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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘it's all about me’ Category

tina what the fuck

Thursday, May 21st, 2015

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.

 

zubie zubie zu

Tuesday, March 3rd, 2015

  • Man Men does something to your head, doesn’t it? It makes everything seem slower. And sadder.
  • Having a puppy is hard. He’s big enough to climb on almost everything, smart enough to solve easy ‘hey she just put that on the TABLE, I can still reach it!’ problems, and young enough that chewing on things is how he investigates them. He’s also a motherfucking cutie pie, which helps.
  • Last night a woman came over to meet the dog portion of the family, to see if we’d all be comfortable with her as a dog sitter. She was GREAT.
  • The bathroom is definitely haunted. I was in the far stall (of the two) and someone came in and unzipped and sat down and then I zipped and flushed and went out to wash my hands and the OTHER STALL WAS EMPTY. Fuck that shit.
  • I like the musical guest stars on Hart of Dixie. I’ve mostly never heard of them … OH MY GOD. I just tried to google the newest one to be like ‘she’s a country star and you should check her out, she’s fun’ but she’s not a real country music star!! She’s an actress and they made her up! My life is a lie.

I obviously super duper have my shit together right now.

I might’ve known it would be red

Tuesday, February 17th, 2015

The bathroom at work that inspired my ‘common sense’ (i.e. wash your hands where I tell you to because I’m bossy) post has recently been the site of three new short episodes. The first two are weird, the third is gross and the primary topic here. Just warning everyone.

The first two are best represented by the IMs I sent immediately after they happened:

me: I was just in the bathroom and a woman came in and went into a stall and said OW a bunch of times and then started singing
friend: Ewww WTF
me: I have no idea

it was SO WERID
weird
she must have had drinks at lunch or something
I can’t think of any other explanation
or she’s having a stroke
?
friend: I hope nothing scary is happening with her lady parts
me: she seemed generally pleased

despite the ‘ow‘s

It was true. The ow’s were somehow not troublesome. More like pulling off an  irritating bandaid that you’re super pleased to no longer have on your skin.

No one was found in the bathroom later having suffered from a stroke.

Second thing: 

me: WHAT IS HAPPENIN
ok
so I was just in the same bathroom where the lady said ow ow ow the other day?
and there was someone who I am 85% sure was different
whispering to herself in the stall!
same friend: that is so weird
that bathroom makes people crazy!
me: the only thing I heard was ‘well that is disappointing’ but there was a LOT

Third thing. Same bathroom. (If you’re a man who knows me, just be aware this is about to get period-y. I don’t care if you read it as long as you don’t whine about it being yucky after I obviously forewarned you.)

I’ve been using a diva cup off and on for a couple of years, maybe? (Diva cup: a little cuppy thing you stick up into your vagina to collect menstrual blood. You change it every 8 – 12 hours unless you’re me in which case you change it once a day because a) I bleed a lot compared to how much I used to because of this dumb IUD but not actually that much in the grand scheme of things and b) I’m gross.) I would use it every day of every period if I could, but some days it doesn’t work, somehow. Like, you have to fold it and twist it and stuff and some days it just doesn’t fold and twist and you get tired of sticking silicone into yourself and spinning it around and pulling it back out, so you give up.

A couple of months ago, I took it out in the shower and my hand slipped while I was holding it and it hit the ground and bounced and I was covered in blood. It was very, very Carrie.

This morning was one of the not twisting and spinning and holding mornings. My damn period is almost over, so I put in a pantyliner and moved on with my day. It went fine (although I forgot deodorant because COME ON, there are only so many things a woman can remember on a given morning) but this afternoon I sneezed and I got that unpleasant ‘gosh something just came out of me’ feeling. (If you don’t know that feeling, that’s fine, but I suspect that means you’re a prepubescent woman or one of the aforementioned men who didn’t heed my warning. For you guys, it’s like … um, ok you know how sometimes you sneeze and you can tell a bunch of spit came out of your mouth? That’s the best I can do.)  I was wearing a red skirt. Red, good, skirt, bad, so I hightailed it to the bathroom to see what the damage was.

Minimal. However. The pantyliner had put up a good fight, but was ready for honorable discharge. I hadn’t brought any replacements to work, much less to the bathroom (downside of the diva cup, you get lazy) so I re-dressed and fiddled for a quarter. I tried the pad dispenser. It returned my quarter. I tried the tampon dispenser. It kept my quarter but gave me no tampon.

There was no option left for me but to build a toilet paper contraption that would last me until I found a better solution. You know the one – a wad of TP, with a long piece wrapped around it and the crotch of your underwear to hold it in place? Yeah, that one. As I was wrapping

deep breath

as I was wrapping, someone came in, and I realized that I had been muttering to myself.

I was talking to myself in the crazy talk to yourself bathroom. What was I saying? Don’t even know. Probably something about ow and being disappointed?

 

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.)

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??