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emmanation

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

Archive for January, 2015

kah-WEEEEEEN ah-man

Thursday, January 29th, 2015

I bought a mixer and now I HAVE to use it, right? So I’m making kouign amann. Which it turns out only uses the mixer for like five minutes and then requires approximately 100 minutes of shoulder intensive rolling. Good plan, Emma, good plan.

I’m going to take the finished product to work in the morning, and I hope that it’s going to counteract something that happened today.

See, here’s the thing. Darling Crockett (YES we hang out all the time NO I don’t know what it means) got me these really fun travel books for my birthday. They’re the ’36 hours in’ books from the NY Times for Europe and the West Coast of the US and Canada, and they’re full of pictures and teeny tiny itineraries, which I just love. They make it very easy to imagine ‘well if I were to stop by Dublin for a weekend, I’d…’. So I had the books in my cube and Coastie came by, and then my super fun tall conspiracy theorist coworker who I can’t remember if I made a nickname for came by, and then another guy who definitely doesn’t have a nickname but is very nice squeezed in, and then our boss brought over her donut and settled in for a chat, and then her peer joined her.

Keeping track? Three coworkers and two bosses and me. In my cubicle, which I think is like one and a half feet by three feet.

Roughly.

So we’re chatting about the travel books and them I’m showing everyone the instagram picture of my new mixer (see above) and then asking if they know where I can find a

  • Member of the clergy
  • Medical Doctor
  • School Principal
  • Bank Manager
  • Solicitor/Lawyer
  • Police Officer or
  • Magistrate/Judge

who knows someone who knows me (Irish citizenship whoohooo) and yet another coworker stops by and says what’s happening here?

And I say jokingly,

“Oh, I’m just holding court.”

WHICH (to be fair) IS EXACTLY WHAT WAS HAPPENING.

Because I am loud and extroverted and no one else on my team is. That is why. That is a good reason. I feel like an idiot so I’m try to justify my loud mouth, can you tell?

AND THEY ALL CAME TO ME.

I’m sorry, that was too many capital letters. But seriously, they all came to my cube unbidden to hang out and catch up and then, when I said the thing about me basically being queen, they all looked askance. ‘Well she thinks she’s very special doesn’t she’ I bet they thought.

I am stupid and terrible and I am not the queen. Ok, fine. I am the queen. I am queen of the nerds and it is a position I am proud to hold.

Which I guess makes the kouign amann my let them eat cake moment.

That worked out, right?

(Also from Crockett – an Easy Tiger tote bag. Guy knows me, can’t lie.)

yes privilege I know

Monday, January 26th, 2015

I had a really nice iPhone 5s and I broke it.

Well, clarification, I had a normal 5s. There was nothing particularly nice about it except that all 5s’s are nice. Either way, I broke it. I was at The Post with a darlin friend and I held it up and somehow (cough*beers*cough) I dropped it from the barstool I was sitting on flat onto the concrete patio floor below. The screen shattered. It was an ugly moment. I may have blamed the girlfriend I was with because she may have asked to see the phone – that part is unclear and has likely been exaggerated in my head every time I looked at my shattered screen, but who can say for sure?

I still have that 5s but it is no longer really nice. Or normal. See, I thought it was a good idea to replace the screen myself. Which, to be fair, with my coworker’s help, it totally was. It costs upwards of $175 to get the screen replaced on a 5s by a professional, did you guys know that? Possibly because of the fingerprint thing? Dunno. You can buy a screen, and the tiny screwdriver that apparently exists for no purpose other than removing iPhone screen screws, for like $50, and there are instructions online.

It turns out that the instructions leave a lot to be desired and the tiny screws that are removed by the tiny screwdriver are very easily lost. My very kind coworker and I replaced the screen really adequately! We used my tiny fingers to hold things in place and her smart fingers to actually do the work and it was an excellent division of labor. No matter what we tried, though, we couldn’t get the screen to load afterwards. I took the phone to a professional who shifted one tiny thing, told me I was super close, didn’t charge me, and handed me a functional phone.

A functional phone missing a single screw. A screw that I’d taken out and put somewhere for safekeeping. Somewhere so safe I still haven’t found it.

Turns out it was an important screw.

This is a very long way of telling you that I HAVE A NEW PHONE. It’s a 6 and it’s very pretty and my tiny fingers will perhaps eventually get used to the size?  However, I’m thinking of making a rule that I’m not allowed to touch the phone at bars. At least while I’m drinking? Or over concrete floors? The details are still up in the air, I’m open to suggestions.

Please be aware that if you currently receive intermittent hilarious texts from me after 8 pm on Friday or Saturday nights, any rule you put in place may curtail that.

 

why you stupid … I mean golly you’re cute

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

Every so often I think ‘hmm, I should work on my brain’. Because I have this idea that you can make your brain better by doing … exercises, like you can your muscles, right?

Does the former statement imply that I do exercises for my muscles? Because if so who am I to disabuse you of that notion? Nobody. I’m nobody who should counteract the implication that I regularly work out.

See, it’s sentences like that and moments like Coastie excitedly showing me an RFID key finder thingie because even my coworkers know I can’t keep track of those dumb pokey metal things that make me think maybe brain exercises are a thing I should do.

Did I tell you guys about the key thing from the apartment?? I don’t think I did! Ok, here’s what happened. (Live. On BRAVO. I’m in a weird mood tonight.)

The story. I moved last April and the complex was like here’s two keys and a little plastic beep-y thing that gets you into the pool and the weight room, and I was like awesome thanks. So I put one of the keys and the beep-y thing on one of those detachable key ring things on my main key ring, so I could take just something tiny with me to exercise.

Again, in case it was not clear, I do not lift weights for my muscles. However, my keychain was more than adequately prepared in case I chose to do so.

About a month before I moved, I lost the attachment thingie. I had another apartment key so I wasn’t totally out of luck, but I knew I was going to get charged for the beep-y thing and I looked FUCKING EVERYWHERE. Primarily in the bowl that I’ve been using for keys since buying my townhouse in 2007, but also in the pockets of every jacket I have, in every bag and purse, on the floor, in drawers, every square inch of my car, and then in the bowl again. And then in the bowl again, then pockets/bowl/purses/bowl/floors/car/bowl/etc. You get the point.

When I turned in my keys after cleaning the apartment (with help from my gorgeous and generous and youthful mother), I told them what happened. “I just can’t find it. I’m sure it’s in a box now, somewhere,” I told the woman in the office.

SHE SMIRKED AT ME.

I’m very close to positive that she thought I was keeping it on purpose. Like, I thought I could get away with sneaking into the gym with it? I don’t know. As previously established, I didn’t use the damn gym even when it WAS allowed.

I did not appreciate the smirk.

At the end of December, I was grabbing my house keys out of the key bowl, and …
the
beep-y
thing
fell
out.

I don’t even know what to say. I took every single thing out of that bowl more than once. See the amount of times I wrote ‘bowl’ when I was listing where I looked? I took everything out of the bowl, individually, MORE times than I wrote the damn word.

I returned the beep-y thing and wasn’t charged for it, but I’m still irritated by the mystery. Did someone find it and put it in the bowl? Is my prankster ghost back?

Do I just need to do more mental exercises??

anthony loved MY spicy shrimp stew

Thursday, January 15th, 2015

Watchin’ The Taste, makin’ some playlists, la-la-la.

I’ve been putting Friends on in the background for the last few days while I do stuff around the house, and I would really like to integrate more of Pheobe’s here’s what’s happing song writing into my life.

The playlists are a mess la-la-la.

See, more charming!

The playlists for the party are a mess. Right now it’s 175 songs I like divided into quiet, medium, and loud categories, where quiet means no one will want to sing along, medium means some people will want to sing along, and loud means GODDAMNIT YOU BETTER ALL BE SINGING RIGHT NOW SO HELP ME.

Put that thing back where it came from or so help me la-la-la! See, singing in real life is memorable and cute. Especially if you’re a cartoon monster.

 

how to disappear

Monday, January 12th, 2015

I bought a book called How To Disappear on Kindle a few years ago. Perhaps as research for Corked? That would make sense, although I don’t actually remember that being the reason. More likely it was because I was considering packing up Cloey and Maida and making a full on escape-from-grad-school attempt.

One of the first things that the author points out is that if you really are planning on ditching your life, you messed up if you bought the book with anything but cash, anywhere but a book store without cameras. Fortunately, I didn’t end up making a break from grad school, so it didn’t matter.

However, I’m now perhaps considering it again (blogging about it isn’t a tip off, right?) because I’m having a party.

A cocktail/housewarming/birthday party, on Saturday.

To be clear, I am psyched as hell about the party. I have two separate party cocktails along with beer and wine, and literally ten different canapes planned. (Seven savory, three sweet, half vegetarian, some gluten free, some dairy free – I really thought this through.) I’m excited for my work friends to meet my … life friends? Non-work friends? Friends friends? (There’s no reasonable thing to call my friends that I don’t work with that doesn’t demean the people I do work with, but who are we kidding, no one likes their work friends as much as their friend friends. Except the people in The Office.)

The thing is, I have 30 yes RSVPs.

I absolutely blame myself. For being so damn lovable.

Ahahaha just kidding I’m the worst, remember? I do blame myself, though. Reason 1) I’m used to throwing girl only parties, so I invited all the women I would normally invite and their plus ones. Double the list, didn’t plan for it. Reason 2) I clearly underestimated how much combining two big parties AND requiring people to dress up would up the guest list. Housewarming, skippable but fun. Fancy cocktail party, skippable but a nice excuse to buy a new outfit plus it was very clearly stated that you didn’t have to bring ANYTHING. Birthday party … skippable with good cause. The three together? Unstoppable. Basically everyone but my boss said yes. (Very polite of her, don’t you think? It was perhaps a risk inviting her but I think we played the social situation quite well.)

It’s going to be awesome. Or I’m going to spend the whole night worrying about food and drinks. Or it’s going to be great. Or I’m going to spend the whole night worried about Agnes and Maida.  Or it’s going to be carefree and a kick. Or I’m going to get crazy drunk and embarrass myself in front of most of the people I love.

Just maybe I should have paid for the book with cash.