don’t have time for this.



really, Emma? REALLY?

Thursday, July 22nd, 2010

I rearranged my living room to be more conducive to the doing of homework.

I know that some people are distracted by the outdoors, but I find it sort of boring. Wait, did I say boring? Maybe I meant calming.

No, I meant boring.

I can just as easily distract myself with a wall as I can with the outdoors, so facing the window is no big deal. Plus, sunshine is healthy.

My back is to the television, because that I can’t avoid staring at if it’s in my eyeline. Even if it’s off.

What I really want to draw attention to, though, is right here:

See the four red circles?

iPad, iPod, (iPhone was in my hand taking the picture), Dell laptop, and Acer Netbook.

All running.


I’m not solving world hunger here, people. I’m multitasking, sure, but am I really incapable of chatting, working, and blogging simultaneously on one device?

Apparently I am. While any one of these could do everything I needed, I’m running all five.

I’m so disappointed in myself right now.

I’m not turning anything off, in case you were wondering.

one of these days, Alice

Wednesday, July 21st, 2010

I traditionally haven’t done that well with parents.

And by ‘parents’, I of course mean ‘the parents of someone I’m dating’ – because obviously I can’t do badly with ALL parents EVER. That would mean half my friends wouldn’t be my friends anymore, that people in the supermarket would hate me on sight, and that I wouldn’t get along with any boss I’d ever had (oh…wait).

More specifically, I haven’t done that well with mothers.

Dads are ok. If I may throw out a sweeping generalization, if a guy brings home a not-stupid not-ugly girl, dads are generally of the well-good-for-him school of thought. Whether the dad in question and the girl in question personally bond doesn’t have a great deal of effect on the relationship between the girl and the guy.

Moms, though? Not so easy going. By a longshot. And by longshot, I mean ‘GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SON YOU HUSSY’ kind of longshot.

The mother of my college boyfriend – let’s call her Mrs. Jumpsuit – wanted sooo badly to like me. She wanted to bond, she did.

Of course, the things she wanted to bond over were clothing from Chico’s and how one day I’d be making her little Jewish grandbabies.

I don’t like Chico’s.

I’m not Jewish.

What is she even looking at, huh Chico's? No, really, is she giving the stink eye to whoever put those clothes on her?

You can imagine how well that went.

Jumpsuit is now married to a nice Jewish lawyer, and while I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Jumpsuit to find out for sure, I can only imagine she has my picture in a secret ‘could have been worse’ file somewhere and pulls it out when Jumpsuit’s wife does something silly like forgets to pick up the challah on Friday.

I met Crockett’s parents sometime last year, and I was scared to death. I already knew how much I loved the man, and I really really really REALLY wanted his parents to like me. Or at least not run home and start one of those construction paper daisy chains counting down to the day we’d break up.

His dad was easy as cake. (Pie isn’t easy. If you think it is, go make one, then send it here, c/o emmanation. Cherry, please. And send an apple one to Mr. Crockett, it’s his birthday today and he doesn’t like cherries.) Mr. Crockett is funny and sweet and a talented artist and was sending me embarrassing pictures of Crockett via email before we’d ever met in person.

Mrs. Crockett was a different story. She’s brilliant and successful. Her day job puts her in charge of several hundred people, and she loves her children less like a mama lion and more like a mama sphinx – she’s not all up in their business, but you know when the going gets tough she’ll (regally) be all over that shit.

What would we bond over? I fretted. Hair twisting nail biting fretted. I’d been meaning to learn to sew for years, and she makes the worlds cutest purses, so I asked her to take me sewing machine shopping. Turns out I love to sew.

Now? Now we share patterns. Her neighbors in Crockett’s home town email me comments about my sophomore efforts. The lining of my new bag was her brainchild.

It makes me wonder – if Mrs. Jumpsuit and I had found something like this, would we say hi every so often? Jumpsuit and I obviously wouldn’t have made it, but maybe, just maybe, the key to being good with parents?

Is treating them like people.

Who knew.

Happy birthday Mr. Crockett!

P.S. I’m over at The Road bitching about Apple’s iPhone 4 commercials today, if you’re in the mood for some good old feminist ad-bashing.

what does ‘placed at a crime scene mean?’

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

It sounds to me like something is put down in the place where a crime was committed, but that doesn’t make very much sense. If your car was ‘placed at a crime scene’, doesn’t that sound like the cops borrowed it, drove it over to the scene, lifted up the yellow tape, and gently parked your car above the ajar pothole that was used to get into the sewer where the tunnel into the bank vault had been dug?

The only time I’ve been the victim of a crime was this time in high school when someone broke into my 1983 Audi, took my Rent CD OUT of my CD player, and then stole the CD player and the rest of my CDs.

Otherwise known as the day that my stuff was stolen and my musical tastes were harshly, harshly judged.

Other than that occasion, crime in my head is always very heist-like. There are always black outfits and expensive tools, sexy co-criminals and evil targets. When I hear about thieves, I always picture them leaning over a drafting table in the corner of a dimly lit warehouse, planning entry points and exit routes.

Clearly, this isn’t the most accurate version of things, but it’s the one I prefer.


It’s the kind of thief I’d like to be.

P.S. I know that The Road More Travelled, which I have been pimping like mad, isn’t working. We’re trying to figure it out REALLY HARD. If you don’t believe me, ask GoDaddy – I spoke to them 6 times yesterday. I have the menu options memorized. I will make it work.


Monday, July 19th, 2010

You know that new collaborative blog I’ve mentioned a few (read: a gajillion (Crockett hates it when I use the word gajillion, which makes no sense to me – it’s so descriptive without being at all specific) ) times?

The Road More Travelled?

It’s aliiiiveeee ahahahaha. Sort of. Laura and I can’t see it on our computers, but every other computer in the world can see it.

Who the hell knows why that is, but also? Who cares. Go read it. Laura started us off by writing about writing.

P.P.S. I’m done pimping that here. Promise. Cross my heart. Hope to die*.

*That seems a little excessive, so probably not actually hope to die. But the rest is true.