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emmanation

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

I’ll follow you until you love me

Sunday, August 14th, 2016

I’m going through old blog posts for a wedding related project (it’s a secret, you nosey parker! Nosy Parker! No see parkour!) and I just found a Sunday Talky I made (remember those? Man, I used to be a good blogger. High five, that Emma) where Cloey and Maida are both in it.

And now I’m sad.

I miss my Clo.

Damn dogs and their non-human life spans.

Fortunately I'm not lacking for dog compansionship to help me through.

Fortunately I’m not lacking for dog companionship to help me through.

 

SO FULL

Thursday, April 14th, 2016

Do you ever feel like someone is lying to you for no reason?

In that a) you have no reason to think they’re lying and b) they have no reason to actually be lying, and yet somehow you still totally think they are?

A dude at work today told me a long story, apropos of literally fucking nothing, about his contractor shooting a finishing nailing into said fellow’s leg, and how the nail is still there. It was pointless, and poorly told, and I feel like he was LYING, but also why on earth would he be? Ridiculous. (Me. Or him, if I’m right, I guess, but probably me.)

Also we’re planning our wedding because we’re getting maaaarrrieeed and we weren’t really sure if we’d pick colors. It didn’t seem super important, because we’re pulling the trigger in an art gallery so the decorations are pretty much built in, ya feel me? However, so our moms could coordinate and we could think about … I don’t know, napkins? Flowers? I ordered this book for us and it comes tomorrow, maybe it will have a ‘what your colors are for’ chapter … anyway, we sort of picked some.

And then I realized that two thirds of them are the Broncos colors. Ish.

I mean, go athletes etc, but, no.

Sabres, maybe.

 

trunkbrella

Wednesday, April 13th, 2016

I was trying to park downtown in our lil town to meet Crockett this afternoon, and these dudes did this weird thing.

I’m going to draw you a word picture.

A big white SUV thing (Ford Expansion? Chevy Canyonero?) pulled into the front of two empty parking spaces (miiiiiracle, there were no spaces anywhere downtown for two full circles of the main and side streets) and I tried to pull in behind. I am not the greatest parallel parker, and as I was pulling in the driver of the SUVbigdickthing clicked that auto button that opens the big rear lid thing.

I know all the car words. Hot, I know.

So the big flat rear thing starts to open, and cuts into the space I’m pulling (fairly poorly) into, so I stop. With the rear of my car full in the road. Picture me at a forty five degree angle, halfway into the space, ok? So my whole carbutt is totally in the road, and these two guys get out of the SUVquadrupleDsthing and come around to get their shit out of the rear. Slowly.

I drive an old Scion xB, so I have a short carfront thing, so these dudes are … six feet from me. They don’t make eye contact, but instead pull out their jackets and bags and put their jackets on and whatever.

At this point, they are camped in the front third of my space. There is nothing I can do without revving my engine directly at them and forcing them to jump out of the way, and there’s no way to know if their five foot tall rear liftypanel (I swear I’m not doing this on purpose, I just don’t know what these things are called!) will close once I’ve parked, so I really need to wait for them to move and shut their SUVbootyfordaaaaaaaaaysthing before I finish parking.

Bags out. Suit coats on.

Oh, but wait! There’s a dude across the street! Probably, they should beckon him over, and then have a discussion under the big trunkbrella thing! (If I haven’t sufficiently explained it, they’re standing in the space in this picture here.)

Again. SIX FEET FROM MY FACE. REFUSING TO ACKNOWLEDGE MY EXISTENCE.

It was bizarre, people. It probably only took two or three minutes, but that is a very long time when your carbutt is in the road and weirdos are ignoring you in the most ignory of ignoring ways.

They got out of the way, closed the trunk, and moved towards the sidewalk.

Then one of the guys stopped and took out his phone.

And THEN I revved my engine. And then he moved to the sidewalk, and then I parked very very badly. When I tell this story (in a significantly shorter format but with many more hand gestures), though, I will finish by parking like a rockstar. (In my own fake story, I’ll let this all happen and then show them by parallel parking well? Yes, thank you for asking, that’s exactly what I’ll do.)

PS – I just read this over, and realized I didn’t address the fact that their disregard for my predicament was likely yet another manifestation of manspreading. It was.

bust it out

Tuesday, April 12th, 2016

I had food poisoning once before. It was three days after Crockett and I met, and on my 28th birthday.

And then I had it again, this Saturday.

And Sunday.

And Monday.

Food poisoning is SUPER and not at all repetitive and boring and terrible, don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.

I have recently become closer with a chick at work, and when I showed up this morning she asked me if I needed a cork for my ass. How do you go from knowing someone for two years and doing nothing but complimenting their shoes, to talking about your potential need for preventing butt leakage while at work in the span of a few weeks? I’m genuinely asking, because it’s such a weird phenomenon, right?

Maybe we weren’t ready before. Stars not in alignment, ducks not in a row, etc. Maybe I wasn’t in the place for new friends since I was still in friendmourning for my friends from my last company. Maybe her shoes weren’t quite cool enough yet. Maybe all a good potential friendship really needs to push it over the line is the opportunity for commentary on bodily functions. Like, if she’d asked me for a tampon a year ago maybe she’d be my (nonexistent because we’re not doing bridal parties) maid of honor right now.

Or maybe she’s just always ready to talk about corks in asses. I don’t know her life. Yet. Bet I will though.

fuck you right in the nose hole, TV

Thursday, February 25th, 2016

I mean my ACTUAL TV, to be clear. The actual physical manifestation of short form recorded visual programming that is in my actual house.

Television in general is still a-ok by me.

My actual TV’s offense occurred last night, but first allow me to set the scene.

First, Crockett was out of town. (Calm down, potentially murderous maniacs, by the time you read this he’ll be back and also I have an old school heavy-as-hell putter next to my bed (that actually may be haunted? A coworker let me borrow it for a corporate golf event, and when I tried to give it back he told me to keep it. When I protested, he allowed that he didn’t particularly want it anymore because it had belonged to someone who was no longer with us, and there was a definite air of bad juju. Perfect intruder smashing energy.) Also, where did you get my address? Maybe stop stalking intermittent bloggers and look into some therapy or a good podcast*?)

Second, I had alternately been reading the Sandman Slim series and watching season 3 of the X-Files all night. (Sandman Slim isn’t scary necessarily, but it is very much about hell and magic and stuff.)

Third, I have been listening to some very good podcasts*.

If the above doesn’t adequately set the scene, let’s remember (can you guys remember? Did I tell you? Probably not) that when I moved into this house I was genuinely planning on installing a deadbolt on the house side of the basement door. That’s the level of paranoia we’re working with here.

So, I give Maida her eye drops and her night time meds, and Agnes takes the opportunity to curl up on Crockett’s pillow because she sort of thinks she’s my boyfriend, and Deaner crawls under the blanket to my feet … basically we go full dog for bedtime, and I turn out the light and we all go to sleep.

AND THEN.

It’s the middle of the night.

It’s dark outside.

It’s regular wintertime surburban quiet … which is to say, pretty quiet …

EXCEPT FOR THE STATIC COMING FULL VOLUME FROM THE TELEVISION SET DOWNSTAIRS.

The dogs did not care about the static, which is the only thing that gave me comfort in this trying time.

I tiptoed downstairs (without the golf club, but maniacs, I will not make that mistake again) and looked at the TV. Yep, full static, full volume.

I had not had the TV at full volume when I turned it off for bed, but more alarmingly: it was still off.

The red ‘off’ light was lit, and the screen was full bore Poltergeist staticking me.

There’s no real ending to this. I unplugged the TV and ran upstairs and IM’d everyone I knew in the morning to tell them about my evil fucking TV. And now the TV is acting totally normal and not at all haunted.

But I’m not convinced.

So fuck you right in the nose hole, TV. Or ghost. Or both.

*You thought I forgot about this: Tanis, My Favorite Murder, The Black Tapes, and Last Podcast on the Left. None are particularly comforting in a situation such as the one I found myself in.