Showering James

To answer the question everyone is thinking: (Well, ok, no one is probably thinking it, everyone is too busy being shocked Ricky Martin is gay. What's next? Oprah is talky? You think you know someone. . .)

Anyway, the question:
Yes, it is still weird to look down and see my cat between my legs when I'm in the shower.

(**I just deleted seventeen thousand jokes involving the words - P&%#y, vagina cat, kitten, your mom, your mom's vagine, loofah, and shaving**)(See! I'm growing!)

He just gets in there and starts yelling at me because he's getting wet and soapy, and all I can do is repeat, "Hi honey what are you doing?" Meow-yell. "What are you doing in here?" Meow-yell. "What's wrong?" Meow-yell. And my pitch gets so high he can't even hear it, because for some reason when I talk to the cat I sound like I just sucked down seven helium balloons, but with the dog I use my James Earl Jones voice, and anyway, every time my mouth moves at him he starts yelling again, all pissed off because he got some Herbal Essence in his eyes and I start all over again, "Hi honey, what's wrong? What are you doing in here?" as if I expect him to answer me (because sometimes I do) and then finally we get out of the shower and he lets me dry him off, but he's still all pissed he just had to sit through that, and I'm all, "James, I don't make you get in there." and he's all, "But you're never home so when you are I want to be near you." and I'm all, "I'm not home because I'm at work all day making money, so I can put food on the table, and so you can sit on the blanket all day licking your no-no." and he's all, "I eat off the floor!" and I'm all, "You know what I mean!" and he's all, "Do I?", and I'm all, "Where do you think that china bowl you're eating out of came from?" and he's all, "That's your mom's wedding china!" and I'm all, "Well I want you to have the best!", and then we storm off to different parts of my room, I cross my arms and scowl at the wall, and he gets up on my dresser and knocks some things over. After a few seconds though we turn and look at each other, and he starts purring and I'm all, "I'm sorry I got mad!" and he's all, "It's cool I'm a cat, I don't even know what you're talking about, I'm purring." and then he does his slow blinky thing he does when we're bffs and suddenly I realize I'm cuddling with my cat while I'm naked and I need to get my clothes on fast before claws end up somewhere they really, really shouldn't be.

Anyway I'm thinking about upping my crazy and just buying him a little kitty raincoat. Because, let's face it, I'm already walking him around my backyard on a leash, I might as well go the whole nine yards and start buying him shower gear.

I'm sorry John Krasinski, that this is what you have to look forward to. I promise I'll normal-up after tax season. I hope.

Why I Need My Mom To Give Back The Jacuzzi She Stole From Us, And Then I Will Build A Shelf Unit All Around It To Hold Ding Dongs And Bourbon

I just sat down at my computer after reviewing for three hours, and my whole body is tense and my vision is totally blurry. It took me seven minutes to realize the words I was reading were 'Time Warner' and not 'Toad Warmer', and my neck is so stiff I look like Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles without the head gear. (Oh my god I had head gear when I was thirteen, because God took a look at me and said, "Thirteen, six-foot-one, one hundred pounds soaking wet, the weirdest curly bob of a haircut, Life Goes On glasses, and new-teen acne. . . I don't think this could get ANY more awkward if I tried. . . oh, wait a minute!") (It's amazing I ever got kissed looking like that. Good thing personality really does go a long way. Well that, and our school's first padded bra. I had people fooled for years. Years!)

And now there's a numb shooting pain from my elbow, down out through my right ring finger, which two doctors and a Rite Aid checker have assured me is not a sign of a heart attack because it's your left arm that hurts when you're having a heart attack, but it could be a sign I need to stop wearing hair bands around my wrist.

Ooooooh right.

Oops! Sorry for bothering you on the weekend Dr. G! I love you!

Anyway, if the pain switches to my left arm I'm totally taking that as a sign that I need a day off.


*sigh* And of course because I typed that I got asked to come in to work tomorrow. And why won't I say no? Because my grandma looked sad.

She is so sneaky.

Phil Dunphy

Becky and I were watching Modern Family last night, and right after the scene where the dad, Phil, goes to do something and gets distracted by fifty different things until he ends up on the completely opposite side of the house, in the garage, suspended between his car and a shelf, knocking down everything in a ten foot radius because distraction #51 was that he saw some glasses he'd misplaced but didn't just get a step-ladder, he crawled over his car and stretched to reach the glasses, even though there were like fourteen easier ways to get to it, then collapsed onto the floor, a wake of destruction behind him, but triumphantly holding his glasses over his head - after that scene Becky turned to me and said:

"Oh my god, he's you in male form."

"Phil Dunphy?"

"Yeah, did you see what he just did, Captain ADD?"

"It's ADHD now. And I'm not that bad."

"Yesterday I asked you for some popcorn and two hours later I found you in the garage wearing your old Drill Team outfit and looking at baby pictures."

"It still fits though."

"That's not my point. My point is, you get distracted really easily."

"I thought the popcorn might be in the garage."

"And then?"

"And then I saw something shiny sticking out of one of the boxes."

"Exactly. Phil Dunphy."

"Why can't I be like the Latin girl?"

"Are you kidding? Have you seen how sexy she is."

"Thanks."


I can't find that clip anywhere, but here are some other clips of Phil, and how my sister sees me. If I were a man.

I Want To Hold Hands And Stroll Along The Boardwalk With Every Single Person In That Movie

One of my co-workers came up to me yesterday to ask how my birthday was and just generally make me feel weird.

"So, what did you turn? Twenty-four?"

"Oh gosh, thanks. You don't have to say that."

"Twenty-six?"

"Thirty."

"What?"

"I know it's weird."

"But you don't seem thirty."

"Oh. . . thanks?"

"I thought you were early twenties. You just seem so . . . you're very imma. . . I mean, you laugh a lot."

"I laugh a lot?"

"I mean, you don't have what I had when I was thirty. And you're light."

"I'm light?"

"I had a mortgage."

"I have student loans."

"I mean, you're light in that you . . . laugh a lot."

". . ."

"Like this morning you were laughing."

". . . "

"And yesterday."

". . ."

"And . . . the day before that."

". . ."

"And-"

"And the day before that?"

"Yes."

". . . "

". . . "

"Well, I do like to laugh."

"That's what I'm saying!"



I have no idea what she's saying. Only people in their twenties laugh? Well, I've got a lot of Chicken Soup for the Soul to read then, because I just saw a preview for Hot Tub Time Machine and I almost peed my pants.



The other thing I got from a few of my other co-workers was - "But that means Becky is in her thirties." Which is untrue, since she's younger than me. And since everyone who said that has been working here since before I was born, they know (or knew at one time) Becky and Michael are younger than me - which is making me question a lot about the work we do around here. But really, it seems to be an honest mistake since everyone, EVERYONE, we meet thinks Becky is older than me because she's so "mature" and "well-poised" and doesn't "drink too much" or "give speeches about birth control in the middle of the condiments aisle at the grocery store because she mistook the sign to say 'condoms and mints'" and she doesn't "ask every pregnant woman she meets if they're scared about pooping on the birthing table thing" and she "flosses every day" and blah blah blah.

Which is fine, because if half the time people think she's older than me, the other half people think we're twins - and that's not such a bad thing. There are worse people I could be mistaken for.

Thirty

So, I turn 30 today.


**twenty minutes have just passed while I stared at that sentence, and there's a little puddle of drool all over this nice man's tax return**

***not that that's anything new, I spilled salsa on it yesterday. there's probably a reason there's a no eating at your desk rule, and that reason is me***

I'm not sure how that happened or where the last ten years went, which is fair since it's hard to remember time when you're living in a heavy drug haze, selling stuff you stole from your own parents house to get some dope, then after several interventions, going in and out of rehab, slowly trying to regain sobriety through lots of dark, hot coffee, and group meetings run by a lady named Tye in a facility called Sunshine Days Clinic which ironically only had windows on the west facing walls - where the sun sets - and finally kicking that dark horse when you meet your four year old daughter you don't even remember having because you were too fucked up to process the difference between reality and stoned dreams, and you're not even sure who the father is, but it's fairly clear he's black, which doesn't really narrow the field at all, but she is so, so, so worth it.

Ok, that wasn't what happened to me, I think I saw that on a Lifetime movie, something with Gabrielle Carteris in it - but that would have been a really good excuse for why I feel like I just turned 20. (Plus I'd have a little daughter! And I would love her and let her live in the garage with me and my cat! *sigh* I would call her Elliot.)

Anyway, the first text message I saw this morning was this one:

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear cunt face! Happy birthday to you!"

Thanks Gabi! (Just so you know, she doesn't hate me, "Dear cunt face" was carved into my elevator door in my apartment building in Chicago.) (Man, I wish I knew what the rest of that letter was going to be.) (Because 'cunt face', really? That's harsh. What ever happened to good old fashioned bitch face?)

And the next call I got was a birthday song from my grandma followed by a request to hurry up and get into work.

Then my mom texted me.

Because we don't need to talk anymore now that I'm thirty. We can just text.

Then my sister danced for me while wildly singing happy birthday in a bra with towel on her head.

Then a voicemail of a list of why I should have a good birthday, which gets to number twelve and then says, "We're gonna skip the teens, cause I can't think of that many". (it was still a really awesome list which, if I get permission, I will post here, especially because it tries to rhyme the word 'seven' with the fact that the caller likes 'leavened bread'.)

Then James pooped.

Then I inadvertently flashed my neighbor when I walked out with just a towel on to dump James's poopy litter box in the trash can, lost my grip on the trash can lid and in a moment of panic couldn't figure out how to hold both my towel up and not let the lid bang against the fence - chose to save the lid from fence banging, dropped my towel, showed my neighbor my goodies, screamed, "Crap crap crap!" and tried to keep a hand on the lid while reaching over to get my towel, because I was panicked and forgot that trash can lids will probably survive a four foot fall, finally got my towel, but could not figure out how to wrap it around myself with one hand so I just put the lid snugly back on the trash can, and ran back to my room, towel in hand, screaming, "Crap crap crap!" again, and showing my whole back yard my 30 year old stuff.

(Suddenly have a new, and profound appreciation of people who only have one hand.)

(Also, I should never be in a which-wire-do-we-cut scenario, because chances are I'm just going to freak out, drop the bomb, and get naked inappropriately.)

All in all it's been one of the giggliest birthday mornings for me ever, which is nice because I thought I'd be crying in a corner all day. But it turns out thirty feels just the same. And if this morning was a glimpse of what's to come I can't say I'm not excited. Dancing, running, listing, singing, laughing, mom-texting, eating, drooling, more laughing, for-the-rest-of-my-life-neighbor avoiding, tax returning?

Thirty is going to be awesome.

Curly Might Actually Be Better Than This

About six months ago I got my hair straightened. Permanently straightened, like a perm, but in reverse. Because the grass is always greener and curly hair is a pain so I decided I would make it straight. Forever!

But, just like my plan to send Becky away to a special camp didn't work out - you can't make something straight forever. It can pretend to be straight for a while. It'll look nice and go not freak out into a frizzy heap when you get out of the swimming pool, but soon enough the straight will wear off and you'll find it making out with it's bunk mate behind the nurse's station, and downloading all the Avril Lavigne music it can, WITH corresponding pictures.

Apparently when your hair grows out it doesn't turn straight, it stays the way you were born, and so now I have about three inches of curly hair at the base of my head trying to lift and twist the rest of my chemically altered hair.

So I took this picture of myself and sent it to Becky and Gabi with a note that said, "I think there should be a rule that I am not allowed to leave the house without blow drying my bangs anymore." And instead of what I thought I would get, which was something along the lines of "Oh, no you look fine! Don't worry about it!" what I got was, "OH MY GOSH YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO BE IN PUBLIC LIKE THAT!" and "That is a really good rule! Good lord!"

Thanks for the support ladies.




But oh my god are they right. I can't even look at this without covering my head. And I'm only posting it as a reminder to myself to NEVER GO SWIMMING WITHOUT A NEARBY FLAT IRON. I look like Joan Jett at the beginning of her drug faze. Or Billy Ray Cyrus, pre-Miley but just post Achey Breaky Heart. Or like it's 1992 and I tried to get a wave in my bangs but ran out of hair spray halfway through.

I might skip the $400 straightening next time. I mean those were a good few months, but I would pay double that if there was an undo button they could press so I quit scaring the good people at the early morning McDonald's drive-thru.

There's Something About The Atha Women. . .

. . . that makes them skeptical of things that stop pain. Like, they know it's going to hurt, but it's scarier to think that a little shot is going to numb them into not feeling anything whatsoever. What sort of crazy witchcraft is that?! I can see that dentist coming at me with that scythe-like thing, and then it disappears into my mouth but I can't feel it. I Can't Feel It!!! WHAT ELSE IS GOING ON IN THERE!?!? (And why a scythe thing? Why can't the soft spinning brush thing clean enough? You really need to use farm instruments on my molars? REALLY?)

It's not that they're like tough biker-chick-vampire-looking ladies gritting their teeth as they growl, "I love pain!" while hot wax drips onto their bare forearm for fun - they don't like being in pain anymore than a normal person does, but they don't like pain meds even more.

My mom gets root canals with no Novocaine, my grandma just got a biopsy done on her arm with no anesthesia, and my older sister used to bang her head with a hammer when she had a migraine to distract from the headache pain and focus on hammer pain.

Ok, so that last one is flat out crazy-town, but you get my point. Then my cousin's wife just went through 50 hours of labor with no epidural. Fifty. Two whole days, and then out came a baby half her size. She's not blood related, but still - she married into the right place, and her last name is Atha now, and we expected her to be tough to survive with this family, but that is some serious endurance Breanne. All the while she texted and facebook updated, like "I'm doing squats to get my water to break." Of course she was doing squats. And then she ran a 5k to get help dilate some more, and did bench presses to keep her contractions close together. Meanwhile, I'm bitching because someone ate my yogurt. Perspective is nice sometimes.

And oh holy crap were those 50 hours worth it. Sarah and Nels are so close in age to Becky and me that we were practically raised as siblings. So this feels like my sort-of little brother just had a baby. (And yeah I just cried while I typed that because - Nels has a baby! Oh shoot, now I can't stop. Well, it's not the first morning I've spent crying at my desk.)

Penelope James Atha



This one kills me.



Look at that footprint on his shirt!! SO CUTE!

*sigh*

Mazeltov you guys! She's so adorable!



(and just to answer what no one is thinking except me - no, they didn't name her after my cat. not that I believe them mind you.)

Earthquake

I almost gave James up for adoption last night. Never in the world did I think a cat could reach the volume level of sonic without, I don't know, former lab experimentation done on him, or special equipment, like a little speaker strapped to his back and a megaphone taped to the speaker so that it's not only being amplified, it's also being obnoxiously blasted out through a horn-like thing. I swear to god it sounded like he had picked up my tv last night and was throwing it against the window to create an elaborate, destructive escape.

But then we had an earthquake and he crawled under my arm for safety.

Fine, be cute. See if I care!

(two seconds later) Oh my gosh you're so cute are you ok?! I don't care that you just broke two vases in one fell swoop and I had to clean up broken glass at 3:30am, I just want you to feel safe!!!

So, I'm blaming his crazy on the impending earthquake, and the fact that he was just trying to warn me that we needed to flee to safety. How can I be mad when he wants to cuddle?!(sidenote: this is why girls end up with d.b.'s - 'But when he's sweet he's just so sweet!'. Kourtney Kardashian, I'm talking to you.)

And I took about one point five seconds to start to complain about being tired before remembering that my cousin has been in labor for the past twenty-four hours with no pain medication whatsoever. Compared to her I got nothing. Compared to a full day of trying to birth a human, I should be grateful my cat was just a little antsy, and not trying to claw his way out of my v&%#na.

Because that - that totally would have been grounds for putting him up for adoption.

Go Ahead And Judge

I totally bought a leash for James. Which is the beginning of the end people. The beginning of the end. First I buy a leash for a cat, then I turn thirty, then it's just a matter of time before I'm crocheting little kitty booties for him and taking his picture when he's wearing them and having it appliqued onto a hoodless sweatshirt that I wear everywhere and when people ask what his name is, I will pull out the sweatshirt to look at him upside down and say, "Who this little guy? This is my son James. Isn't he cute? He's mama's little boy. Isn't he? Aren't you?"

Sidenote:
(Little kitty booties!)(How fucking cute!)

Anyway, all that hasn't happened yet. For now he loves laying in the sun, and is a little hesitant of my backyard, but to be fair I would be too. We're like one non-working toilet as a planter away from being considered white trashy. Which makes me think maybe every time you look at someone's house and mutter something judge-y under your breath maybe they're not that bad, maybe it's just that their sister was too drunk to find her keys one night and had to climb in through the window and that's why the screen is resting up against that tree, and that broken table is just from the night they wanted to lay down and look at the stars but the grass was wet so they spread out on the old wood table and it snapped in half and they're not sure when Big Trash day is so it's just hanging out by the fence, and the folding chairs are still sitting there because the girls are in a standoff with their cousin for leaving them there instead of putting them back in the garage from whence they came, even though he lives in Tennessee and doesn't actually know they're in a standoff with him and the chairs so this is really just a moment they're standing behind their principals just to stand behind their principals because if you don't have your principals what do you have?!?!

Chairs in your backyard! That's what you have!

Or James in your backyard! Being scared and thrilled all at the same time. And making me wish I spent just a little more time being tan, what with the glowing arm that is blending in with the concrete and all.




This is right before he rolled over to sun his stomach and farted in relaxation - which is something new he must have learned in the wild because I've never heard him do that before! And then he started purring, because he was so proud of himself.

Why I Need To Carry A Granola Bar With Me At All Times

A conversation I had with the checker at Trader Joe's I really should not have been having:

Him(as he's ringing up my purchase): Ooh, this sushi looks good.

Me: Thanks. (thanks?)

Him: Did you make it?

Me: No? I just meant, yes. (what?)

Him: Yes?

Me: The sushi looks good. I don't know why I said hanks. (hanks? really Amy?)

Him: Hanks?

Me: Hanks. (what? why can't I say that word??)

Him: Thanks?

Me: Yes.

Him: Automatic reaction to people telling you things look good?

Me: I . . . yes? I love thanks. Giving. Giving thanks. (what the hell is happening to me?)

Him(laughing a little, thank god): I get it. I used to work at Hot Dog on a Stick, took me forever to learn to stop saying "Would you like a lemonade?" to everyone.

Me: Oh my gosh remember Hot Dog on a Stick?

Him: Yes. . . I used to work there?

Me: That was like the highlight of going to the mall! (well apparently I have no control over the words that are coming out of my mouth) That we got to go to Hot Dog on a Stick and get a hot dog on a stick, unless we were feeling adventurous and heart-cloggy, and then we'd get cheese on a stick. Oh my gosh it was so good and I'm not sure why, but no one ever thought to say, "Why the fuck don't they just call it Corn Dog?"

Him: . . .(starts bagging everything up)

Me: Because that's what it is right? It's a corn dog. It's like if I called Pizza Hut, Dough With Sauce and Cheese and Chopped Meats. . . Hut.

Him: (still bagging)

Me: Was it hard to mash that huge vat of lemons into lemonade?

Him: Not really.

Me: Oh . . . (Oh god. Am I still talking? REALLY?)

Him:. . .

Me: . . .

Him: Your total is nineteen forty-five.

Me: Yup.


This is why I have reinstated the Don't Talk To Strangers Until You've Eaten And Stabilized Your Blood Sugar rule. Which, in the handbook, comes right after the Don't Call Old High School Teachers When You're Drunk rule, and before the No, Sharing Razors Is Not A Good Idea rule.

(For those of you who didn't have a Hot Dog on a Stick, its a place in malls that sells corn dogs and lemonade - that's it. They had the worst work outfits but for some reason the cool kids always had jobs there. At least they seemed the coolest.)

They dipped with both hands:



And they smashed lemons into this thing that looks like some sort of construction bucket:



And they offered condiments:

Shower Scene

I stepped out of the shower this morning and grabbed my towel (and a little towel for James)(so cute! Next I will get him a shower cap!) and after wrapping my little sucker's around his waist, I pressed my face into my towel, and then froze immediately because something did not feel right.

I have these dark brown towels that are large and fluffy and hide any sort of stains (not sure how someone could get stains on bathroom towels? you have obviously never seen me eat a bagel and cream cheese. I swear to God I get cream cheese in places I haven't even seen in 9 years. I'm pretty sure that time I found cream cheese in my bangs in 4th grade was from the other day - my mess can time travel.) but they also hide other things. Horrible little things. Horrible little things I do not see because they are the same color as the towel and then I end up mashing a spider to death INTO MY FACE!

Oh my f-ing god.

There was about a five second delay while I stared into the towel and saw the little legs and half a body and let the realization sink in that the other half of that body, and those other four legs were MASHED ON MY FACE! I turned to look at myself in the mirror, because I was still not ready to believe it, and then the shrieking Psycho horror movie music started, I saw the little legs on my cheek and screamed bloody murder for about ten straight minutes, afraid to actually wipe it off because I was sure it was going to regenerate, become an even larger, more evil spider and then somehow absorb itself into my face, slowly and painfully changing me into a Spider girl, and not a Spiderman-Spider girl, but like an evil-monster Spider girl, who is no longer a girl but is now a spider who eats flies and builds webs to trap humans when the flies get boring.

I got it off once the screaming died down, and am now in deep hate with my towels. The thing is though, I don't even mind spiders, or killing them. Since there's no men in our house right now (aside from James) I do all the spider killing and/or trapping with no problems whatsoever. But killing one with my face? No. Thank. You.

Although I do feel sort of badass though. What did you do today? Oh nothing, you know, just killed. . . with my face.

Needless to say I will be buying new towels today. Non-spider-camouflaging towels.

I Could Have Asked For Much Worse

"You know what would be a really good birthday gift?"

"Bradley Cooper naked on your bed with a rose in his teeth and peanut butter spread all over his no-no?"

"Gabi!"

"Fine. No peanut butter. Yes silk undies."

"How about silk men's thong?"

"Thong, really? This isn't a strip club in Vegas."

"I'm kinda into them right now."

"What do you mean you're kinda into them right now?"

"They seem sexy. They highlight the area."

"All you need to do is show them a picture of a set of boobs and the area is going to be 'highlighted' you don't need a banana hammock."

"Maybe you don't. I like the way it makes it stand out."

"Well. . . it's your birthday."

"Oh yeah, stop distracting me! I asked you a question."

"What?"

"You know what would make a good birthday gift?"

"Wait, can I interrupt?"

"I guess s-"

"There's only one time a dude looked good in a thong. That stripper from Gige's bachelorette party. Mmmmmmmhmmmm."

"Lots of dudes could look good in a thong."

"Is this the being-off-the-pill talking?"

"Maybe."

"Ok, what would be a good birthday gift?"

"I can't remember."

"Please tell me you're not thinking about thongs. You don't even wear them."

"I just want to see what a yellow one would look like."

"Amy. . . "

"Mustard yellow."

"Oh Jesus."

"Oh hey, I know what you can get me for my birthday!"

"Forget it."

"But-"

"No."

"Remember what I got you that one year when we went to Benihana?"

"Nu-oh shoot. Yeah. I do."

"Please."


**sigh**
"Fine."

"Yessss!"
**Stehpanie Tanner fist**

"You're the weirdest thirty year old I know."

"I'm not thirty yet."

"I'm just getting ready."

"Fair enough."

An Open Letter

Dear Monday,

I realize that starting off the week at 4am drinking red wine/7up combo (I only had a splash of wine in my glass and since I am trying to be more green and not wasteful, I mixed it with 7up instead of tossing it. Don't judge me, it was delicious, and as an added bonus my stomach ache went away!) and playing catch with my cat until about 5:30am is not the best way I could have handled starting the week, but still - you coulda helped a sister out.

And I know that I moved out to the cabin so that I could be in love with, and bond to, have a trusting relationship with my cat again, but again* - you coulda helped a sister out.

No shower curtain so have to take a shower all exposed to my bathroom like some weird, pornographic bathroom flasher - ok, fine.

Soaking wet cat toys on bed because James has not forgotten he likes to shower with me, but now brings catnip mice. Then drags mice to further kill/play with on clean sheets - great.

Four, count 'em, four phone calls from boss asking when I'm going to be in to work and can I make it at 6am - alright.

But then get into work, and spend three hours so tense I can't even move my head now because neck has apparently disintegrated muscle and regenerated itself into concrete and re-bar neck so walk around looking like I'm trying to do the robot, or some weird sort of awkward white girl crumping, and find Advil bottle is not filled with little pills but is instead filled with non-dairy creamer, then find that my yogurt is currently being eaten by little Russian man despite the huge "AS's" written all over it, realize AS's looks like Ass, crack self up for a little bit, then have to eat coleslaw for breakfast because it's the only thing left in the fridge without someones initials on it, stomach ache from last night starts to come back, all the while my favorite plant almost catches on fire because one of the office smokers is playing too close to said plant with their lighter - Not cool, Monday. NOT. COOL.


I hope Tuesday can pull your ass out of hot water, because mama's tired and is now afraid she's going to freak her cat out with sharp, herky-jerky movements.

Just used the term herky-jerky.

Thanks Monday. Now I'm my mother.



Sincerely,

Amy





*I don't think I wrote about it here because I was too devastated but James ran away and was missing for five months. Then my cousins found him living all cushy at their neighbors house a few days ago and when I went to pick him up he was all, "Woman, this is not cool. You can't leave me for five months and then expect me to come running back to you." and the lady who had been watching him was all:

"He doesn't even look like he remembers you."

And I was all, "Bitch, back up off! This is my cat. I got him on my birthday, I raised him, I loved him, I nursed him. . ."

"What?"

"What?"

"Tori come here."

"Oh my gosh you named him Tori?"

"He's a boy?"

"Usually the penis gives it away, but yeah."


Anyway, two minutes after I got him home he was all, "Oh yeah! You! I love you. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE?!" **

**And really the woman who took him in was super nice and loved him, and I'm so grateful, but still had that vague feeling of walking in on my babysitter trying to breastfeed my newborn.

Taxes

In the past 24 hours two of my favorite people have mentioned their taxes and then like three seconds into their talk I could actually hear the headache and confusion through the phone, and they both stopped themselves saying, "I just don't even like talking about it. I could not do your job."

Which should make me feel like crying in a corner, but (because I got nine hours of sleep last night) is actually making me feel like I have a special skill, like a nurse, or a barista, or Jack Bauer. Like I can handle radioactive material with my bare hands, while freeing Somalian hostages, and baking (non-catching-on-fire) cupcakes all at the same time.

(Oh yeah, I baked a cake last weekend and set them ablaze. Electric ovens are tricky and weird. Where does the hot come from?!?! The coils just start glowing like magic, and then suddenly the cakes you put in there are rising at double time and boiling over onto said magic coils, and you're all - "But there's not even a flame! I half expected the oven wouldn't get warm at all! Like it was some Easy Bake Oven and the coils are really just tubular light bulbs, like fluorescent office lighting!")

I know it's not as amazing as saving the world in a single day (again, and again, and again - Jack Bauer how are you not so busy with all that p&%#y getting thrown at you that you don't have time to save the world? I mean chicks go crazy for guys if they even look like they're about to put on some sort of uniform, and here you are actually saving people and countries left and right! Put your phone on silent for God's sake! Relax! Let someone else save us for once!)(Except don't because I totally don't trust anyone but you.), but it doesn't send me into a cold sweat, and that's good. Or scary depending on who you're talking to.

Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go fashion a badge out of tin foil and my Bedazzler. Because the next time a client comes in I want to have the right look about me, and if a jeweled-foil-star doesn't say professional I don't know what does.

Lost And (Sorta)Found

So I lost my glasses. Which sucks because a) I'm so blind I practically have to touch noses with you if I want to see your face clearly (which can lead to a lot of unintentional making out)(sorry about that McDonalds drive-thru guy), and b) because I have contacts, but when I get home I like to wear glasses because they make me feel smarter when I'm studying. Sure, I can study in contacts, but that's like studying in stilettos and a t-shirt you claim is a dress, but it's not really a dress, it's really just a button-up shirt you thought was one of your ex-boyfriend's but really you don't date anyone who wears button-up shirts on a regular basis, except it looks totally familiar and smells really familiar, and then you remember why it's in your closet and why it's so familiar, because your dad used to wear it as his weekend shirt, and thank God because you couldn't remember dating anyone who wore Old Spice, because no one wants to date someone who smells like their dad, unless your dad is Hugh Laurie, in which case I do want to date someone who smells like him, and who will then play doctor with me because I've got something undiagnosable that only Dr. House can deal with, something we ultimately decide is called make-me-pancakes-and-then-make-out-with-me-like-high-schoolers-who-aren't-ready-to-have-sex-yet-but-are-ready-to-french-until-our-lips-are-swollen-and-our-chins-are-bright-red-itis.

I love his hobble and his sassy attitude.

Anyway, so I got home last night (after refusing to pay $400 for new glasses) (FOUR HUNDRED. Are you kidding me? I mean, I know I'm blind but this is not a space mission I'm getting ready for. I don't need bulletproof lenses, I need something that will allow me to see if my sister is smiling or frowning when I do my I-made-nachos dance. Because it'll determine whether or not I share my nacho goodness.) and I feel totally lost. And helpless. Like, this must be what torture feels like. Taking away someone's clear vision and making them try to watch an episode of Cougar Town with their nose pressed up against the screen, rolling it back and forth to follow Courtney Cox's boobs as she bounces to and fro, because for some reason she does a ton of bouncy moves on that show.

So then I tore my house apart and found some old glasses from like 6 years ago, that I put on and it was like camping in heaven. Not staying at some swanky heaven hotel with room service and a double-headed shower, but somewhere in the outskirts of heaven where you can set up your tent without it collapsing on you in the middle of the night. It felt nice to have my contacts out is what I'm trying to say. I mean, I still couldn't see very well considering the glasses were like eight prescriptions behind, and the right lens coating was all peeling off and sort of bubbly like a messed up tint job on car windows, so I had to kind of squint through that eye, and rely on my left eye to compensate and then revert back to it's better vision of 2001, and hope that I didn't fall over from being too dizzy.

Crystal just kind of watched the whole thing happen with the sort of curiosity I lend her when she's licking the couch for like an hour straight. No stopping, just straight cushion lick.

"Don't look at me like that."

I said to her from the couch.

"Come here and cuddle with me if you're going to stare."

She didn't move.

"Oh fine, ignore me now. But when you want some of my peanut butter toast I'll remember this."

She got up and made her way to me with a sigh. It's really hard being her.

So then we cuddled on the couch - well technically we cuddled on the couch cushions that are currently spread out on the floor in a makeshift doggie bed, because she can't make it up onto the couch. But that was fine with me because it was closer to the tv.

Today I get some new ones that I will be protecting in a vault, with a guard, and laser beams you can only pass through by doing all the correct moves to Beyonce's All The Single Ladies. But I think the couch cushions might stay on the floor. Just because Crystal won't be judging me any more doesn't mean she doesn't want company. Ok, so she probably just wants peanut butter, but I like to pretend it's the love. They pretty much go hand-in-hand at this point.

Time Off

So, I'm totally going to jinx it, but I took a few days off of work. In the middle of tax season.

Yeah. Soak it in. I took two days off. During tax season.

I live so dangerously.

This might not seem huge to you, or you, but when I put in the request I actually ducked into a local bomb shelter to avoid the fallout about the fact I wouldn't be working eight days a week until April 15th. And then I put on a hockey mask and some hockey pads and a hockey cup (for the jewels) and went into my boss's office to get my request for time off signed.

But when I got back to work there was no voodoo doll with mini-machetes stuck into it hanging from my desk, and there was no saran wrap over the toilet, or extreme cold shoulder that would last until summer (because working for family means it can spill into family stuff and before you know it if you've pissed the boss off you're stuck shucking 50 ears of corn all by yourself and your birthday present winds up being a tube of Neosporin and some old bags of Ricola.)

Instead, my boss got up and hugged me. And then asked me how I was doing. And said I sounded rested.

So of course I start bawling and tell her I love her, that I love the new chairs in the break room, and that I love tax returns.

Because apparently rested equals stupidly emotional.

I'm sure any minute now a bucket of lime pudding is going to drop on my head, but for now I'm just going to be really happy that working for family also means you can hug your boss and not feel weird about it.

Well, less weird than when I hugged all my other bosses that's for sure. Although when I did that with my coffee shop boss I got a raise, so maybe you shouldn't feel weird about physical contact with your superiors, maybe you should use it to get things in life.

I am going to be such a good role model.

Carpet Cleaning, Sorta

I just looked up to see the mom of one of my really good friends (sup Katie!) sort of sweeping, sort of vacuuming the office floor, but she wasn't really doing either, it was more like a weird half-breed because she was using a bissel.

(She looks really young in this photo.)



Those aren't real cleaning things are they? Bissels. I think it's just something you run on the floor to make it look like you've cleaned.

That's what I used to do anyway when it was my week to mop and vacuum (floor chores went together, and laundry and dishes went together; bathrooms got done by everyone every week - like an attack, except they were still clean from the week before so it was like a precautionary strike against. . . hair or mold collection? I'm not sure, but you could eat out of our bathtubs when we were kids.) I hated chores, I wanted to be riding my bike to the liquor store to buy some Rolos and rent something with a sexy cover hoping there would be a heavy kissing scene in it, like Mannequin, or Labyrinth, instead of cleaning out my hamster's cage. I spent more time and energy trying to figure out how to get out of my chores than it would have taken me to actually just get up and do them. But doing them was for suckers. Or my sister.

So when vacuuming came up I decided it was too much work, and instead I'd bissel the whole house so that it had the carpet marks that made it look as if I'd actually plugged something into the wall. I'm not sure what my reasoning was here because it took the same amount of time and effort, except I wasn't getting anything actually done. I think it was more the point I was making, to myself because it's not like I later revealed my evil plot to my mom over dinner, flashing my allowance and taunting "I triiiiicked you". (Mainly, because I had no doubt she'd just reach over and take it away from me.) (And then charge me for lying to her.)

My mom had a chore list to battle all chore lists when we were kids. Anyone who stayed friends with me after learning what my family was all about will definitely remember the lists, because not only was I not allowed to leave until all ten pages were crossed off (and initialed) but if my friends happened to come over early they would be sucked into cleaning the bathroom while I swept the kitchen. My mom has absolutely no distinguishing bone in her body when it comes to her kids and other people's kids. You're in her house, you do what her kids do. Timeouts and all. I was always shocked to go to other kids houses and do something bad and then not be grounded with them. Unfortunately at my house, you couldn't get away with that, even if it was only half your idea we start a bonfire in the camper.

Mom: Are you kidding me? How in the world did you ever think that was a good idea?!! You're grounded.

Friend: But . . . I don't live here.

Mom: No phone or tv for two weeks.

Friend: But...

Mom: Wanna make it three?

Friend: No.

Mom: Go on then. Get to you room. I mean Amy's room.

Friend: Ok, sorry Mrs. Stern.

Mom: Oh, stop. Call me Lori.

Friend: Sorry Lori.

Mom: You're still grounded.


Anyway, Wendy is not on my mom's chore list that I know of. She's just walking around bisseling the crap out of the office. I wonder if I do that, if I can claim it's the same thing as filing some paperwork? I bet that's how she got out of doing the mail this morning. 'Nope sorry boss, I'm bissleing.'

Ok, I just asked her, and she said the floor looked like it needed to be cleaned.

Me: So you're making it seem as if its clean?

Wh: No. I'm actually cleaning it.

Me: With that?

Wh: Yeah.

Me: But that's just a fake cleaner.

Wh: No. It's an actual cleaner.

Me:. . .

Wh: . . .

Me: . . .

Wh: **continues bisseling**

Me: Son of a!

I still refuse to believe I was actually doing work. A bissel? Really? It doesn't even plug in! Nothing cleans unless it's plugged in! Which is why I refuse to believe you can't clean a bathroom without a steam cleaner. Or a buffer. Shoot, plug in a ghetto blaster and bring that sucker in, I'm sure it'll clean something up.