Category Archives: tellin secrets

trust women

It’s the anniversary of Roe vs. Wade, and Blog for Choice asks “what does trust women mean to you”?

I am pro-choice. I’m not going to try to explain why or tell you that you have to be pro-choice too, but I think ‘trust women’ and the statement it can be rolled up into – ‘trust individuals’ – is a good one. Trust people to make their own choices. To do what is right for them. Personally, abortion would not be right for me. I crossed that line sometime during or immediately following college. If I had a baby now, it wouldn’t be ideal, but I would make it work and I have no doubt I would love him or her with my entire being.

And you know what? If my 19 year old self had had an abortion, my current self would have been proud of her for that. Because I trust her.

On a semi-related note, a late-30-something coworker came into my office yesterday and waved his hands in the air and said “I love my son. I love my dead, gay, son“.  And left. He doesn’t have a son, dead, gay, or otherwise, in case you were wondering. My office is so weird.

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Filed under tellin secrets, turns out I'm a feminist

boobies

Warning: family members and coworkers (particularly those of the non-utero-American variety) might want to skip this post. Dad, I am specifically talking to you and I am not kidding.

Ok, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way – I think my boobs are shrinking. I don’t know how it’s happening, but I’m pretty sure it is. I’m thinking about this because of a post on Shapely Prose yesterday called ‘of boobages’. How can you NOT read it, with a title like that? It’s a frank discussion of breast size written by a woman whose boobs apparently grow and shrink with the seasons, her hormones, and perhaps what she ate for breakfast.

This one time, before I met the boy, I took Shovonda shopping with me for a cute shirt to wear on a summertime date.

I ended up with something like this.

While I was trying it on, Shovonda said ‘that will be PERFECT with a better bra’.

‘What’s wrong with my bra?’ I was wearing a version of the same damn bra I wear every day.

‘Well…’ Here she looked at me like I she was about to revoke my status as a woman – ‘it’s not, you know, doing anything for you’.

Basically something like this, except instead of paying Gap $32 for one, I buy a two pack from the girls section of Target for $7.99. Yeah, you're jealous.

I started looking into bras that would… ahem… do something for me. There are choices, but they all made me feel like an idiot, so I haven’t bought one yet.

This one gives you TWO extra cup sizes. That's the difference between oranges and grapefruits, people.

Please be aware that these pictures are representative of what you get when you search for ‘wireless cotton bra’ vs. ‘padded bra’. Apparently us wireless cotton girls don’t need wind tousled hair and leopard print fabric.

Volcanista, the blogger that wrote the above mentioned post, has been in my shoes. She’s also, apparently, been in the shoes I’d be in if I bought the above bra.

It was very easy to notice changes in how I was treated between month A [A cup bra] and month C [C cup bra]…But what caught me even more by surprise was how much friendlier people were — men and women, friends and colleagues and strangers. Most of those people probably were not even particularly interested in sleeping with me or deliberately hitting on me (hard to believe, I know!). They were just… nicer. I didn’t have to wear anything especially revealing for that to be true, either. Bigger breasts just meant better treatment in general, and while some men were creepy and deliberate about it (see above), for most people it seemed to be unconscious. We are heavily socially conditioned to react favorably to breasts.

I have no idea if that’s true. Also yesterday (which was apparently a boobieful day), I wore a tank top under a cardigan to work. The tank top rides about seven fingers below my collar bone. One of my coworkers came in and raised his eyebrow eeeever so slightly, clearly indicating that he thought it was something of a risqué choice.

My first thought was to leap to my defense by saying ‘but my boobs are SMALL!’ Fortunately I didn’t, because on the scale of professionalism that’s about a negative 4 (where 0 is saying ‘fuck’ at work (which I do all the time)). But it’s true. If my girls were a C, I would never in a million years have worn a shirt that low cut.

So. On to a deep analysis of my breast size.

  • Pro: A lot of the fashion choices that I make, I am able to make because of my size. I can sub unlined tank tops for bras, I can expose a wider expanse of the skin on my chest because of my reduced non-existent cleavage, and I can work out in my day-to-day bras in a pinch. I’m comfortable with how my breasts look on my body, which is also not gigantic.
  • Con: My friends with more generously endowed breasts are objects of fantasy (I know this because apparently having little boobs makes men think I’m practically packing a penis and would therefore love to hear about how much they want to motorboat that girl down the hall). They’re frequently construed as more feminine, and sexier in the way that the leopard print bra girl is sexier. More looks on the street kind of sexier. Joan Holloway sexier. Also, based on the research conducted by Volcanista, people are nicer to them. Even people who don’t want to get into their pants.

Balanced. Ish.

BUT NOW THEY’RE SHRINKING.

This is bullshit. Everyone be really nice to me, even with my little boobs. Ok? Promise?

Thanks.

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Filed under it's hard being this beautiful, tellin secrets, turns out I'm a feminist

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.

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

let them sleep, let them stay sleeping

Tomorrow will take us two weeks into the new year and the new decade. Let’s see how I’m doing with my resolutions so far, shall we?

1) Don’t get sick.

So far, so good. If you don’t count the tailbone that may or may not be broken (stupid motherfucking tailbone). I’m laying on my stomach writing this and haven’t sat up all day, if that gives you any indication of my current comfort level.

I was in so much pain last night that I let Jessica, one of my derby dearhearts, put Icy Hot patches on my butt for me. On my actual butt. I’m pretty sure she saw more than she wanted to, but that’s what derby sisters are for.

2) Stop obsessing over my damn hair.

Ah ha -hahha ha. Ha. Yeah, not.

Lookithowcutethisis!!

3) Stop buying non-consumables.

Done.

Well, except for these... but trust me, my butt has declared padded shorts a necessity.

And these... because it's my BIRTHDAY and I want them ok shutupaboutitalready.

So… maybe not so good. I have a whole year to get it right.

4) I will blog a minimum of five days a week.

I’ve been rockin that one like a rocking rock climber.

5) I will work on building strong friendships with women who want the same thing.

See above re: Jessica putting patches on my butt and below re: all the lovely ladies in the picture.

6) I will perfect a smile that I don’t mind being photographed.

I think maybe it’s just about looking happy without trying too hard. I’m getting there.

7) I will be a grown up in the ways that matter, and put off being a grown up for as long as possible in the ways that don’t.

This one is baby steps, every day. I’m doing ok though. YAY me.

There you go. Two weeks in and I give myself a C+. No, a B-. Because it’s the week of my birthday and I can.

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Filed under I make lists, money to burn (apparently), tellin secrets, they let me on skates?, whoops

Emma most definitely wants vodka

You guys, Aunt Becky from Mommy Wants Vodka totally wants to interview me! (Ok fine she wants to interview everyone, but I am part of everyone so shut it and just let me pretend.)

1) Dave and I have a long-standing feud over cheese in a can. He thinks it’s food of The Gods while I think it’s probably Of The Devil. Your take?

  • I think that they should stop calling it cheese and then everyone would be all smiles.

2) Is there any way you can think of to make the elder Gosselins go away? I AM ALL EARS.

  • Yes, but it involves six backhoes and taking down the entire internet… so it would theoretically take you and me down too.

3) Who is your ridiculous “I can’t admit this to anyone in polite company lest I be banned from life” crush?

  • Seth Green. He’s just this teeny tiny little person who makes really shitty movies. And yet.

And yet.

4) If you could fuck it all and pursue your dream (assuming, of course, you were going to be GOOD at it), what would that dream be?

  • Running a ridiculously insanely successful small town bakery called Emma’s that also hosts book clubs and showcases local art and is everyone in the universe’s favorite place to be. Failing that, I would want to be one of those people that is essentially an expediter for television shows – I forget what they’re called but I would kick serious ass at that job.

5) They say “living well is the best revenge.” I think they are wrong. Do you?

  • Well, actual revenge is the best revenge – but looking damn hot never hurts.

6) What is the most humiliation you’ve experienced in public that you’d be willing to admit to The Internet?

  • Um… I auditioned for American Idol. I applied to a dating website that only accepts pretty people and haven’t heard back. I do not know how to use apostrophes correctly. I may have once had an underwear related accident that I’m NOT TALKING ABOUT.

7) Are you honest with The Internet? Like, if I came over to your house tonight (heh)(I’m coming over, yo)(heh) would I be surprised at who I found?

  • Aside from the underwear thing, I tell all. This is me, baby.

8 ) If you could have one talent that you don’t currently possess, what would it be?

  • Understanding dogs. Assuming, of course, that it doesn’t have to be a real talent.

9) There’s not always room for Jello. Is there?

  • If you can take one sip of water, there is room for Jello. If you’re sooooo full that even a sip would make you bloat up like Violet Beauregard without the additional coloring then no, there is no room for Jello.

10) What’s your guiltiest of the guilty pleasures?

  • Plucking hairs. Mine, other people’s, whether they need to be plucked or not. I could do it ALL DAY.

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Filed under it's all about me, tellin secrets, wherein I participate in other blogs

fuzzy wuzzy was a bear

Remember how I said that 2009 was the year I started to just adore other bloggers? Temerity Jane in particular?

Today her most hilariousness posted about the silliness that happens inside of a couple. She says “I realized I kind of unconsciously feel bad for other couples and assume that they are, in fact, stifled in that way. That there’s no possible way that they’re silly with each other the way that Phil and I are.” She then goes on to realize that of course that can’t conceivably be true – that most couples must have some silliness somewhere and she just hasn’t seen it.

The boy and I just aren’t all that silly. It clearly can’t be because I’m not silly (I still tell the pirate jokes to coworkers and then laugh hysterically, I shake my ass at inanimate objects to make them think I’m sexy, and I’m a 5 foot tall woman who joined ROLLER DERBY, for heaven’s sake) and I’m pretty sure he has the capacity to be silly as well… so it must be that we’re just not silly together.

One of my all time favorite scenes in Grey’s Anatomy is when Burke comes home from a run to find Cristina dancing to her iPod while brushing her teeth and joins in.

Maybe there’s silliness I’m forgetting about. I think we’re mostly about intellectual discussion, though. Honestly. The other day in the car we spent over an hour discussing the relative definitions of intelligence and the individual’s capacity for the same.

Seriously.

Which is not to say he doesn’t make me laugh – he does, all the time. But it’s usually from smartness, not silliness. (Yes, I said smartness. Yes, I am smart.)

Next time I see him, I’m going to shake my ass at him while telling him a pirate joke.  We’ll see how it goes.

P.S. I said I’d finish my review from yesterday, didn’t I. Ok, here goes. I was totally lying about what I ate on that first date because I do not remember. I also do not remember what I ate on the second date, because that guy sucked more than the first one and I was concentrating on getting the hell out of there. The third date was with the boy and was absolutely perfect, and I had a hamburger and he had the scallop special and I had wine and he had a Manhattan and we’re still dating and The Empire is my favorite restaurant and you should go. Love, Emma the food critic.

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