PS

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

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.

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!!

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?

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!

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!

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

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?

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

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!"

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

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?

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

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?

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

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!"

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??

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!

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

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!!

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

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!

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

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!"

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 RalphieÂ’s 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

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!

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

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

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

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

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*

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

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

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.

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

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!

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!

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.

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 . . .

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

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.

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!

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.

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'.

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!

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!

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?

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!

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!!

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.

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."

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!

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

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:

1. Bitchin'
2. Legs
3. Dame
4. Early Bright
5. Blame it on the Bosa Nova
6. Cricket (as in a piano player)
   
7. Just sayin'
8. Skirts
9. Muscles
10. Diligent eyes = safety from Black Ice
    

I.Am.Doomed.

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?

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.