"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.