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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘tellin secrets’ Category

cursed

Thursday, July 6th, 2017

Oh hai I got a new tattoo.

So did my mom – same thing, opposite arm.

Our reasons were manyfold (not a real word probably? But didn’t get spellchecked plus language is a constantly evolving medium and anything’s a word if you get enough children to clap while you say it.)

First, I wanted a tattoo. I was just feeling that itch. I wanted something major, and I also wanted something simple. I’m a big fan of words and I was ready to commit to ‘patience’ along my collarbone, but … things went a different direction. Obviously.

Second, my mom is going to be 70 in four years, and she’s going to be fully covered in tattoos by the time that happens (citation needed).

Third, she and I had actually discussed this after my grandfather passed away eight years ago, and then again after we lost my grandma, and somehow it just seemed like time. We had only two blurry pictures of what we wanted, but we took it to an artist I’ve used before and he squinted out his best interpretation.

Image-1 (2)

Here’s the deal as I understand it. (Grandma and Grandpa, if you’re fact checking from the afterlife then … I’m sorry but probably you should have told me the story yourselves instead of trusting the telephone game that is your twelve children to tell it for you.)

They got married when my Irish grandma was a mere babe (in more ways than one *wink* (ew)) and my grandpa was in the Air Force (or the US Army Air Forces, at the time, because there wasn’t an Air Force yet). He’d been stationed in Egypt and she went back with him after the wedding, and he bought her the necklace you see above from a dealer in Egypt named Maguid Sameda. I know this because I’ve got a terrible photo of the paperwork Sameda gave my grandfather on purchase. Here’s what it says, medium (it’s an old school form so some is printed and some is handwritten in a brutal script, I’ve transcribed it as well as possible):

I the undersigned, Maguid Sameda, guarantee that the necklace with the cat of goddess Isis sold by me to Mr L W P- (ed: L Wildman!) on 11 (September?) 1943 is Genuine.

The object is of the 16th Dynasty BC 1600.

Found at the (?) of the (?, ?) of queen (?), 1943, and was added to my collection of antiquities on 1943.

Interpretation of art or heliographic inscription

The cat represents Goddess Isis Goddess of love who is worshipped by the greeks as venus There is a great resemblance in Cat and a woman for that they made the Cat her sacred animal

This guarantee is given to ensure that the above described object can be examined at any of the world Museums.

No 1 Fouad Street, Maguid Sameda, Egyptian Museum License No 108

So, my original understanding of the story was that at some point our family had been like ‘heeeeeyyyy is this a real thing from 3600 years ago orrr…..?’ and shown it to someone, but I think we actually have just been trusting this paperwork. Which is not unreasonable, because it turns out that a huge amount of Egyptian antiquities that are currently totally legit have passed through Maguid Sameda’s hands. (Ex: this wacky statue and this codex, among many others.)

Crucially, also, this relief from the tomb of Akhtihotep.

Tomb.

So, the first word that I couldn’t identify above looked sort of like nelly. Or … belly. Rally? Then there was something about a table, maybe? Here:

the words

The first word starts with a … n? W? Does anyone see something I don’t? It’s DEFINITELY NOT TOMB, though, right?

I mean, here’s the thing.

If this came from the tomb of some queen …. probably I shouldn’t have tattooed it into my skin. I don’t believe in curses, per se, but also I 100% believe in curses. My family’s been ok, so far (although, gruesomely, husbands of daughters actually  don’t have the best survival rate now that I think of it?) but what if there’s something about ink that really kicks it into high gear?

Seriously, what’s that first word.

Also, I don’t know where the necklace is so please don’t report me to the Egyptian museum. If I ever inherit it, I’ll send it over immediately for a promise of a curse free existence. Promise.

 

loss

Friday, June 30th, 2017

(There is nothing fun or funny to follow, so … move along if that’s what you’re here for.)

I don’t mean loss in the way that people *lose*. Not a parent or a spouse or a child. I’m talking about those losses that, when you explain them to other people, they rate like a splinter. ‘Oh, bummer’, and then moved on from, never to be considered again.

Or worse, those losses that you don’t feel justified mourning. My personal examples are just that … the best I can think of that I’m willing to share are things like when I sent my book to a few very famous agents and none of them were interested. Overall: pipe dream, best I can expect as far as sympathy was a nod and a smile. Still, internally, I mourned. I love my book like a baby, and I thought it was meant to be. And it was, but under different circumstances, and that makes sense to everyone who hears this story. But to me, it felt like it was meant to be with who I had in mind and everything else was just treading water.

Or worse, when my Clo died. Cloey was a terrier but also my best friend and the companion who grew up with me, from college graduation through breakups and apartments and a house that belonged to just me and her. People understand when your dog dies, but most of them in an ‘oh bummer’ way. I railed and cried and missed her like a person, but … ‘oh, bummer’.

The thing is, everyone tells you that kind of thing feels better later. Wait it out, etc, etc. My losses of men from my younger years (the kind of thing that hit hardest when I was a baby person)? YES. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I’m not the girl who was with Andrew in college, when he realized he’d always been in love with Andre. Or how glad I am that I’m not married to Monte, who now has beautiful twins and a lovely wife.

Of course, in retrospect, Monte did make out with the girl who is now the woman he’s married to while we were in the process of permanently combining our lives. And Andrew … I don’t know, man. I want to pretend my gaydar was good, but it wasn’t. He was cute and I dodged a bullet, that’s where that lies.

My book, though? If I’d been tough and tried harder, more times, maybe I would have gotten what I wanted. If I’d been braver and strong enough to let Cloey go through chemo at the animal hospital up at CSU, maybe I would have had her for longer. (I checked the archives and this post is the closest I got to writing about how hard it was when Clo died, but suffice to say my choices there are some of my biggest what-ifs.) There are losses that are just that – losses. They are things that make your life less for the lack of them. I have them and know I’ll have more, but it doesn’t make them hurt any less.

I miss the things that I think should have happened, the things that belong in my life but aren’t there.

(In other news, sometimes I’m a fucking drama queen.)

instagram

Wednesday, June 21st, 2017

Instagram vs Snapchat.

One of my very bestest friends is an avid snapper, and I was trying to put my finger on why I don’t snap now but I am all over insta like a … a … well, someone who posts a lot on insta.

I do post a lot, especially lately. I mean, I don’t know what a LOT a lot is, but I post two or three times a day most days. Is that a lot (she asks as if she wants reassurance but she really doesn’t)?

I guess I think of insta like a diary. Facebook used to be a diary. For example, six years ago today on Facebook I posted the status ‘iPad, check. Toothbrush, check. Camera… SHIT.’ Obviously I was going somewhere (sailing I think), and I forgot my camera! That’s a fun tiny blurb, yes? No? Yes. But Facebook is mostly for pictures and sharing political links now (and it’s dead, right? Let’s all agree. It’s basically dead. Our grandparents are on it and we are parents of people who are also on it. It’s Main St USA and no one actually thinks it’s cool to be on Main St.)

The thing about Instagram is: it stays and pictures are unambiguous. Filtered, yes, but if you were with someone or not with someone or home or in Portland, that’s permanently represented.

The thing about Snapchat is: it goes away.

I get the appeal of that, but I also feel like it’s part of the issue about space women are constantly struggling with. When you snap, you’re putting something into the world that says ‘heeeeeyyyy guys here’s a thing if you wanna look at it but if you don’t don’t worry it’ll be gone pretty soon so don’t worry about it if you don’t want to ’cause …. yeah anyway thanks byyyeeee’.

I could be wrong. It could (always) be my personal awareness of taking up space in the world. I’m a woman who, despite her best intentions, worries endlessly about the effect my very presence has on other people. Am I too loud? Is my skirt too distracting? Am I talking more than I should?  Does my new tree bug my neighbors? Does my new shampoo smell? It’s tiring, and Snapchat is a relaxing way to show people things. It’s easy to think ‘oh no one has to see this if they don’t want to’. However, by that same measure, Snapchat doesn’t tell any kind of story about you or your life.

So Instagram. Insta is the diary-est of all the available diaries.

(Excepting a blog but WHO BLOGS ANYMORE?)

So, Instagram. People can opt into you without you doing the same and vice versa. Everyone loves a sunset and dogs and yoga, which makes it feel like a wonderful place to *also* love all those things. You’re easy to scroll over, but also anyone who cares can roll back through months or years of what you’ve been up to, and you can too.

None of this touches on the overwhelming desire to share in the first place, of course. I’m always aware of what the perception of my pictures might be, and I’m open to it. This blog is over a decade old – I’m a committed sharer and the reasons are between my and my psyche.

I just … want to leave a mark.

God I’m old.

But still cute. You can confirm on my insta.

ice cold I roll my eyes at you boy

Tuesday, June 6th, 2017

Picking songs that other people are going to listen to is VERY STRESSFUL.

Like, I think I have good taste in music, but literally no one doesn’t think that about themselves. If they thought what they liked didn’t show good taste, it would thoroughly undermine the entire concept of good taste and that would be the nucleus from which the end of the world sprouted. (No? Are you sure? Like, double check quantum physics and get back to me. I don’t fully understand quantum physics but I went to an engineering school and am pretty sure someone there told me once you could use them to explain any damn thing you wanted, and this is the quantum-music-taste hill I’m going to die on.)

When I was in Portland with my little brother last weekend we had a whole app based youtube queue set up on his chromecast (<- today in sentences Emma from ten years ago would think were gibberish).  We were all adding, and it was skewing rap heavy because that’s mostly what he and his friends listen to. I could have backed off and let it happen, but I wanted to contribute and also not to listen to rap for four hours.

(I don’t dislike rap but I have a hard time staying engaged when there’s not a through melody. Like, I’m a huge Childish Gambino fan, but my brother hates him… I guess he’s intro rap? Because … of the melody? I know it’s shocking, but this is NOT something we covered in engineering school. All your preconceptions blown, right? Right.)

My approach was either great song or great video. I went retro a couple of times (Leave the Biker), full on pandering at least twice (see Lana del Ray and the Jenny Lewis video with Anne Hathaway and Kristen Stewart (a combo that surprisingly fills the needs of most people who like girls? Can I get an amen?)), and I’m not embarrassed to admit I appealed to my brother with people we’ve seen together.

That is way too much thought.

Literally, what is the worst thing that could have happened? That my brother’s friends didn’t think I was cool? I’m his older sister – they were pretty decided on the coolness of me long before now. (Probably I won some of them over when I looked super fly in a suit as his best man a few years ago.)

These are phases I go through. It’s like I’m scared, sometimes, to take up too much room in the world. To make someone do literally anything that’s not exactly what they had planned.

Probably I need to switch over to some Blondie. Some Tegan and Sarah. Some Tove Lo. Sometimes it’s ok to play your own song.

 

fish burps

Saturday, November 12th, 2016

I feel like someone told me once that dogs can’t burp. Is that right? Did they actually say cows and I heard dogs because if you squint cows are basically big dogs that we’re ok with eating for some reason? My dogs burp, anyway, so if they’re not supposed to be able to then maybe somebody wants to study them – hit me up in the comments and we’ll work out a price in dog cookies and beers.

I also burp kind of a lot. I don’t know if it’s more than a normal person or if normal people are just better about not doing it out loud, and it’s a hard thing to bring up in conversation. “Excuse me, ma’am, I see you’re drinking a beer. Are you silently burping when you look down towards your lap, or are you immune to delicious bubbles in your digestive system?”

I don’t cover my mouth anymore when I burp around Crockett. I used to, because it seemed sort of rude, but it’s a pain and also I think perhaps my desire to do so was informed by the differing societal expectations of men and women and my patience for that shit is rapidly converging with DOES NOT EXIST.

The thing is, Crockett doesn’t burp around me, and there are three possible reasons:

  • he’s not a natural (the ‘like I am’ was meant to be implied but it didn’t come across so I’m pointing it out you’re welcome)
  • he suppresses/subtles his burps around me to be polite in a way that has nothing to do with me being a lady, and would do it around anyone
  • etc except in a way that *does* have to do with me being a lady, and he does not and would not do such around his friends
  • or fourth he suppresses because he’s worried I won’t love him anymore I guess? but based on my burp frequency that would make him a loon so we’re discounting this one out of hand

In the name of science, I’m going to feed him a couple of Coors Light’s (high carbonation according to these experts) and sit on his lap while we watch a movie or something. Don’t worry, I’ll pay him with more beers (and dog cookies, if he wants them).