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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘travel’ Category

GLAMPING

Thursday, June 29th, 2017

I always knew the Nederland in me would come out.

I just signed up for a yoga retreat.

In Moab.

In tents.

I’m not a hippie, like, overall. I work for corporate America in a BIG WAY. A big brother way, not to put too fine a point on it. I spend a lot of money on clothes. I mean, they’re mostly meant to look like they don’t cost a lot of money, but that’s probably worse, right? Is bourgeoisie the word for that? (Don’t tell me, I’m well aware. Bobo as fuck over here.) I do believe with all my heart in taking care of people who need help and giving what you have available to give, and I do have a lot of love … but I think that’s just being a democrat, right?

(I also get very cranky with a lot of people. Please see my archives for 1000 proofs. Or ask the guy I scolded at a bar on Tuesday for saying something VERY racist and then saying he couldn’t be racist because he went to school with black guys who got more girls than him. (Yes, he said pussy, but, come on, ew – there’s a time and place for that word and a bar with acquaintances is neither). SRSLY WUT.)

However. I love yoga, and I’ve been leaning really hard into self care while I’m working through some stuff. Like, beyond yoga – journaling and drinking a lot of wine. New American Cool Girl, right here.

This retreat I signed up for is women only. It’s three nights, yoga in the evening and in the morning and rock climbing and hikes to waterfalls in the middle. Made for insta, except no electricity and no reception.

Plus, there are cots and the tents have wood floors (hence the glamping). I mean, I wake up on either side of 5 am every morning already, and I love a good cactus. (Is there bad cactus? Yes. They’re the stumpy ones that animals run into accidentally. They don’t mean to hurt you, cactus, and it’s very hard for furry desert mammals to remove cactus spines, so that makes you a bad cactus.) I don’t love scorpions.

(My brother had a pet scorpion. Her name was Princess Tiffany. He’s an fantastic artist, and when Princess Tiffany died he made a huge stencil of her likeness and spray painted it in pink on the side of his Jeep. )

Princess Tiffany notwithstanding, I don’t want to find a scorpion chilling in my sleeping bag. Wood floors and cots will really facilitate that.

What I do want is a stranger assigned to my tent with me. We’ll be best friends for 48 hours at a minimum. And I want a group circle after dinner on Saturday that involves a moon deck. What is a moon deck? Your guess is as good as mine. I originally pictured a tables and umbrellas kind of deck that you watch the moon from, but it appears to be the card kind of deck. The moon part? I do not know, but damned if I won’t find out with a bunch of women I don’t know, sitting in a circle in the dessert.

Because, my inner Ned is rearing her head.

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.

 

two more days

Monday, November 28th, 2016

Crockett is still in New York. While we were there over the holiday (oh you didn’t know? That’s cause I wrote and scheduled last Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday’s posts ahead of time because I knew I’d be traveling for 21 out of those 72 hours, cause I a smarty.) two of our nieces got very sick. Like, very physically stomach-wise unwell in the middle of the night sick. One recovered by morning and was down for toast and eggs, but the other was down with … something? Something bad and fevery.

So this afternoon I”m talking to Crockett, and he’s telling me he doesn’t feel super.

And now I don’t feel super.

I knew I didn’t feel good before, but I thought it was from eating stuffing and turkey and no vegetables that weren’t sautéed in some kind of animal fat for a week. Oh, and pie. I ate a lot of pie.

One time I ate yogurt! With cranberry sauce stirred in.

The yogurt was not enough, obviously.

Now I’m confused. Do I not feel super for the reasons I thought, or do we both not feel super because we’re sick? Or is he sick and I’m just holiday’d out? Are neither of us sick and I’m just a hypochondriac? Is it Zika?

So many choices.

Two more days. After this. 30 days in a row is a lot of days to write down things you think, you guys.

why Irish

Tuesday, September 1st, 2015

Last post in regard to Irish citizenship for the mo’, I double plus promise.

(Also, I started a post about the dog park but somehow I ended up writing about adult strangers visiting kids parks and I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, so I decided that post should probably wait.)

Why Irish?

Straight up, cause I can.

I know, that’s fuckin’ lame. Or fucking lame, if you’re not a g dropper.

If I want to move to an EU country and work there, I will be able to. Do I want to do that? No, because moving the dogs would be terrible and I love them more than I love the idea of living somewhere else. If I want to travel without being identified as an American, I can. Do I want to? Well, every time I open my mouth ‘I am American’ is the subtext, so that’s actually a lie. I can’t travel as anything but what I am.

See?

No good reason.

Still damn cool.

things I thought I knew

Monday, August 31st, 2015

Here’s the promised twist: I didn’t actually get a passport from that whole process.

I know, minds everywhere are just blown.

Look, I know I’m overstating this, but I was so damn sure I was getting my passport. Like, I referred to the process as getting my passport, not my citizenship. In retrospect, that was dumb for many reasons, but if you can’t be honest about your failings on the internet …

(The end of that sentence was ‘where can you’. I’m sure you knew that, but I wanted to be clear in case you thought maybe I was implying something less predictable. I was not. I was going where literally every person who has ever gone ‘if you can’t do x in/on/at y …’ was going with the dot dot dot.)

Here was my logic. It is threefold. THREEFOLD, I say. First fold: when my mom went through her whole process, she got a passport. Second fold: my damn cousin (I call him that because he is moderately famous and therefore does not respond to my emails or facebook requests to tell me HOW HE DID THIS) got his passport when he went through the process. That one really set the bar, because his whole deal should have been exactly the same as mine. Third fold: I had to send them passport photos.

And here was my downfall. My mom was not applying to be on the foreign births register, so her whole deal was totally different. She didn’t even have to mail her application to Dublin, but rather got to pop it over to San Francisco. My COUSIN (I’m actually really irritated that he ignored me while I was investigating this. I’m older than him. And drank his mom’s breast milk, and vice versa, probably. I don’t know, that was a thing my mom and her sisters did.) travels a lot and possibly physically visited embassies. Also, I actually only have a guess of when he actually started, so it’s possible he went through this exact process. The passport photos? That’s still lame, Ireland. I don’t know what that was about. Crockett’s theory is that it was just the simplest way for them to define an identity proving photo, which I guess it makes sense that they would need?

OH! Guess what I forgot to mention? I had to get a lawyer from my office to sign the original application, because there’s no provision for a notary. The choices are, like, priest, school principal, police officer, bank manager, and lawyer. That’s who my Irish peeps trust.

So now I’ve sent an entirely separate application off for my passport. Boom. I’m a citizen so they’ll give it to me. That’s how that works. (I was about to say ”Merica!’ but that is completely irrelevant here! How often can you say that? (All the time. America is not everything. Easy to forget that when you live here. Oh my god I sound like Donald Trump. What am I even doing with my life.))

P.S. If you really are reading this to find out how the process works, follow the link from the first post and note that I sent my application in early February and got my birth certificate the final week of August. Plan accordingly.