The Boys, Part I

The other day when I was trying to clean out the hall closet (which somehow always ends up more cluttered with stuff than when I started), I found this box of pictures. Cut to six hours later, and I'm still in the hall, sitting on the ground surrounded by a mountain of what can only be called "stuff" - because it has no place in an everyday house, so it ends up in the closet for me to look at and reminisce once every six months when I decide to clean house - and Becky walks in, sees me sitting there in my sweats, my hair all akimbo, crying because I found a drawing she made me once when we were sisters who didn't roll their eyes at each other, and then she rolls her eyes at me.

"You weren't supposed to get distracted!"

"But look at this!"

"No."

"Look it's so cute! Why do you hate childhood?"

"I don't hate childhood, but I need to get to my room at some point tonight and you're blocking me."

"Remember Meg?"

"What are you talking about? We just talked about her yesterday."

"I know. Remember that?"

"Ok. . . I'm putting a stop to this. Now you're remembering, remembering things."

And then she dragged me kicking and screaming into the shower, where, still fully clothed, she turned the cold water on, wrestled me to stop wrestling her while I yelled, "No!! I still have more pictures to look at!!! What if I missed something! LET ME OUT GAHHHHH!" and she held me down saying, "Snap out of it! Snap out of it! Do you see what you're doing to yourself!?!" and then I choked, smeared my mascara all over my face, and came back to reality.

But before we shut the closet up for another six months I managed to save this one picture.

This picture explains so much about who I am today, and makes me so happy I can't even tell you. (But of course I'm gonna. Cause that's what I do. Tell you things you don't want to know, in seven paragraphs more than it should probably take to tell such a thing.)







This will just be a pre-blog, to a much more descriptive blog of what the heck is going on here, but let me just point out some key facts:

1. This was taken on Catalina Island the summer our Dads didn't come, but instead just our Moms (the boy's mom, and Becky and I's mom - not 'our Moms' like they were a couple) ('Becky and I's'?)

2. Becky is topless.

3. The two boys are the kids who lived across the street from us and pretty much filled in as our brothers our whole lives - we did everything together. everything. and even though we haven't all been in the same place together in like 10 years, or talked more than 10 times in 10 years, I'm still 99% sure if Becky and I were getting hassled they'd hear it from the thousands of miles away they live now, like some sort of inner bat-signal, and come screeching in to kick some a for us.

4. Not shown: the boys both had tails. Not, like animal tails on their backsides, but tails like sort of a mullet, but not all-the-way-around-long, just . . . tail-long. Like this, but blond:



5. Becky is topless.

6. I look slightly matronly, and disappointed with my lot in life, because I'm fairly certain I had been trying to get everyone to pose like a traditional, fancy picture but no one would oblige. For such a bossy kid it was rare anyone ever paid any attention to what I wanted us all to do.

7. I think I am now wearing the watch Chip is wearing in this picture. Only mine can call the Pentagon.

8. Ethan is thrilled with his shark-head-chomper thing.

9. Becky is thrilled she's topless.

10. All four of us hit six feet tall in 1989 and rode in a VW bug for like seven years longer than our limbs should have allowed.

11. We bathed in an outside sink this entire trip.

12. We were too old to be bathing outside.

13. Apparently we all hated smiling with teeth.

14. Becky's got something stuck in hers.

15. We're sitting on a tomb. A cool, huge, stone and marble tomb.



Clearly, there's a whole lot more about this, but oh my gosh I love this picture so much. And I love that the entire time we were growing up and Becky was walking around topless because the boys are allowed so she should be too (I love kid equal-rights logic), the boy's mom was always saying, "Lori! Don't take a picture of her, what if this gets out when she's older?" as if she knew, she had some sense that one day the internet would be created, and I would post such a thing.

What? I put a censor bar over it! It's not like I'm showing anything!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean out my desk drawer and that's going to take at least the next three hours.

LOST (disclaimer: if you don't watch LOST you'll hate this post. Also, Gabi, I'm not spoiling anything)

Yeah, ok - if you can keep it up with the next five episodes, and rock my world like you did last night, then I will be so in love with you J.J. Abrams that I will completely forget season 3 altogether (stupid Others) (stupid "We have to go back Kate!").

DESMOND! I almost forgot about you. Oh my gosh I missed you. I missed you so much.

The magic of LOST is not that it sucks because it never answers anything (that's just how it sucks) it's that there are so many main characters you sorta feel like you're keeping track of your own social network* and keep confusing who is sleeping with whom, who is good and who is evil, and which year you're time traveling to and when. And WHY!?!

Oh wait, no. . . the 'why' is how it sucks.

Desssssssssssssssmond.

I know this sucks for people who don't watch, and I'm impressed if you're still reading this, because it can't make any sense, but let me just put you at ease a little - it doesn't make any sense to anyone. There's only five episodes left and still, WE DON'T KNOW ANYTHING REALLY!!! (Except stuff I can't say because Gabi would kill me) (Charlie dies). Every week I try to convince Becky it's Biblical, but only because she doesn't believe me. This week I told her Desmond is Jesus and the meaning of life (er, where life = the island) is love.

And then I cried.

Just kidding.

Pennnnnnnnnnnnnnny!

I'm not even ashamed about watching this show like I am about watching the Twilights. Because I sort of feel like if I don't see it through to the end, then it will have been waaaaaay too much Grad School time wasted. And I didn't pay seventy thousand dollars to not find out what happens!

I have standards for my education! So, if I can't get my Nobel Peace Prize, at the very least I can find out what happens with the Island. That much I can do for you.

I can do it for all of you.





*because according to my sister, James doesn't count as "my social network" given that he is a "cat" and I should try to "make more friends" and not just try to "build a large hamster cage tunnel habitat for him in the backyard so he can be outside without really being outside so I don't have to worry about him running away again", because he's my cat, not a giant hamster, and I definitely should not just "watch lost on my laptop and pretend I know them" and I certainly should not say things like, "Do you think I could take Kate in a fight? I mean I know I couldn't take Ana Lucia, she crazy yo, but Kate's nickname is Freckles - how tough can she be?", or "Yeah, I'm gonna see if I can fight her", but instead I should hang out with my real-life friends more, and maybe wait to put my p.j.'s on until it's dark out.

Whatever.

A cat-hamster tunnel-habitat would be AWESOME.

In Case You Were Wondering. . .

No - lentil soup does not make a good replacement for beans on your nachos.


In other news, I apparently do dumb things when I have a fever and a slight case of the swine flu.

Aside from the soup nachos, I also stayed at work for nine hours even though the only way to get my skin to not hurt was to roll someone's Coke can up and down my arms (please don't drink that cranky secretary), and then I had a waaaay too long conversation with my neighbor about how my new nickname for James involves calling him by plurals, like, "Hey honeys! How are you babies? Hi Hons!" and so on and so forth.

I was so looking forward to those nachos last night, and then I went ahead and made something that was totally not nachos. Not in anyway.

But the soy sauce helped a little.

Easter Passover

I love my family for lots of reasons but this one might have just edged it's way into first place. . .

So, yesterday was Easter and it was a gorgeous day and Jesus rose from the dead or something (I'm just fuzzy on how. I must have snuck out of mass to get the good donuts the day they explained HOW and WHERE Jesus rose from the dead like some sort of zombie movie character - like, did he claw his way out of a grave, or was he still above ground, laying there, and then coughed a few times, until he choked out some sea water (because when people start breathing again in movies it's always because they've got sea water in their lungs) and was like, "Hey, what happened? Where am I?" And why didn't people freak the f$*k out when he was all "Oh hey I'm still here"?!?! Or maybe they did? I DON'T KNOW!) (SEE Mom and Dad! This is why it's weird to raise your kids half Catholic and half Jewish - I have no idea what happened in what religion! Not to mention the fact that I'm never sure which sort of guilt is creeping in when it creeps in, and then they just combine into like this Jew-Catholic super-guilt that can simultaneously make me feel guilty for not calling my Bauba more, and having impure thoughts about Christian Slater in Gleaming the Cube, even though Bauba has been dead for years, and I haven't seen Gleaming the Cube since I was thirteen.)

Anyway. . . it was Easter. And Passover. And if there's one thing the Jew-Catholic combo is good at, it's eating. Lots and lots of eating. And after everyone had seconds, and then thirds, we sat around the table talking and enjoying each others company while we all tried to hide the fact we were unbuttoning our pants under the table, so full that we vowed not to eat again for an entire week.

Or for about five minutes.

Because literally, five minutes after we all groaned at our plates, Becky looks around and says, "Where'd that box of donuts go?"

"Oooh, that sounds good."

"Yeah I could go for something sweet."

"What do you mean you could go for something sweet, you just ate a handful of jelly beans to wash down your cheesy eggs and bacon."

"That's different."

"Yeah, she's right. Donuts don't count."

"Someone find that box!"


So, the donuts came out. And that's not even the good part. The good part, is that once Becky picked her favorite donut, she tore into it only to find that it was *gasp* NOT cream filled, like it should have been. So what did she do? She didn't give up - because Sterns aren't quitters when it comes to donuts - no, she grabbed the whip cream, cream cheese mixture E had out for the fruit dip, and proceeded to glop that sucker into her chocolate long john.

And that. . . THAT is why I love my family.





And then Nels joined in, because I mean . . . c'mon. . . it's Easter! If you can't fill a donut with cream cheese and whip cream on Easter then WHEN CAN YOU?




*sigh*

I love donuts.


Anyway, my Mom is really lucky we were so distracted with acting like we were at some sort of Wisconsin County Fair where everything we ate needed to be cream filled or deep fried, because she grabbed the baby the instant they walked in the door and wouldn't share her for a single second.

But c'mon, look at this face - I wouldn't have shared either.

Sex Rehab - Next Up: People Who Breathe Air, And Like It (This Post is Rated R, Cousins - Stop Reading)

Dear Tiger Woods, Jesse James, and everyone from Dr. Drew's Sex Rehab,

I don't believe you.


Love,
Amy



Why come single people never have to go to Sex Rehab? Is it that the disease of wanting to have sex with more than one person isn't a disease if you're single? Like a gold band is the carrier for the enzymes that produce the sex-wanting virus, and so yeah - single people want sex, but it's only the married's who are having it that are suddenly struck with this debilitating disorder?

I don't believe it.

People having sex isn't something you need rehab for is it? I mean, how many people have sold their body or sucked dick to have sex?

I mean. . .

Wait, what?

Nobody O.D.s on sex and has to be rushed to the hospital so nurses can rub charcoal all over their private parts, and give them an IV to counterbalance endorphins. And people don't usually start shaking, and vomiting because it's been too long since the last time they boned down and so clinic workers are giving them a loving embrace and showing them a long talk can be a good substitute, or for women, chocolate, because somewhere, sometime, someone said there's something in chocolate that mimics the effects of a woman having an orgasm but like by 1 millionth of a percent, and ever since women have been eating pounds and pounds of See's candy just to see if it's true.

Now, I'm not saying sex isn't a ruiner of things and lives and makes people do crazy things. I know lots of people get shot for having sex (with the wrong person, not just like 'Aaah you're having sex!' *BANG*), and go all ape shit crazy trying to have sex, and it repopulates the world and blah, blah, blah. It's a powerful force of nature. It can control. I get it. But rehab? REALLY?

I mean. . . I would totally cut somebody to sleep with Richard Alpert, but that doesn't mean I need rehab! It means I need to find out where he lives and sneak into his house at night like a normal person.


Anyway, in order to put a good spin on it I've decided maybe sex rehab is a good excuse for my sister to make bastards all around the globe. So that's what I'm hoping - that she starts sleeping around (with no birth control) (oh and with men)(because the disease confuses her) so that I have tons and tons of different looking nieces and nephews to shower with pent-up love and attention. And then when she's done she can just tell everyone that she needs rehab, and we'll all stick by her, and visit her on family day, and sneak her cigarettes and hair brushes she can whittle down into a shank.

"I think you're confusing rehab with prison," says the person standing over my shoulder reading this who should get back to doing tax returns.

"Maybe. But maybe you need a shank in sex rehab."

"To defend against the people who need a fix?"

"Exactly."


So there you go Becky. I'm gonna go see if I can get Jesse James to sneeze on a napkin for me so I can give it to you and see if you can catch some of whatever it is he has. Rehab, put on your chastity belt! Becky's coming!

More Stretching At Home

So, I don't stretch enough. I run a lot, but once someone told me, or maybe hinted that, you didn't necessarily have to stretch before or after you run and so I took that and deemed it the word of the Lord and just stopped stretching all together. I know it feels good, and stuff, but it takes up time I could be . . . I mean instead of stretching I get a lot of . . . something done.

I don't know why I stopped but I did. (Also, once someone (someone Korean) told me only a dead man signs his name in red and so now if I'm at the grocery store and I see the woman hands me a red pen, I try to cut her to the quick and dig in my purse for a non-life threatening blue pen. If I'm not fast enough though, I don't want to explain my delicate life/pen situation to her so I will take the pen and sign someone else's name on the line, but only someone who is already dead. Never once has a checker asked me why my signature looks so much like Abraham Lincoln - that's not very good security ladies.)

But it hasn't gone unnoticed to my body. Not stretching after running, combined with seventeen hours a day sitting in a chair makes me all creaky, and sore, and frozen in place, but I usually don't realize it until I stand up and realize I'm hunched over more than Quasimodo.

So, today I was in the bathroom and before I could sit down (but after I'd undone my pants and pulled them down most of the way) I realized my hips felt all out of whack and I needed to do a lunge sort of a thing, and a little stretch for my legs, so I lunge out, pants down, because I'm in the handicap stall and there's all kinds of room and it feels sooooo good, and I do that old-man sort of a groan and go, "Gahlah, my back.", and it feels so good that I decide to do the other side and just as I've maneuvered into position again (because for some reason I have not pulled my pants up for this, I'm just working around it, which is making things complicated, but not impossible), and I'm getting a good stretch in, another woman walks into the bathroom - which would be fine if our bathroom was built with some sort of code or privacy in mind, but in this bathroom the space between the stall doors is wide enough to pass a plate of food through, and the woman inadvertently sees me all stretched out, pants down, yawning my face off and I freeze and stare at her, and she freezes and stares at me, and then I have no idea what to do, so I blurt out, "Just stretching over here! I sit!" I sit? "I mean, all day." She doesn't say anything so I sort of smile, and slowly (as if maybe if I move slow enough she won't see what I'm doing) I pull my legs together, until I'm sort of standing, but still totally crouching over because I'm so tall she would be able to see my head over the stall door, and then I tip toe over to the toilet and sit there until I'm 100% sure she's been gone for fifteen minutes so there's absolutely no way I will run into her in the hallway where I'll have to pretend to have a good laugh about telling her I sit, and doing a whore's version of yoga in a public restroom.

Needless to say, I'm going to start stretching more at home. Apparently it's not only good for you, it's also good for the health of the general public as well.

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.

Warm Coffee Mug In My Hands And I'm Totally Not Awake Yet

But it's misty-rainy out, and where it's not dark the clouds are like Crayon drawings when only the salmon, midnight blue, and orange-red ones are left in the box.

Then as if out of nowhere this song came on and my heart exploded a little. (Ok, it didn't come out of nowhere, my alarm went off, but still.)

Love, love, love, love.




Now I'm going to go wake Becky up so she can feel the calm I'm feeling right now. She'll thank me one day.

Building Things

So my sister and I both get home around 7pm, and while I strip down like I'm on fire so that I can get my sweats on (before an alarm goes off apparently? I'm not kidding, most days I rip off my clothes so fast and throw those sweats on that I don't even have time to put my purse down or close the front door so point-three seconds after I walk into the house I've got my pjs on, and my purse slung over my shoulder inside my hoodie, while I'm waving good-evening to the neighbors), my sister stares into the fridge for a good twenty minutes until I come in and start cooking some dinner (toast) and setting the table (throwing a fork onto the couch) and then we both sit down for some dinner and relaxation (seven hours of Keeping Up With The Kardashians).

The reason we get home so late and then fall asleep together in a heap on the couch by 8pm is because we've both been working a ton. However, my work is not that thrilling because no one is impressed when I come home sweaty and exhausted saying, "I did a corporate return with twelve rentals today! And eight of them were out of state!" (except maybe my mom. and carrie.) But my sister comes home and shows me this MILLION DOLLAR MANSION she just designed and I'm all - Wow! That really is worth all the tired couch-ing you've been doing!

Because seriously, the stuff she does is amazing. It's stuff you see in glossy magazines, and art books. It's professional, and gorgeous, and so . . . impressive. In my head she just sits at her computer all day drawing with the spray paint tool in Photoshop, and makes little houses out of triangles on top of squares, but apparently that's not really how it goes. Apparently she's actually an architect for real people. Not the stick figure people I imagine I will draw to live in her little photoshop houses. What?! But she's only eight! (Oh how her and Michael will talk about me in therapy, and how I refuse to let go of their nicknames, Sugarbutt, and Bubilicious)

Unfortunately I can't show you the house because it's apparently top secret, and I would show you a tax return I just did but I don't want you to all fall asleep, so instead I give you this table my sister's firm is using in someone's house. I. Want. One. I will have nightmares about it, but still, for five minutes it would be awesome.

科技新知1-神奇的桌子Walking Table.wmv @ Yahoo! Video

A Warning To My Office

I'm about to make sweet love to the person who brought the chocolate chip cookies in for breakfast. I don't care who it is, the 84 year old secretary - bring it on lady, and prep yourself for the best five minutes of your life. (Just kidding John Krasinski, I'm still yours for eva. But please know I am just that easy - tasty chocolate dessert? Five minutes of heaven. Including ice cream? Eight minutes. "Oh, is that Cold Stone in your pocket? Buckle up John, I've got a long commercial break with your name on it.")

After trying for the second time to get a d&%phram, and getting laughed at and publicly scorned first thing in the morning for the second time, finding the cookies was like a little sign from Jesus that things were going to be ok, and that I should just go ahead and cut that bouncy ball in half and use that as a makeshift di@!#ram should the occasion arise*, because how different can it really be, I mean really? And by jelly, do you think my doctor means grape or will orange work? Even though technically I think if it's orangey it's called marmalade. ("Oh John could you stop by Toys R Us and the deli, Mama's got a special night planned. Yeah marmalade, jelly, jam, I don't have a preference. Get peanut butter for all I care. If it can go in my stomach it can probably go in my hoo ha.")

The cookies and then this commercial, these two things make me so happy and forget all previous public shame. (You think 5th grade embarrassment is over, you think that until you decide to buy some new underwear to celebrate the fact you didn't blush that bad at the pharmacy this time, especially after you had to repeat diap#$%m three times because the dude behind the counter (pretended he couldn't)understand you, and then the underwear sales lady is all 'Oh you'd look great in that. And you know what, you can pull off a whip.' I'm sorry - what? 'Go on . . . try it.' My mother is right there. 'Where?' I don't know . . . somewhere.)

So, Becky and I watched this commercial 30 times last night, and then the 20 minute making-of video. It was done in one shot, with no computer tricking! (except for the part where the soap comes out of his hand, but still! That's amazing!) Enjoy!





*Am Macgyver of birth control!

Working, Sorta

I've got about ten thousand tax returns to do so naturally I've spent the entire morning cutting each individual split end of hair I have with the HR scissors. There's something about having a ton of work to do that makes me decide I have to be impeccable with my grooming. All through grad school I don't think I flossed once, and suddenly I get to work where a pile of files is waiting for me and decide I need to go brush each tooth in little circles thirty-two times and then floss before and after lunch. (Ok, I flossed in grad school.) (Just not in a crazy I-like-to-make-my-gums-bleed-to-avoid-this-asset-liquidation kind of a way.) And I think it's that you're supposed to chew your food thirty times before swallowing, not whittle down your teeth 'til they're see-thru, but still. You wanna see freshly combed arm hair? Come visit me during a deadline day.

It doesn't last long though, because explaining why I've been standing in front of the copier for half an hour inspecting my ironing job in the reflection of the toaster oven is getting harder and harder.

Me: File room, this is Amy.
Boss: What are you doing?
Me: **looks at scissors in my hand** Being thorough?
Boss: Finally someone is.
Me: **interesting**
Boss: Buzz me when you're done.
Me: You got it.

Or maybe it's not that hard. But still, I've got to stop stalling or I'm not going to have any hair left. Or teeth for that matter. And I like my teeth. They help with the eating. Plus I've got this chip in my front tooth that's almost unnoticeable, but I tongue it all day long hoping it'll wear away a little and make me look like a badass. Or at the very least some sort of pirate.

Boss: I think you'll just look like a homeless person.
Me: See this is why we only talk about work.
Boss: A gypsy homeless person.
Me: At least I'll be colorful. And Romanian-ish.
Boss: What do the Romans have to do with this?
Me: No, Romanians.
Boss: . . .Vampires?
Me: Exactly!

Sometimes we're all just stalling. Because after this, my boss did her makeup instead of reviewing a return with me. Those genes of hers run much stronger than I thought.

That's Right I Called Myself Mama, Because I Also Think About Creeping Becky Out As Much As Possible

So, I just checked my grocery list - which I keep at the ready on mah cell phone, because you never know when you're gonna be at the store, but you always know my phone will be there, it will be there for all of you - and apparently I have a problem with making good nutritious lists, because this one just says:

apples, bananas, oreos, rebecca gayheart

It's not so much that I don't have health things on there, it's that I have two healthy things and then a rapid decline to junk food, and a celebrity with lots of hair.




Hey Beck, just heading to the store need anything?

Can you get some Gayheart?

Already on my list!

I have no clue what she was doing mixed in with my grocery list, but it might have had something to do with this conversation Becky and I had the other night:

A: I love Eric Dane.

B: Cool.

A: He's about to be a daddy.

B: Oh that's right he's married to Rebecca Gayheart and she's preggers.

A: Yep.

B: She accidentally killed a kid.

A: I know. I actually think about that almost everyday.

B: I bet she does too.

Good point, Becky. Good point.

That and I also think about Rosie O'Donnell pulling at her neck hair on a daily basis. Not 9/11, or a black man getting elected . . . no, those don't penetrate my daily thoughts, but for some reason the Noxzema girl, and a slightly scary, craft-room-having gay woman creep in there without fail.

Mama needs to watch less TV and read more non-Vampire based books.

Sarah, Nels, T, Shelle, Jules

This song reminds me of you guys every time. I'm not even sure what it's about, it could be about drug dealers or the fall of the Roman Empire for all I know, but I love the video, especially because they look like and edgier version of the Jonas Brothers. And it has the word cousins in it so I immediately think, "Me and my cousins. . . gosh they're all so much insanely smarter than me and Becky. Wha happen?"

And then Becky thinks, "They're smart, yes, but that doesn't mean they're smarter. Maybe we're equally smart?"

And then I think, "Oh my god how did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Let me hear what you just thought?"

"I'm much smarter than you."

Ah, of course.

"And it's 'Becky and me'."

"Shut it."

This One is Rated R

Two birds just fucked on my window ledge.

Well, good morning to you too nature!

(Weirdest alarm clock ever)

And when I say f*&#ed I don't mean, made love, or copulated, or had sweet, tender bird intercourse - I mean they f-ed. They f-ed so loud it woke me up. It was rough, and it was hard, I think some biting was involved, there was definitely a forceful, animal rhythm, deep gutteral sounds I thought only dogs made, and at one point I could have sworn the boy bird grabbed a handful of the girl bird's hair and pulled her back to whisper "Do you like that?" (Ewww, I just creeped myself out!)

And of course I didn't just shoo them away and go back to bed for five precious minutes, instead I just sat there peeking out at them through a slit in my blinds, watching the whole thing happen at 5:45 in the morning before realizing I was the creepy-dawn-time-bird-sex watcher with no pants on.

It was like they had been out flirting at a bar all night, making out by the jukebox, and then came home hours after last call, in a bourbon haze to use all that built up, drunk, bird-sex tension and f&*# passionately on the kitchen floor. Except their kitchen floor is my window ledge.

(And for the record, I didn't take my pants off to watch the birds, they were already off.)

(Because it's hot here, not because I'm just pants-off, always-ready to do some peeping.)

Anyway, as different as a wake-up as that was, I'd much prefer something a little calmer to wake me up in the future. At the very least some light oral. I mean, if they have to.

Facts About Living Alone

Fact: If Becky does not spend the night at our house Crystal thinks its her job to wake me up at 3am and remind me. With heavy barking at the wall. Just staring all creepy-like and barking her spaceship poodle head at the wall.

Further fact: This never fails to send me into a full on 3rd grader mode of terror, wherein I'm convinced she's barking at the wall because there's a murderer hiding in it. Never mind the fact that the wall is only like five inches wide. This is clearly a skinny murderer. And one that apparently can pass through walls.

More facts: After I take a deep breath and a swig off the wine glass I brought with me (for protection?), and am brave enough to realize there's no real murderer in the wall, I immediately think Crystal is possessed and/or the murderer, and this is just her way of warming up to somehow killing me painfully and slowly, probably by turning into a demon murderer (because dogs can't kill, but they can turn into black, smokey monster people), and first she's just gonna mess me up psychologically by barking at a blank wall, then comes the murdering transformation from arthritic, deaf, cataracted old dog, to evil Hannibal Lecter.

Even more facts: Right before I'm about to cry and/or call number 3 on my speed dial and start screaming bloody murder Crystal will look up at me and start wagging her tail, before turning, licking my hand and walking all cute-like, her butt wagging back and forth to her little doggie bed at the foot of my own bed. At which, I will pretend I'm over it and climb into bed relieved. I'll climb in on the other side though, because she still could transform, if the wall tells her to.

Fact: I'm almost thirty.

Not On Anything

So, I've been on the pill for like twelve years. (Just kidding Dad, I'm waiting for marriage.) (Anyone's marriage. Anyone's at all.) (oh my god that was a bad jokes. sorry, it's early.)

Anyway, so I've been on the pill for like twelve years. But as I've said, I'm weaning myself off some things because I want to see what I'm like without all the stuff. Not that the pill is like mood altering drugs for schizophrenia or bipolar disorder or something, but for some reason in my head I'm sure it's like stopping your lithium, or going cold turkey on heroin. Probably because I've been taking it for so long, and am soooooo paranoid about it (you're welcome past boyfriends), like I've missed one pill in the entire decade (and that I only missed because I fell asleep before putting it in my mouth and then woke up at 3am, remembered, reached over to take it but dropped it into my suitcase, and then the water I was holding was apparently way too heavy for my sleepy hand to hold anymore, and so I slowly dumped it out onto my suitcase, in essence watering my pill that was planted in my vacation clothes (it stopped all suitcase babies). I guess my 3am brain thinks as long as the thing gets some water we're all good.)

So, because it has been such a staple in my life I felt really weird about stopping it, like I was actually going to visibly change, get fatter, or suddenly start growing blonde hair in my downstairs or something. I took my last pill, and threw it into the trash can in slow motion (well, I slowly lowered it in and pretended it was falling all on it's own in slow motion while I sang the theme from Chariots of Fire), and then called Becky in to look at my empty pack of pills.

"Why am I looking at trash?"

"That's my pill pack."

"Do you need me to go get you some more?"

"No, I'm done. I'm officially off the pill."

" . . ."

"I'm all natural Amy now."

". . ."

"Do I look different?"

"A little dumber."

"Don't hate because I'm fully a woman now."

"This is why I stay late at work you know. So we don't have to have talks like this."

"I think I'm changing right before your eyes."

"Good lord."


Anyway, it's been almost two months and so far I'm totally the same, except now just a little bit more pregnant.

Just kidding.

But I am not having my period (sorry all male readers!). Which is nice, I guess. Sorta. But also very weird. And I'm for sure not pregnant - I hear you have to have sex to get pregnant. Even still, just in case God decided to f with me and knock me up via immaculation, I've peed on anything with an absorbent tip in a five mile radius. So we're all good on the not having the Jesus baby front, but still . . . no period. Weird.

And you know how (and sorry again, to any remaining males who tried to soldier on) they say women get on each others cycles? Like, my mom used to get pissed when they'd all get on my cycle cause it meant I was the alpha dog, and she's the alpha always, she's the Cesar Milan of women's cycles (you have to just ignore it, just ignore your period and let it know you don't care that it's throwing a tantrum. then give it exercise.) - so I'm thinking maybe to get it to happen I should just go find someone who's Aunt Flo is visiting and press my pelvis up against their's. You know, just to get things started around here.

Or share a bed, and drink out of the same water cup as them or something, because this shit is weird. And was not one of the side effects that I was hoping for - "Do the curtains match the drapes?" "Not anymore!" Not that anyone except thirteen year old boys in movies about the 50s, talking about a red head, would ever say that but still, how cool would that have been!

Now, excuse me but I have to go stalk the feminine hygiene aisle of the grocery store so I can press myself up against a stranger buying some tampons. Or at least show the box to my baby making area and just hope that my period is drawn to the light blue box, like a moth to a flame.