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emmanation

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Archive for the ‘travel’ Category

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.

blarney and … guinness and stuff

Sunday, August 30th, 2015

Hey guess what I’m totally Irish now.

I realize that sounds like baloney.

(Hold on, googling the Irish version of ‘baloney’.)

I realize that sounds like bullocks.

(You know what, actual Irish people, I’m super sorry about all of this. I mean, I’m leaving it, but I am super sorry.)

So let’s recap. I don’t know how to use Irish slang and I am a dual US/Irish citizen. Both of those things are the absolute truth.

My maternal Grandma, the ever-patient mother-of-twelve Joan, was born in County Cork. That’s where Dublin is. (Did you know that? I did not previously know that.) Ireland, for reasons I cannot begin to explain (I think ‘they were super broke’ mostly sums it up but come on, darlings, I’m almost to my sounding like an idiot threshold for this post already and I have quite a few more things to say), has the easiest citizenship process for people who weren’t born there of any EU country. As in, if your grandparent was born there and never renounced his or her citizenship, you can make it happen. Compared to that lil sprint, every other EU country’s process is apparently a triathlon.

I did it. I have an Irish birth certificate (complete with my very Italian last name) in my hot sweaty hands, and one of those nifty red EU passports will join it in eight to twelve weeks.

I’m going to tell you, super quick, what I did just in case you want to do it too. Then we can all be Irish together!!!

***For clarity, what I’m talking about is getting yourself onto the Irish Foreign Births Register. As far as I can tell, once you’re on it, you’re legally as Irish as anybody else. The birth certificate they mailed me that was covered with words like ‘CLÁR NA mBREITHEANNA COIGRÍCHE’ and it’s getting me an EU passport, so, you know. Golden.***

First and very important: I think this was clear, but have an Irish grandparent. Otherwise, find out where your grandparents were from and try to get citizenship there instead. If it was America, try to join the DAR. It’ll be fun. Red white and blue rosette brooches, probably?

Then, you need to be able to prove that a) it is your grandparent, and b) that he or she is actually Irish. Here’s what I sent:

  • My grandma’s original birth certificate. It was bonkers, you guys. Like, of of those old docs that was busting at the edges and had (probably!) been written with a fountain pen. It was 1920. All pens were fountain pens. Astronaut pens (which is what we all use now in this futuristic year of 2015, right, guys?) weren’t invented until 1965. The name of the hospital she was born in had an appropriate number of vowels and consonants, but they’re in an order that makes no sense to my American English brain.
  • My grandma’s marriage certificate. Same deal, although somewhat newer, obviously. Old. Crackly. Originals only.
  • My grandma’s death certificate. Sad and also don’t know why, cause Ireland didn’t know she died and I could have applied while she was still alive. However, I sent it and was successful so … ymmv.
  • My mother’s birth certificate. I hadn’t really thought this through before, but obviously this was to prove the link between me and grandma. Duh. One of those fancy copies you get from the hospital. I don’t know if that counts as an original? When you say original birth certificate, I think the ones with the footprint on them. Is that a thing? Did I learn that from movies and it doesn’t even really exist? What IS EVEN REAL ANYMORE?
  • My mom’s marriage certificate.
  • MY birth certificate. Same deal as mom’s, originality wise.
  • A certified copy of my mom’s passport (Irish, because she had already gone through a simpler version of this process. However, nothing in any of the application documents stated that that was necessary. I could have done this with her American passport, theoretically.)
  • A certified copy of my American passport. With both of these, nothing made it clear that a copy was ok. All the info actually sort of implied that I should send the originals. However, I had to go to Mexico and mom didn’t want to hand over her shiny new passport, so I took a leap of faith.
  • A bunch of pain in the ass passport photos that I had to get taken at a specialty shop in Boulder. Around here, the normal places (FedEx, etc) couldn’t do the Irish ones, because they’re a very slightly different size.
  • A filled out application.
  • A buttload of money. (270 Euros. The application I filled out had a spot for debit card info so I filled that in, but in looking at the website I actually messed that up. The site itself says certified check or money order, and requests almost $50 more than I ended up paying. Whoops. Thanks for letting that slide, Dublin Embassy of Ireland! I DO NOT RECOMMEND DOING THAT, FOLKS. Send them a check.)

Did that wear you out, just reading it? It wore me out collecting it, and that’s after my family had done the hard work of getting all of my grandma’s stuff!

This is long, and there’s a twist coming. So.

Stay tuned for part two of Emma and the leprechauns! Coming soon to a theater near you.