DON'T

eat and laugh. i just choked for 2 minutes due to eating a salad and watching last comic standing at my desk simutaneously.

eating and laughing: america's silent killer.

what i'm trying to say is...

i just was laughing so hard to myself about this that i felt the need to write it here. that's what this thing is for, right?

you know how people use the phrase "let's just say"? what if someone didn't know how to use it properly and instead of being inconspicuous with it, they just flat out were like "let's just say i slept with your boyfriend."

let's just say i'm lying to you right now.
let's just say i hate your haircut.
let's just say i wrecked your car last night.
let's just say i have both male and female genitalia.

let's just say this post may or may not have been a waste of your precious time and you should get back to your job. slacker.

epiphany of the day

my name is earl is the worst show that was ever on television.

i mislabeled this post, because it's not like i JUST NOW discovered this fact. i've known about it for quite some time, but it kept slipping my mind to express my hatred for it. sometimes, i'll find that it is playing on my TV in the background as i'm walking around my room. i don't plan it. it's just that i'll be watching something worthy (i.e. Seinfeld or the Office) and the next thing i know, it has turned into my name is the worst show ever written for television.

the sound of jason lewis's voice makes me want to literally pull my hair out. it feels like my brain is going to bleed out when i hear it. the voices of all the characters' is like a makeshift death metal band straight out of a rundown garage, AKA hell on earth. THAT SHOW IS SO BAD THAT I HONESTLY CONSIDER TAKING A BASEBALL BAT TO MY HIGH-TECH, BEAUTIFUL, 1982, HEAVY BOX OF A TELEVISION EVERY TIME IT HAPPENS TO COME ON.

my name is emma and i have opinions.

sign off for the weekend

tulsa, OK is legit. if someone approached me tomorrow and said, "you have to move to tulsa. you have no choice," i'd be totally cool with that.

it's rare in life, especially as a female, to create meaningful, lasting friendships that are honest and loving. i know this is about as sappy as maple SEAR-UP, but my french toast i had this morning was a little bland, so i am making up for it by smothering this post in sugar. if you have boobs and female genitalia (if you're a hermaphrodite or have undergone a sex change in your past, count it), you know that female friendship... TRUE female friendship... is about as precious as precious herself.

so, just try your damndest to hold those friendships near and dear to your bubbies. because chocolate is eaten and gone, but true friendships shouldn't be warmed in the microwave and drizzled over ice cream - unless you're into that.

xoxo,
emma

a text to remember

me - random fact of the day: bret michael's snapple tea he created is actually DELICIOUS

traub - that is so random! does it taste like herpes and bandanas?

me - yes. herpes, bandanas, a brain malfunction and a splash of black tea

i know you know they know we know you know they know

there is not one person on this earth who is guilt-free of having a certain type of inflection in their voice when speaking to a dog or a baby. please. your voice either gets really high or it gets even higher than really high. we all sound like total idiots when we're around a 4-legged, house bred creature or an infant who just sits there and drools.

the absolute worst, though, is the "i know" scenario. obviously, these dogs and babies can't carry on a conversation with us (unless it's wishbone or the e-trade baby who, by the way, is probably gonna be a hottie when he's older... JUST SAYIN'. the kid already has his shit together financially and he's still sucking on his mama's teet), but some people are so taken by this inability to chatter that they create these fake conversations in their minds where all they can say to the dog or baby is "i know!"

i witnessed this the other week at a bar during a weeknight. i was with my friend who has the most amazing boxer dog you'll ever lay your eyes on. that said, everyone wants to pet him and be his best friend - he just has that kind of aura, ya know? our waitress must've thought so, too, because she could NOT get enough of this dog. every single time she came out to check on us, she had a heart-to-heart with him, and it went a little something like this:

her - i know!
dog - ...
her - i knowwwwww. i know.
dog - ...
her - i know!!! i know!
dog - ...
her - ohhh yesss i know!

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW THAT THE DOG KNOWS THAT WE ALL DON'T KNOW? WHAT IS HE TELLING YOU? WHAT ARE YOU LEAVING US OUT OF? I WANT TO KNOW.

WHAT
DO
YOU
KNOW!!!

just because the dog is licking your face and wagging his tail doesn't mean he's trying to communicate something profound to you. he's probably smelling bacon on your breath. or are you just assuming that he's THAT excited JUST because of you? so you're giving him positive reinforcement by letting him know that you know that he knows how special y'alls moment has been?

i'll give you something to know - MY ORDER. GO GET ME ANOTHER BEER AND LET'S KEEP IT BETWEEN YOU AND ME. NO ONE ELSE HAS TO KNOW.

sidenote: later that night, the dog and i got to talking and he told me he was, in fact, letting the waitress in on some seriously interesting information. he told me he was sorry for causing such a scene in public and i said to him, "i know."

-emma

take me back to the 1970s

yeah, i know. it's like, "oh how original, emma. you want to go back in time and be able to live in the 70s? you're such an individual in your thinking," BUT THAT'S NOT IT. maybe if you read on, you'll see i have a valid point to make here.

i realized something really profound the other night (i do this a lot, i.e. realize profound things because i'm just on a totally different level than most people with my thinking). most people these days are flakes. it's true. and if you are denying that you're one of them, you probably are a big one. we're all guilty of it. even if we're one of those people who hate flakes with every bone in our body, we've most definitely flaked at least once or twice in our lives.

with that said, i got to thinking about how, when our parents were growing up, flakes weren't as prevalent and you know why? because they didn't have cell phones. that's right. the absence of cell phones alone made it almost impossible to flake. it's like, if you had plans with someone and decided at the last minute you couldn't make it or didn't want to go, you couldn't just whip out your iPhone or crackburry and say, "oh shit, something came up, can't make it. rain check!" no. you'd have to either call their house or maybe even get in your car and drive to where you were supposed to meet them and tell them in person. people were more genuine back then and had to really cover their asses instead of just not showing or getting out it by way of text message. nowadays, flakism is like a fucking epidemic, so we've all come to think of it as the norm and consider most people unreliable by nature... which sucks. a lot. what kind of a world is that?! where we just EXPECT people to sketch out on us?

anyway, my point here is that i believe cell phones have made it that much easier to become an unreliable person. i mean, we all know that our cell phones are attached to our hand or hip. we all know we check them every 2 minutes. we all know it takes nothing to write back to a text or answer a phone call. but we just don't sometimes. we just don't want to do it. hell, i'll admit that as of late, i will purposely leave my cell phone home or in the car or on silent somewhere just because i don't feel like it. does it make me come off as sketchy or slow on the uptake? probably. but that's what i'm saying - we're all guilty of this.

we may be in too deep now as a society, but all of us can at least try to be better. although it's sometimes relaxing and pleasant to not be SO available to people, we should all at least try to not sketch like dbags. just be honest, people. it's the best policy - just ask bill clinton. 90s joke, so lame.

-emma

lost my dog and went to a bat mitzvah

because i'm going to a WORK-RELATED country show tonight (notice i capitalized the phrase WORK-RELATED just to show how much i wouldn't go to a country show if it didn't have to do with WORK), i started thinking about the lack of Jewish country singers in this nation..... and then i started making up would-be songs:

i don't drink beer and i don't drink rum
i wear a silver chai on my thumb
i have a love for "shows" and i've never camped out
take away my lox and i'll sure as shit pout
yiddle dah dee and yaddle dah do, don't mess with this country sangin' Jew

okay, so my first attempt at on-the-spot lyrical genius was pretty feeble. BUT... i have a job to do, people. i can't just sit here thinking of Jewish country song lyrics all day.

don't make me shatn you with my kak kickers

y'all come back now, ya hear? i'll make you a tuna sandwich if you do...

prepare to be amazed

okay, so i may have lost my blog mojo for just a couple of days, but i decided to actually say "yes" to one of the 97 viagra emails i get every day, and i'll tell you what... it's back, baby! (please say that in a george costanza voice or don't say it at all).

i was desperately seeking inspiration for a new post when it smacked me square in the face in the next lane over. yeah, i know i've written a good handful of posts that have to do with driving, but this is different. i promise. this time, it'll be different.

upon my drive home the other evening, i was sitting at a stop light waiting "patiently" when i happened to notice the car next to me. what i saw was so incredibly, off-the-charts, bizarre that i had to not only double-take, i had to scoot my car up a bit more to make sure i hadn't, in fact, been drugged and was starting to halluecinate.

there was a man.
in a suit.
a nice suit.
with whiteish/greyish hair and glasses.
he looked normal. an established business man.
he was driving a lexus.
he was eating out of a container of vanilla frosting using his index finger.
no, i am not making this up. yes, i am serious. no! i will not make out with you!

this dude was going to TOWN (what does that even mean? where did that phrase come from? i go to town frequently, but i don't do it in a really intense, full-throttle way. i just go and come back). he was dipping his entire index finger into that creamy valley of frosting and eating huge hunks at a time. i feel as though we, as a team, can make some pretty huge assumptions from this behavior:

1) he's depressed
2) he's stressed as all hell
3) he's a freak
4) his guilty pleasure is frosting and his wife won't allow it in the house
5) his wife is a control freak and all he has left in his life to control is his sick, twisted frosting obsession
6) he used to be a fatty and is falling off the road of success at a very swift pace
7) he's pregnant

whatever you choose to decide about this man, it happened and i saw it. i was even able to snap a quick, poor-quality picture on my phone that i will attempt to upload on here later as proof.

we can all learn a lesson from what i saw: next time you think you have it bad and you're feeling down and out, just remember that prestigous business men are right there with you... in their cars... eating frosting straight out of the container.

i'll have the cake, but hold the cake and just give me an entire plate full of frosting. to go. in my car. so people can stare. thanks.

-emma

it's not you, it's me. seriously.

i feel like i'm losing your interest. please forgive me. i'm just so uninspired as of late. i'm telling you it's the texas heat. i forgot how bad it is here in the summer. sweating in lawrence, kansas on a hot summer day is much different than the kind of heat texas is packing. this is the kind of hot where you are covered in a full layer of sweat upon leaving your house and walking out to your car that is 10 feet away. the kind of heat where, sure the AC in your car feels good, but it'd be better if it was full of swimming pool water up to your neck. THAT would be a nice, leisurely way to drive around. of course, then you'd have to worry about pruney hands and you'd probably be tempted to pee in your car pool...

here's a great acronym i've been putting off describing for a while. this one goes straight out to you know who you are:

FOMO or fear of missing out.

my friend says she came up with this during her sophomore year. every girl has it - don't deny the power of FOMO. it's tough in college and even still now to make the "mature" decision to stay in on a weekend night and not be apart of the "scene." it's funny, though, because as girls we beat ourselves up thinking, "oh my God. i'm missing out on so much. i bet everyone is just having the best night of their entire life, drinks are flowing, it probably looks like a movie montage scene where they're just hamming it up and bonding and taking shots and having the best time, and here i am, sitting at home, alone. i should go. no, i won't. but i'm going to regret this so much."

flash forward to the next weekend when you're actually out. it's boring. same old, same old. you actually end up going home early because it's so lame. it's the same vicious cycle over and over.

we create these scenarios in our minds like that ONE night we choose to miss out, we basically just ruined our entire lives. but, really, we didn't miss shit.

FOMO. it's a mental killer.

seinfeld dialogue of the day

from, "the deal" (and, once again, george and jerry's relationship continues to mirror traub and i's):

George: All right, okay. Let's go, details.


Jerry: No, I can't do details.


George: You what?


Jerry: I can't give details.


George: No details?


Jerry: I'm not in the mood.


George: You ask me to have lunch, tell me you slept with Elaine, and then say you're not in the mood for details? Now you listen to me. I want details and I want them right now. I don't have a job, I have no place to go. You're not in the mood? Well you get in the mood!

discovery of the day

my dad uses dial soap to wash his body in the shower.

dial soap. soap. hand soap. by dial. you know - the generic soap restaurant bathrooms provide their patrons?

how do i know this? because i tend to use my parent's shower if i swim in their pool, and i have been using what i thought was regular body soap in an unmarked container in that shower, but no. it was dial.

oh and 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner AND body wash is also readily available if one were to need it.

it just amazes me what lengths men will go to in order to make their lives that much simpler, easier and lazier.

it's craycray, yo.

you know it's a bad hair day when...

you know it's a bad hair day when your hair doesn't look good.

no, but seriously. this friday is just one of those fridays. i couldn't get myself up in time to shower, so i decided to wing it and come into work as is thinking no one would notice. the kicker here is that even though our office doesn't officially allow casual fridays, i have made fridays emma-casual since my first week. i sport jeans and ya know what? I DON'T CARE. i even went as far today as to wear an american apparel t-shirt. i disguised it with 2 necklaces and a little vest on top and thought i had gotten away with it all until...

co-worker to me: "yeah, i can tell you didn't shower."
me: "are you serious?"
co-worker: "yeah, dude. look at you. you look like you're about to go take a college midterm that you were up all night studying for."
me: "fuck. that isn't good."
co-worker: "no, it's not. actually, you kinda look like you're at a rastafarian concert jamming out."
me: "no, that doesn't make sense. i'd be wearing a long, flowy dress or something."
co-worker: "true."

did i mention i wore my hair in a braid?
and that i got a venti, 4 shot espresso (half caff) over ice with cream, which automatically made my hair stand on end even more than it already was?

word to the wise: try and take showers when you can and everybody have a great weekend.

untitled

it's so deep when artists don't name things. like me and how i just didn't name my blog. but it's because i'm so tired and uninspired and i could get fired for being hired... as an undercover agent. what???

i woke up this morning to my laptop battery sitting in a pile of rice. why? you ask. well, because someone spilled red wine into my keyboard last evening. will the laptop ever come to back life? stay tuned. the saga continues tomorrow...

sack lunches

bringing your lunch to the office is so much more of a statement than when you were in school. it has room to say a multiude of things about you:

a) you're poor
b) you have no money
c) you're trying to save the non-existent money you don't have
d) you're frugal
e) you just went grocery shopping and actually have food to eat... show-off
f) you have lots of money to spare, but are a fucking weirdo

personally, for me, it's a combination of a-e. if you fall under the category of "f," you should probably go see a social therapist or something because that's just weird and you need to get out more.

my point here is that, no matter what your situation is, bringing lunch sucks. unless you have your own office, it's not very appealing to sit in your small hole of a cube and eat on the desk you sit at from 8-6p, M-F. yes, if we're being real, hour lunches are a tad ridiculous and worthless. however, they're necessary so you don't punch your computer in its face and fart all over everyone's phone's mouth pieces. ;-)

oh and what makes bringing your lunch in even worse is when you've run out of bags to actually carry it in, and you can't find the actual lunch bag you were given from your unpaid internship the summer before, so you have to carry your food in using a GAP bag. yeah. i was THAT girl today. i put my lunch into a GAP bag in the fridge. i was all like, "i just like to keep my cardigan chilly since it's so hot out, ya know? i take it out of the fridge and throw it on right before i walk outside after work. great cooling effect. oop! gotta go. my phone is ringing!"

gimme yer lunch money,
emma

just got my golden ticket

i just got 2 separate checks from the united states treasury. one was for $1.02 and one was for $1.00. that's it. i'm out. i'm going to quit my job and live my dream of traveling the world. see you guys around. it's been fun. too bad you can't all be rollin' like me.

sucka suckaaaaaaaaaa

send in a video blog of you shitting

as i sit here drinking a $20 bottle of wine that i treated myself to (what? i deserve it), an activia commercial just came on the television. yeah i've seen a thousand of them, but this one took me aback and left me feeling shocked, upset, and disgusted.

jamie lee explained that she, along with the rest of the poop-inducing crew, are now urging their yogurt eaters to document their guaranteed 2-week paths to shit - their paths from not being to normally go #2 to more or less instantly crapping their pants.

the best part is that they showed a quick clip a customer sent in and all it had on it was the girl sitting in what looked like a kitchen saying, "i have started to notice a slight difference in my digestive system."

WHAT? WHAT IS THIS? AM I HIGH? NO, I'M JUST DRINKING $20 WINE. they are asking women to FILM AND DOCUMENT their first 2 weeks of eating a yogurt laxative. why doncha just set up a camera in every bathroom in the house to make it easier on yourselves? because how the hell else are you going to document your craps?

"ok, day 5. i'm here, sitting on the toilet. just ate some activia. OH! OH..... there it goes. oh my goodness. this is wild. OHHHHHH MY. WOW. THAT STRAWBERRY IS NOT SCREWING AROUND."

"day 9. i haven't been able to stop shitting. it won't cease. i have been sitting here since day 5. my ass is bleeding and i'm scared. no one has come to check on me. i can't get my cell phone because poop is literally streaming out of me. someone help, please. if you find this long after my death from shitting, please tell my husband and children mommy is safe now. no more doodie is ever going to hurt her again."

ACTIVIAAAAA.

TMI gone too far

it's understood that "tmi" means "TOO much information." but, even the most candidly, info-spewing idiots can cross that already pretty apparent line even further without realizing it.

for example, i was on the book of face the other day, and i saw this girl had written on another girl's wall (it was one of those facebook scrolling days when you end up on someone's page you don't even know and you're asking yourself, "how the f*ck did i get here???") and the amount of information she had typed out was ridiculous. i mean this girl was basically asking for someone to come to her work or home and mess her up. the wall post looked something like this:

"hey girl! call me sometime! i work at this place, in this city and my phone number is blah blah blah."

REALLY?! have you not watched the many news segments about not being a fucking idiot like this?! might as well have written something like this:

"hey girl! call me sometime. i work at this food restaurant on avenue street on monday, wednesday and fridays from 5-11p. i live on house street in a small, white home with a red door. the address number is 1234. i usually shower between the hours of 8-9p if i'm not working (at food restaurant... just in case you didn't catch that name the first time). i play music really loud while i'm in there, so i usually can't hear much. i sit around naked for 30 minutes after my shower with my blinds wide open. my biggest turn ons are kings of leon and i usually leave my door unlocked for easy access. ummm what else?! i can't wait to hang unless i've been abducted. in that case, AH WELL!"


okay, maybe a tad extreme, but you know exactly what i am saying.

i hate bitches.

and not the kind of bitches you think i mean - i actually love those kinds of bitches with all my heart. no no, there are certain types of bitches that make me fume. allow me to describe who and what i am talking about:

bitches who are eating outside on the patio of a french bistro being misted by summer misters: go f*ck yourselves. really. i'm glad you don't have to work or make some sort of living and get to sit outside on a wednesday afternoon enjoying a glass of delicious nectar and eating incredibly succulent dishes. or maybe you do have to work, but you get 2.5 hour lunch breaks and can take your sweet, parisian time. well, guess what? mon nom est emma et je vous déteste, les chiennes (freetranslation.com, what what!)

bitches who are taking power walks during the day: pretty much in the same categorical grouping as the bitches above. oh so like, you're so unambitious and wealthy that you get to just stay home and take a big, long power walk around the neighborhood during the day with a massive soda cup in your hand? don't trip and fall. better yet, do. because then maybe you'll be hospitalized and have some sort of epiphany like, "hey. if i had responsibilites, i wouldn't have to fall anymore." bitch. es.

i may add to this, but those are the 2 that stick out in my mind the most nowadays as i'm driving around during my lunch hour (because that's what i use my lunch hour for - aimless driving. it's a really great dieting tool).

bitches ain't shit. unless you're one of my bitches, and then you're worth a ton. wink.

the secret of life

i've discovered it. it goes by one, fluid name: haagen dazs chocolate peanut butter ice cream. you think i'm kidding? you think i'm being facetious? you try a bite and tell me if you don't suddenly realize your purpose in life.

it has fresh chunks of peanut butter in it. did you hear me? or read me? FRESH MOTHER F**KING CHUNKS OF PEANUT F**KING BUTTER. you want instant happiness? buy a pint.

i'll be back later to write a more relevant post, but for now... heed my recommendation.

quote of the weekend

it was a long one, folks. although i can barely keep my eyes open today/stop thinking about rotel cheese dip leftovers that await me for the lunch hour, here is the top quote from the weekend:

"i haven't been sober since last night. i don't care. i didn't wanna be hungover today. i don't wanna deal with that SHIT, so i just decided to keep drinking. whatever."

if only we all could make conscious decisions like that.