I Can’t, Vol. 34

I can’t…

when my dog acts SO put out when I get up for the gym or work in the morning. Like, oh. SO sorry, Cece. Totally didn’t meant to disturb you. I know how important your sleep is to you, since you do it ALL DAY. I feel terrible for getting up to start my day and waking you in the process. Really. Just awful. I just hope you can get back to sleep, which I know you will because, again, IT’S ALL YOU DO ALL DAY ANYWAY (video example below)


I can’t…

handle the wall I pretty much T-BONE into at around 2:30 or 3 every day. Well, not every day. Just the ones that start with me at the gym. I’m there, and it’s great, and I’m kicking my own ass and taking my own names. And I’m trucking through the better part of the day like “DON’T. STOP ME NOW. I’M HAVING SUCH A GOOD TIME, YEAH. I’M HAVING A BALL.” And then — SMASH! Right into the 2:30/3 o’clock wall I run, like fucking Harry Potter during his first attempt at platform 9 3/4. Except instead of a cart full of chocolate frogs and potion books running into the brick wall, it’s my body.

I can’t…

that one of my best friends in life willingly laid on my bed the other night while I feverishly went through my dresser drawers in an effort to minimize my useless t-shirt collection — all while topless with my nipples starring her straight in the face. She was unfazed, which makes her the gem of a bestie she is.

I can’t…

stop reading my new book and, although I know pitching books to read on here is a stretch, I’m gonna do it anyway. It’s called “In Some Other World, Maybe.” It’s circulates around four key characters who all see the same movie on the same night but in completely different towns and states, and how their lives connect and intertwine over the next few decades. It’s incredibly well written, hard to put down, and has sex. So, BIG win in my book (pun not intended there at all).

I can’t…

wait for Fall. I know — it’s so basic bitch of me, but it’s stereotypical BECAUSE IT’S TRUE. Every person (unless you permanently live in Hawaii or California or somewhere of the like that’s constantly warm) reaches a breaking point re: summer. And I’m not trying to sit here and claim that Texans deserve the Fall more than anyone else because of the hellacious heat indexes we’re forced to deal with for three solid months every summer, but WE DO. WE DESERVE IT SO HARD. I’m done with sweating. I’m done with thinking a t-shirt and jeans is an acceptable summertime outfit, only to spend 15 minutes by night’s end literally peeling denim off my legs. I’m done straddling the line between life and death whenever I step outside and can’t breathe properly. I’m done paying $150 A/C bills. I’m done I’M DONE. I AM DONE. Give me scarfs! Give me booties! GIVE ME SOCKS AND LONG SLEEVES AND DRY SKIN OR GIVE ME DEATH.


I can’t…

tell you how close I am to starting weekly installments recounting my experiences/epiphanies/overall thoughts re: online/app dating. It’s probably too soon to even be flirting with the idea of flirting because, unbeknownst to the general public since I put on mad fronts, I’m still a little fragile bird inside. BUT I got brave enough to download a few just for shits and gigs, and so far, I immediately regret my decision. I’ve seen a SHOE as a profile picture (literally, one single shoe), swiped left on about 33 guys from my high school, and have experience shock and awe over what poor conversationalists humans can be. Maybe I’m not ready for this yet. I don’t think I am. 

I can’t…

seem to keep my home orderly throughout the week. I’m one person with one, small dog. You would think keeping things in their right places Monday through Friday would be effortless. It makes me hate myself with how my place looks by day’s end on Friday. Like where am I? How did I get here? Why is that there and how the fuck can one girl accumulate such a tall pile of dishes in one sink? Monday’s laundry has been sitting in the dryer all week and is now more wrinkly than if the Real Housewives didn’t botox, and also WHY IS MY KITCHEN TRASH ALWAYS FULL. LIKE WHAT AM I THROWING AWAY THAT IT’S THIS FULL ALL THE TIME? You’d think I just go through my house all week, tossing random shit in there for fun. MY LIFE IS IN SHAMBLES.

I can’t…

understand how girls function without planners or agendas. How do you do life? How do you remember where you’re supposed to be and when? How do you know what days you got to the gym or when your dog’s vet appointment is? How do you recount every date night, girl’s night, mood you were in that day, or keep your list of errands in check? HOW. This is the cover page of mine because IT IS HOW I FUNCTION. Yes, that says “my left tit.”

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I can’t…

tell you what I want to eat when you ask, but I can tell you exactly what I want to eat any other time of any day.

I can’t…

think of anything else so that’s that for today, everyone! Enjoy your weekend, make good decisions, listen to your gut, have some ice cream, do some exercise, and make it productive.



I Can’t, Vol. 33

I can’t with writing for fun lately. And it sucks. My blog is my baby. It’s my outlet for all things ridiculous, insightful, and creative. But, since starting this job and now going through a break-up, the will to make extra time to sit around and write clever words isn’t there as much as I’d like it to be. But here it goes. And yeah, that’s right. My boyfriend and I broke up. And…

I can’t…

even begin to explain how badly I want to write a post about it. And not really even “it.” Not the ins and outs of what went wrong or why or how or when or anything like that. I respect him and myself too much to share any real details. But about breakups in general; the emotions they conjure up, the stages of it all, the oft forgotten or overlooked side of things from the dumper’s perspective. But, it’s probably too soon. I’m not sure when these things aren’t too soon, but I’m pretty sure it is right now.

I can’t…

with the movie “Cake.” Did any of you see it? Because, wow. That shit was bad. Like not “bad” as in hard to watch Jennifer Aniston doing something serious, but bad like… what a terrible movie. How the fuck did that get nominated for anything? Because it’s Jen and she looked haggard for it? SMH. I couldn’t even finish it. Really, I opted to re-watch an episode of the Gilmore girls for the 37th time. Yikes. And speaking of cake-related things…

I can’t…

tell you what to do, but if you value my taste in anything at all, please heed my words: STAY AWAY FROM THE NEW BROWNIE BATTER OREOS. THEY ARE SICKENING. I ate half of one, and threw the entire package in the trash. FOR REAL. And don’t give me the whole “how could you waste food like that?!” spiel. Please. First off, Oreos can hardly be classified as “food.” Secondly, this particular flavor SHOULD be destroyed. Every package should be bought and set on fire or thrown immediately into a trash receptacle. Brownie batter — good. Oreos — good. Brownie batter + Oreos = a horrible decision Nabisco cleared for mass production. 


I can’t…

stress enough how much I will no longer be cutting my nails. The ingrown nails that I’ve managed to acquire as of late have shown me that I clearly have no idea what I’m doing when I attempt to trim on the curve of my nail, and I am done. Give me a nail file or give me literal death, because that’s basically what an ingrown nail feels like anyway. Death.

I can’t…

with my hangover this past Saturday. It was quite honestly like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not even in college. Okay, maybe like twice in college. But never in adulthood. Not until Saturday. On Friday, my company threw its annual lake day in which we take buses to the local lake and basically drink for eight hours straight. First, clothed. Then, about 3-4 drinks in, in bathing suits because no one GAF. So from 11am on Friday until 7pm on Friday, I drank two beers, somewhere around 6-8 vodka sodas/cranberries, and took two shots  — one of which was pure vodka — and danced really, really hard in my bikini. Really hard. In my bikini. Needless to say, by the time I arrived home (safely because thanks, Uber!), I literally climbed into bed never to get out again except for a necessary Advil dosage at midnight, then again at 2am for a necessary Pepcid Complete dosage. Saturday was the first time in my life that the term #strugglebus became real. I wasn’t a functioning human. I was a whisper of myself; a soulless body who was still somehow able to make it to a pre-meditated brunch, but was put to bed my her best friend directly after where I stayed until about 6pm Saturday night. I managed to order-in Thai food and watch the new Chris Farley documentary, and was back in bed by 10pm, READING. On a Saturday night. This is 28, guys. This is fucking 28. Below is photographic evidence of my state around 6:30pm on Friday. Untouched, in all its natural glory. You’re welcome.


I can’t…

handle the maltreatment of the dogs that live next door to me, but there really isn’t much I can do. As far as I know, they’re not beaten. Or unfed. They’re just kept outside literally all the time. No exaggeration, they’re outside every hour of every day of every week of every months. Sun, rain, snow, sleet, freezing rain, 105º — no matter the weather, they are there. And the best part? They bark incessantly. It doesn’t stop. In fact, it’s such a constant in my life, I’ve become numb to it. I don’t really hear it anymore unless I’m paying close attention. They’re bigger dogs, but one of them has a loud, high-pitched, murderous screech of a bark. It’s very sad to me that I’ve turned a deaf ear on the murderous screech, but what else could I do? I’m not about to get into a neighborly verbal war about their dogs. Fuck that. I’m just trying to live peacefully, even if that means no confrontation and being oddly unaffected by high frequency noises for the rest of my life.

I can’t…

try to spell acquaintenannce or conveinent. There. That was me just typing out letters I know are in the word itself, but not in the correct order because those two words are impossible to write without spellcheck. 

I can’t…

and won’t ever get behind the movement for skinny jeans to not be “in” anymore. That’s just, like, not right. The style has become a staple in both the American and international fashion world. Bring bootcut back if you want and sprinkle in some flare jeans if you must, but I’m not touching that shit. I like my jeans how I like my men: tight, fitted throughout the thigh and leg, and with a prominent beard.

I can’t…

wait for pumpkin everything. And it’s upon us, my friends. It is upon us. Soon, girls will be clad in plaid scarves, suede booties, and deeper lipstick shades smeared haphazardly onto their PSL Starbucks cups. And that is the day I will regain my faith in love, life, and the pursuit of having a normal body temperature again.



figure out Snapchat. I had it when it first came out about three years ago or so, but then, no one was on it so I tired quickly of the ONE friend I had on there just sending me the dumbest low-res videos of late night parties he was at. However, since it’s regained momentum this year, I decided to re-load it onto my worn out 5s and give it a go. But like, how? How do I even “go” on this thing, y’all? Do I send direct snaps or just keep adding to “my story”? What’s the protocol? My Snap name is “icantemma.” I guess, like, add me or something?

Snap ya later, bitches!



If You Give A Girl A Glass of Wine…


If you give a girl a glass of wine, she’s gonna want another.

And if you give her another, she’s gonna want a third.

And if she wants a third, you’re going to have to listen to her debate out loud about whether or not she should have a third.

And if she decides to have a third, you’re gonna end up staying later than you thought.

And if you stay later than you thought, she’s gonna get hungry.

And if she gets hungry, she’s going to want pizza. So bad.

And if she wants pizza, you’re going to have to listen to her debate out loud about how she’ll feel sooooo fat if she orders it, but how badly she wants it.

And if she decides to order it, she’s going to eat two slices.

And if she eats two slices, she’s most definitely going to want three.

And if she has three, she’s going to blame you for letting her order this in the first place.

And if she blames you for the pizza, she’s going to force you to eat the same amount as her.

And if you eat the same amount as her, she won’t feel as badly about herself.

And if she doesn’t feel as badly about herself, she’ll consider you a true friend.

And if she considers you a true friend, she’ll tell you all her secrets. 

And if she tells you all her secrets, you’ll realize she doesn’t really have many besides the fact that she has fantasized about some weirdo celebrity before and sometimes doesn’t shower for days on end.

And if you question why she doesn’t shower for days on end, she’ll tell you it’s because she doesn’t want to have to wash her hair EVERY TIME she works out (which is at least three times a week, if not four-five).

And if she talks about working out, she’ll start to feel disgusting because of the pizza.

And if she starts to feel disgusting about the pizza, she’ll promise herself to go harder at the gym tomorrow.

And if she goes harder at the gym tomorrow, she’ll fret about it all day.

And if she frets about it all day, she’ll text you about it all day.

And if she texts you about it all day, it’ll be stuff like “Ugggghhhh, I DON’T wanna go.” “I’m so tired from last night’s wine. I just hope I get more energy soon.” “Is it so bad to miss ONE day?” “Is 3 slices of pizza and missing a day at the gym gonna ruin me?”

And if she sends you these kinds of texts, she’ll expect you to be the true friend she thinks you are.

And if you’re the true friend she thinks you are, you’ll guilt trip her about the gym in a subtle yet effective way.

And if you guilt trip her in a subtle yet effective way, she’ll end up going to the gym. 

And if she ends up going to the gym, she’ll spend half the time texting you about it.

And if she spends half the time texting you about it, you’ll gently have to remind her she’s at the gym and needs to focus.

And if you have to gently remind her, she’ll resent you for a split second before realizing you’re right.

And if she realizes you’re right, she’ll buckle down and do werk.

And if she does werk, she’ll be so glad she went to the gym.

And if she’s so glad she went to the gym, she’ll love you even more than she already did for making her go to the gym.

And if she loves you even more than she already did, she’ll invite you over again that night or the next for another wine night.

And if she invites you over for another wine night, you’ll obviously go because you love her.

And if you obviously go, you guys will split a bottle of wine she bought because she loved the design on the label.

And if you split a bottle of wine, that means she’ll have a sizable glass.

And if she has a sizable glass, she’s gonna want another.

And if she wants another, you’ll pour her another.

And if you pour her another, she’s gonna want a third.

And if she wants a third, the cycle starts all over again.

And if the cycle starts all over again, godspeed.



A Realistic Story About Weight Loss

This is a realistic story about a girl who isn’t stick thin and isn’t obese, but just sorta average with a few pounds to lose.

*Disclaimer: If you came to this post looking for my weight in pounds or before/after pictures, you’re fucking with the wrong girl’s blog.*


Although I never actively recognized it, I was thin throughout my youth. I never struggled with weight, not really. I was a naturally small girl. Sure, my breasts made their appearance at an age younger than what my peer group was used to, but it wasn’t anything explosive or anything I showed off. I just had B’s before my friends had A’s, C’s before they had B’s, so on and so forth. 

I’ve always had a naturally bloated belly. I don’t know why or how, but it’s just how it is and it’s my absolute biggest body insecurity. I can look at a piece of food, and my stomach extends. Unlike the majority of my best girlfriends whose digestive systems work properly resulting in always-flat stomachs, mine is like NAH. It’s been this way since I can remember. Smallish arms, smallish legs, extended tummy that I could give AP courses on how to suck in like a pro, and boobs. However, in the grand scheme of things, not all that bad of a hand to be dealt.

Literally the only time I’ve seen my stomach flat is during the saddest times of my life, when food wasn’t going into my mouth (AKA the rarest occurrence ever). Fortunately for my overall mental health but unfortunately for my body and stomach, there have been very few saddest times. So the flatness of my stomach was always short-lived. Almost like a dream that never happened.

My thinnest in adulthood was right after college, believe it or not. It’s like I woke up a few months after graduation and all the beer/pizza/shots/pizza/beer weight had just disappeared into fat air. On top of that natural weight loss, I was in a mind fuck of a struggle dealing with whether or not to remain with my college boyfriend, from which the anxiety was so intense, I was eating half as much as usual. So, in 2009, I was rocking 0’s and 2’s like it was nobody’s business. But, of course, I’m sure I still made statements like “I’m gross” or “I’m so fat” because I have a vagina and that’s just what happens. So.


^ That’s me in 2010, y’all. I was a TINY human. You know someone’s thin when they can tuck a form-fitting WHITE tank top into a pair of shorts and have absolutely zero qualms with stomach or love handle issues. This is a world I only knew for a very, very short time and will most likely never get to revisit. 

So, cut to a few years down the road into the real world, and I was a much happier person who had adjusted to a different type of lifestyle and was eating normally again, thusly putting back on some of that lost weight. But NBD. I knew I wouldn’t stay that thin forever, so I didn’t kill myself over it (clearly, because I’m here typing this).

But then. BUT. THEN. I made a career change. I went from being in the world of sales to actually pursuing my dream of writing and joined the twisted world of advertising. I went from an office with a built-in, very health conscious cafeteria, A GYM, and a building full of gorgeous, thin, 20something girls to a traditional advertising office full of beer, whiskey, and men who DGAF. Quickly and surely, my body started to adapt to my new surroundings. And by “adapt” I mean grow. At first, I didn’t notice. I was all “Whatevs! I can still fit into my clothes so who cares even.” The gym culture is not a popular one within advertising, so it’s not like I had coworkers running off to the gym every night after work, indirectly motivating me to go. They motivated me to have another beer, stay longer for more whiskey, or order food to fuel our fire as we worked late. 

And, a year and some odd months later, it blew up in my face. And by “it” I mean my jean’s button. Just kidding. That has never happened, thank the good lord. But I’m sure I’ve gotten dangerously close. They say to always go by the way your usual clothes fit, and the day I realized it was either stretchy pants or moving up a size, I knew things had gotten really bad. I hadn’t made eye contact with a gym in an embarrassing amount of time and was on a self-inflicted rewards program wherein I would have a few salads throughout the week, then reward myself with queso and dessert another few times a week. I was that girl. I just didn’t give a shit, I guess. It wasn’t anything out of control, but there was literally no awareness going on at any point of any given day. I’ve always been a 0% or 100% type of person: whatever I’m doing — be it healthy eating, frequent gym visits, Instagram stalking — I’m either all in or way the fuck out. 

But by this past December, I did the adult thing and came to grips that I was heavy… for me. 13 pounds heavier bad to be exact. 13 fucking pounds. Now, to the untrained eye, it was next to not noticeable. But to the eyes that know me, see me enough, and know how I used to look, I’m sure it was somewhat noteworthy. And I’m also sure that haters whispered to themselves, “Oh YES. She looks kinda like shit.” As I said at the beginning of this post, I fully aware that I am by no means “fat” or “overweight,” but if you’re used to being a certain way and you have done nothing to take care of maintaining that certain way, things inevitably change and it affects you just as it would anyone else of any size.

So, starting on January 1 like a true NYE resolutioner (but mainly because I like well-rounded, perfectly configured dates to start new things), I said NO MORE and buckled the fuck down. And guys…

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It’s awful.

What? It is. I’m not writing this to be like “And OMG, y’all. I don’t miss pizza AT ALL. Carrots are GOD and ice cream is the devil. Give me a heaping bowl of cucumbers for dessert, AMIRIGHT?” If it were that easy, everyone would be slender as hell. However, I promised myself on January 1, 2015 that this wasn’t just Emma on one of her health kicks. No. This is Emma now. This consistent workout schedule, subbing salad for fries at least half the time if not more, eating way more vegetables for dinner and snacks: This is my life now. It’s a lifestyle. As much as it can absolutely suck in every way imaginable, it’s for the long haul and I mean it. 

Every day since Jan. 1, I’ve eaten breakfast.

I’ve weened myself off sugar in coffee (although, I still use my Coffeemate fat-free hazelnut creamer because SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE).

I’ve mastered how to eat a pile of roasted brussel sprouts or cauliflower with a side of quinoa for dinner and halfway ENJOY it.

I’ve tried really hard to choose vodka over beer even though GOD DAMMIT I LOVE BEER.

I’ve woken up early 2-3 mornings a week to workout for the past almost six months, and made up for the missed mornings in the evenings and on weekends.

I’ve gotten fairly used to not stuffing myself at every meal. More than half the time, I leave some food on the plate to be sent to a place where uneaten food goes. This is huge for me since I’ve been a top ranking member of the Clean Plate Club since I can remember, and a firm believer in Louis C.K.’s method of eating until you hate yourself, not until you’re “full.”

I’ve subbed carrots for chips at lunch, and have tried my damnedest to reserve drinking alcohol for weekends only.

I’ve somehow convinced myself that a portion-size serving of healthy trail mix is filling (it’s not. It’s just a game you have to play with yourself).

The bottom line is: I’ve changed. I’ve changed the way I operate with food on a daily basis, and it has not been easy. In fact, it’s been incredibly hard, and the results have been slow to show themselves. As of today, I’ve lost somewhere between 5-6 pounds and maybe a half inch off my waist and hips. And I still have a long way to go (for me, personally).

It’s progress, for sure. But it’s not at all what I thought it’d be by this point. And that’s kinda why I felt inclined to write this. Because I want every other girl out there who might stumble upon this blog to have a more realistic idea of what it looks like and feels like to lose weight the “right” way. To not crash diet, kill yourself by deciding on a 1200 calories/day intake (which, by the way, is impossible. It’s like one carrot and a piece of air), or expect to be at your goal weight in just a few months. If you’re in it for the long haul, it’s the worst fucking marathon you’ve ever run. There are no short-cuts. There is no one BIG secret weight loss tip. It’s just you, making smart choices, working out as hard as you can when you can, and being mindful. 

But of course, you must cheat. Duh. The first step in ruining this for yourself is not cheating ever. That’s just dumb. Everything in moderation, right? It’s really 80/20, so Monday through lunchtime on Friday, you do the absolute best you possibly can. Eat those veggies. Choke down that water when all you really want is a soda. Then, come Friday night, all bets are off. You’re going to fuck up on weekends, ok? Just accept it now. Because if you don’t, you will make yourself crazy about it come every Sunday night. I mean, don’t spend Friday-Sunday literally taking shots of queso and doing lines of eggs benedict. Control yourself, but let yourself enjoy life. Then, get back to it Monday. Oh, and workout at least one weekend day. It helps distract your mind from what you did last night and what you’re probably going to do tonight.

If nothing else, remember this: you didn’t put the weight on overnight, so it’s going to take a while to get it off. But, done the right way, hopefully it stays off (that’s the goal anyway). Keep at it, don’t get discouraged, and keep in mind that you can only do so much. You’re a fucking human being who loves food and wants to have fun and go to dinners with friends and drink alcohol and LIVE LIFE. So let yourself have that by kicking your own ass at the gym, eating boring shit, and indulging when necessary.