A Pinch of Sass, an Ounce of Booze

Recent Review of Moleskine Weekly Planner - 201

2010-03-22T10:23:00.000-07:00

Overall I'm really happy with this product - especially with all the random, and kind of weird, little extras they throw in (tabbed li'l book, other little book with perforated pages in different sizes, and stickers with emoticons faces). However I am always frustrated when planners and day calendars combine Saturday and Sunday into one day-space in the weekly calendar. Sure, if I don't have a lot going on some weekends, the tiny space allowed for my non-existent plans can make me feel better about myself: "See, obviously no one does anything on the weekends. Otherwise planner-manufacturers would give us more space!". However on those weekends when I actually have stuff to do, I just can't write small enough. Maybe I'll just tear out some of the little perforated pages from the one weird li'l book and attach them to my weekend days with the stickers to give me some more space.

I is Crrrazy for Headbands!

2008-04-27T18:30:00.000-07:00

For more reasons than are worth explaining here, I have recently taken a serious shine to wearing headbands. All the time. Literally, everyday. And can't stop. Today is Day 9 in straight headband adornment. I'm impressing even myself.

This all began by some brazen band buying by my beloved broommate.* And now it's spirally out of control - some much so that I created a blog just for it.** Soon there will be character introductions posted there so that you can all get to know my headbands as well as I do.

So check it out:
HEADBANDS!!

*stands for "roommate". I was just trying to keep up the alliteration.
**this was also mostly caused by way of trying to avoid homework

Wait Until You See these Sweet Rims!

2008-04-21T13:04:00.001-07:00

I don't usually babysit on the weekends, but this last Sunday I did. Apparently Sundays, on the Upper East Side, are Dad Day at the local playgrounds. On weekdays I typically find myself surrounded by other care-givers and moms, but this last Sunday I found myself wading through a paternal sea to get my three-and-a-half year old charge to the merry-go-round. As I stood watching him "conduct" the merry-go-round like a true engineer, I overheard the following conversation between two Sunday dads:

Dad 1: "Yeah, have you checked out this model?"
Dad 2: "No, I don't think so. What do you think of it?"
Dad 1: "Oh man, it's great. You should feel the way it handles! You wanna try it out?"
Dad 2: "Yeah, let me see. Wow! You're right! It handles like a dream!"
Dad 1: "Yeah, it's got great shocks!"

The object over which they were marvelling - a stroller. I kid you not. Only in New York.

Big City Livin'

2008-03-28T22:41:00.000-07:00

Latest awesome things I've seen around the city:

Graffited all over my subway train the word "Lazytown." I mean, they couldn't possibly been that lazy with writing it ALL over. Now could they?
A tag beneath the name of a Chinese restaurant "Mmmsg.inc" For serious.
A Panera (aka St. Louis Bread Co.) that delivers! I realize that I don't really like their sandwiches anymore, but still!
Gatherers trying to win my support for Harvey Dent in the coming election. I think that's probably not a great idea - but it does sum up my general feelings or politicians.
A place where they give you free pizza for every beer followed by a place with a free shot of whiskey for every beer! Can we say my ideal spring break hangouts?"
The "He United the States of America" tagline for the John Adams mini-serious. Just say it in the movie-voice.
A man smoking a crayon and apparently offering the other crayons to ladies at the bar. And this man contacted me on Okcupid. Do I win or what?
Goats riding miniature ponies. Need I say more? I didn't think so.

'Dear John' Blog

2008-02-29T11:44:00.000-08:00

I've strung you along too long with empty promises and hollow words. Perhaps you were right all along, and I have been trying to push you away. You are young and so special that you should be out there reading other blogs - other blogs that are more responsive and attentive to your needs. Right now, with grad school and work, I just can't be the blog you deserve. And for that, I am truly sorry.

Don't worry, this isn't "goodbye", I will still be here, posting from time to time so if you want to check in every now and then, it would be good to hear from you and to find out how you are doing. I just don't want you to be waiting for me to be the reliable, caring, emotionally-available blog that you need right now. Please know that I do want to be that blog for you, and I have tried. I just don't think that it's in the cards right now.

I still care for you, and I always will. And maybe, some day, down the road, when we are both in a different place - maybe we will come back together and everything will be different. But until then, know that you are worth better than I can offer you.

And remember, we'll always have Jokestown.

OH MY GOD!!!

2008-02-03T20:52:00.000-08:00

The Giants just won the Superbowl.

Did you hear me??? I said that the Giants just won the Superbowl! It's the craziest!

I adopted the team as my own before I moved to New York because I think that Team Manning is the cutest and I love their story. And then they beat the Patriots and that jerk Tom Brady who doesn't love his baby.

I can't believe it. It's the craziest. I even said during the fourth quarter that it shouldn't be this stressful. I expected the Giants to be done by that and yet, they WON!?

Unbelievable. And Eli escaped the sack and completed the pass!!! Did you see that!? Did you yell like I did?! I mean, COME ON?!

Best time ever.

Kim & Amanda Go 'Splorin' (Part 2)

2008-01-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

Well, as it turns out, River was already dating a delta, a confluence, and Tara Reid. So, obviously, that didn't work out. Kim and I were both fairly depressed but decided that we had to move on. We symbolized this bold step forward by creating a miniature replica of River and crushing it under our proverbial "Island o' Love."

"Take that, River!"

"I'm really proverbially squashing you, River!"

Burying our pain deep within, we opted to become cat ladies. Still wanting to keep those close to us at arm's length, we chose a cat with well-defined barriers.

But again we had fallen in love with the same person. And we all know what that spells: T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

(to be continued. . .)

Kim & Amanda Go 'Splorin'! (Part One)

2008-01-04T20:42:00.000-08:00

To celebrate the New Year* my roommate and I went out and about to explore our new** neighborhood. We decided to make a photo-journal of the event. "Where did you go, Amanda, and what kind of things did you see?" You ask. Well, follow me, and I will take you with us on our adventure!!

Kim greets 2008 with ecstatic optimism.

Her optimism is immediately paid off when we find gemstones in our front step.

We then realized that being a national holiday chances were slim that any of the stores we were planning to visit would be open. We took to looking at signs and the garbage in the street.

We found these lists of books we should've read in 2007. Between the two of us we had read none. Dejected, we cling to our discovery of the gemstones.

We wandered over to the East River, which - as it turns out - is protected by Polish ninja spies with hi-tech "chain-link" fencing guarding its banks.

Us both having a penchant for unattainable men, we both immediately started "going steady" with the river. (Sigh.) We were so happy then. But then, every relationship between two roommates and their river hit their rough patches, right?

To Be Continued. . .

*Happy New Year, everyone!
**It can still be our "new" neighborhood after 2 months, right?

Diagnosis: Bodygitis

2007-12-22T20:13:00.000-08:00

I am kind of a lazy hypochondriac. This means that I imagine that I have all kinds of awful ailments, but am too lazy to be proactive about going to a doctor or finding the source of said illness. And being of the dramatic ilk, my diseases are always fairly major, life-changing ones. My most recent ailment: Meningitis. At least, it started out as meningitis - mostly because my neck was really stiff, and I had a headache. A headache, which I, of course, attributed to the excess of fluid my meningitis-covered brain was sloshing around in. However, as the days progressed while I was still able to touch my chin to my chest without any pain, I decided I must have mis-diagnosed myself. I considered legal action for a brief moment, but then once I realized the effort I would have to exert, I changed my mind.

So now I've decided that I have discovered a new strain of meningitis - Bodygitis! Where your entire body hurts! It's the awesomest. I haven't decided how the science of it works yet, but I'll get there. I think it is something to do with the excess fluid in your brain draining to more open areas and pooling - or something.

All I know is, I got it, and it's bad. Or, at least I think it's bad, but I'm not about to make a doctor's appointment so really it's anybody's guess.

'Tis the - eh, who cares?

2007-12-17T18:47:00.000-08:00

I think that I might've become one of those people who is depressed by the holiday season. Which sucks.

I don't know - I have been loving the scent of pine distributed all around the city lately by the onslaught of northern coniferous-dealing gypsies. I enjoy all the little twinkling lights. I was tickled to see that my new neighborhood decorated the streets with old-timey-esque lights and garlands. And yet, overall, I am left feeling fairly "ehn" about the whole thing.

After we had our first semi-significant snow I switched to my Rat Pack Christmas on my iPod, but I only made it through Frank's "Christmas Waltz" and Dino's "Baby It's Cold Outside" before I went back to my Diane Rehm News Round-up podcast.

I am flying back home this week and am honestly very excited to see my family, friends, and pets. One might even think that would be enough to pep me up, but so far - nuffin.

I am going to try to head over to Rockefeller Center before I head home to see if an over-sized bedazzled tree surrounded by mass-capitalism can get the ol' holiday-cheer a-flowin'. At this point, I feel like I might need more of a Christmas miracle. Where's Linus and the gang when you need 'em?

I Can Even See my Gold-Diving Swimsuit

2007-12-12T21:21:00.000-08:00

My roommate and I just finished watching the DVD of "The Secret" which is the latest feng shui-esque way of thinking sweeping the world (and by "world" I mean the rich, lucky, healthy, happy people), and I couldn't be yellier. Out of respect to my neighbors, I stopped yelling when it was finally over, but if I could still be guiltlessly yelling, I would.

My employer loaned me the DVD a little over a week ago telling me that "The Secret" was all about receiving back the energy one puts forth from the universe. (And, by the way, I refuse to provide a link to any information "The Secret" since I will not boost their readership by the - what, how many of there are you? - 2 readers of my blog.) When she told me this, I couldn't really argue with it since, I sort of agree with it in that I do believe that once you begin to look for the positive in the situation, the positive is more apparent. Likewise, of course, with the bad. Much in the same way that once you start to pay attention to yellow cars you suddenly see them all around you. So I reluctantly took the DVD and put off actually watching it since I would then have to return it only to be forced to discuss it with her. However, since she likes to watch bits of it fairly frequently, I had a set amount of time before I had to get it back to her. Expecting it to be pretty bad, my roommate and I armed ourselves with a bottle of wine and popped in dreaded DVD. And now 91 minutes later I am left not even angry as much as disheartened with the human race.

Basically, for those of you who don't know, (or, as I like to refer to you, "the lucky ones"), The Secret is all about how becoming schizophrenic will solve all of your problems. Okay, maybe I am exaggerating a wee bit with the schizophrenia, but it is about how if you actually visualize yourself as a better, healthier, happier, and, most importantly, wealthier person, you will become one.

So the first issue that I take with this is that I am pretty much a person how lives in her head - imagining all sorts of happy, awesome things happening in her life. Therefore, according to The Secret, I should be diving into pools of gold like Scrooge McDuck with hybrid boyfriend Michael Showalter/Joseph Fiennes/Groucho Marx/Disney's Robin Hood telling me how funny I am with my pets, Ralphie, Toula, and an adorable panda bear cub named Inc., by my side. And yet, I am sitting in my tiny room, alone, broke, with cheap wine on my breath. So far, so good, right?

I mean I could almost forgive them the crazy of all of this if it wasn't so obviously based in materialism. There is even a bit in the video of a little boy looking longingly at a picture of a new bike. Of course all he has to do is think and see himself owning the bike long enough before he actually receives it.

Oh! and there is this whole bit about how The Secret works on a time delay - so just in case a couple of good nights of you imagining you spooning with the celeb of your choice doesn't work out, don't worry! It will. . . at some point. Just keep on imagining- sorry, realizing it and buying The Secret merchandise and it will come. For example, we do see the boy mentioned above does eventually get his bike, presented by his grandfather - but I couldn't help thinking it was like that old "Werther's Original" commercial where we see the initial kid's present grandson played by the same actor as the original young boy in the past.

Then, which elicited the most yelling, there is their whole thing about how if you are sick, it is your own fault since you were, obviously thinking unhealthy thoughts. They even go into a story about a woman with breast cancer who cures herself simply by "Secreting" it away. She claims that it was the funny movies that she watched that cured her in three months. Anyone who knows me knows that this is a touchy issue. And anyone who knows my late, beloved grandmother knows that, even in the toughest times, she was never without laughter so I call BULLSHIT!

There is also a whole portion of the 91-minute-long DVD (did I mention that it was 91 minutes long?) where all these rich and successful individuals (including one of the authors of "Chicken Soup for the American Idol Soul") talking about how, clearly, there is more than enough riches/happiness/love to go around, since not everyone wants the same things. For example, in regards to relationships, not everyone "wants the same person." True, but quite a lot of people want to marry Brad Pitt and/or Angelina Jolie and I am pretty sure that polygamy is still illegal or, at the very least, frowned upon in most areas.

There is more that I could say - much more - but I need to start switching gears to how I am going to put some kind of positive spin on my seething hatred for this before I have to discuss it with my boss tomorrow.

Then again, I am going to start visualizing a fat raise, because, I mean, it couldn't all be bullshit. I mean, look how well it worked out for that “Chicken Soup for the Soul” guy.

Hopefully my 15 Minutes Aren't Up

2007-12-05T20:53:00.000-08:00

I recently found out that the "Amanda" featured in a question in The Princeton Review's ACT prep textbook who makes a call to Chicago is actually inspired by ME!! Since I worked for TPR for, like, my entire life, I have had various people ask me about it, but since I am nothing if not insecure, I was sure that it was based on the Amanda* who held the lowly dewey position before me. Luckily for me, however, a good friend recently spent some serious Q.T. with one of the main writers of the manual who informed my friend that the inspiration came from none other than li'l ol' me!

As much as my former job drained the life and soul out of me, and made me fairly depressed, this news somehow made me pretty pumped. I mean, if they aren't going to bother to reimburse me at least most of the money they owe me, the least they can do is make me pseudo-famous, right?

I mean, right? True - they could've put me on a shirt, but I can settle with this.

*Not only was there an Amanda before me at TPR, but when I went away to college my position was taken over by another Amanda Smith who went to the same high school. Ah well. . .

I do know the word for "a case of dough filled with a savory filling"

2007-11-27T19:11:00.000-08:00

The neighborhood in which we now live consists mostly of Polish families and young hipsters. I feel that in order to fit in I either need to start dressing way better or learn Polish. Seeing as my 5 plus years of French never really stuck, I'm thinking that outfitting myself might be my best bet.

In an effort to pick up tips, I've been watching people in the subway and on the street, but I'm concerned that I just don't have it in me. I'm not saying that I dress horribly now; I would even say that I am able to pull myself together more times than not. It's just that the full-on hipster look seems complicated and layered and requires an ability to throw together seemingly random pieces while making it all look effortless and almost accidentally. I tend to find a good outfit and stick with it so that I have maybe 4 or 5 really good outfits to choose from, all of which pre-planned and fine-tuned down to the jewelry and attitude to accompany it.

The pre-planning of the thing adds further complication to the whole process since I can't pull off the effortlessness that these urban hipster seem to bathe in. When I wear one of my pre-constructed creations, I feel like I am just screaming, "This took me 2 days and 20 outfit changes to come up with - not including the countless advice and reassurance from friends and family!!"

Which of course bleeds into a whole other hurdle: I can barely ever dress myself. I mean, I have the actual mechanics of the process down (one leg into pants at a time, make-sure to align buttons before commencing buttoning and so on), it's the confidence in trusting that what I think looks good actually does that I'm missing. And I just can't imagine that the 20-somethings that I end up studying go through those same apprehensions before leaving the house ("Are you sure the crying-Indian-in-front-of-rainbow t-shirt with the Harry Potter scarf and army boots with leg-warmers comes off as ironic and not as a mentally-challenged 11-year-old?")

I had dyed part of my hair purple in hopes that would make up for just wearing jeans and a black sweater for the 12th day in a row, but having transplanted myself to the hipster mecca that is Brooklyn, I feel like I have to start working a little harder and start layering up the irony. Taking a look around my room at the frog rainboots, pink Hedwig the Owl hoodie, and frankenstein-hands gloves, though, makes me feel like I'm going to end up much closer to the 11-year-old end of things.

Maybe I should go ahead and order some Berlitz Polish tapes online.

Even the Russian Judge Gave Me a 9.5

2007-11-26T19:50:00.000-08:00

Part of the deal with me moving to New York was that I take over babysitting a three-year-old for my aunt since she will soon have a kid of her own on which to sit. The kid is totally awesome. He has also clearly learned already how to judge the help.

While giving him a bath the other day, he told me me, and I quote, "You really did an excellent job with rinsing my hair. I mean, you didn't get any soap in my eyes."

He then went on to score the rest of my bath-giving skillz by saying, "And the water temperature is perfect since it is not too cold or warm. Really it is just warm enough - very nice."

I feel pretty damned accomplished right now.

I'm Going to Hell for this Post, I'm sure.

2007-11-25T10:35:00.000-08:00

When we first moved into our sweet new apartment the only real downside was that our heat wasn't working. After a day or so the maintenance man and a radiator repairman showed up. They were both very nice, but only the radiator guy really spoke English. As they were packing up, he said to me, "“At least you’ll be warm tonight. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving.”

“Thanks, you too!! Thank you so much,” I said.

Pause, pause, pause.

He then says to me, “You have a smile like superman.”

“Oh – uh, Thank you!”

“I mean, You could be his sister. Uh, what’s his name – uh, I can’t think of it – he died, right? Oh! Christopher Reeve. You look like him” (motioning to his face)

It took everything I had not to respond with, "So I look like I'm paraplegic?" But I bit my tongue and responded instead with, “Oh! Thanks. I mean, you guys are my supermen fixing my heat and everything.”

He then, literally looks me up and down and says, “I wouldn’t mind being your superman." Which he then quickly follows with, "I mean – no disrespect, miss.”

I kind of stumble through, “Oh, no – I mean, thanks!! You have a wonderful Thanksgiving!”

He reciprocates the sentiment and leaves.

Is it wrong that since he followed up his come-on with a quick, "I mean no disrespect" that I found it a bit charming? And in fairness to the Christopher Reeve comparison, I was breathing into a tube in order to move through the apartment at the time.

Chapter 5 & 6: Zombies Can't Solve All Our Problems & Success, the 2nd Time Around!

2007-11-20T18:56:00.000-08:00

So, amazingly enough, I finally found a place to live! And it was totally easy this time around. When I first went back to St. Louis, I was waiting to hear back from a guy about a roommate situation in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I didn’t blog about it because I didn’t want to jinx it. However, in the end, he didn’t pick me anyway so it really didn’t matter. I was sure that I was going to get it since, when I first met him, he got totally stoked about the idea of living with a life-size animatronic zombie. He ended up narrowing it done to me and a couple of other people. He then interviewed me again over the phone when I was back in St. Louis. We talked for at least a half an hour in which time we discussed everything from my sleeping habits to my religious beliefs to my taste in music and film. I felt really good about the interview since he and I seemed to be on the same page with everything. So I was pretty let down when I got the email that he went with someone else. I beat myself up about it for a while trying to figure out where in the interview process I went wrong. Was listing Radiohead as one of my favorite bands too mainstream for this po-mo hipster? Did my mentioning that my cat happens to be fairly fat come off as too judgmental? Was I doomed when he said that he couldn’t live with someone who would sit around talking about angels and I didn’t then immediately say, “Yeah! Angels, who needs ‘em?”

Eventually I began to let it go. I focused on what would have been the downsides with living with him: Even though the building itself allowed dogs, he didn’t want to live with one so I would have been without Ralphie, at least, for a few months. One of the major draws of the place for me, other the sweet claw-foot bathtub, was that in the initial meeting he had made it sound as though he would be moving in a few months – thus leaving me the apartment so that I could bring up my little dog, but in the second interview he sounded a bit more settled-in. I wouldn’t be able to ask him for directions ever since when Liz and I went to see the place he gave told me to get off at completely the wrong station which landed us literally in the middle of some cops arresting a man but then it turned out that the “right” directions had us having to walk over 15 blocks when we could have simply taken a different train that would’ve landed us only 4 blocks from the apartment. And I would have to deal with his dumb name, which I won’t say here, but I’ll just say that it was totally dumb.

In the end, it all worked out for the better. As it turned out a friend of mine from college decided to move and so we started looking for a place together. She had recently helped her brother find a new place in the city and had found the whole process to be almost as bad as what I had gone through in my initial search so when I got back into town for us to start actually viewing places, we were both fairly discouraged. After being back in New York for two days, we went to see our first place. We entered into the whole thing with our expectations set very low, but when we walked up to the building, we were totally impressed. And even more impressed when we saw the actual apartment. Two days later, we were signing the contract.

The place is totally great. It’s the 3rd floor of a house that has now been converted into apartments. It’s a 2-bedroom, each with a door opening directly to the hallway (so that if we ever end up hating each other we can manage to pretty much completely avoid one another). It has a good-sized living room and separate kitchen and bathroom, hardwood floors and lots of closets. It also has plenty of windows (a couple with a semi-view of Manhattan and one of the major bridges). It is just steps from the subway and is surrounded by lots of restaurants and shops. For now, I can only have my cat. I say, “for now” because I am being optimistic that I will be able to talk them into letting me bring up Ralphie later since their only concern is for potential noise. (The ad said that small dogs were okay, but that apparently meant under 10 pounds, which my mutant beagle is not.)

So all in all, we totally win. My head has finally stopped spinning from how fast it all worked out so that I am now left only to figure out how to get all my stuff up here from the ol’ STL. And hopefully, next month I will be able to win them over with how attractive my dog is. I mean, could you say “No” to this?:

I do still long for that claw-foot tub though. Oh well – I guess you can’t have it all.

A Cry for Help

2007-11-11T10:21:00.000-08:00

The other day I was catching up on some older episodes of the new Dr. Who, which my aunt and uncle recently got me watching. In this particular episode, the Doctor was reunited with his old companion Sarah Jane Smith who, as it turns out, still has one of the Doctor's most faithful companions, K9. (I've included a picture for those of you not familiar with this hilarious-looking tin robot dog.)

Honestly, he really only barely resembles a dog at all. He is more of a toaster with a vaguely dog-like head attached. And probably the best thing about him (other than the fact that he can shoot lasers) is that he speaks in a total robot voice. So, again, not really dog-like at all. And yet this didn't stop my emotional reaction to the following scene:

K9 tells the Doctor that he is going to sacrifice himself to save them. After arguing with K9 for a moment, the Doctor kneels down by K9 and resignedly says, "You're a good dog," and pats him on his head.

In response K9 wags his antennae "tail", spins his satellite "ears", and says in full-on robot voice, "Affirmative." And I immediately start weeping - yes, weeping - while thinking what a truly good little tin dog he is.

Can you say, ridiculous?

Since I am now back in New York and Ralphie is still in St. Louis, I would like to be able to blame it on the fact that I miss my dog. But I have to admit that I probably would've cried even with Ralphie sitting next to me, because, I mean, K9 really is such a good dog.

At Least He Stopped Answering his Cellphone During Speeches

2007-11-08T10:54:00.001-08:00

All I'm saying is that nothing good can come from this partnership, and I think this picture proves that.

Better than a Box of Chocolates and a Dozen Roses

2007-11-01T09:08:00.001-07:00

Well, it seems that, after all that, Halloween and I have decided to work things out. Granted, things aren't perfect for us. We are still working through the slutty baby costumes, but he gave me these baby costumes, which are the most adorable:

If I ever do have a child, I would pick a costume like one of these and make he or she wear it continuously until they out grow it. Because, let's be honest, who couldn't love a little wolfette or octababy like these? Halloween also won me over with my own baby cousin's SUPER cute turtle costume, which wasn't the least bit slutty.

So he won me over, initially, with these cutes, but I was still upset with him for what he did to Harry Potter. Finally, after I gave him the silent treatment for a while, he showed me this:

What can I say? He had me at "Baby Hedwig".

Then, on top of all of this Cutesville, Halloween went on to prove that he was willing to go that extra mile to make me happy. Halloween put a real, live owl perched on an one-way sign about 6 feet away for me!! It was freakin' awesome! So right now, he and I are riding a relationship high, but we'll have to see how he handles the other holidays coming up. He tends to be pretty jealous.

"Happy Whore-o-ween" or "No Wonder People Hate our Freedom"

2007-10-31T11:30:00.000-07:00

Now I am a Halloween-lover. In fact, if Halloween was a dude, I would totally date it. Hell, with its troubled past, tendency to be cold, and fear of commitment (okay, so maybe that one doesn't relate to Halloween as much), it sounds a lot like most of the men I've dated. In fact with Halloween's recent propensity for young and slutty witches, french maids, and devils it sounds almost identical to, at least, my most recent beaus. That being said, I am a little upset with Halloween's most recent trend.

Let me say I do not tend to be the type o' lady who uses this great holiday to slut-it-up, however I am not totally opposed to those costumes for those who choose. (Well, not as opposed as I am to pre-made costumes like these, which remove any chance of one's imagination having to be used.) If grown-ladies want to use this fantastically spooky day to break out the sexy-construction worker costume, so be it. But I have to draw the line on kid's costumes like these:

I don't even know what this last one is - except that I am honestly terrified of this kid. Look into her slutty-evil eyes! Yike!! I also found this one, but I felt it cruel to post the image and make you look it since it is so disturbing. I'll just say that this is probably close to what Anna Nicole was hoping her baby girl would look like. Consider yourself warned.

What happened to you, Halloween? I know that what we had wasn't the best relationship ever, but when have I ever had a good relationship? But now I just don't know that I can be with a holiday that supports evil, baby, robot-whores like these. I would like to put the blame on Diva and Bratz dolls, but then I see what you've done to Harry Potter and think it might be too late for us.

I'm willing to give you another try, but I just don't know anymore. Maybe if I get to see Charlie Brown's Great Pumpkin, I will change my tune.

Maybe She Didn't Notice We Were all Standing There

2007-10-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

I was standing in line for check-out at The Dollar Store today when I was left with no choice but to listen to this woman scream the following into her phone:

"Listen, you are not using holidays against my son! We have already planned the whole thing and have it worked out!

No! You listen to me! You're not his mom! You're a stepmom -- Hell, you're not even his actual stepmom 'cuz your ass is too skanky for him to wanna marry!!"

Then she walked back over to her son, who was like, maybe, 6 and was standing 10-15 ft. away during the call, to help him pick out some candy.

I doubt that, alone, his mom letting him overhear this conversation is going to lead to his inevitable, future penchant for and/or extreme hatred of skanky women. It will probably be more to do with the fact that she did so in front of the crowd at The Dollar Store.

A Day With Gram!

2007-10-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my father and I accompanied my 87 year-old grandmother to her 70th high school reunion lunch at a Ryan's Steakhouse in Jefferson City, MO - our state capital. It was . . . well, a day with my grandmother.

The day started out with her yelling at my dad for something completely random while I flipped through the paper. Once that died down we were faced with her disappointment and resentment when we explained that we could be not be using the convertible to make the 2 hour long drive since the forecast for the day was rain with a high of 50 degrees.

On the drive, Gram did a great ode to Marcel Marceau by pretending to have wind blow in her face from the far air vent on my father's left and tried to reach over the wheel to close it. After a moment or two she found that the wind was coming from her blower on the far right. As we pulled off into Jeff City, she erupted into a yelling rant covering the topics of driving, the absurdity of us not thinking she knew her way around (which was stated directly following her calling out that she had no idea where we were), and ended with her angrily stating that she had to pee.

Ryan's Steakhouse turned out to be a Ponderosa-esque buffet which upset my dad, but was kind of a relief to me. You see, almost all of my meals with Gram reach some point when she proclaims to the wait staff that I am a vege-tarr-rian (which she always manages to pronounce as if it were a rare, potentially contagious disease). Then she usually breaks off into a little rant about how she "just doesn't understand it" and "what could I possibly eat?" With the buffet I was able to get my own food without discussing it.

As we walked past the seemingly hours-old buffet, I also realized that I kind of like going out with her to eat at these places every now and then because it gives me a total excuse to be a bad vegetarian and eat what there is for me to eat: french fries, mashed potatoes, cheese, fried okra, and soft serve ice cream. (For example, when she went on her anti-vegetarian rant while we were in France, the confused and good natured Frenchman smiled and handed me a plate of french fries while my grandmother turned to complain about my diet to another customer at the table.)

The attending class at the reunion* was a total of 4 people. After only a few minutes of everyone sitting and eating, Gram launched into her "Back when I was in Japan and I had servants, my maid said to me, 'Missus, can I have your left-over grease?', and I said, 'Of course!' The poor dear was so grateful!" My dad and I discussed whether or not this was a new record time for her to launch into this story.

Most of the rest of the conversation consisted of who was dead and who was in a home. One of the other surviving members discussed how he came to the decision to have himself cremated. "I don't want to have no bugs eating through me!" That was about the time I pushed my lima beans away.

After lunch we over, we decided to drive past the capital building. On the way, Gram told us about how my grandfather knew someone who in the war was, and I quote, "shot between the eyes" and survived left only blind. My dad and I both kept asking her how this could be possible. She ignored us and went on to tell us about the day when a German soldier had come into the same medical area as the blindman. The blindman wondered if it was the soldier who had shot him. I asked if the German was shot in the heart but only left deaf. Gram continued to ignore me.

Once we got to the capital building, we pulled over for my dad and I to inspect the statues in the fountain out in front. The statues are crrrrrazy. There is a huge centaur-esque figure on either end, each holding some kind of sea-life. One battling a huge sea-snake. The other seeming to prepare to kiss a huge catfish. I say that they are centaur-esque because only their front two legs are like those of a horse; their hing legs are more like two water serpents. The other really curious thing was that their front hooves are webbed! Webbed!? After studying them for a minute of two, I then noticed HOW anatomically correct they are. After pointing it out to my dad we made some jokes about how Ashcroft must have missed these while he was still in town.

On the drive back, I heard only bits of a story that Gram was telling my dad. It was about how someone was telling her about how, back in the day, some black men told women that they were Indian. I made some quiet jokes in the back seat which made my dad crack up and, consequently, Gram yell at him for laughing.

*Her graduating class is the oldest "active" high school reunion class in the country.

My Creative Energy has been Going Elsewhere

2007-10-24T09:23:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted recently because I've been too busy making these boxes with my mom. We are trying to get them submitted into an art show so we'll see. Mine are the two with the lady and the couple riding the scooter. I've made a couple of other ones that aren't shown here.

I did want to take a minute and point out some hilarious things I have overheard in public and/or seen on the TV lately.

I was sitting at the airport in New York waiting for my plane back here when a woman next to me made a call to someone. From what I overheard, the call consisted of her trying to explain to someone how they can get around paying taxes on child support. At some point, though, she lost the call. She did the obligitory "Hello? Hello?" bit before hanging up. Then she turned to the complete stranger sitting near her and said, "You just lose people like that - it's just like that commercial! Ha! It's so true!" The stranger just kind of nodded and half-smiled in return. (I love that this woman was so wowed by this truth in advertising. Those cell phone commercials really blew her mind with their realism and honest, barebones depiction of an epidemic we of the 21st century are facing.)

The other night I was watching Antiques Roadshow with my mom. This older gentleman brought with him a little carving that his grandfather made while he was a P.O.W. When he was explaining its history to the appraiser he said, "Yeah, it's a great example of Folk Art and Prisoner of War Art!" (Now, I was an art history major in college, and the last time I checked there was no such category of art as the Prisoner of War category. Was there some kind of P.O.W. artist collective that I don't know about?)

Finally, I was out with my mom visiting with some of her friends. I was impressively holding my own in a conversation about Billboard regulations and sewage treatment when the main speaker said, "So I marched into City Hall and told them they need to literally get their shit together." (I mean, the misuse of literally always bothers me - but this one was just so unfortunate. It took me a while to get the image out of my head of the various elected officials gathering up their own poo into a big pile and presenting it proudly to this man upon his return.)

Meanwhile, Back in St. Louis

2007-10-17T21:21:00.000-07:00

Right now I am back in St. Louis - spending time with my pets, packing some stuff up, getting ready for a yard sale. I will be here for around two weeks. Last night I watched an episode of everyone's favorite: Law & Order SVU. Usually my mom refuses to watch this show, but she let us watch this one after seeing that eye-candy, Aidan Quinn, played a major role. The storyline featured the daughter of Aidan Quinn's character as a girl with a rare mental disorder which causes her to quickly read people's facial expressions. When she came into the squad room, she ended up asking Ice-T for a hug (because, apparently this condition also makes her unbearably over-acted when she in her "happy" phase). The scowling Ice-T grunted and spat-out a brusque "No!" Then went onto briefly lecture her. Later, after hearing the effects of the girl's disorder, Ice-T blurted out, "And that's why she could sense that I was angry earlier."

Oh yeah, Ice, it wasn't the grunt or barely-restrained slap you almost gave her. Or the fact that the only emotion you ever bother to convey on that show is anger. No, no - it's her mental disorder. Way to put the pieces together! That man is such a good detective. I felt like the Cap should've just responded with a "Ohhh, yeah! That is why! Good detecting, Finn! Goo-ood detecting!"

Later in the episode someone makes some joke about Finn (Ice-T's character) dating this other guy on the force and it looks like he almost broke the guy's arm. It was adorable.

Non-Apt. Searchin' NYC Adventures

2007-10-14T14:48:00.000-07:00

Staying with Matt and Alisha has been great. They opened not only their hearts but, more importantly, their sofabed. And spending time with them gives me a great balance geek & politics (Matt) and crap pop culture & girl-talk (Alisha). I have also learned all about the various wonders* of child-bearing. For more on that matter, check out my guest blog on Alisha's pregnancy-blog, Flabbypants.

* read "horrors."

Chapter 4: Cancelled For Your Safety

2007-10-13T14:56:00.000-07:00

For place number four, my friend, Kim, was going to join me. Our plan was to see the place the day after I went to see Murder and Orgy-Central. This place was a studio in Brooklyn that I would have to myself that would allow me to have both Ralphie and Toula. I had actually contacted the landlord early in the week and didn't get back to him for a while and was surprised that once I did that the place was still available. Bad sign #1.

Kim has grown up in New York, but had never been to this particular area of Brooklyn, called East New York. Bad sign #2. She was excited to explore the area. We had even built-in extra time in our day to wander around and check it all out.

My uncle suggested that I look up the area online beforehand to see what I could find out about it. All that I could really find was a wikipedia article (of which I am always vaguely suspicious) which mentioned that East New York used to be pretty run-down but had gotten a lot better in recent years. It also pointed out that, as part of this upswing, they had recently gotten a Target. I love Target as much as the next person, so that seemed like a total bonus.

When I returned from narrowly escaping being stuffed into a mattress at place #3, I received a call from Kim with bad news. She had talked to her brother and mentioned that she would be accompanying me the following day to check out this place only to have him respond by telling her that East New York is one of the most dangerous areas in New York. Bad sign #3 - which pretty much struck this place off of my list.

Sure, I come from DangerCity, USA: St. Louis, which is steadily maintaining its top place on the list of the nation's most dangerous cities. And, sure, there might have been a shooting at the bar across the street from the apartment in which I used to live. But after going to the very nice neighborhood of Astoria and having the experience there that I did earlier that day, I wasn't eager to find out what adventure the most dangerous part of the city had in store for me.

Chapter 3: Immigrant Population, Orgies, and Jeffrey Dahmer

2007-10-08T19:55:00.000-07:00

(It's a long one, but it's totally worth it.)

The third place that I went to see was actually an apartment-share situation in Astoria, Queens. The posting on Craig's List said that it was a 4-bedroom place with one room available. The main guy was a Canadian computer-consultant in his mid 50's; we'll call him "Charles". The post was actually one of the more descriptive ones that I found. It made a point to highlight the rose garden, grape arbor, and grey cat.

At first my aunt Alisha was going to accompany me on this voyage, but she ended up having to go to yoga-for-woman-who-be-pregnant class so Matt once again stepped in. As it turns out, I think that we all agreed that was a good call.

When Charles came to the door, he seemed totally nice. He asked us if we were coffee drinkers and invited us to head on to the kitchen to have a cup. This made total sense to me since he would need to get to know me in order to decide whether or not I would make a good roommate. When we made it upstairs, I was fairly disappointed. The apartment was really cluttered and pretty messy. There were tons of books and other stuff just stacked-up all over the place. To be honest, it reminded me a lot of my dad's apartment - but messier, which is saying something. Still I was optimistic and thought, "Well if it's only for a few months, I could live with it." We then went into the kitchen and were introduced to the roommate who was preparing to move out. We'll call him, "Tate". The third roommate, who we were told was Peruvian, wasn't around. The kitchen was a total mess and reminded me of the messiest kitchens I had seen in college, which is really saying something. The four of us sat down, and Charles poured us coffee.

It all started off fairly boring and low-key with lengthy discussion of the immigrant population within the various boroughs of New York. Surprisingly neither of them asked too much about me. They found out where I was from and what I was going to be going to school for and that was pretty much it.

The whole thing took a weird turn when Charles started telling us about meeting a "vivacious, sexy black woman" on the subway. He struck up a conversation with her and quickly found out that she had just been released from Riker's. He went on to tell us that he asked her what she was there for to which she replied, "Prostitution."

Now, let me take moment here to remind you that I was sitting right next to my uncle, and Charles knew that I was sitting by my uncle. And yet he went on.

"I mean, boy! Do I know how to pick 'em!" He told us about this encounter. I sipped my coffee a little faster. Then he started telling us about one of the other applicants for the room: a teacher who had been interested in renting out the room on a part-time basis because she couldn't get the quiet-time she needed at her other place to write out lesson plans. The reason, he explained to us, that she couldn't get the quiet-time was that her other living situation was a communal one. Where they all worked together to help pay rent. They worked together by throwing "Orgy Parties" once a month.

Again, I was sitting by my uncle.

He went on to explain how she had told him these orgy parties worked and that, unfortunately, single men weren't allowed to attend. (At this point, he made a bad joke about them not being allowed to come. Remember: Uncle, next to me.) He detailed the protocol of this set-up in such a way that it was quite clear that he and this woman must have discussed it all at some length. I sipped my coffee a bit faster. He then told us that they didn't have orgies at this apartment, and I quote, "Not that we don't want to - but because no one would want to have them with us!"

"Not that we don't want to -"!!!! I was sitting next to my uncle!! And of course no one wants to have an orgy with these guys - mostly because of the fact that these are the stories being told in the first meeting! At this point, I started gulping my coffee and hoped that Matthew was developing an exit-strategy.

Oh! I should also say that after telling us the orgy story, he asked Tate if he had ever told him that story and Tate couldn't remember. Couldn't remember whether or not he had heard this story! That could only mean that Tate has heard far crazier stories from Charles so that this one doesn't stand out. Yeah, that bodes well.

The next topic of conversation? The fact that a friend of his was B.F.F. with none other than Jeffrey Dahmer growing up. Seriously, people! I couldn't make this stuff up. Let me also point out that Charles created a very loose segue in order to tell the story at all. He told us how he had recently discovered that a good friend of his had been best friends with ol ' Jeff back in high school. He said that he asked his friend if, you know, he ever had any hint of the crazy in his good bud, and his friend said, "Well, I mean, we spent most of our time drunk and/or stoned - just trying to pick up women. But there was one time when he did mention knowing a good place to hide a body, but I didn't really pick up on it at the time." This was the point when I stopped drinking the coffee all together because I figured that we had been drugged and were about to be murdered.

Luckily, Matthew interrupted Charles to tell him that we did need to be going so we should just take a quick look at the room. The room was tiny - as if, at this moment, there was any way in hell that I would consider moving into this murder-den. What little furniture they did fit into the space was one of those super-uncomfortable metal futons and a little table, which served as a desk. Tate told us that the furniture would stay and was there when he moved in. All I could think was, "You mean that you slept on this furniture supplied by crazy Charles! Dude - that mattress is probably stuffed with fingers!!"

We thanked them and started our escape. They asked me a couple of questions like it was possibly conceivable that this interview had gone well and that I might be moving-in within the month.

Once we were about 10 paces from the building, Matthew turned to me and simply said, "No way in HELL!" We then spent at least the next half an hour recounting our favorite parts of the insanity we had just endured. It was during this when we realized that, at some point in all of that, we had both had the exact same thought: "Oh God, we have been drugged! We just need to get out of here so that we can pass-out on the street in public or on the subway. We'll be safer there."

Matthew's theory is that Tate was someone who came to look at the apartment a couple of weeks ago and is now hoping for someone to come and take his place so that he can go free.

Remember too that I said it was a 4-bedroom and we were only told about 3 of those being occupied. Who knows what could be going on in that fourth! I say it's used to stuff mattresses with scavenged body parts.

And these were the stories he told us upon the first few minutes of knowing us - with my uncle sitting next to me! And thank God Alisha didn't go with me because I am pretty sure that they would've kidnapped her and tried to harvest the baby.

I also realize that I am very lucky to have had Matthew there because otherwise I might have agreed based on the comic potential of the whole situation. And I would've ended up sleeping on fingers, wich couldn't possibly be comfortable.

Chapter 2: The Clown Car of Apartments

2007-10-07T14:50:00.000-07:00

For my second apartment-viewing adventure, I enlisted Liz to accompany me. This place was a fairly cheap studio out in Brooklyn. Over email the landlord had said that he could "probably let me get away with a cat" and since I wouldn't have to sign a year-lease, that seemed like an okay deal.

I met Liz at a station near her and we headed out for Brookyn*. The train ride was nice, we went over the Williamsburg Bridge and had a nice view of everything. We got off the train at the stop that is just a block or so from the place we were getting ready to see. The stop conveniently lets you out right next to a sweet Duncan Donuts/KFC combo. We walked the block and a half to meet the landlord outside. He was a youngish, pomo looking guy who didn't really move his arms when he walked.

He led us down a steep flight of extremely dark steps to the door of the studio. Mumbling something about how the space was nice and cozy, he swung open the door to show us the tiniest, tiny "apartment" I have ever seen. The entirety of the space was smaller than any room - bathrooms, aside - in which I have ever lived. There were 2 teeny windows covered with stained glass decals as if to prevent any natural light from getting in. Two of the walls were adorned with beautiful faux-stone sticky paper - you know, to give the place that much needed dungeon feeling it lacked.

In an attempt to make conversation that consisted of more than "Yeah, I guess a futon mattress might fit in that corner" I brought up the cat.

"Yeah, I could let you have a cat - I mean, tell me about the cat," he replied.

I looked at Liz hoping that she had some kind of great insight into the psyche of my cat that I did not before saying, "I mean - she's fat, and, well, a cat." That answer, as profound as it was, seemed enough for him. I mentioned that I did also have a dog, and he seemed fine with letting me have one pet or the other. This, to me, meant that I could cop to having a dog and just sneak my cat in under the cover of darkness. However when I took another quick look at the "space" (I feel that calling an area that tiny "space" is misleading.) I realized that there would be no way in hell that my two pets and I would be able to spend even one night together there without all putting on some white tennis shoes and brewing up a batch of some special Kool-Aid.

So I told him I would think about it and get back to him, to which he replied, "Yeah, get back to me fast because I am getting an almost maddening amount of phone calls about it." I bit my tongue to avoid replying with, "Well maybe if the size dimensions, lack of natural lighting and complete inability to fit even a mattress in here were mentioned in the add you could have avoided that."

* ever since seeing the movie, The "40 Year Old Virgin" I can't think or say "Brooklyn" without affecting the accent that Mooj uses when taking about his accent's derivation. So, for those of you who have any idea as to what I am talking about, please hear it pronounced that way whenever I write it.

Let the Adventure Begin!

2007-10-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

They tell me that everyone who moves to New York has their horror stories of trying to find a place to live. We can just call this Chapter 1.

After about a week of mining Craig’s List and contacting what felt like a hundred different people my trusty Uncle Matt accompanied me on my first actual viewing of an apartment in New Jersey. Up until this point I had been taking a recent string of synchronicities in my life as a sign that I was on the right track with this pretty huge life change – moving to New York and getting ready to start grad school. However when the bus carrying us to Jersey broke down in the Lincoln Tunnel my cosmic Magic Eight Ball’s take on the situation seemed to go quickly from “It is decidedly so” to “Outlook not so good.” Eventually the bus got moving again only to roll a few more feet then stop again. We kept this up gradually emerging from the tunnel and continued in this pattern inching our way towards our first scheduled stop.

More than a few deep breaths of stifled, un-air conditioned, bus air and a quick call to the landlord later, Matthew took the initiative to head to the front of the bus to talk to the driver to try to figure out how much further we had to go until our stop. I dutifully followed him up the aisle of the now herky-jerky bus silently praying that those bus-fairies my mom had told me about as a child would finally appear and push the bus to our stop.

I sat down a couple of seats behind the bus driver as Matthew asked him where our stop was. The bus driver, who could only speak a little English, threw up his hands as he gesticulated toward the dashboard of flashing lights, spitting out, “I don’t know! It – Uhhh. It - ” Matthew, sensing this was the best answer he would get, sat down next to me. We finally made it to the first stop. We sat for a while awaiting some kind of instruction as to what we would do next in order to reach our destination. Meanwhile the bus driver had put in a call to dispatch trying to explain our current situation. Through broken English he tried to explain to his superior on the other line what had happened with the bus. “No sir – it just stop. It just thrrrpppl!!” That was probably the moment when I knew we weren’t going to be making any other stops. We then got off of the bus to wait for the next one to come and pick us up. After about 20 minutes it finally showed, and we were once again on our way. We found the actual apartment without any more trouble. The one big advantage to this place was that it would allow me to have Ralphie, but by this point in the adventure it was clear that that didn’t matter since the commute itself – even without the bus-breakdown – was going to be too long for me to make it home in time to take care of him. The apartment was fine – very long and narrow, but it was on the ground-floor with the bedroom’s windows facing directly onto a main road, which would be uncomfortable for most people. It was only made worse by the fact that I have a fairly irrational fear of looking out ground-floor windows at night for fear of seeing a face looking back at me. (Don't ask me to explain it - but it totally freaks me out!) Also there was a mini-fridge rather than a grown-up, full-sized one.

We left knowing that my "Home Sweet Home" sign wouldn't be hanging up there and eventually wound our way through a rather delightfully eerie neighborhood to the nearest bus station and finally made our way back to Manhattan. In the end I felt fairly defeated, but happy to have something to get me started blogging again.

I'm gearing up - I swear!

2007-10-05T16:00:00.000-07:00

Okay so I am sure that no one bothers to look at this page anymore, but if anyone happens to accidentally have stumbled across this page, please know that I AM going to write again - and soon.

For those of you who don't know, I am currently in New York City staying with my extremely generous aunt and uncle while I look for a place for my own. And let me tell you, looking for a place to live with a low price range, 2 pets, and no provable source of income is a recipe for comedy-stories. Well, depression and comedy-stories. So I will be documenting these stories if for no other reason than to let the pain out. And I promise to make it comedy-pain.

So if anyone is still out there, just be a little more patient, and I will be back. And this time, for reals!

I Heart America's Past-time!

2007-04-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

I'm not a huge sports' fan. I really enjoy watching football, but I haven't committed enough to the endeavor to select a particular team to support or really learn anything to do with stats or specific penalties. I don't really care about other sports - especially baseball. I know, I know - a St. Louisian born and raised and yet up till about a week ago, I really couldn't care less about the thing. When I was little I would be taken to the games and found the only excitement in watching the temperature projected on the scoreboard drop degree by degree as the hours of monotonous diamond-patterned running continued. Since then I have not really had any over-arching desire to attend another game. But a few weeks ago, when a co-worker invited me to a game adding, "You'll need to take a half-day off of work to go," I was ready to give it all another shot.

It was glorious. The seats were wonderful - high enough up so that I could pretend that maybe I was on a amusement park ride instead of watching baseball. The view was great. The weather was perfect - sunny, but not too hot. And the beer flowed like the beer should - into my mouth, straight to my belly! So not only was I NOT at work for once, but I was OUTSIDE, enjoying the fresh air, spending some good Q.T. with a couple of friends, and the end of it all, drunk enough to fall asleep* around 9PM to wake up totally sober at 1AM.

No wonder America loves baseball. If they can work out a way to build into the whole game some tacklin', you can consider me converted!

*I mean, obviously, this means pass-out.

Get Ready, Everybody: It’s Time for a Manda-rant! (The G-Rated Version)

2007-04-11T10:35:00.000-07:00

I work a lot. I could work every waking second of every day for 3 straight months and still have more work to do. So when I tell you that I don’t have time for you to flib-flab around, know that I mean it. Oh, did I also mention that I am sick of being nice. What I mean to say is that I am tired of being nice for apparently no reason. I am nice and work my cushy-seat off to help people with whatever flim-flammery they need at that given moment to turn around and find. . . Lo! And Behold. . . more flimmer-flammeries for me to deal with. While we’re on the subject, I am also, and more importantly, sick of people using their nice words and telling me nice, pretty things when I don’t have the time to sit around imagining what a magical, phtootie fairy-world it would be if the pleasant praise you bestow on me turned into something tangible that I could foollooting use. So here is my new policy:

Don’t tell me that I am working too hard unless you are in the process of taking on the list of crazy students I have to call while pushing me, mint julep and tickets to the circus in hand, out of the office!

Don’t tell me that I should get out more unless you are going to exercise my dog while buying me a pair of pants that fit after which you are planning on making sure that I am able to get enough sleep to get up extra early to go to work since I didn’t stay late the night before.

Don’t tell me that I’m pretty unless you are going to kiss me or get me a date.

Don’t tell me how I should be doing more Lizanda/stand-up/blogging unless you have been able to give me one day, ONE day where I didn’t have to attend to something work-related. Then I might be able to think about something other than my job and will be able to come up with more inclusive jokes than, “Man, can you believe those guys with the GRE? I mean, I’m convinced that they must be getting their advice from the White House. No, seriously think about it? Who else do you know who doesn’t want to set a timetable?!” Or my ode to Yakov Smirnoff material, “I’m telling ya – if the MCAT students had to physically line up in order to get into the April test dates, that line would be longer than the lines for toilet paper we had in mother Russia – Heeehn!” Heeehn!” Heehn!!”

Don’t tell me I should be eating more unless you have found the magic de-stress potion that will bring my appetite and/or will-to-live back.

Don’t tell me how fantastic I am unless we are going to play slappy-time or pay me cash monies.

Don’t you dare tell me how attractive or wonderful my dog appears to be unless you have just made an appointment to personally take him to his next anal-squeezing. Don’t know when to schedule it? Don’t worry; it’s easy! It’s once a jesuspraise week.

Got it, folks? My mom once summed it up nicely when she said to me, “I don’t care about all your jibber-jabber – just do the phelgin’ dishes!”

I'm SO in Love!!

2007-03-26T18:32:00.000-07:00

Who knew that I would find the love of my life on Antiques Roadshow. Too bad he is totally dead. He did make some totally crazy pottery in Biloxi, Mississippi back in the day. Meet my new man, George Ohr:

How Much is that Anal Sack in the Window?

2007-01-24T20:55:00.000-08:00

"Puppies are sooo cute!"

"Man! Dogs are so great!"

"Why can't we get a dog?! They are so wonderful!"

I once said these things. I once believed these statements, but then I got a dog. And if that wasn't enough, I then learned about anal sacks. "Anal sacks? What are 'anal sacks'?" you say. Check this out to get some really beautiful cartoons to help you understand the magic of the anal sacks.

One website describes the purpose of the anal sack as lubricating "the anus, and provid[ing] a scent." Knowing this, it should be pretty evident as to why it was such a bummer to find the contents of my beloved dog's anal sacks coming out of his mouth and landing on our carpet this evening.

Still have a puppy-hankerin'?

TPR, I Wish I Could Quit You!!

2007-01-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

So sorry that I have disappeared from the world. My job has consumed me - literally. I am writing this blog from inside the belly of my employer. The worst part is that I can't complain or try to fight my way out - climbing up the esophagus and out through the mouth. No, I just have to sit and be eaten away by stomach acid and absorbed into the system. Why? (I hate myself for saying it) the money.

Unfortunately I have to deal with going awhile longer not have the time to do things that I really enjoy in the hopes that, by the end of the year, I will have enough money saved to go to grad school and start out on the path of doing what I really want to do.

Oh well, I suppose this current period of misery of working ridiculous hours and being, when sober, in a constant state of stress and panic will just make for that"low-point" in the Biopic that will be made of my life. Now I'm sure the Hollywood folks will dress it up with a storyline about my lover, Max, leaving me for my long lost twin sister, Miranda, who, as it turns out, inherited all of the romantic courtshipping ability while I was left with all the sass genes - This then pushes me to an expenisive addiction to rare, antique wicker bicycles that eventually bankrupts me and leaves me to start peddling little villages I make out of twisty ties from breadbags I steal from the local grocery store. But - basically, it will be the same thing.

PS

2006-12-26T15:28:00.000-08:00

That last post made Post #101 for Pinch O' Sass!

It also broke the record for most post done in a single month. Sorry I'm such a jerk, but I am working on it.

I'm such a bad blogger.

Ain't Feeling So Good Now

2006-12-26T15:17:00.000-08:00

The first announcement I heard yesterday about James Brown's passing made me very sad. I was listening to NPR while rushing around my apartment gathering up gifts waiting to be wrapped. It made me think about how much I enjoyed his music and how much more I enjoyed his fantastic performance style.

The second time I heard about the Godfather of Soul's passing, I was a bit horrified. You see by this point NPR had changed its intro music for this particular news clip. They opened it with his hit "I Feel Good." The clip from the song was quickly followed by the sad news.

It just felt a little wrong is all.

So. Mad.

2006-12-22T09:20:00.000-08:00

My roommate found this article online. She tried to get me to read it yesterday, but with our show, I just didn't have time. As it turns out, it was probably for the best that I didn't read it yesterday. I have started to try to read it twice today and have had to stop both times because it made me too furious. Here are the first two paragraphs:

"Be your gender what it may, you will certainly have heard the following from a female friend who is enumerating the charms of a new (male) squeeze: 'He's really quite cute, and he's kind to my friends, and he knows all kinds of stuff, and he's so funny … ' (If you yourself are a guy, and you know the man in question, you will often have said to yourself, 'Funny? He wouldn't know a joke if it came served on a bed of lettuce with sauce béarnaise.') However, there is something that you absolutely never hear from a male friend who is hymning his latest (female) love interest: 'She's a real honey, has a life of her own … [interlude for attributes that are none of your business] … and, man, does she ever make 'em laugh.'

Now, why is this? Why is it the case?, I mean. Why are women, who have the whole male world at their mercy, not funny? Please do not pretend not to know what I am talking about."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??????? And - so far - that is all I have been able to stomach reading.

I'm sure that you're thinking, "That is ridiculous, but I'm sure it's just some jackass on the internet spouting off because he's not getting any action." Well, that's just the thing. This article was published in Vanity Fair. My roommate has quoted sections of it to me where the asshole author talks about how all that women ever think about is reproduction - and how reproduction is the most important thing to us. What?!

I considered not putting a link to the entire article in this post - mostly because I don't want this guy more publicity before the funny women of the world lynch him. But I thought more about it and decided that it was better to see if I couldn't stir up a fervor in others over how f****** stupid and awful this guy is. I also want to call for a mass boycott of Vanity Fair.

I really, really just can't believe it. Take a look , and see if you can get farther than I did.

Come One, Come All!!

2006-12-21T12:26:00.000-08:00

If you are in the St. Louis area and are in desparate need of a less-than-holly-jolly take on Christmas, you should head down to Laughs on the Landing (801 N. 2nd St.) in Laclede's Landing and see our show. It is a mostly improvised two-lady comedytimes show. It starts at 8pm and it totally FREE!!

If you miss it, you will probably never forgive yourself. Just sayin'!

Have You Seen This Grill?

2006-12-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

Here is a picture of kinda what our grill looked like:

Minus that dog, porch, garden, fence, tree, shovels and tools, and backyard. Oh, and ours was green.

But if you can't find our missing one, I would except this one as a replacement:

Although I'm pretty sure that would we have to get rid of our porch chairs to get it to fit. But what's a little bit of sacrifice? It will make that bite of Boca Italian Sausage taste so much better!

I would also accept this one:

I think that it would give our porch that much-needed homey feeling it has been lacking.

I would not accept this one:

I'm afriad that the ironic statement that the creator was shooting for would be lost when used by two vegetarians.

I guess I am not being very practical. If you cannot find our missing grill, you can get me this one:

This one will probably be the easiest to move next year. And it has a room for Ralphie!

Of course, there is always this one:

Ummm.....yeah. Don't really know what to say about this one, but man must that guy's peen be smaaaall.

If You Don't Use It, They Will Take It Away!

2006-12-18T19:27:00.000-08:00

I have very deep affection for certain ideas but not, necessarily, for their execution. For example, I love the idea of that passionate kiss in the rain. Do I love the idea of being soaking wet while trying to look real pretty?
No.

I also love the idea of getting up around 10 AM on a Sunday and sitting around reading the New York Times and thinking about politics all day. Do I actually want to sacrifice a day where I get to guiltlessly sleep in?
No.

I love the idea of spending the day in the art museum wandering around and making notes about artists to look up. Would I really want to miss the Law & Order marathon in order to go see some art that I could see anytime that I want?
No.

I love the idea of having a bunch of people over for a BBQ. Does this mean that I will give up a day of relaxing, listening to NPR, and having some beers in order to have people over?
Hell, no!

This might be the reason that I only ever used my grill once. (And sure, maybe, someone else did most of that grilling that one time.) That doesn't mean that I don't love having a grill, or that I don't love the having bags of charcoal sit in my apartment just in case someone finally finds a cure for laziness. But it might represent the reason it took two weeks or more for me or my roommate to notice that our grill was stolen.

One night recently, in the abnormally nice weather, we sat outside on our fire escape talking about the finality of death* when we finally noticed that the charcoal grill that I bought for $30 at Schnuck's late last June was no longer occupying the northern corner of our porch. We went back and forth for a few minutes trying to decide if one or the other had moved it when we finally decided that it had been stolen.

Granted, I know full well that I never really used it - or that I would really want to have it around next year when I potentially move to New York, but still I don't want my personal belongings stolen in order to prove a point. Is someone trying to tell me something? I mean if it's that I should "use it or lose it" then I am going to start breaking into some celebs' homes and using what they don't use. That'll show 'em!

*I think we were actually discussing Paris and Britney's burgeoning relationship.

Bang! POW! Christmas glitter!

2006-12-16T13:50:00.000-08:00

With the recent changes at my job and the increase in my salary, I have been able to return to my geeky roots and start reading comic books again. Yippee! A couple of weeks ago, I ran out and bought a handful of graphic novels - a couple of my old favorites and one new title. Since then I have dived back my fairy tale life, and I gotta say: it feels gooood! Comics are such an easy escape from normal life but without the entirely lazy quality of t.v. Grab one of those black and white books or one of those with a lot of words or in hard cover, and you've got a chance of passing it off as real literature. I'm trying to be good and not get anymore for myself before the holidays, but then again, if I buy a few more titles this year - I get a discount. Maybe I can just make everyone their gifts this year. Sure - that'll work. I'll just grab some paste, glitter and popsicle sticks. That should buy me at least another two titles. Tis the season, after all!

Glass Half Full . . . of Ice

2006-12-15T11:13:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago St. Louis was literally* ENCASED in 4 and a half inches of ice, and it was so cold that if you were outside for longer than 17 minutes, your skin would be permanently covered in the frost pattern that would form due to your blood beginning to freeze. This week, the weathermen are calling for the high to be 68 degrees.

Sorry, I didn't give that the right emphasis. 68 degrees!!! Did I mention that it's December?

I've decided that we are those people in the futuristic sci-fi movies that you never get to see. You know, the first generations to witness the initial signs of the eventual decline to whatever apocalyptic state the world has finally reached. That makes us worse than extras! In the movies, those suckers only get the briefest of mentions. We are nothing more than the idiots who ignored the early signs and carried on with their normal, everyday lives - doing nothing to prevent the ultimate collapse of civilization as we know it.

I guess the good side to all of this is that maybe I have a chance of finding the guy who ends up being the hero of the story. Maybe I could find him now and be the first in line for the distressed damsel character in the story.

Oh wait - Damnit! - I forgot that those girlfriends that the hero has before the destruction of civilization as we know it always have to die in the destruction. Their death is usually the kick-in-the-pants/raison d'etre fightin' they need to save the world. At least that character usually comes off pretty well in the story. I guess I could handle having that role because it would, at least, mean that there is a really flattering picture of me that the hero would carry with him and refer to from time to time.

For now, however, I guess I am left with an over-stuffed closet spilling out both winter and summer apparel and two missions. The first being a mission to find that diamond-in-the-rough, scrappy guy, who just might, when pushed hard enough, rally a major force and give Global Warming the ass-kicking he's been asking for. The second, of course, being the mission to find the perfect outifit to wear in my photo.

* "literally," in this sense, meaning metaphorically.

Are These Pants Clean, or Was That a Dream?

2006-12-13T13:12:00.000-08:00

Lately my dream-life has pretty much been a reflection of my real life. This has meant that most of my dreams, as of late, consist of me going about my normal day-to-day activities. The confusion this was has been causing has started to get out of hand:

"Did I fax you those forms, Boss-Lady, or did I just dream it?"

"We ate at Blueberry Hill yesterday so why don't we - wait - no, you're right; I dreamt that. Sure we can go there today."

"Didn't we watch this episode of Law & Order just the other day? Oh, that was a Criminal Intent. I must have dreamt this L & O Prime episode then."

Y-a-a-a-a-awn! Needless to say, I was pretty thrilled when I was blessed with the dream I had a few nights ago that was, easily, one of the best dreams I have ever had.

I dreamt that I was driving around Europe in a tiny red convertible with none other than Sacha. Baron. Cohen. Somehow in my dream, I ended up meeting him and then was invited to take a day trip driving around Europe checking out a few of his favorite sites. We never really left the car, but we did get to drive around some really outstanding rollercoasteresque highways and such. We just chatted and hung out like old friends although I was very conscious that this was my first time meeting him. We joked with each other while speaking in the Borat voice, and we talked improv. I remember thinking that he hadn't brought up his fiancee and how that was a good sign that he might leave her for me. I didn't get carried away however, and grounded myself in the thought that his leaving her was unlikely, at best. I was really psyched at the idea of being able to call EVERYONE I know (once I were to get back to the states, of course, because I wouldn't want to pay the overseas phone charges) to tell them about my roadtrip.

Usually when I have a really good dream, I awake sad to find that it wasn't real. But the thing with this particular dream that makes it so great, is that that wasn't the case at all! I mean, my chances of ever meeting Sacha Baron Cohen, let alone having any kind of real convoe with him, are ridiculously slim - so the fact that I had a really cool pretend version just makes me happy. It also makes the idea of having another stream of the incredibly boring and extremely conceivable dreams okay with me.

Adult-Sized Partytime

2006-12-11T09:08:00.000-08:00

I spent last night party-hopping. Well, I guess it was more like party-stepping because it was just between two parties. One was a Christmas party and the other was a benefit for one of my parents old friends. I was really looking forward to these parties, since I have lately only been attending kid's parties. I put on my party dress, party tights, party bag, and party coat and headed out for some heavy-hitting adult conversations about politics, current celebrity gossip, and the continuing debate between the Merry Christmas vs. Happy Holidays. Instead however, I spent most of the night having my mom re-introduce me to old friends of hers while rattling off a list of my most recent accomplishments. I would nod and smile - correct when necessary and then listen to the standard reply:

"This is Amanda?! Last time I saw you, you were only yea-big," gestures with hand to the appropriate height. The whole night became like a walking/talking series of tic-marks inside a closet door measuring my height progression through the years.

Luckily we left before I was able drink enough that I would start answering them with, "Oh yeah -" (spills drink a little) "- well, the last time I saw you, you were about 30 pounds lighter and still had hair! How the years fly by, huh?!"

"Don't Juuudge Me!"

2006-12-09T19:25:00.000-08:00

Over lunch today with my 86 year old grandmother and my mom the name Katie Couric was mentioned. My grandmother, a rather strong-willed feminist whose bumper sticker proclaims "I'm Pro-choice, and I Vote!" has, many times, made clear her distaste for so-called "Bossy Broads" - so when the topic came up, I waited for her to launch into her whole spiel. Instead, I received this new statement: "I just don't like to hear my news from a woman!"

To which my mother, my grandmother ex-daughter-in-law, quickly replied, "Well, that's a bit sexist - don't you think, Mary Jane?"

In true Hear-Me-Roar fashion, my grandmother replies, "I know, but I'm old-fashioned and would just rather hear it from a man!"

I give her total credit for really owning her sexism. I guess that's just how they did it in old times.

I'm In Love

2006-12-08T16:58:00.000-08:00

I have found the man of my dreams! He spent the day hanging out with my dog - which in and of itself is quite a thing. When I left Ralphie with him he did a funny voice and yelled over Ralphie's excessive barking to talk as if he were Ralphie - a thing that always gets me. When I picked up my abnormally-large beagle, he was in better shape than I he was when I left him - cleaner, excerised and happy. The new object of my affection is clearly a romantic. In what could only be described as a blatant attempt to woo me, he even emptied Ralphie's anal sacks.

And for all of this, I only had to shell out $13. Love is a truly splendid thing!

What Kind of Stuff is Bill Gates Really Into?

2006-12-07T10:15:00.000-08:00

I was just spell-checking an email I was sending to a friend in which the word "freakin'" appeared. Obviously spellcheck took issue with the word and immediately popped up my options for replacing my "typo". The first option was the word "foreskin's". Foreskin's!!

Now, I ask you, on what occasion would the word, foreskin, be possessive?

I love your foreskin's new sweater!

Bethany was always jealous of the foreskin's keen fashion sense.

Are you planning to attend Foreskin's Coming-Out Party?

Okay, so maybe the last one is understandable, but I mean, come on!! Okay, sorry - poor choice of words, but you know what I was getting at.

There Might Be Life Lesson in There Somewhere

2006-12-06T16:20:00.000-08:00

Last night I attended a 6 year old's birthday party. I had a blast! We played Pretty, Pretty Princess, ate delicious spaghetti and cheesy, cheesy garlic bread, and made up T.V. shows that were "showing" on the static-filled channels. In retrospect, however, I feel maybe this should have been some sort of wake-up call for me. As the night went on I found each of the three children at the party (ages ranging between 6-10) patronizing me.

"That was a cute joke, Amanda. It's fine," they would say with a semi-reassuring pat to my head.

"You can't really date Batman, Amanda. But maybe you can find someone named 'Batman,' huh? How does that sound?"

"It's alwight, Amanda. You still awre a pwetty, pwetty, pwincess even without the cwown."

Maybe I should try to learn something from this.

On second thought, I could just find dumber kids to hang out with.

I Just Wanna Be Like You; Why Must You Hurt Me So?

2006-12-05T14:35:00.000-08:00

As you probably know, St. Louis has been pretty much covered in ice the past few days, which has succeeded in making the city very beautiful and yet extremely treacherous. A real Femme Fatale of a city - gorgeous and tempting, while icy cold and deadly when you get too close.

Now, I know a thing or two about Femme Fatales. I have taken classes devoted to their nefarious ways and studied an endless amount of footage of their methods and tactics. Therefore, it came as quite a surprise to me that I fell victim to the Frost Princess - not once, but twice. I am left with two very scraped and swollen knees and a feeling of concern. What if the ol' F.F. is trying to teach me a lesson? I mean, I can't really pull off the whole Femme Fatale thing with knees looking like this. Maybe she is just saying that the apprentice is not yet ready to walk side by side with the master.

Oh well - back to smoking two packs a day and arching my brows. Maybe when my knees heal, I will be ready.

Pet Deception

2006-11-15T15:15:00.000-08:00

I am going away for five days for a nice little vaykay – the first of this length in a loooong time. This trip will actually mark the longest time that I will have ever been away from my little dog. Normally, I relish a free day from my beautiful, barkilicious beagle – but the five days is hitting me kind of hard. So hard, in fact, that while on the phone with my mother the other day, I began to tear up – while at work, no less! – due to a story my mother was relating to me about my little cat-poop-breathed guy. She told me that while she was watching him recently, she was playing a message that I left her on speakerphone, and my intent dog stopped what he was doing and started to look around for me.

This is what made me want to sob with sentimentality. He recognized the sound of my voice. That’s it; He didn’t jump in front of a bullet. He didn’t fast until he and I could be reunited. He didn’t even leave me the carcass of some unidentifiable dead creature on my pillow. No – he just heard a very familiar sound and looked around for the source.

I guess this all just touches on a truth. The truth that most of us pet owners are neck-deep in denial. We think that somehow we are special to our animals. We spend most of our waking life, at least subconsciously, refusing to think that if someone happened to come by wearing a suit of raw meat or catnip that our little pal wouldn’t jump ship in a heartbeat.

For example, a couple of nights ago I laid in bed with my dog curled up next to me on one side and my cat on the other. I stared to drift off to sleep totally content and thrilled that my adored pets were so enamored with me that they couldn’t stand to be away from me. I did this while practically shivering because it was so cold in our apartment without the thought of how desired my body heat might be at that very moment. Ahh – denial really is a lovely state. You might want to get a furry friend and visit sometime.

"It is as if she has magic moonbeams for legs!"

2006-11-13T10:36:00.000-08:00

I just found a WHITE hair on my leg! I should say, growing out of my leg. I can't decide whether to be upset about it or thrilled. Obviously taking it as a sign of aging is a total bummer. But then again, if the rest of my little leg hairs follow suit, that might mean that I can go longer without shaving. Or - even better - I could let all of my leg hair fill in for the winter creating silvery warm leg wraps, and people would marvel over how beautiful and shimmery my stunning legs would be.

I guess we'll just have to see how this plays out.

Who Knew Missouri Could Be So Intimidating??

2006-11-08T10:05:00.000-08:00

I was planning on posting some blog today about how Missouri finally got its shit together and did something right. But SCREW THAT! Now we get the news that Rummy is stepping down! WHAT?! That's right - you heard! Apparently Rumsfeld must have had himself some scarytime nightmares last night all about the Demalumps and Demuzzles attacking him and decided to get out while he could be the one to make the call.

I just wonder what "office supplies" he will be pilfers before he goes.

Look Out Annie Sprinkle!

2006-11-06T08:18:00.000-08:00

I have been getting the weirdest spam emails lately sent to my work account. I have been compiling them all in hopes that one day I will construct an elaborate performance art piece out of the best of them. For now, however due to my hectic schedule, I will have to settle with posting this incredible one that I received this morning.

"Rule #1: Mom is always right. Rule #2: If Mom is wrong, refer to rule #1. Never, Never... allow anyone to persuade you to suspend your common sense. Money for old rope. Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring: We must take the bad with the good.
If you were born to be shot, you'll never be hung. This could also be read as, A friend in need is a friend in debt. A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing; The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Don't mend what ain't broken. Alternate: If at first you don't succeed, redefine success. Hope is life="

And, dear readers, I have saved the best for last - the subject heading for this particular gem was, "was salmonella is salmonella."

No Wonder Van Gogh Sliced his Ear!

2006-11-03T20:49:00.000-08:00

I pride myself on my imagination. I grew up with parents encouraging me to explore the world of the unreal. I just wanted to take a second and say, “Thanks parents – thanks for introducing me into a world of nothing but disappointment!”

My stupid imagination has been so well harnessed that it’s to a point where I am slipping into a serious depression by the fact that my real life is neither my imaginary one – nor anything close. This guy is now just making it worse:

I have recently become so in love with him that I have imagined all the funtimes that we would have together: making each other laugh, bouncing comedy ideas off of each other, hanging out with him and his boys from Stella, going to shows together, and just having the best freakin’ time ever. But the chances of me meeting him, let alone dating, him are, sadly, slim. So I sit around being miserable that my one true chance at happiness will never come. In the end, I left with only my imagination and the desktop image of him offering me a box of chocolates and a dozen roses. If I only I was less creative, life would be so much less of a downer.

XXX Disney Princesses XXX

2006-11-01T10:44:00.000-08:00

I LOVE Halloween! It is, by far, my favorite holiday. The spookiness of the month swaddled in candy wrappers, crunchy dead leaves, and stories of ghosties just makes me so happy. It is a time for spookiness, ghoulish make-up and fake blood. Not for ladies to take normal, regular fitting costumes and throw them into the hottest water possible followed by several hours in a VERY hot dryer until the entire costume becomes no larger than a hanky. Considering my feelings on this subject, it stands to reason that I was less than thrilled to see 4 scantily clad princesses giggling and prancing around my booth at dinner last night. I was, however, absolutely thrilled when a very attractive family stopped to talk to the Disney Whoresses and said the following to the little trampettes:

Dad: "Princesses, huh? I would have said Victoria Secret ladies."

Young Son Who Could Not Have Been Over 7 Years Old: "I mean, I've seen Alice in Wonderland, but . . ."

Three's Company

2006-10-29T15:32:00.000-08:00

We have a house guest. A real life-of-the party type guy. Talkative when you want him to be. Dependable. Entertaining. You know, one of those lifesize, animatronic, talking zombie types.

That's right, folks - we are currently home to a stunningly charming animatronic Zombie aptly named Zombie. And although every night Liz and I vie for his affection, we cannot help but to be absolutely terrified every time we notice he's here. Every time!! He could be standing right beside the couch where we're sitting for hours and all of a sudden we notice him and scream.

Ahh, it's so hard entertaining.

I want to confess the truth, but then my life seems boring

2006-10-29T15:07:00.000-08:00

To clarify, I am an adult because I picked up my dry cleanING - not, sadly, my dry cleanER. Although, that large black woman in her egyptian patterned moo-moo did seem to be givin' me the eye.

Yeah, I still got it!

They Said it Would Never Happen

2006-10-23T21:34:00.000-07:00

Lists of things accomplished recently that make me a grown-up:

Picked up my dry cleaner.
Got a physical.
Used the insurance plan under my own name for the physical.
Got a promotion.
Hung lights for Halloween.
Turned down my music because it was too loud for me.
Got a raise.
Scheduled and planned a Reunion Show for Lizanda
Planned my first Halloween party.
Went to bed at 11:30pm so that I could get a cup of coffee before work.
Started to make a budget.
Began looking for a gym to join.

Look out, world - I am one power suit away from my one-way ticket to Adultsville!

And Carl Kasell Almost had me Convinced

2006-10-12T08:59:00.000-07:00

I come from a long line of total night owls. We all stay up late and love sleeping in. So I just assumed that I would never be one of those people who would get set on a schedule of early rising and start waking up entirely on their own. Well apparently all that genetics nonsense is just a big joke because I, of the family most closely related on the evolutionary scale to bears (due in a large part to our repeated confusion over the differences between sleep and hibernation) have started regularly waking up early without the help of an alarm clock - all bright eyed and bushy tailed to boot! Now what sets me apart from those morning people is that I don't ever actually get up out of bed when this happens; I usually just lay there or go back to sleep for a while. If it happens to be one of those rare mornings where I am not incredibly lazy, I like to turn on NPR and listen to Morning Edition while I drift in and out of slumber. Today was one of those radio days. Unfortunately, it was also Pledge Day for the radio which is always a bummer.

While I lay in bed listening to Carl Kasell seemingly speak directly to me chiding me about loving public radio so much and being too cheap to contribute, I was almost convinced. I was just reaching for my phone (or dreaming about just reaching for my phone - reality and dreamworldsville get very mixed up during these mornings) when their next news story started up.

It was more than one of the normal quick 5 minute stories. It was a little segment. . . all about EYE SURGERY!!* I could have died! It started off with discussion of laser surgery and corneas. Painful for me, but doable. THEN they switched over to talk about the first man who figured out how help people who are nearsighted - which included talk of that round blinky thing that makes you see and a SCAPEL!! And of course, due to my Lazy Disease, I was forced to just lay there making loud humming noises so that couldn't hear the awful, awful words they were saying.

Ira, Carl, Diane, Steve, Renee, Garrison, Neil, Tom and Ray, I want you all to know that I love you and I love what you do. I want to support you with more than my ears and my laughs and my cries and my thoughtful introspection and my screams of fury. I wanted to become a member - and I tried (or, at least, dreamt about trying)! But if there is one thing that I will probably never be able to overcome it is the words eyeball and. Scalpel. Being in the same sentence.

*For those of you who have not spoken to me for longer than five minutes, you probably don't know that I have an incredible eye + vaguely sharp things phobia. To quote my uncle Matt - It's so bad that odds are pretty good that I will be the crazy old lady in goggles.

The Sacrifices One Makes to Reset the Balance of the Universe

2006-10-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

I consider myself to be a regular good person. I care a lot about my friends and family while at the same time still caring about how much time I can ignore all of them and watch crappy TV. I listen when people talk to me when they are making sense. I give thoughtful gifts when I want attention. I love and care for my pets . . . most of the time. I'm one of those normally nice people. So when the forces aligned tonight to put me in the same room as one of the devil's underlings I was unsure that my mere average sized good personness would be enough to balance the cosmic good vs. evil scales. Yes, that's right; when my mom and I ran into Borders earlier tonight to grab two work-related books we were shocked to see none other than Mr. Never Again himself, John "Ashy" Ashcroft!

He and I exchanged a quick glance before he coddled and cuddled another tiny baby patriot with his clammy crazyhands.

My mom stalked between bookcases just to get a quick look at his wrinkly countenance. "He looked at me and squinted like a hawk!" My mom later said of their momentary exchange.

I went into a quiet panic. "I must do something," I thought, "to help the balance and make a point!" I began searching around, grabbing at every vaguely liberally-titled book I could see. "I'll buy every liberal book I can in order to offset the balance of his minimally well-attended book signing. That will affect . . . something. Right?"

I stood tottering at the edge of the line with at least 43 bold statements of my political slant weighing down my tired arms. Was this too much? Could it possibly be worth having these ridiculous comedy hand-on-hips, smirky, sarcastic jokey articles sitting around my apartment just to try to prove something about one person's beliefs vs. the 50 or so glassied-eyed, eager signees'? I dropped the stack of "RepublICKans" and so forth, picked up a compilation of American short stories, and was done with it all.

Take that, Ashy! In the end, I didn't even care enough to buy Garrison Keillor's political rants for $11 to make some point about you. How's them short-pants fittin' ya?

Will You Pinky-Swear on it, Mr. Ashcroft?

2006-10-06T08:42:00.000-07:00

John Ashcroft, the former Attorney General and the poor fool who lost to Mel Carnahan's corpse here in Missouri, has written a book. (I know! I too was shocked that he could put together enough sentences.) The title of the book is "Never Again." Granted, the man is awful, but I still can't help feeling sorry for him for just really walking into that joke. Then again, perhaps he is finally doing something positive for us.

Do you promise, John? Could this possibly be the last that we will hear from you? Will you really never, never again make any decisions that will affect anymore than a dozen people? Because you owe us at least that much. Sure, you made us laugh with that great joke you told on NPR the other day. You know? - the one about how Bush has respected and done more for our personal freedoms during a time of war than ANY other president - ever. Yeah, that hearty guffaw you gave us was great, but if you keep this promise, you might actually go down in history as somewhat of a philanthropist (Whoops! Sorry, didn't mean to confuse you. That means a person who does good things for people just for the sake of doing good things.) It could be a good move for you - you know, once your singing career bottoms out, you'll have something to fall back on. Consider it, Ashy. For us?

Potato, Mai-tai-toe.

2006-09-18T22:48:00.001-07:00

Call it being homebodies. Call it a love for our pets. Call it a love of our syndicated Law & Order. Whatever you want to call it, it all means the same thing: My roommate and I don’t like going out. For the most part, we spend our time coming up with good ideas and yelling at our pets, tucked away safe inside our metropolitan apartment. So the fact that she and I finally ventured into the world the other day was quite a feat. At first, everything seemed fine – we blended in seamlessly: tuned into the hip, in line with culture, and all set up to be normal people. Then dinner came. It was 4 in the afternoon, and we sat in a hip noodle joint surrounded by other “early birds” complete with their bibs and hall passes from the nursing home. We sat poised ready to continue our charade of normalcy – then came the Drink Menu.

“Play it cool,” we thought. “Just lay low, and no one will be the wiser.”

Our eyes understandably drifted towards the “Crazy Buddha,” which consisted of 60 ounces of delicious booze! “Done!” We thought. “Two straws + Crazy Buddha + us = goooood times!”

“No,” our social-awareness-conscience chimed in. “You must work towards not creating a constant spectacle of yourselves.”

“You’re right,” we thought. “Let us not undo the good done by the nice-times talk we had with the kindly elderly ladies at the table nearest to us. We should present ourselves as young, gentle, graceful ladies. . .

A pitcher of Mai Tai, please! Two glasses!” Ahhh. Subtlety achieved.

I Freakin' Love the Fall!!

2006-09-14T18:38:00.000-07:00

I just need to say that I am IN LOVE with the cool, cool breeze pushing through my curtains lately. It blew in last weekend, and BOY, are we having an affair! It makes me cuddle up into my comforter tight at night while light-hearted dreams dance through my head. When it joins me for my walks with Ralphie it carries with it memories of fall - of Halloween and pumpkins and bonfires and multicolored leaves. The Breeze comes in clean, exciting and new and leaves me to feeling safe and at home.

It's almost enough to make it better while everthing falls apart.

Sickette & Tiredena

2006-09-05T21:14:00.000-07:00

Okay. I’m ready to drop the pretenses. I am finally ready to put the lies to an end. This is me – honest and true.

Here it is - I am done with the idea of the independent woman. I no longer want to be the free-stylin’, free-livin’, flyin’-by-the-seat-of-my-pants modern lady that I currently present myself as.

I am ready for the knight. I am more than happy to give myself over to someone taking care of me and providing for his “little-lady.” Yeah, I grew up reading fairy tales. So one might think that this was the thing that I have wanted since pigtails and cotton candy, but my fairy tales were a little less sugar and sunshine than the majority of children’s sleepytime dreams. I guess if you spend your time wading through the gore, blood-covered eggs, step-children stew, and sliced & diced princesses to get to the happily-ever-after magical kiss between prince and princess of the actual Grimm Bros., you are a little more ready to work through a lot to get to the H.A.E.

However, I say "enough is enough;" I am done working towards something great. Now I am just ready to have someone come over a couple of times a week, walk Ralphie, do some dishes, give me a backrub and a hot cocoa after picking me up some delectable carry-out dinner, and then be on the way. I am ready for my return trip from Suffragette City. My bags are packed, with my liquids and fluids in my check-in bags, and a US Weekly under my arm. I am ready for my caretaking companion because I am D.O.N.E. taking care of my daddy-less babies and myself. Next!

It has Given Me Faith Once More!

2006-08-30T22:05:00.000-07:00

I have many strong opinions about the war and our government. I am, however, happy to say that at least they have the resources available to help returning soldiers with all the hardships they will face. Thanks to a friend's brother* who is in the service, I have this actual posting from his army homepage:

August 29, 2006 - NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION WEEK - 10 - 16 SEP 2006 - THIS YEAR'S THEME IS "SCIENCE AND PRACTICE IN SUICIDOLOGY: PROMOTING COLLABORATION, INTEGRATION, AND UNDERSTANDING". IT HIGHLIGHTS THE SYNERGISTIC BENEFITS OF WORKING TOGETHER TO PROMOTE SUICIDE AWARENESS.

Can we just talk about this for a second? Obviously it's the most geniusly hilarious thing ever, but let's dissect. It's the practice of suicide-study? In which they promote the, what?, collaborated efforts made towards suicide? And the integration!!? What are you lacking in your life? It's probably suicide because you know not enough people know the benefits of the integration of suicide into their everyday life.

Thank God my tax dollars aren't going to something awful like cutting down emissions.

*Thanks to Concerned Citizen and bro.

Some Sort of Penance

2006-08-30T21:53:00.000-07:00

I know - I know. I'm an awful blogger. If anyone is still out there, I'm sorry. I hope that maybe this fantastic picture from an old PoSOoB theme might help you to forgive me.

"Help me, Rich Folk! I'm Being Mistreated!"

2006-07-15T12:20:00.000-07:00

I'm convinced that my dog is trying to sell me out to Animal Rights group in an effort to get a home with the billionaires that live behind me. Ralphie and I take our walks through an extremely wealthy neighborhood with huge houses with big fenced-in yards - some with pools and/or tennis courts. Ever since we started our walks through there, Ralphie would strain and pull trying to walk up their sidewalks towards their front doors. And don't get me wrong, I was right there with him in spirit; I would love to live in ANY of those gorgeous homes. Being a self-aware human being, however, I would hold back, give Ralphie a quick tug, and we would be on our way. Now it would seem that RalphieÂs keen sense of manipulation has taken over, and he has come up with a new scheme. If I won't let him simply walk in the front door, then his best bet would be to remove the obstacle holding him back - me. His latest ploy involves making a spectacle of how hard his life with me is in some vain hope that someone sitting under their crystal chandelier will be watching the "doggie injustice" who will then march outside, scoop him up, and place him on his new velvet embroidered pillows conveniently placed right next to his sirloin steak cutlets. His act includes him insisting on stopping at every stagnant pool of water we come across and lapping it up as if it is the only water he has had in days. He has even perfected it to the point of when I try to pull him away he will sometimes even strain to get one last lap. He does this even if the last thing that he does before leaving the apartment is drink from the water bowl. I can practically hear him saying, "Oh God! Sweet water!" (pant, pant) "If only my owner found it in her heart to give me this one precious life-sustaining element, my sad, sad life would be minimally improved. The hard labor and sweatshopesque conditions under which I live would be somewhat improved!"

Now, before I get 50 comments about how I leave my dog in his crate when I'm not there and blah, blah, blah, let me say that I have to leave him crated while I'm not there lest he tear up the entire apartment including the cat (which has recently started to mistake for a large, plush chew toy). And when he starts putting on these command performances, we have usually just come from sitting around the apartment with his water bowl filled with clean, fresh tap water. His now, almost daily performances have now even reached the point where he began lapping up rain water from the fire escape stairs on our way back to the apartment - also known as the home of his water dish!!

All I'm saying is, if I get taken to doggie court, he better come up with a way to post bail, or I'm selling all his favorite toys to pup-junkies that live in the alley.

My Personal Preference

2006-06-24T04:28:00.000-07:00

I've been giving some serious thought to this issue. I think that when something like this comes along, one shouldn't immediately jump to conclusions and make rash judgments. I did at first, and I regret it now. I have, hopefully, redeemed myself however now that I have taken a step back and re-evaluated things. Here now is my thought-through and well-considered opinion:

My rating for these three places to live if I had to live were I forced to live in one (from last preference down):

3. Desert - far too hot, not terribly attractive, filled with snakes, scorpions, and baked and bleached human skeletons stretched out reaching towards the mirage they once saw. And don't even get my started with the sand. Ugh.

2. Antarctica – my original number one due to it being really beautiful and covered with adorable penguins, but ridiculously cold and melting due to Global Warming which would probably just mean that I would have to move around a lot, and I kind of hate moving.

1. Rainforest! - the humidity at first scared me away, but upon further consideration I suppose everyone I would meet would be used to frizzy hair because it is so freaking humid so they probably wouldn't mind. Also the thing that really swayed my opinion is that they've got these:

And, honestly, who wouldn't want a fist full of tiny monkees?! I stand by my decision.

That's Ms. Champagne Cocktail to You!

2006-06-17T14:41:00.000-07:00

I've discovered the best thing ever - and I can get two of them for only six bucks by simply walking across the street! I heard about them on NPR. They were talking about bitters-based cocktails making a comeback when they mentioned the magical and elusive Champagne Cocktail. Apparently it was the big-time cocktail of the late 19th century. It sounded delicious so I started asking around about it. I couldn't find any bar that made it until finally one evening I found myself at the bar literally across the street from my apartment. I asked the waitress fully expecting to get the answer I was now all too familiar with ("A what?"), but instead the optimistic bright-eyed spirit-purveyor decided to check with the bartender. Low and behold, the worldy bar-keep had heard of it and seconds later a glass of pink deliciousness sat in front of me with the cutest little bottle of champagne I has ever seen right next to it. Three more adorable champagne-ettes later, I was riding the sparkling pink foam cloud of goodness all the way to old-times land. I'm not sure what the exact recipe is - I would say it is something like 1 part champagne, 1 part bitters, 1 part sours and 2 parts magic fairy dust.

Needless to say, I have now become a regular at this little bar - so much so that the other day when my friends showed up before me, the waitress asked, "Is Champagne Cocktail joining you later?" For most people this is probably some kind of red flag or some other ridiculous thing. For me it is simply a sign that when I find something I like, I embrace it fully!

And as nicknames go, it definitely beats "Demanda".

I Wonder If I Will Make the Final Cut

2006-06-12T18:21:00.000-07:00

It seems as though my audition for PBS's Frontier House has finally come to an end. Last Monday my apartment got this great accessory that has now made it quite an adult apartment if I do say so myself: They call it electricity! Have you tried this thing? It makes light bulbs glow and the refrigerator cold. It makes the air conditioning run and my alarm clocks sing their ear-piercing wake-up call once more. I was starting to think that the light bulbs were made to rest my lampshades on, and that my refrigerator was better suited as advanced food-spoiler. The whole event almost had me convinced that the alarm clock was a very unattractive paperweight while my air vents were just oversized hamster tunnels. In the end, my power was off for a total of 4 days. You could smell the rotting food inside my fridge from about four feet away. There was stuff everywhere because at night I couldn’t see where to put where. My legs and arms were black and blue (more than normal) due to excessive bumping into furniture. It is done now – the roommate has left and I can enjoy this rare, beautiful gem without having to tie a key to a kite.

Update

2006-06-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

I still don't have power.

I'm still really bummed about it.

My refrigerator has started to smell.

It looks like it might rain today.

It’s a Hard Habit to Break

2006-06-02T08:44:00.000-07:00

If we were playing charades after 9pm in my living room, it would look like this:

I keep reaching for the light switch in my bathroom while I am looking at myself in the mirror. Even though I know that the light won’t go on – I keep reaching for it. The same thing goes for playing the radio. For the last couple of days I find myself (as I do every morning) reaching for the “On” button on the radio. I’m standing there knowing that it won’t work, and yet I try it anyway. The same thing goes with any and every electric appliance in my apartment. I know that it won’t work – but my sub conscious clings to some desperate idea of “maybe this time it will work.”

You see none of my electronics work because my power has been turned off. My power has been turned off because my asshole “former” roommate has not paid the electric bill for what must have been something like 3 months or more because the minimum amount the electric company will take to turn it back on is $240!!

I don’t know when it will be turned back on. The asshole in question has not returned my last message I left for him yesterday nor the email that I sent first thing this morning.

I know that there is some humor in this and that, with a little effort, I could right a pretty entertaining post about this – but honestly right now, I just want to go home and watch an episode of Law and Order and drink a cold beer. Too bad that’s not happening any time soon.

Thank God I Wasn't Paying Better Attention

2006-05-27T15:41:00.000-07:00

I love to get excited about things. I love the growing anticipation of counting down the days till, for example, I can see a movie that I have been stoked about since the mere idea of it was mentioned. Harry Potter movies are great for this - especially because they always come out right about the same time of the year. Every time I am lucky enough to even see one of those teaser trailers, I can't resist furiously rubbing my hands together because the energy which is suddenly manifested in my body reaches some kind of over-saturation level and must be released from my body in the form of kinetic energy. It should be fairly obvious that I kind of live for these types of things - I live to look forward to events. (Maybe that's a crappy way to live, but I can't seem to entirely break myself of it.) So when I found out about X-Men 3 complete with Archangel and sentinels was coming out, I was thrilled. Luckily, however, I somehow missed the fact that it was coming out this weekend - so that I ended up only being pumped full of eager impatience about it for a little less than week. I say this was a good thing because I, of course, saw it the first possible opportunity that arose - and all I can say without giving anything away is . . .

D I S A P P O I N T M E N T

I will discuss this newly found deep-seated sadness with anyone – I just don’t want to say anything at the risk of ruining the disillusionment for anyone else. So if you are with me or against me, let’s talk about it.

I Doubt There's a Support Group for This*

2006-05-20T14:31:00.000-07:00

I have a horrible habit of purposely putting myself into awkward situations that tend to make me extremely uncomfortable for no other reason than to hopefully come out of my own personal hell with some kind of funny story. I always tell myself not to do it anymore. "Amanda," I say, "Why do this to yourself? All you are going to do is sit there panicking the whole time. Avoiding people you don't know. Trying to find something to prevent you from having to talk to anyone - all the while counting the seconds until you can make a quiet exit."

"But Amanda," I counter, "think of all the great comedy material you will come out with! Should you survive, that is."

"I know, Amanda. It’s tempting. But, honestly is it worth it?"

I usually end up answering this question with a resounding "YES!" And then immediately hate that part of myself.

Currently the new situation is that I was invited to something called a “Slumber Party” where I would potentially go to a friend's house which will be filled with girls whom I have never met while some lady would try to sell us . . . well, adult lady "Tupperware," if you catch my drift. (Let me reiterate that I will only know maybe 2 of the 15 women that will be there.)

Could there possibly be anything more uncomfortable? It's doubtful.

Is there a chance I will go? Sure.

Will I end up hyperventilating and dying in the process? It's possible.

Hopefully something better will come up, and I will be forced to put my comedic material yearning on the back burner for the time being.

*Ali, you probably shouldn’t let Matt read this one.

At Least No One Threw Any Tomatoes

2006-05-15T16:32:00.000-07:00

Friday night went alright. Not great - just alright. Even though it was a politically-themed comedy show there ended up being a reservation for a Bachelorette Party of 30 whor-I mean, ladies. (For those of you who have had the pleasure of missing the St. Louis Landing during pre-bridal season, allow me to explain. These are the Bachelorettes who parade around in veils with condoms hanging from them, carrying huge inflatible penises that they make the performers sign while drinking five long island ice teas and yelling out the suggestions (even to a stand-up comic) "dildo" and "blow-job.") So as soon as I heard about that, I knew they weren't going to really dig my comedy-jazz. Oh well. I was a bit nervous at the beginning, but it went fine in the end. I did somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes.

I always get so freakin' nervous before I do stand-up, and I find myself continually asking myself why I do it. After it's over, though, I usually feel pretty good - sometimes just okay, but always much better than before. A friend told me since it makes me so nervous, I should just quit. At the time, I loved the idea. Now however, I feel like I have to keep doing it - at least until I'm not nervous anymore. Or maybe I have to keep doing it as some kind of feminist stance or some other nonsense. At any rate, for the time being I shall continue to put myself through the pain and torment that is stand-up comedy for a while longer.

Maybe I can even start an all-girl comedy gang!!

Addendum

2006-05-12T16:33:00.000-07:00

So luckily now I am only going to be performing with the other comedians. I will go up between their sets. They want me to do somewhere between 15 - 20 minutes, which is terrifying.

Don't worry, everyone. There is still plenty of room for this to be a disaster.

Maybe if I Regularly Post, They Will Come.

2006-05-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

Well, now I've done it. I went and tried my hand at stand-up just, you know, because. Then I did it a few more times, you know, because I like the attention. Now I have successful fooled the real comedians into thinking that I know what the f*** I am doing. What do they do with this complete misinterpretation of my being a sucker for an audience? The idiots ask me - me! - to host their bigtime stand-up show tonight!! Man, this all has phenomenal disaster potential.

Some Days I’m Shocked that I'm Able to Leave the House

2006-05-11T17:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I went to a Pirate Party. You know - one of those parties where the host decides that the best way of socializing their different groups of friends is to force them all to dress up in half-assed theme costumes in a vain attempt to put them all on the same playing field – a playing field where everyone looks like idiots. Yeeeah – you got it. And, furthermore, I am one of those people who hates meeting new people. Especially when there is a bunch of new people. AND even more when I am dressed like a weak attempt at something I deemed a “Parisian Pirate”. So at this point it seems needless to say that I was a little less than ready to make my grand entrée onto the jolly deck of this merrymaking-shindig. The day building up to the big event for me was filled with apprehension and high hopes of a mysterious last minute pirate cancellation. (“I know, who would’ve guessed that there would be a massive recall on all things pirates on today of all days?!”) Too clarify this wasn’t because I don’t like the people throwing the Pirate Premise Party (I am actually quite fond of them); it has much more to do with the slew of neuroses and unjustified anxieties that inhabit my body every second of every day.

Consequently a day of anxious anticipation slipped into a nerve-racking evening which skidded into a night of dread. A beret, black and white striped shirt, eye patch, boots, and a two and an half foot long alligator accessory complete with alarm clock later, I found myself standing on the porch of the Buccaneer Bash with my well-respected, fairly dignified genius of a friend urging me to be the first to walk in – all while staring me down with his un-eye patched eye, his hand placed ready to run me through with his Plastic Pirate Dagger tm. Neither of us wanting to be the first one to cross the threshold to find out the answer to the question: Are we overdressed, underdressed, or at the wrong house?

“Do we just walk in?”

“I don’t know. Probably. Well, we could just ring the doorbell.”

“Ok – go ahead.”

(A moment after no one responds to the doorbell) “Uhhh . . . we should probably just walk in.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Okay, so go ahead.”

“Me? It was your idea!”

“I drove! You go in first!”

“Um, how about I’ll just send the hostess a text message for her to let us in?”

(Unmoving and making no motion to resolve the situation) “Now you’re being ridiculous.” (Eagerly awaiting a response.)

And so on and so forth until I heard what sounded like peg-legged, unscrupulous rogues making their way down the street preparing, I’m sure, to make a much more calm and composed arrival.

“Quick!” I panickedly pleaded. “Just go in before they get here!”

Moral of the story: If a genius cannot function at a Pirate Party in the same way in which I am unable, then I’m doing alright.

Whoa, Man! Dude’s packin’ a Rubber Chicken!

2006-05-07T17:03:00.000-07:00

Who knew that amateur stand-up comedy was worth starting a gang-war? I certainly didn’t. And I love comedy. I work my butt off for the sake of comedy – and yet apparently, since I am not willing to “Throw down” in order to start a comedy-turf-war, I don’t care as much as other people.

Last week’s open-mike night at the club turned into something out of an awful parody of 8 Mile when one of the last comedians for the night got on stage and starting laying down his mad, hatin’ jokes – making fun of the other the comedians of the night and the audience. Once off the stage he started calling out for one of the other comics that occasions our happy little ha-ha hut only to find that he wasn’t even there. The host then took the stage, or should I say soapbox and starts in with what I have come to call his “I Love Comedy” speech:

“I don’t know about you – but comedy means something to me. I do comedy for comedy-sake. I’ll do comedy for an empty house – I’ll do comedy for the empty chairs, for the air – for myself! That’s how much comedy means to me. You may think that comedy is something you do to make yourself feel important. That’s where you and I are different. I do it for the love.”*

At that point, a single comedy-shaped tear rolled down his face followed by a smattering of applause. (I’m assuming the applause was from the audience members not terrified/confused out of their minds by what was taking place before them.)

Truly disgusted by what we were witnessing, my joke-buddy, Liz and I made a beeline for the bar. While there, someone was able to explain the background behind the ensuing comedy battle taking place in the theater behind us. It seems that the new comedian (we’ll call him “Fighty”) was wanting to fight this other joke-smith (we’ll call him “Careless”) over a joke that Careless does in which he uses the N-word. Now, I went to an extremely liberally minded – hence quite politically correct – college, and I think that I have heard the questionable joke before. While I thought it not particularly funny, I did not notice it being particularly racist.

A few minutes later, the comedy was done, and the theater was emptying out. One of the comedians of whom Fighty made fun (we’ll call him “Yelly”) was talking to Liz and me when Fighty and his comedy posse stepped through the bewildered crowd leaving the club. As Fighty and co. headed towards the door, Yelly gives him a sassy “Goodbye.” Oh course Fighty turns around and starts threatening Yelly, which lasts only a few seconds before Fighty turns again to leave. Yelly again says something smart-alecky causing Fighty to once more turn and threaten. At this point, Liz gets panicked and jumps up to hide in the nearby hallway. I, however, sit stuck in the middle of this escalating comedy throw-down. Finally Fighty turns to seems to toss out his last cut-down – first sarcastically complimenting Yelly on his jacket then telling him “When I’m done with you, I’ll make that jacket fit tighter!”

Pause.

I sit hoping that Yelly will not say exactly what I know he wants to say.

Pause.

Yelly: “What does that even mean??”

More threats. More puffed up chests and ideal threats. And scene. Fighty out.

*This speech is totally paraphrased or rather the way that I remember it/want it to be remembered.

Ring-A-Ding-Ding, Let’s Have an Adulterous Fling!

2006-04-28T15:43:00.000-07:00

They just don’t make ‘em like they used to. Songs, I mean. Anyone who knows me knows my deep and seemingly insatiable love for all things 1950s – you know, the Rat Pack, Tupperware, fitted skirt-suits, misogyny, pies, McCarthyism and so on. So it should come as no surprise that yesterday I found myself listening to The Very Best of Frank Sinatra Disc 2. When track 12 rolled around, I was reminded of one of the great reasons why I love the era, the tunes and that man so much: Old Blue Eyes could get away with murder as long as there was an orchestra playing behind him and some jazzy slang tossed in for good measure. The particular song to which I am referring is J. Mundy and A. Stillman’s “Don’Cha Go ‘Way Mad.” If you are not familiar you should take a minute to check out the lyrics. Basically the entire song is about how this guy was caught by his lady’s cousin canoodling with someone who was not his la-day. (Yiiiiiiiikes!!) The song is apparently a plea for his lady not to leave him. Now that all sounds fairly reasonable – but it is the actual lyrics and the delivery that really make it truly something at which to marvel. The singer “supposes” that the wronged woman has a reason to be mad. Supposes, people! Supposes!!

I don’t honestly know if anyone else ever really made this little jam famous, but I’ve never heard anyone else sing it, and I just can’t imagine anyone else being able to pull it off the way the Chairman of the Board does. Right at the moment when he mentions how he was caught, there is this genius horn-flair, clearly the musical equivalent to a good ol’ “Uh-Oh!” He plays the whole thing off with true suave adulterous flair – “Hey doll, you’re my one and only, baby! I swear dollface!” Cue Lengthy Embrace & Nuzzle while Franky uses his other hand to dial up Girl #6. What a maaan!

Oh Right, the Results are in, or Whatever.

2006-04-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

And I deem(ed) him to be Mr. Seymour Doubloon Bagels of the Office Fish Bowl!

Sure certain aunts*of mine might try to steal the name "Doubloon" for their own sushi-sidekicks, but we all know who the true name-genius of this family is. I call him simply "Mr. Bagels" most of the time. I know that there were some great names on that list and suggested (I almost went with "Bob" simply because he kept "playing dead" and hanging out at the top of the bowl. He was really trying to give me a heart attack, the bastard.), but "Mr. Bagels" is kind of an office joke - and you know what they say, "When in an office, name your fish after an office joke!"

The "Doubloon" part of his name has to do with . . .

(God, I can't even bring myself to type it.)

It has to do with . . . fffff--fen----feng shui. (Oh God, I hate myself.) My co-worker told me something about how goldfish represent money or something in crazy feng shui land - but since at the time roommate troubles were causing me money troubles, I thought, "Well, I guess it couldn't hurt." What a sucker I am. I mean, he's not even a freaking goldfish!! But you know what they say about superstitions, "One fish in a bowl with a name based on a superstition that vaguely relates to him in an effort to get his owner more monies is better than two fish outside of the bowl - dead."

*I play the "aunt" card only to annoy the name-stealer-wannabe!

One High-Five, A Hug, and A Stunning Bouquet Later . . .

2006-04-26T15:53:00.000-07:00

So the MCAT course is finally finished. I packed up my little MCATkateers with sack lunches, shoe laces tied, and a fist-full of number two pencils and sent them on their way. The real deal was this past Saturday so I took the opportunity to flee the state as fast as I could to take a much needed rest. I snatched up a couple of improv-buddies, jumped in a little car and floored it all the way to lovely Northern Ohio for their annual Improv Conference where I sat back and refused to do anything other than eat, drink, laugh, and drink some more. (Sweet Great Lakes Brewery, why must you be so far away?!)

With the MCAT course finished, it's like my whole life just got 10 times calmer - well at least certain parts of my life - like my work life (hence, my opportunity to blog again). But that sweet calm will only last about a week before I have to kick it into high gear to get ready for the next batch of high-strung, panicked, type A Doctor-wannabes knock down the door.

Until then it's nothing but mint juleps, palm fronds, and front porches for me!

A Meek Attempt to Tide You Over

2006-04-14T12:16:00.000-07:00

Life is finally beginning to settle - so more posts will come soon.

Until then - a picture of what I would spend most of my time doing were I a wolf.

(I'd be the one biting.)

Damn, It's Good to be Loved.

2006-04-04T18:01:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the recent rash of infrequent posting, but my life has gotten busier than busy plus I just haven't been in a very pleasant mood lately. Today, however, my day was brightened by a bouquet of love, sunshine, happy thoughts, and beautiful flowers delivered to my work courtesy of the best of best friends a girl could ever want, my beloved Boo. What a girl, that Boo. I have never had flowers delivered to my work before. How freakin’ awesome!

What an incredible comfort and thrill to know that no matter what, I know I've got Boo.

The Newest Member of the Family!

2006-03-30T16:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday our little sassmouth family got a little bigger – a Betta Bigger. Yes, upon the recommendation of my beloved uncle and the desire to have someone “to just listen” to me while I’m at work, I decided that I needed a pretty piscine pal* to swim around in a lovely bowl on my office desk. He is very handsome. (I would say “pretty,” but people have been telling me that I am effeminizing him too much.) He is a light peach with dark purple and white fins and tail. His body has a bit of iridescence to it. I am very pleased with this happy addition. (Although I do keep getting sent into a panic when he is sleeping because “I’m certain that this time he is actually dead!”) The one thing other than a net – which I will have to run back to the store to get (Way to go, PetsMart staff for being sooo helpful!)** that my new scaly buddy is lacking is a name. So what I would like to do is put it to a Blog vote. This first vote will probably just narrow it down before a final vote. Also, feel free to put forth some other suggestions as well!

King Louie
Walter
Lunch
Dubloon
Fancypants
Slimey
Sassmouth
Mort(e)
Sushi
Dampy
Arthur Curry
Marco
Horshak
Scobster
Basquiat

Letting the voting begin!

*thanks to Jonathan for the alluring alliteration.

**I apologize for the over-abundance of parentheses in this blog. They all seemed necessary.

My Toes are Frozen, my Fingers Numb, but Hopefully Ralphie is Worn Out.

2006-03-21T18:20:00.000-08:00

Last night, the first night of spring, (for those who are keeping track), it snowed. It was one of those absolutely beautiful, wet snows where big clumps of snow fall gently, but quickly from the sky. Its moistness allows it to stick to everything from branches to flower petals. (The only sad thing is that since the weather here has been so up and down lately there were bulbs that had already bloomed.) When I took Ralphie out for his last walk of the night, the snow was falling fast. Ralphie had a great time jumping around and playing in it while I had a great time simply admiring it and laughing at how much he loved it. My only regret was that I couldn’t let him off his leash to run, roll around in it, and just go crazy in general.

This afternoon I was able to give him his chance to frolic and enjoy the freshly fallen precipitation at the Dog Park that we recently joined. I expected him to bound into the play yard, leap head first into the snow, and start wrestling with the other dog park canine patrons – but, no, instead my little beagle buddy chose to spend his precious few outdoor leashless hours chasing the other dogs around while INCESSENTLY barking! In the whole hour that we were there, I think that he did something that actually constituted playing maybe twice.

I guess that it is my fault, really. I mean, I was a bossy, bossy kid that spent her time playing with friends ordering them to say certain things on behalf of their Barbie dolls. So I really shouldn’t be surprised that I spawned a bossy dog that spends his own playtime yelling at his friends. I guess in this case, payback is literally a son of a bitch.

City Livin'.

2006-03-18T12:51:00.000-08:00

I may not live in any of your "big cities" like New York, Chicago, or L.A., but I still have my fair share of Big City-Crazy Happenings.

For example on my way to work today I saw three to four cop cars blocking off one direction of traffic searching a car while four young, stylishly-dressed black women - each with hair a different color of the rainbow sat with their hands cuffed behind their backs.

Later on in the day, I was called to the window at work only to find a group of at least 20-30 college students dressed as zombies - yes ZOMBIES! - walk, well zombie-walk, down the street handing out what looked like flyers while some other college students videotaped them. The best part came when they reached the end of the block and were forced to wait patiently for the "Walk-sign" to come on. Two of the Zombies, who were clearly devoted to truly becoming zombies (I bet they studied Stanislavski and Meisner) stumbled over to the streetlight post and pressed the Walk Button - all the while never dropping their zombie-characters.

Take that New York!

Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!

2006-03-16T16:07:00.001-08:00

Last night I did Stand-Up for the first time ever. I was terrified (which is mostly the reason why I did it). I was sure that I wouldn't be able to hold the mic still because I would be shaking so much. Luckily, however, the occasional waver in my voice and my initial pacing (think the Micromachine Man) were the only real signs of the complete panic that was eating up my insides (think Pacman eating whatever those things were).

I mostly just made fun of my upbringing ("Fairies don't make the bus go?!") and my young ridiculous melodramatic self ("Leave me in the bathroom to weep and study myself weep!"). It actually went pretty well. Well enough to make me want to do it again (which is saying a lot considering how horrified I was of the whole thing). I actually liked it more than I thought. Now I just need to come up with a better reason for wanting to do it (I'm trying to come up with something to do with how it is great for my improv or some other bullshit) other than the fact that I kind of love the attention (damn my inherent narcissism of my funny!). Ideas?

I Shall Remain Behind the Door Holding this Iron Skillet Until You Return Attack of the Zombie-Robots Part 4!

2006-03-15T13:45:00.000-08:00

Last night I was sitting in my apartment unpacking and shelving some books when I noticed some things out of order and went into a little bit of a panic. “Omigod!” I thought. “Have I been robbed?!” Luckily however, I realized that if I was robbed it was done by a very particular thief who only wanted a couple of DVD’s and videogames. “Thank goodness,” I thought, “Mr. or Mrs. Thief neglected to grab any of the large appliances or any of my diamonds*.” Just as I was trying to get a handle on the thief’s choice in thievery and figure out the entrance/exit route I remembered a very important fact - I have a roommate.

You see my roommate hasn’t been to our apartment for at least the past three weeks (as far as I can tell) which is totally fine with me. I just forgot that this means that he could still stop by from time to time and move things around or whatever.

It is a good thing for me to keep in mind before I plan my next Tea Party for Baby Godzilla, Creature from the Black Lagoon, Mokey the Fraggle, and me in the living room where my childhood friends and I discuss the topics of the day including Bush’s slipping approval rating, Jessica’s latest love tryst, and whether or not these new jeans make me look fat.

*by “diamonds” I meant large, plastic, kitschy jewelry.

Lover, Do You Want Any Chevre? Bri-Bri, Chevre?

2006-03-13T11:49:00.000-08:00

I just got a cryptic message from my friend, Andy, that simply said, “I met someone last night that I thought you would enjoy. I will give you two clues. First clue: “ ‘If Gabriel wants to rollerblade to the Chelsea Pier and back, Gabriel will rollerblade to the Chelsea Pier and back!’ Second Clue: It’s not Gabriel.”

Any of you familiar with this little line of pure comic genius will most likely understand the overwhelming jealousy, awe, and thrill that I felt when I realized that my good friend had been privileged enough to meet the one, the only Sir David Cross. (That’s right, “Sir.” He was recently knighted as “Sir David Cross, Vigilant Joke-Maker, and Loyal Laugh-Elicitor.”) Apparently the lucky S.O.B. was just kickin’ it at this club or something in Austin, Tejas when he turned to see none other than that Balding Bliss-Maker himself chatting with some people. Andy and his much-more-developed backbone than the one that I seemingly possess went right up to the man, who holds that smile-shaped piece of my heart, and actually spoke to him!! Can you believe it? He actually had a little convo with the genius!

As jealous as I am, I have to say that it was probably better that it was Andy and not me – if for no other reason than our ill-fated dialogue would have gone something more like this:
David Cross: (finally feeling uncomfortable enough to address the girl standing at least eight feet away from him, staring with her mouth hanging open.) “Uh, are you okay, lady?”
Me: “Ughuhuhuhguhguh.”
David Cross: “Excuse me?”
Me: “You, David Cross.”
David Cross: “Uh, yes – yes, I am.”
Me: (regaining some ability of tongue and words) “Yeah, I am such a big fan of your funny!”
David Cross: “Oh, thanks.” (turns to go back to original conversation.)
Me: “I mean, I totally love your comedy c.d. and your work on Arrested Development and your face and glasses and –”
David Cross: (cutting me off) “ – uh, thanks. Look, I’m in the middle –”
Me: (getting more and more worked up)“ – and remember that one time, when you were like, ‘Not the Assaulted Nuts! What more must I do!’ ” (now, actually acting motions out.)
David Cross: “Yeah, I remember. Uh. . .”
Me: “And that part where you were like, ‘Maybe that 100th chick likes to fuck on a pile of garbage?””
David Cross: (getting more and more impatient) “Yes! Of course I remember that!”
Me: (practically in a fervor now) “Cuz, I mean, if I was the 100th chick and you were the trash man – I would totally fuck you in a landfill – hell, we could do it right now!” (knocks over trashcan spilling out contents all over floor. Music in club stops. I am finally shocked back to reality.)
David Cross: “. . . .”
Me: “. . . .”
David Cross: “Uhhh. . .”
Me: “Um, yeah – so it was, uh, nice to me—”
David Cross: “Yeah – sure.” (begins to walk away)
Me: “I’ll pick this up.” (now on floor picking up trash.) “Great talking to you. Call me!”

So, yeah – good for Andy. And better for David Cross that it wasn’t me.

Love, Polka-Dot Wrapping Paper, and A Teaspoon of the ol' Bubbly!

2006-03-09T07:33:00.000-08:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALISHA!!!

May your birthday be filled with spun-sugar dances, and a carpet of petals!

Wish I could be there to share A GLASS of champagne with you before you pass out in a drunken stupor.

I'll Get You, Oscar!!

2006-03-05T22:01:00.000-08:00

Every year I go through a swing of total Oscar panic from “Oh man – I can’t wait to see that thing I have been all set to see forever!” to “Oh wait, I really don't care about any of that.” This year, however was followed by – "Oh man, I totally forgot about Jon Stewart!” Now I am pretty much totally in love with Jon Stewart. And for the most part I always love those rare long-term Hollywood romances. I have a tendency to applaud and envy those partnerships – but were Jon Stewart to leave his wife mid-babydom for me and li’l Ralphie, I seriously doubt I would shed a sadtown tear.

He makes everything so merry and awesome. I suppose if I had to narrow down the reason for my love it would be connected to the fact that I love watching people at the verge of letting an overabundant amount of sarcasm spilling out of them at a fairly inappropriate time and place. WHich is exactly what he does. He gets this look and just can't handle it.

Three Six Mafia!!! Montages!! Man, neither Jon Stewart nor I could handle the absurdity of these events and though I was able to immediately and openly proclaim these ridiculous turn –of-events to whoever would listen – he, my dear bf, had to present a center level of decorum since he was, you know, presenting the Oscars. He would hold it back and take long pained pauses until finally there would be that moment of “I know that I shouldn’t say what I am I going to say, but I have reached my saturation point” and the sarcasm flows like Niagara.

I just wish that he also expressed my Fear for the Future when J. Lo, star of Maid of Manhattan, The Wedding Planner, and Gigli, is a presenter of the Academy Awards!

Also the “In Memoriam” always brings me way down. I always get the worst sad-shock feeling ever. It is a mixture of this “Oh God, I totally loved that person” with “Wait, who was that person?” and of course, “OMIGOD! When did that person die?” I always wish that it would go on longer so that I could have more time to forget that I hate most of current Hollywood and just focus on the old Hollywood and the people that made it what it was that I miss so. Oh well.

They Say its Always the Quiet Ones.

2006-03-05T19:50:00.001-08:00

The other day my mom gave me a call at work to give me a family update. She told me about a death in my extended family. You see there is a fair amount of impressive longevity on my uncle's wife's side of the family so that when my mom told me about how my aunt and uncle had attended her great aunt's 102nd birthday I was not surprised. I was, however, surprised when I found out that the same great aunt had died a couple of weeks after said party. It turns out that while this centenarian-plus-two was partying it up with the fam they were busy giving her the flu. All of this - sad, obviously. The thing that makes this comedy-blog worthy is the way in which my mom chooses to relay this story to me. When she gets to the conceivably sad part of the story, my mom starts cracking up. I, in turn, also start laughing hysterically as well - half of my laughter being caused by the fact the story is vaguely funny (family throws huge "Way-to-reach-a-huge-milestone!" party only to, in the process, give her the flu that would soon kill her and put an abrupt end to any more milestones.) - and partly because I think that it is crazy that my mom is laughing as much as she is - then my mom in turn crack-ups because I am cracking up and so on. We keep going in this horrible circle until one of my mother's co-workers overhears her. My mom decides to try to explain the reason why she is in near hysterics to said co-worker. In doing so, my mom says, "Well, the woman was a 102 years old; anything would have killed her." At this, I laugh hysterically.

I get off the phone shortly thereafter and try to relate this story to my co-workers. The two women and I are all vaguely giggling about the whole situation. I tell them about the remake that my mother said about anything killing her when the nicest, most gentle woman I have ever known says, "Well, AIDS wouldn't have killed her."

Hilarious!

"Sometimes I Bury my Oxen."

2006-03-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

I work for a test-prep company. This means that most of our telephone conversations at work consist of discussing colleges, the ACT vs. the SAT, course locations and schedules. Needless to say when I answered the phone one day and was asked what the gentleman on the other line should do with his oxen I was a bit taken aback. Now, just so we are clear – this question concerning the placement of livestock was neither preceeded nor followed by heavy panting and the follow-up question had nothing to do with what I was or was not wearing at the time. No, this was an honest inquiry from a man wanting to know what he might be able to do with his ruminants. The thing is that one of my co-workers has a side-job. A side-job that you just don’t get to overhear too many people talking about. I won’t say what it is because I think that it’s more fun for you to guess.

Following is a list of some of the better bits of her conversations that I have been fortunate enough to overhear:

"You mean Joe the Salt-man? No, that's not a good idea."
"Okay, I'll bring the bucket and yolk and wooden shoes."
“You mean for ones who already have their clothes on? I guess I could work out a pay rate for that.”
"You mean Becky with the pail?"
"I'm curious to see - they have always been so bad at dressing appropriately"
"I think she has a hoop skirt."
"There are 2 vertical logs there - one is the Old Courthouse, the other is the church."
"I've got two guys who usually work the street for me. They don't usually work for free, but we'll see. - one of them has a dog that could work really well."

Yeah, yeah, yeah - Keep Your Pants on!

2006-02-22T16:14:00.000-08:00

Sorry, that I haven't posted lately. I've been housesitting at a place with no internet and have no time at work to waste. Soon, though. Soon. Until then, enjoy this picture of Rita Hayworth. And if you haven't already, see the movie "Gilda".

Man - Rita just made my blog way classier!!

So What if it is 65 & Beautiful Outside - I am Still Going to Be Grumpy

2006-02-14T14:54:00.000-08:00

Sorry that I haven't been posting much lately, but I have been to consumed with grumpy frustration lately. Frustration caused by many a thing:

Work - (a special shot out to the Pre-Med Students of St. Louis)
Ralphie
Bills
Panickly planning a show
The messiness of my apartment
The saga of the Danish cartoons (I'll blog more about this later.)
And finally, this stupid day.

Luckily however, Cheney shot a man in the face and made my week. (I never thought these following words would be typed by my fingers) Thank you, Dick Cheney!! For this week, only, I totally heart you.

Oh - and the rest of you - I heart you too. Happy This Stupid Day. humph.

List of Words & Phrases I am Either Bringing Back or Just Saying More Often:

2006-02-12T02:51:00.000-08:00

Bitchin'
Legs
Dame
Early Bright
Blame it on the Bosa Nova
Cricket (as in a piano player)
Just sayin'
Skirts
Muscles
Diligent eyes = safety from Black Ice

I.Am.Doomed.

2006-02-06T23:18:00.002-08:00

So my boss has this tendency to send emails every so often entitled "tidbit of the day." These usually consist of goofy pictures of celebrities, weird foreign ads, or sometimes just little quotes. The other day he sent me this link.
At the time, I simply laughed it off as nothing more than a reinforcement of an inside joke. Then came a talk with my mom. I was telling her a story about how I made this joke in an attempt to win over this dude when she puts on the somber voice. "Amanda," she says (and she only ever calls me "Amanda" in solemn times) "I think I should tell you this now before it gets any worse. I heard on NPR yesterday that . . ." (long, pained pause) "men don't find women who are funny, attractive." She goes on to say, in all earnestness, "Maybe you should really think about being serious for awhile."
Wait. What?
"Yeah, maybe you should just try to do some deep thinking or something."
Omigod! Now, I have several passions: the 1950's, art, celeb gossip, my fam, femme fatales, education - but one of the biggest - at least in the past year - has to be comedy. I think funny. I study funny. I practice funny. I write, sleep, and play funny! I even overcome my weird overactive embarrassment problem time and time again just to put myself in awkward situations simply for the sake of comedy.
What a mess.
I guess my love of the funny makes me too masculine and awful for anyone to want to date me.
I suppose I will just find comfort (the comfort that one might get from a supportive partner) in the fact that I have my beagle, my cat, and my sass to keep me warm at night.
Here's hoping that one of them will get me something for Valentine's Day. And all I'm saying is that it better be fucking funny.

You Would Tell Me if I Was a Bad Person, Right?

2006-02-01T16:54:00.000-08:00

Is it wrong that I find that clip of that game show with the Asian women and the Gila monster from the Colbert Report hilarious??
If you haven't seen it, well, first of all - you should. Unfortunately until you are able to glimpse this little piece of heaven, your only idea of the magic will be my description - I'm sure a poor substitute. It consists of what appears to be about eight or so Asian women's heads wearing goggles and helmets sticking out of this semi-circular table while someone releases a Gila Monster onto top of the table. The beast then walks around the table (perhaps in search of a victim?), initially, keeping his distance from the pretty heads. The camera focuses in on one woman in particular who is sort of yelping a bit and is a little concerned that this extremely deadly lizard appears to have chosen her and is slowly approaching her frightened little head. Then, it seems the handler also becomes vaguely concerned and grabs the venomous reptile by its tail to pull it away from the woman's distressed cranium. It is at this moment that the tempestuous relative of the dino jolts into action; he breaks free of the grasp of said captor and runs full force towards his pretty Asian-lady-appetizer. All of the women run from the table shrieking fully aware that this brute could kill them.

All the while, I sit, listening to the shrill screams and laughing hysterically.

God, I hope none of those pretty ladies got hurt. That might make it less funny . . . . . . . . perhaps.