Category Archives: it's all about me

just to be totally completely and awesomely clear

There will be no new content on this page. Because I have an awesome new page. Everything you see here is now also there, AND there will continue to be fun new things! How can you resist? That’s right, you can’t. Go, click. You know you want to.

emma-nation.com

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exciting news (and whoops)

I’m moving!

emma-nation.com is MINE… ALL MINE. Bwaahhahhahahah.

However, in attempting to move all of my existing content there, I seem to have doubled it up here. Whoops. Sorry about that.

Anyway, come visit me over there please!

Love, Emma

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Filed under girl geek, it's all about me, whoops

rise up with fists

I think I’m getting weirder in my old age – or if not weirder, crankier. I think I’ve mentioned before that I’m looking forward to being an old lady, as it will allow me to audition for old lady movie rolls and wear and say whatever I want.

Turns out I’m not necessarily waiting for oldness.

After the slumber party on Saturday night, I informed the boy that he’d be taking me to dinner and a movie, with both the restaurant and movie being my choice – unless of course I didn’t feel like making the choice, in which case he had to choose but he had better choose something I would have chosen myself if I’d been able to choose.

The whole movie thing didn’t work out, because Avatar is three freaking hours long. Does the Hollywood industrial complex not appreciate the subtleties of my bladder size? Particularly when, while in birthday princess mode, I insist on having a drink or two beforehand? We skipped it in favor of going round most of our favorite Boulder restaurants and eating whatever I felt like eating at each place.

Which was apparently queso fundido, fried pickles (how have I not eaten fried pickles before? That shit is GENIUS), and coconut carrot soup.

And at every place, I confidently and àpropos of nothing informed our server that it was my birthday. Like an awesome old lady would. It totally earned me a free dessert. When I’m an old lady, my life is going to be nothing but free desserts.

Also, today I’m dressed like a gypsy. Because I felt like it.

Gypsy dressing.

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Filed under I think I'm funny, I'm a cranky brat, it's all about me

you say it’s your birthday

Oh wait, that’s me. It’s MY birthday.

I usually drag the celebration out to a week or more, but this year I’ve only managed a couple of days. Saturday I had a birthday princess pajama slumber party complete with a tiara shaped cake, a dozen women in my 700 square foot house, and a drink menu that included champagne, cherry champagne cocktails, lemon drop martinis, and more wine than you can shake a princess wand at.

As you’re no doubt imagining, it pretty much looked like a cross between

This. The one in the middle is clearly me - she even has my hair.

And this.

I made these fantastic women, who had already left the house in pajamas just because I asked them to, play a series of goofy games.

  • Everyone had to pick a PJ name – kind of like a derby name but specific to the slumber party. There were some killers, including Rosey Glow, Pepper, Katie Kakes, and Suga’ Moma. I quite literally withheld drinks until names were chosen – because that’s the kind of hostess I am.
  • I passed around a notebook and a pen and made everyone write either the best thing about their 29th year or what their plan for 29 is, depending on their stage of life. Most memorably, my friends who are less than 29 are apparently going to cure cancer and AIDS in their 29th years – keep an eye out for that, it’s gonna be huge.
  • When I opened my gifts, I told the most embarrassing story I could think of about each person.
  • I made everyone tell their best Emma story. Not a single person reciprocated with an embarrassing story about me, even though one of the stories I’d told involved a roomful of teenage girls sitting around rubbing their eyelids because one my girlfriends-who-shall-remain-nameless told us that’s what a penis felt like.

In summary, the women in my life are fan-fucking-tastic and I am something of a brat when I throw a party.

29 is going to be a very good year.

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Filed under it's all about me, the people I love

you say it's your birthday

Oh wait, that’s me. It’s MY birthday.

I usually drag the celebration out to a week or more, but this year I’ve only managed a couple of days. Saturday I had a birthday princess pajama slumber party complete with a tiara shaped cake, a dozen women in my 700 square foot house, and a drink menu that included champagne, cherry champagne cocktails, lemon drop martinis, and more wine than you can shake a princess wand at.

As you’re no doubt imagining, it pretty much looked like a cross between

This. The one in the middle is clearly me - she even has my hair.

And this.

I made these fantastic women, who had already left the house in pajamas just because I asked them to, play a series of goofy games.

  • Everyone had to pick a PJ name – kind of like a derby name but specific to the slumber party. There were some killers, including Rosey Glow, Pepper, Katie Kakes, and Suga’ Moma. I quite literally withheld drinks until names were chosen – because that’s the kind of hostess I am.
  • I passed around a notebook and a pen and made everyone write either the best thing about their 29th year or what their plan for 29 is, depending on their stage of life. Most memorably, my friends who are less than 29 are apparently going to cure cancer and AIDS in their 29th years – keep an eye out for that, it’s gonna be huge.
  • When I opened my gifts, I told the most embarrassing story I could think of about each person.
  • I made everyone tell their best Emma story. Not a single person reciprocated with an embarrassing story about me, even though one of the stories I’d told involved a roomful of teenage girls sitting around rubbing their eyelids because one my girlfriends-who-shall-remain-nameless told us that’s what a penis felt like.

In summary, the women in my life are fan-fucking-tastic and I am something of a brat when I throw a party.

29 is going to be a very good year.

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Filed under it's all about me, the people I love

someday when I’m awfully low

I recently read (and by read I mean listened to because audiobooks are my mister (which is the word I’m using to refer to a male mistress, because as much as I would like to use the word consort* I just can’t imagine anyone would think it was as cool as I think it is)) a book called Dark Places.

The book itself is seriously fucked up, no kidding. It’s about a woman named Libby Day who is one of two survivors of a farmhouse massacre – the other survivor being her brother and the murderer… or so we think. Dun dun dunnnnnnnn…

I mostly enjoyed the book. At one point, Libby says that she is terrible at the minutiae of life – she can get herself up and out of bed every day but she never has ice because filling the ice cube trays is too much work.

Dear fictional severely psychologically traumatized Libby,

Me too!

Love, Emma

It’s completely and totally true.  While I am in fact holding down a full time job, blogging, taking care of two dogs, playing derby, and any number of other tasks that sound daunting when you lay them out step by step, there are a plethora of truly necessary things that I just don’t do. Because they’re too overwhelming. Really – not because I’m lazy, or because I don’t like to do them – because I quite literally become overwhelmed at the outset and either can’t start or can’t finish them.

A few examples.

  • I do not vacuum. I have a vacuum, I don’t loathe vacuuming if and when I ever get around to it, but for whatever reason the idea of vacuuming at any given time defeats me.
  • I do not go to the dentist. I do eventually get around to going to the doctor, because I’m secretly afraid that I’ll be one of those dead-at-30-if-only-she’d-caught-it-earlier stories if I don’t, but I do not go to the dentist. Period. The last time I went was 2 years ago to fix a broken tooth – which had been broken for two years at that point. I don’t know why, I’m not scared of the dentist. Making an appointment is just too hard.
  • I shower, but only because I have to. The idea of showering sort of crushes me. If I wasn’t surrounded by other people who sort of expect it, I would go back to the weekly baths of yore.
  • I don’t call in people to fix things. My chimney needs to be swept. My ducts likely need to be cleaned. My damn furnace filter stayed unchanged for two years until my dad came and did it for me last month. I could pay people to do these things for me, but the idea of calling them and scheduling it is smothering.

These aren’t the only examples (frighteningly), but I am not nearly as incapable as this makes me sound. I mean, when the urge to cut my hair strikes me I’m quite adept calling around and finding the place that can fit me in soonest then rearranging meetings to make it happen, so it’s not like I’m a can’t-do person.

I’m just a can-do person who is a little bit broken.

*Cavalier servente is perfect, but only if the relationship is between an unmarried young nobleman and a married noblewoman, and you’re in eighteenth-century Italy, thus limiting its use.

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Filed under I'm a cranky brat, it's all about me, tellin secrets

someday when I'm awfully low

I recently read (and by read I mean listened to because audiobooks are my mister (which is the word I’m using to refer to a male mistress, because as much as I would like to use the word consort* I just can’t imagine anyone would think it was as cool as I think it is)) a book called Dark Places.

The book itself is seriously fucked up, no kidding. It’s about a woman named Libby Day who is one of two survivors of a farmhouse massacre – the other survivor being her brother and the murderer… or so we think. Dun dun dunnnnnnnn…

I mostly enjoyed the book. At one point, Libby says that she is terrible at the minutiae of life – she can get herself up and out of bed every day but she never has ice because filling the ice cube trays is too much work.

Dear fictional severely psychologically traumatized Libby,

Me too!

Love, Emma

It’s completely and totally true.  While I am in fact holding down a full time job, blogging, taking care of two dogs, playing derby, and any number of other tasks that sound daunting when you lay them out step by step, there are a plethora of truly necessary things that I just don’t do. Because they’re too overwhelming. Really – not because I’m lazy, or because I don’t like to do them – because I quite literally become overwhelmed at the outset and either can’t start or can’t finish them.

A few examples.

  • I do not vacuum. I have a vacuum, I don’t loathe vacuuming if and when I ever get around to it, but for whatever reason the idea of vacuuming at any given time defeats me.
  • I do not go to the dentist. I do eventually get around to going to the doctor, because I’m secretly afraid that I’ll be one of those dead-at-30-if-only-she’d-caught-it-earlier stories if I don’t, but I do not go to the dentist. Period. The last time I went was 2 years ago to fix a broken tooth – which had been broken for two years at that point. I don’t know why, I’m not scared of the dentist. Making an appointment is just too hard.
  • I shower, but only because I have to. The idea of showering sort of crushes me. If I wasn’t surrounded by other people who sort of expect it, I would go back to the weekly baths of yore.
  • I don’t call in people to fix things. My chimney needs to be swept. My ducts likely need to be cleaned. My damn furnace filter stayed unchanged for two years until my dad came and did it for me last month. I could pay people to do these things for me, but the idea of calling them and scheduling it is smothering.

These aren’t the only examples (frighteningly), but I am not nearly as incapable as this makes me sound. I mean, when the urge to cut my hair strikes me I’m quite adept calling around and finding the place that can fit me in soonest then rearranging meetings to make it happen, so it’s not like I’m a can’t-do person.

I’m just a can-do person who is a little bit broken.

*Cavalier servente is perfect, but only if the relationship is between an unmarried young nobleman and a married noblewoman, and you’re in eighteenth-century Italy, thus limiting its use.

4 Comments

Filed under I'm a cranky brat, it's all about me, tellin secrets