Image 01

emmanation

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

Archive for the ‘really? REALLY?’ Category

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.

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.

nawhatnow?

Sunday, November 1st, 2015

Three weeks ago, I made this pumpkin spice latte recipe. I made a whole can o’ pumpkin worth of mix, then put it in the fridge and heated some up with cashew milk and then added it to my coffee every damn morning.

It is fucking. Delicious.

(I used less sugar and made my own pumpkin spice mix but with like 1/3 as much cinnamon because cinnamon is the stupidest spice (with the exception of black pepper, which I like fine, except for how it’s in every recipe like salt – pepper is not like salt, people, pepper is a spice) and who am I to overwhelm my delicious lattes with the second stupidest spice. I am aware that the linked recipe includes black pepper and I basically just pretended that line was a funny inside joke between me and the author.)

Then two weeks ago I did the same thing, except that time I added some cayenne. It was brilliant. (Just a teeny pinchy pinch, guys, this is a morning drink.)

Then ONE week ago I was like whooop well time to make that fun mix I’m going to drink every day until I die and I went to my cabinet for pumpkin and there was none.

Zero pumpkin.

AND I’d just heard about the pumpkin shortage. The linked article has sound because CNN is the cinnamon of the news world, but the important line is, “That means when stores sell out, they’ll likely be out until next year’s harvest.”

Needless to say I went on a pumpkin hunt. I came back with nine 15 oz cans, two 28 oz cans, and two 15 oz boxes (thanks for being nonconformist Whole Foods!).

I have enough for lattes through my birthday, assuming I don’t get tired of them or decide to sacrifice a can or two to a dessert at some point.

The point of that story that sometimes, I think to myself … well, I if I’m in, I might as well be all in, right?

The relevance moving forward of that point is that: I’m going to try to do National Novel Writing Month and National Blog Posting Month. It will be like some terrible, look-at-a-computer-all-day and then look-at-a-computer-all-night kind of bootcamp. Right? Right.

 

 

written all over it

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

Last night I had the perfect thing to write about. It occurred to me while I was peeing. Then the night went of the rails in a minor way, and I lost my whole fun and fancy idea. Today, all I wanted was to get the idea back (cause I been low on things-I-wanna-write-about lately) so I tried peeing and thinking, but that didn’t get me anywhere. Then the next time I peed, I tried peeing while not thinking. No love.

There’s a part at the beginning (maybe?) of Firestarter that’s about people peeing in their pants, did you know that? (FRANCO AS THE 11/22/63 PERSON WHAT ALSO). Stephen King wrote something about us being conditioned as young’uns to not pee while clothed. Accurate, right? Definition of potty training right there. He claimed, in the book, that grown ups are actually busted and can’t actually do it even if they try (where, again, it is peeing in their pants. If you’d asked me how many times I thought I’d write that phrase today when I woke up this morning I would have guessed significantly fewer than the 2 I’ve already hit.)

I really want to try.

I am a grown up woman with a healthy bladder. I don’t have the thing that some of my mama friends have where they pee (in their pants (3)) sometimes when they giggle or cough because of the bag of flour sized baby that came through their nether regions. I am actually free of incontinence of any kind as far as  I know.

What I’m trying to say is that I was under ten the last time I peed in my pants (4) and I had been playing outside with my friends and didn’t want to go inside to pee and I basically just waited until there was more pee than bladder, I think.

Could I do that now?

Stephen King isn’t exactly a medical expert, but I have to assume he usually doesn’t make shit like that up. He must have researched it or something, because otherwise why include it? As far as I recall, pants peeing (4.5) wasn’t integral to the story, so …

Yeah. Pee. Pants. (5)

Seriously, though, I have wondered this off and on since reading the book at 14. If anyone has any insight, hit me up. Otherwise eventually I am going to be my own guinea pig and any outcome of an experiment where I try to pee in my own pants (6) ends with me on the losing end.