Friday, October 30, 2009

Not The Chaka Demus & Pliers Song

So I was making coffee this morning when this happened:

Coworker: Amy, I figured out who you should model your life after.

Me: Jesus?

Co: No. Aren't you Russian?

Me: No, but what does that have to do with-

Co: That writer from tv.

Me: Oprah?

Co: Is she a writer?

Me: What isn't she? She beat my marathon time.

Co: No, not her. That older lady with the really neat outfits and she solves things. Not Murphy Brown but...

Me: I hope it's not what I'm thinking. I'm not sixty you know.

Co: Murder She Wrote.

Me: Uh...

Co: Yes! You need to be like her.

Me: How did you mix her and Murphy Brown up?

Co: You know she just has this house in Maine and sits and writes. Everything is so neat.

Me: I sit when I write too.

Co: See! You can solve little town murders and write about them and everything is neat. You know you don't have messy murders, just cute little ones.

Me: Cute murders?

Co: Yeah, that you can write about. Nice ones.

Me: Wait, do you want me to solve murders or write about them?

Co: Oh, both I guess. And you should wear cute outfits.

Me: I am wearing a cute outfit.

Co: Not as cute as Angela Lansbury.

Well obviously Mrs. Coworker. What's cuter than Angela Lansbury?

Thursday, October 29, 2009


Yesterday, after reviewing a client for four straight hours with my boss, she got up, stretched, and headed out for a midday walk on the beach (the spa was closed so she had to settle). Right before she left she turned to look at me literally under a mountain of files (I made the mistake of thinking that if I could stand up without falling over (that often) then a stack of files my height should be able to make it - cut to me rolling around on an oddly tropical patterned carpet, in tax returns like it was money from that scene in Indecent Proposal), and said:

"You know you look tired. What are you doing for fun?"

Ok, if your blind boss is telling you that you look tired, those dark circles under your eyes aren't just little pools of reflection from your hoodie, they're so dark the blind can see them.

Fresno. Fresno is what I do for fun. Because when I think relaxing, I think manure smell and K-fed. On our way up Gabi and I got into cattle farm territory (cowschwitz) and inhaled deeply with smiles on our faces because that meant we were getting close to awesome. I don't know what it is, but there's something about going up to visit Gige that's like going away to camp. We sleep on an air mattress, we eat every two hours, I suddenly can't go two sentences without making an inappropriate joke like I'm twelve years old, there's a strong urge to make a craft, and Gabi stops every ten minutes to show me a half naked David Beckham in one of her magazines and just says, "Mmmhmm". We're like five seconds away from bragging about how Julie Milton almost gave us a hand job in the back of her Dad's Chevy right after she almost let us get to second base. (because at camp we're boys from the 50s)

And Gige is such a good sport, because not only does she invite us in and allow us to be alone in a room with her baby, but she also pretends it doesn't bother her that five minutes after arriving I've spilled an entire glass of wine on her white carpet and Gabi has woken up the baby by yelling 'Fuck' after I spilled the entire glass of wine on Gige's white carpet because it interrupted her blowing up the air mattress with a blower that can only be described as 'louder than god'.

We had such a good time, how could you not, look at this baby:

Hi, that warning strip by my head is because I'm going to make you want be impregnated immediately by anyone, anyone at all!

As we were leaving, Gige said, "Hailey, say goodbye to your Aunties! We're gonna miss them so much!" and Gabi and I started to get teary and throw-up love onto the two of them when she tacked on, "We're gonna miss them 'cause this is the last time you'll see them!"


"Say bye-bye."


"They're like humans that should have a rated R stuck on them. When you're eighteen maybe you can see them again."

Needless to say I will be ignoring that last part. She'll have to get a restraining order to keep us away from that town.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009


Something tells me Becky is going to stop watching Glee with me very, very soon.

There are two shows we wait to watch with each other (that's how we bond as sisters. we watch tv. talking is for suckers.) (oh and we sometimes do horrible dances in horrible outfits (bras and ill-fitting underwear) at each other when the other one is trying to do something important like, go to the bathroom in private, or not burn themselves on the fire that has started in the oven on the actual nachos themselves) (sidenote: tortilla chips are incredibly flammable) and those two shows are Glee, and Dexter.

Dexter is awesome because it makes me wish I was a serial killer. A thoughtful serial killer. My mom actually walked into work on Monday and said, "Dexter hasn't killed anyone in two weeks. TWO WEEKS! I'm getting really antsy."

"To watch a murder?"

"Yeah, but he only murders bad people."

Good call mom. Way to parent.

Then Becky chimed in later on that day, "Hey you know what I was thinking?"

"Why is Amy wearing my underwear? Because there's a really good explanation for that."

"No, I was thinking if Dexter can lure that girl back to his place he won't leave any traces that he went to her and then he can kill her."

"You were thinking about how to help someone murder better?"

"All day."

"Yeah, me too."

Anyway, the other show we watch, Glee is so wonderful to my heart sometimes I can't stand it. They sing and dance in between teen drama, and pregnancy, and fake pregnancy, and baby buying, and drugging, and a whole lot of Jane Lynch awesome. But the thing that is going to make Becky stop watching with me is the fact that I cannot stop saying "He's so cute" or "I want to French him" any time Finn comes on the screen.

I'm not even sure why. He's too pretty and young than I usually like (in high school I carried a picture of Kevin Spacey around in my wallet) but I swear to God the show comes on and I suddenly have sex turrets.

"I want to make out with him."

"I know Amy, you just that four minutes ago."

"I feel kind of creepy about it."

"You should - you say it sort of under your breath."

"No, I mean I feel creepy because he's in high school. He's like 16. I'm more than ten years older than him."

"You know in real life I bet he's in his twenties."

". . ."

"Here, I'll look it up."

"No, don't. That'll ruin it."

"And his real name probably isn't Finn."

"I said don't ruin it!"

"You like that you think he's sixteen?"

"It adds to the excitement of our love."

" . . ."

"I mean. . . "

"Nope, I think we're done here."

"But. . . "

"We don't talk during this show anymore."

Monday, October 12, 2009

An Open Letter To BW (And All The Other Friends I Used To Have Before I Decided To Marathon Train)

See this picture? The one where I'm crying about three seconds after crossing the finish line? That means I'm officially fun again.

I held off bursting into tears until I was sure I had actually crossed the line. The guy holding the medals actually had to stop me and say, "You can stop, you did it." And he made direct eye contact with me when he said, "you did it" and that right there is what made me burst into tears because let me tell you, there was about thirteen miles in there where I was pretty sure I wasn't going to make it. I'm not sure how he got the medal on me or how I made it to my mom, but I am sure that before she hugged me she stopped to take this photo of me, because that's what everyone wants - a picture of themselves crying and sweating so much they could salt Lake Michigan. If only she could have made the angle so it would have exposed my thighs, it would have been perfect.

Anyway, more on the marathon later - it was actually a really beautiful run, and no one with cerebral palsy passed me up this time so I have that going for me. I did double back for the beer shot because on mile twenty I was so amped/exhausted that I was thrilled/terrified about possibly getting buzzed on two ounces of MGD.

I can sleep in again on the weekends! I can eat whatever I want Saturday nights! I can get really drunk WHENEVER I WANT! 9am anyone? On the day before tax day and I'm probably going to spend twelve hours here again? LETS DO IT! BW, girl get your flashing ice cubes, pack them in your carry-on and lets do it Chicago-circa-winter-style (wherein about one hour into the evening I decide it's a good idea to start buying four thousand rounds of shots and then every hour after that announce we need pizza until 2am when we get pizza and devour it because the boys always seem like they're in a race to see who can eat the most the fastest, rinse, lather, and repeat).

Or we can sit on the couch watching re-runs of Friends. Both sound equally awesome to me.

Thursday, October 08, 2009

Paying Attention Doesn't Mean I'm Going To Move The Four Phonebooks I Use To Prop Up My Calculator

You know how sometimes you don't notice things around you because you see them everyday? Like, you know logically that empty coffee cup has been in your bathroom for probably three months but you don't move it to the kitchen because you just stopped seeing it? For instance, I have a roasting pan, for turkey cooking and such, in my closet full of unused kitty litter. I do not have a cat living with me. Just the roasting pan. And I totally forgot about it until Becky's dog decided to eat half of it yesterday as her dessert after inhaling a trashcan-full of used Kleenex. (Just so you know, I had it there for the night James spent with me right after we moved back, it's not like I just put it there in case a cat happened to wander into my room one day and I wanted to be ready, or in case I got lazy at night and couldn't make it to the bathroom.)

Anyway, my office is the mecca of things you just don't see. Piles build up and new stacks are made, and files from 1976 are found under a plant that gets watered every single day, yet no one thought to even check what that file was doing there. "Oh that? That's just the file under the plant, it's fine."

Then, today as I was coming back in from the restroom I saw this little gem.

Oh yeah, that's a framed photo of space. It's not only a framed photo of space, but it's a framed photo of space as the main piece of artwork you see when you walk in. It's been there the past thirty years, but I just realized that that's it. That's what our clients see as an intro to the accounting firm. We have a framed photo of "The Spiral Galaxy in Antilia" because what says taxes better than the universe.

I'm not sure who put it up there or where we got it; we have some artwork that people who work here have painted, we have a sad clown black and white right above the candy dish, we have photos of my three youngest cousins holding musical instruments that my grandma hung because she loves them the most. (No kids, no other grand kids, just the three special ones.) So it's anyone's guess as to where Antilia came from. Maybe someone who works here took it.

And yes, it does feel like I work in a log cabin sometimes. That wood is not deceiving you.

I'm not even going to think about the things I'm leaving out of this post, but I will tell you what I can see in my immediate vicinity is a pillow in a filing cabinet; a cell phone like the one Zack Morris had in the early 90s; not one, but two Guinea pig calendars (hanging side-by-crazy-side); a book about Egyptian Pharaohs, and a small Guatemalan man crouching in the corner.

He probably has no idea how he got here either.

Friday, October 02, 2009

Putting Things Together

I was so exhausted and tired last night that I not only broke my sister's wine glass (the 4th since I've been back - apparently I'm going for some sort of destructive record), but then I cried because the cleaning lady smooshed my cookies.

Oh yeah, I said cleaning lady.

My mom acts as our landlady and before me, my sister had a roommate who wasn't related to her and thus did not kill the ants for her, or do her dishes, so my mom hired someone to come clean the house twice a month so that the roommate wouldn't stop paying (the ridiculously high) rent she charges (even to her own flesh and blood). Didn't work. The roommate moved out, but I got to move in! And when I start seeing a therapist again he/she is gonna have a lot of work to do with that. That and the fact I will undoubtedly point out that their job title is also "the rapist".

Anyway, I was tired so what do I do? At ten pm I decide to put a desk together as quietly as possible so that I don't wake Becky up. Do you know how hard it is to be gentle when you're screwing things?

Thank you, goodnight!

It's really hard to put a desk together without making any noise, but somehow I managed to do it and at about midnight when I couldn't see anymore, and was drunk and alone with a lot of power tools, I finished! Look! I whispered. A desk! That I silently put together perfectly! Nothing's breaking! Nothing's toppling over! All drawers and shelves are in the right spots! Except for that huge piece right there against my wall that I forgot about!

What the hell? I still have no idea where that piece goes despite the fact I triple checked the instructions and looked over my desk a million times to make sure I wasn't missing a surface. Maybe it's just a backup piece, I concluded. Like an extra dowel or screw they always give you. Either that or someone else is having a really hard time trying to figure out why their desk is just three legs and a drawer.

That's what you get for buying furniture at CVS.