I Heart America's Past-time!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm SO in Love!!

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

How Much is that Anal Sack in the Window?

"Puppies are sooo cute!"

"Man! Dogs are so great!"

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

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

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

Still have a puppy-hankerin'?

TPR, I Wish I Could Quit You!!

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

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

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

PS

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.