Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Puppy Town

So, I almost bought this stinky little sucker yesterday.

He was soooooooooooo cute. And soooooooo stinky. Apparently that's what four months in a pet store does to you because the cashier girl didn't smell much better. He literally left something weird on me and when I got back to Gabi's house I made her smell my chest and then we both dry heaved for a while.

This photo doesn't even do his tininess justice because you all are probably thinking those are normal sized boobs he's up against, but they're not. They're just mine. Becky boosted my spirits about them though the other day by asking if she could borrow my strapless bra, and then when she took it out and held it up to herself she said:

"Oh wow, there's no way this is gonna fit me."


"What is this? A training bra?"

"Get out of my room."

Did I say 'boosted my spirits'? What I meant was crushed them into tiny little pieces and then showed me her cleavage. So in retaliation I didn't replace the toilet paper. Take that girl-who's-exactly-like-me-but-has-bigger-boobs-and-perfect-skin!

Anyway, as I was trying to figure out which organ I could sell to buy him, a woman walked up to the cage we were standing in (by the way, when the sales girl said we could play with him, but only in the cage, I was immediately freaked out we were gonna be trapped in there and suddenly steel grates would come down over the windows and the door would slam shut, and the lights would dim and we'd be in some weird combo of Silence of the Lambs and that scene in Pulp Fiction (you know the one I'm talking about - you all do - it involves a ball gag) and suddenly the humans are the ones in the cage. The humans are the pets!) and the woman looked over at me and the puppy falling in love, and said, "I'm going to buy him." And I just kind of laughed because, really? Don't you see what's happening here woman?!

And then she did it. She bought him. Which was sad, and for a moment I thought about clutching him to my small bosom and hauling ass, but I didn't. And Gabi gave me a look that was like, "Want me to go after her?" because aside from being my sexy friend (read: slutty)(in a good way) she's also my most ghetto friend and could kick some O.C. butt if she needed to. But I said no because I realized I was absolutely going to have to burn and then bury the shirt I was currently wearing because no amount of washing was going to get that smell out. Maybe the woman who bought him can afford to chemically alter all her clothing, but I can't. I've got toilet paper to buy for my sister.

Friday, September 25, 2009

A Post From Last Saturday

Last night I pre-partied by myself with a bottle of hard cider.

Oh yeah, you don't wanna mess with me.

What's even better was that I was pre-partying while waiting for my sister to pick me up so we could go have homemade sushi at my mom's house. Shut up! And watch the Alma awards. That part wasn't planned, it just happened. Sort of like how I got pregnant in high school.

I was drunk by the time we arrived and stayed that way as evidenced by the fact that every time I walked down a certain stretch of hallway I apparently had to back it up while singing the effervescent Jamaican-rap fusion star, Sean Kingston's 9-1-1. So I'd go to the bathroom and then get into the hall and shout, "Somebody call 9-1-1, shawty fire burning on the dance floor!" while shaking my ass at a wall of family photos.

It didn't help that my mom broke out the (pineapple flavored) champagne when Salma Hayek won some sort of impressive Latina in films and tv award.

"Why are we having champagne?" Becky asked.
"Because she's just so pretty," my mom answered taking a sip her eyes focused on the screen. We all turned to look and stare, and then slowly take sips as Salma Hayek's boobs bounced all over the tv in every single clip they played.
"She is," we said in unison. "She is really pretty."

And then we finished off the bottle. All before ten p.m. Dinner at my mom's everybody!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Working With My Mom...

Frequently goes something like this:

Me: Do you have any mints?
Mom: I think I have one at the bottom of my gum tin. (**pulls out her gum tin - whatever the heck that is - and proceeds to pour all the gum out on top of an audit she's working on.**)
Mom: Oh see, there's one.
Me: Thanks, can I take some gum too in case I want it?
Mom: What if you don't want it?
Me: (**looking at the gum in my hand I already picked up - it's not wrapped, it's like big chicklets**) Do you want it back?
Mom: No.
Me: I just washed my hands because I went to the bathroom so all of this is clean.
Mom: Did you wash the key too?
Me: No.
Mom: Well then it's not all clean.
Me: Well, I didn't even really wash my hands so there goes that.
Mom: That's not funny. I always wash the key. Do you know how many people don't wash the key?
Me: Everyone.
Mom: Yeah.
Me: Which is why I don't wash my hands - what's the difference really?
Mom: . . .
Me: . . .
Mom: I swear to God you better be funning me or I'm going to smack you.
Me: (**turn and walk to my desk so she can't read my face, I hate working with my Mom sometimes, it's so hard to lie. I'm fairly certain she can judge my soul if she looks at me right**)
Mom: Amy Michele, I mean it.
Me: I do ok!

Ok, two things are wrong with this. Number 1 - 'you better be funning me'? Uh, ok unidentified black rapper - can I get you some more Cristal? What about for your shorty?

And Number 2 - she's never smacked me in her life. My dad spanked me once on my butt when I was like 2 but the sound apparently was much louder than either of them expected and they both started crying while I stared up at them unharmed, and wondering if I could play with the scissors and Becky's hair some more.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

It Is The Most Important Meal

My sister just got a new car. It's very fast and doesn't have Taco Bell stains all mother f-ing over it like the truck does, and it smells like fresh strawberries and sunshine. (The strawberry smell is from her air freshener, but the sunshine - that's pure legit sun smell).

She loves that car. And I love that she got it because now I get the truck - the exact same car I was driving 13 years ago to Denny's at 3am after drill team competitions. (You can make fun all you want, but if I were you I'd wait til I post the flag competition videos Gabi just got transferred to dvd on her birthday. Fake hair people. We wore fake hair! While spinning flags! IN GYMS! The amount of band booty we got is indescribable.)

Anyway, then I get this text sent to me that says: "Check out the tree on my car"

No earthquake, no tornado, no chainsaw-wielding psychopathic neighbors angry at the amount of Paramore my sister plays. Nope. . . just a good old fashioned tree falling over on her brand new car.

And a happy Saturday to you too!

I assume she's waiting for me to come home to help her move it (I'm the muscle) because when I called to find out what the f was going on she said, "I heard a loud crack, then a crash, then I looked out and saw a tree on my car. So I left and went to breakfast with Beth."

Which is exactly what I would have done.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Ice Cube Knows What I Mean

I have to run 20 miles on Sunday. Did I mention that when I ran 20 a few weeks ago I alternated between wanting to murder this man who had the audacity to ride his bike near me, not even right up next to me, just near me, then (I'm not even kidding) high-fived some gardeners - no - all the subsequent gardeners, or others working in yards, that I passed? Like, I actually ran down a little stretch of walkway to get someone who was too far from the path to reach me.

Running: like using and then coming off of drugs, without the fear of being arrested. Mostly.

Anyway, that plus working so much (I just turned in my time sheet for the last two weeks and had 120+ hours on it. You know who works those kinds of hours? Doctors. You know who's not saving lives? Me.) has made me incredibly exhausted. So exhausted that I've stopped behaving in a way I normally would. And by that I mean, I don't have very much of a filter. Today in a five minute time span I, a) called my Mom 'Captain Menopause', causing her to spit her smoothie at me, then b) made a vagina joke to my grandmother. A sexual vagina joke, not just a joke about the thing, but a joke about one being sexed up.

Luckily both women were in good moods and just laughed it off before wildly diving back into work.

I need a nap. And to check myself. Before I wreck myself.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Shumway Salsa

So it was between writing a post about how one of my favorite cousins knocked up his wife, or writing one about this new salsa I tried in Catalina and I'm gonna do both, but lets face it I can't combine the two so I'm gonna go with the most important one first...

This salsa is so amazing!

(Just kidding Nels and Bre - I'm really happy for you!)

But this salsa is so good!

Ok, so you can't really tell from my cell phone camera, but believe me, it's like crack. I almost put it on my cereal this morning.

Bub's friend Marc came to the island and paid his way by a) looking sexy when he sweats, and b) making food for the big 4th of July BBQ night. All the friends we bring have ended up cooking on the big night while I get to relax (hide) for a little while (hours), (at least enough hours to make sure I miss the part where my mom comes in and starts bossing people around in some sort of pre-party panic she can't function without). So Marc made the salsa, Patty brought a suitcase full of corn with her, Gige makes the potato salad but almost couldn't come because she was going to be like having-someone-check-how-dilated-she-was-pregnant at the time, T-Chang made some fried rice, and Bub made the cheesecake (because she's adopted).

Anyway, I stopped hovering over the salsa only, ONLY, because my cousin stopped to announce he and his wife were gonna have a baby. I said congratulations and then took the bowl with me to go hug them.

Look how the sun shines in on it and all it's heavenly glory - I swear the clouds parted when I held this up to the window.

Ok, so I really need to start using my camera instead of my cell phone, but let me tell you when it comes to food this sort of a picture is all it takes to make Gabi moan like she did the first time Eric Bana walked on the screen of Time Traveler's Wife, making everyone around us slightly uncomfortable. (But not as uncomfortable as they were gonna be half an hour later when the two of us [beaten down from the exhaustion of running and working too much] started uncontrollably bawling because they're just so in time-travely love!) It's not just love, it's love where people disappear in front of you and visit you in a different time, like when you're three. Slightly creepy - yes. But Eric Bana naked through half the movie - forget the creepy, I'm already on the waiting list for when the dvd comes out.

The only thing that would make it better - Eric Bana making sweet love to the salsa. Yeah, not even to me, but to the salsa. I would totally watch that.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Like You Talk About Other Things At Dinner

A conversation I started I kinda wish I hadn't:

Me: "So I heard this guy, he . . . well, he stuck his finger up his. . . "
Mom: "His what?"
Me: "Pee hole."
Mom: "His urethra?"
Me: "Yes."
Mom: "Eeewww. You'd think that would totally hurt wouldn't you?"
Me: "I guarantee if I tried to pull that shit in the bedroom with someone I would get smacked."

And that's how I ended up making my mom spit her coke all over me.

This was all at dinner with my brother, after we let that pass and my mom moved the conversation to more appropriate topics like how she just learned how to "kick lemon drops up a notch". She was wildly gesturing with her utensils about how to pour the two things into the martini glass at once in some sort of wondrous vodka waterfall when she got a little too big with her movements and stabbed my brother in the face with her knife.

"Jesus Mom!"
"Oh shit, I mean shoot - I'm trying not to swear for the grandkids."
"I don't have kids."
"Don't remind me. I mean E's."
"Is Michael ok?"
"Oh I forgot to check."
"It just happened!"
"Michael are you ok?"
"Is that blood?"
"Is it?. . . Oh, no. That's just hot sauce. He's fine."
"He could have lost an eye!"
"Oh for Christ's sake it's just a plastic knife, it's not gonna do any real damage."

Did I forget to mention we were at Taco Bell when all this went down? Because when we take my brother out to dinner we like to do it in style.

Speaking of family style, my grandma has this thing in her front yard. . . wait. I should preface by saying she lives on what is affectionately known as 'the hill'. It's a fancy part of the south bay, where people have views of the entire LA basin, and on a day when the smog is not at deathcon five levels, you can see both the Hollywood hills and Catalina Island. Rich/famous people who don't want to deal with the 405 traffic live there. Note: my grandma is neither rich nor famous, but she's older than the hills (ha!) and bought the house when LA was nothing but farmlands and orange fields. Point is, she's lived up there so long she can pretty much do whatever she dang well wants and It. Is. Awesome.

Exhibit A:
She bought this painted (life-mother-f-ing-size) buffalo at an art auction on the island and had it shipped over so it could live in her front yard.

My Aunt makes her cover it up whenever she visits because she's so embarrassed of it, but it's not like the neighbors forget what's under there just because they can't see it.

Here's a little closer picture so you can get the full joy:

I rag on her a lot because she's a basket of crazy, but let me tell you something - every time I see this it reminds me how much I just love her for doing stuff like this. Love it.

Unfortunately I didn't get a picture of the (also life-size) tile hanging she has on the front of her house that is the Virgin Mary because it was covered for the moment. Probably because some Jews were coming to visit. Next time people.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Watercooler Safety

Someone at work just scolded me for replacing the Sparkletts water bottle all by myself because she said I need to be "protecting my baby producing organs". Because apparently I am of the breed that makes a baby grow with her arms.

"Wow, look at those guns. Have you been working out?"
"Nope, just pregnant with twins. Arm twins."

I realized we were out of water and then looked around to see how many people would see me sneak away from the empty cooler, realized it was too many to get away with it, and sighed, trudging to where the spare 90 gallon jugs are kept. I need to say that the only reason I sighed was because I am not what you would call 'graceful' when it comes to aiming a full thing of water at an opening the size of a silver dollar. I tend to take a more, get-some-of-the-water-in-there-at-least-and-do-it-before-the-whole-office-comes-to-watch approach.

I grabbed the jug and then psyched myself up to get at least a third of it all over me, much in the same way sports teams psych themselves up for game time - lots of grunting and clapping and incomprehensible shouts about fucking shit up. But then I went in for the attack and everything went amazingly. Like not a single drop anywhere. Not because I'm suddenly Harry Potter (because he would just use magic to do it) but because they have a new safety valve - a new safety valve of awesome - that I'm pretty sure says "Made especially for Amy. No, not you Amy, the other one, over there. That tall one who looks like she just stepped out of a quick jaunt in a local fountain, that one" in fine print somewhere on the cap.

So, now I can change the water all by myself without getting myself and half the break room soaked, but I'm still endangering the lives of my unborn children. My born children though, they're just fine with it.

Wednesday, September 02, 2009

Like Typing In Space

So I have this computer that I inherited from Becky after she had it for five years in architecture school. Recently, it has decided to slowly drive me crazy and will work only when it feels like I've made a big enough fool out of myself. "Oh, what's that? You want me to turn on and actually let you open documents, I've been doing that my whole life and I'm not taking it lying down anymore! Literally!"

(And yeah, living alone makes all my appliances talk to me - like the other day when my tv suddenly turned off when I accidentally stopped on an episode of Reba. I swear as it went black I heard it say, "What the f is this bullshit? Reba? SERIOUSLY?!)

Anyway, my computer will only power on and/or work if it's turned on it's side, so if I want to check my email, or I don't know, do some work I have to type on it in that position like I'm in some weird Escher painting where everything else is in the upright and locked position, but the top half of me and that brazen Mac are turned to a 90 degree angle. James found it really amusing, and as punishment for mocking me I only let him stay in the freezer for a half hour this time.

I got a new one. A non-Mac (which is sad because I was starting to get on the Mac-only bandwagon. Macs and Diet Pepsi!) and it's all shiny and pretty, but more importantly than that, I don't have to ice down my neck after watching Nurse Jackie illegally for four straight hours.