A Post From Last Saturday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Working With My Mom...

Frequently goes something like this:

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


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

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

It Is The Most Important Meal

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

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

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




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

And a happy Saturday to you too!

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

Which is exactly what I would have done.

Ice Cube Knows What I Mean

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

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

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

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

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

Shumway Salsa

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

This salsa is so amazing!

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

But this salsa is so good!

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

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

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

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



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

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

Like You Talk About Other Things At Dinner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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





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

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

Watercooler Safety

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

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

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

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

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

Like Typing In Space

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

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

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

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

Like A Little Matthew Perry

Reason number 7 why I probably won't be mistaken for the gay one this week:

The puddle of drool around me that appears whenever I watch 17 Again and Zac Efron is shirtless. Or shirt-clad. Doesn't matter really, I know what's under there.



Reason why I will probably have to stay 500 yards away from elementary schools, and go around and introduce myself to all my neighbors as a creepy pervert:

See above.

Like Having A Trainer But Weirder

Just as I was about to be upset that I was getting passed up (for the second time) by a line of Army recruits on my very rainy run this morning, one of them smacked me on the butt and said, "Keep up the good work ma'am" and then took off to the front of the line.

I should be offended. But then again none of you has ever seen me sweaty and drenched in dirt and rain water - not the prettiest I've ever been. And dang it if I didn't finish my run a minute and a ten seconds faster than normal. See. . . objectifying women with a side of encouragement does do some good in the world.

Take The Stairs

You know how you have those moments in your life where you're like, "If only I'd taken the other elevator!" or "Oh my gosh I could have been on that plane, but I had to check my deodorant situation and ended up missing my flight and because I care about my body odor I didn't die!" Those moments? Well, I had one of those the other morning.

Ok, maybe it wasn't as serious as that, but it was pretty close. Or. . . it was looking at close from atop a mountain range with high visibility binoculars, but still - it could see it.

Anyway, it's 9am and I'm cooking chicken, and plugging in my iron, and turning on my hair straightener - because I like to do all hot things at once. If I had a dryer in my apartment that would be going too. Unfortunately, my timing was a little off and I had too much waiting for things to heat up time, so I decided I was gonna be even more productive and take the trash out (because Regis and Kelly was on commercial), and I get to the elevator and somehow - like by sheer force of gravitational evil - my keys leap out of my hand and fall down the mother loving elevator shaft. It was like a movie where something falls and you just wait to hear the crash, I don't know what I was waiting for - like maybe if I don't hear it, it didn't happen and the keys are still in my hand?

But I heard it.

Luckily, I was supposed to meet my manager right around that time anyway, and about thirty seconds later she comes out of the elevator looking mighty pissed. Then she sees me and says:

"I just dropped my keys down the elevator shaft."

Uh...what now? I think I actually spun around like, did I just say that and it came out of her mouth?

"No," I started. "I dropped my keys down the elevator shaft."

Pause where she looked at me much like I was looking at her.

"Just now?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's why I'm standing here in my pj's with Quiet Riot hair."

"Shit. I just dropped mine down there."

"Who is gonna let me into my apartment then?"

She shrugged, "We could try to lift the elevator?"

"We could try to lift the elevator?"

That's when I realized I was never getting back in. I would be stuck in my sister's 'Class of 2000' t-shirt, boxer shorts with bears on them, and black business socks forever. Correction - black business socks with bright orange bottoms, because that's what happens to them when you mop your floor with something bleach laden and then walk across it before you rinse it down. James was going to burn himself on my straightener, run to the kitchen sink for safety and water, trip on my iron which would land on my curtain, setting the whole place ablaze, and then, because it's on and I'm not there to watch it, the oven would explode.

"Well, shit," she said again. "Do you have anywhere to be today?"

"Just work."

She looked me up and down. "I guess you could wear my sweater."

"Can't we call a locksmith?"

"My phone is locked in my office, is yours hiding in your (**more looking my attire over**) hair?"

"No."

"Well, then this might be a while."

"But my cat and all the hot things!" I yelled at her.

"You have a cat?"

"No."

And thank god, before she could tell me cats were illegal in my building someone walked out of what was supposed to be her locked office and scared the bejesus out of us. Turns out her office wasn't locked after all, spare keys were found, and after what seemed like the longest elevator ride ever, I got into my apartment which was in tact and James was casually sleeping in my backpack like 'What? Oh it's just you. That chicken smells done.'

She didn't manage to lift the elevator herself, but the handy elevator people did it and got our keys back, along with a can of Budweiser (which is apparently a magic shape shifting can). And this is why I'll be glad when I move, because my elevator can summon things at will, and if I have to go to work one more time in my pjs I'm afraid people are gonna start to talk.

A Rash of Calls

I like medical stuff. I always watch when they draw blood, I don't shy away from asking the dentist what she's going to be stabbing with that three-pronged shiny metal thing, I started nursing school for goodness sake, and once, when we were about 8 and 7, I set Bub up in one of our parents recliners, positioned the needlepoint magnifying lamp over her open mouth and proceeded to retract a stubborn piece of plum from in between her molar gums because I care.

But, that doesn't mean I always like it or want to hear it. I'll spare you the phone call about someone's exploding something that sent blood flying all over something else, but a day after I got that phone call, I got this one:

Me: Hello?
Mom: Have I told you about my new rash?
Me: Mom?
Mom: Who else calls you?
Me: Lots of peop. . . you and Bub do. What do you mean your 'new' one?
Mom: Oh, it's been a weird year for me and my skin.
Me: Ew.
Mom: Don't ew me miss sends her sister a picture of her healing stitches everyday.
Me: She wanted to see it.
Mom: It's all over the place, and it's spreading even farther.
Me: Your new rash is?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Did you see the doctor?
Mom: Yes he told me to take these two pills and use this cream that smells like a lavatory.
Me: What?
Mom: No, not a lavatory.
Me: You smell like a bathroom?
Mom: That's not the right word . . . lavender.
Me: Those are totally different smells Mom.
Mom: I look like I have an allergic reaction.
Me: What did the doctor say it was?
Mom: An allergic reaction to this cream I was using for a different rash.

Thank you Lori. And so it went. Then, later on Bub called me:

Me: Hello?
Bub: Did mom tell you about her rash?
Me: Why does everyone want to start conversations with me that way?
Bub: We went to Starbucks together today.
Me: Does it look as bad as she says?
Bub: No. Well, it looks bad, but she doesn't look like a leper.
Me: I think lepers are missing limbs and chunks of skin and stuff.
Bub: Right, she doesn't look like that.
Me: Ok...
Bub: So, we walk in - me, her, and the rash - and she yells, right after she steps into the door, 'It's not contagious! DON'T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING AIRBORNE! I'm not contagious!'
Me: Nice.
Bub: We got free coffee though.
Me: You did?
Bub: No, but we should have. She looked gross.

Hot At 5am Is Too Hot

Dear Marathon Training in 85 degree weather,

Way to make a girl suicidal.


Sincerely,
The girl who was sweating so much she stopped mid-run at one point to yell, "My eyes! My eyes are burning!" and then had a (turned out to be) good-natured fellow jogger splash her in the face with Gatorade to try and help. It didn't. It just made me sticky.


So, when I woke up at 5am it was blazing, and I thought it won't be that bad outside, and then I got outside and proceeded to sweat my balls off for the next three hours.

Normally I love my long run days because I get a weird feeling of joy when I know I've worked so hard it's gonna be a struggle lifting that leg over the bathtub to get out of the shower, and because there's an odd sense of euphoria and ridiculous emotional stuff that comes after about mile 15 when I either want to break down sobbing because that tree is just so pretty, or start giggling uncontrollably because I've suddenly decided something my mom said to me the night before about her rash is hysterical. But today was not all fun and games. Today was so hot I was soaked before I finished my first mile. And I was sure Chicagoans must have sensed I was having a hard time today, and wasn't gonna make it without their support because for the first hour or so everyone that passed me smiled. Smiled big. And I smiled back. And said hi more than I usually do, because damnit, if they were rooting for me the I was too!

And then I stopped to refill my water.

I glanced down while I was trying to fight off the urge to strip naked and try to bathe myself in the water fountain and noticed my shirt was a lot wetter than I'd thought. And then I noticed it. Two huge wet circles right where my boobs live. It looked like I'd forgotten to put in my breast feeding pads and was leaking. Turns out if you carry your water bottle kinda up high and don't pay attention to how hard you squeeze it sometimes, it can leak. It can leak in some very noticeable spots.

Thanks for the support Chicago.

Anyway, the Gatorade throwing guy immediately said, "Oh shoot! I thought that was the one filled with water." It didn't matter, I was so hot he could have doused me with cool kerosene and I would have been fine with it.

By the time I finished my run I headed straight for the lake, stripping off my shoes and shirt as I walked, fairly certain this song started playing all around me in a building thing of song wonder(thanks weird running hormones) and dove into the freezing, icy, colder-than-actual-ice lake, and it was amazing. It was such a shock that it knocked the breath out of me and when I came up for air gasping, with a weird ice cream headache, an old woman who was inching her way in said, "Did you swim here dear?" I wanted to ask her where she thought I swam from, or just tell her yes, yes I did - but instead I just said no, I was hot, to which she said, "F yeah it is." She censored herself for me, which of course made me start to giggle and then I knew it was time to get home and eat something (everything) in my house.

It was really sucky most of the time, and I certainly don't ever want to run in that sort of heat again, but the lake, Gatorade guy, and the lady totally made it all seem worth it. Totally f-ing crazy. But worth it.

Not Hannah Montana

So, Gige went ahead and had that baby! She was all, "Ok, I'm ready. I don't wanna wait two weeks." And Hailey was all, "Fine, lets get that mucous plug out HOW ABOUT THAT?!"

We talked yesterday for an hour, her doctor said she was 3cm dilated but that it would probably be a few days and she should just go ahead and go to work tomorrow. So we were chatting about nothing really, maybe a little bit about how her life was going to change FOREVER, but other than that it was all - I'm so excited to see Time Traveler's Wife, and how she liked the smell of her loofah (seriously, the loofah took up a huge chunk of the conversation; we don't accomplish much in the way of world peace when we talk, but we do solve a lot of the world's problems regarding good things to smell).

Anyway, I started to get hungry and Gige was like, "Yeah I have to go to the grocery store but **yawn** I'm tired." Cut to a few hours later and she's bringing a human to life. All I did was vacuum. It seemed like a good accomplishment at the time but she just haaaaad to one up me.

And holy crap she did.


Goopy eyed babies are so dang cute. It makes my ovaries hurt just looking at this.


I got Bryan's text that he was a dad right before I went on my run this morning, and then proceeded to immediately lose my cool and cry at a stop sign. A homeless guy stopped to ask me if I was ok and I just nodded and told him my best friend had a baby, and he then asked me for a quarter.


These two people....



...made this.




And that, is pretty fucking awesome.

High-Five

So I threw my back out this weekend. (Because I'm 80 apparently?) And since I am the opposite of having my shit together when it's ninety in my house, it's the one time I decide to forget Advil exists. Normally I down that stuff like its M&Ms if I think I might get a headache, you know, someday. I once gave Gige a dose of what I take during a (sorry boy readers - or reader - hey Nels!) special lady week and she looked at me like I was trying to help her with some sort of friendly, way-too-early, Euthanasia.

Anyway, I made my way to 7-11 to get some Ibuprofen and when I walked in my neighbors were standing there chatting with the guy who runs the place, and who you have to scream at over the radio if Guns 'N Roses comes on because he turns it up so loud the wine bottles rattle and sometimes knock the milk cartons over.

"HEY! EMILY!" he shouted. "YOU LIKE NOVEMBER RAIN?!"
"I used to!" I screamed.
"WHAT?!"
"I love it!"
One of my neighbors walked up to us at the counter and high-fived me. I think. The second I slapped her hand I realized she was probably just waving hi.
"YOUR NAME ISN'T EMILY!" she yelled.
"It is when I get free ice cream from them."
"WHAT?"
"Nope it's totally not!"
When the song ended the volume got turned down but everyone was still semi-screaming, like when you leave a concert and are walking back to your car and you can hear some guy yell clear across the parking lot, "I DON'T CARE THAT YOU PUKED A LITTLE IN MY MOUTH. WHO HASN'T?"

I paid for my Advil and flaming hot cheetos, and waved to my neighbors and the 7-11 guy - waved like a little kid, up and down, something I haven't done since I was four - because I didn't want to have the same high-five/wave mix up again, which really just made me feel even more weird than if I'd just tongue kissed everyone goodbye. Just as I was backing out into the safety of oncoming traffic the guy said, "Emily! You stand up so straight!"
"Oh, yeah I tweaked my back a tiny bit, it's fine."
"You look so tall."
"It's probably just these pants."
"No, really. You stand up like that and you get a nice man."
"Uh. . . "
"Maybe you hurt your back, but you should keep doing it."
"I don't really think. . . "
"Yup. Nice man."

Thanks 7-11. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go lift a couch without bending my knees in case Ryan Reynolds walks by.


Also, have I mentioned Gige is gonna have a baby in like two days?!?! Ok, like two weeks, but that sucker is gonna fly by. She had her baby shower a few weeks ago and sent me some photos from it, her favorite being this one I like to call - "Amy in the background, discovers there's another pitcher of Sangria, and this one IS NOT getting spilled on the white carpet."




So excited for it I answer the phone, "Are you in labor?" every time she calls, and when she says no I hang up. Because maybe if she feels offended it'll speed things up.

Some Days We Talk About Politics And The Meaning of Life, All The Others - Not So Much

People always ask me if it's hard to be so far away from my sister (ok, people don't ask me that, maybe *a* person has asked me, and it's fairly likely that person was my sister herself, but still...) and I always tell them, No. Not so much. Not because I don't love that little sucker, but because I talk to her more now than I did when we lived in the same city. We usually talk at least once a day, but today was one of the ones where we talked five - oh yeah that's right, FIVE - times. Nothing thrilling happened, there was no major catastrophe or something exciting going on in our family that we just had to talk about (even that day we found out our older sister went off and eloped - for the third time - even that day we only talked once, and I'm pretty sure the rushed wedding came as filler in between talking about the latest episode of Weeds and me making her listen to James meow).

And from the following conversations it's pretty safe to assume the two of us decided talking to each other about nothing is actually making us dumber, just like when we read Twilight. Melon-sized scoops out of the brain.

Me: Hey what's up?
Bub: MYCABLEWON'TWORKIDON'TKNOWWHATTODO!
Me: What?!
Bub: MYCABLEWON'TWORKIDON'KNOWWHATTODO!
Me: Unplug it.
Bub: I don't know where the outlet is.
Me: Unplug it from the box.
Bub: Oh.
Me: Did you do it?
Bub: Yeah. But, I just ate dinner staring at the blue screen because I didn't know how to fix it.
Me: Seriously?
Bub: When I eat dinner I'm supposed to be sitting here staring at something on tv.
Me: . . .
Bub: That's really sad. Isn't it?
Me: A little.


And then, later on. . .

Bub: What are you doing?
Me: Nothing. What are you doing?
Bub: Nothing.
Me: I'm lying.
Bub: You're doing something aren't you?
Me: James and I are playing with my magnet pen.
Bub: Oh, Jesus. . .
Me: It's so fu. . . he's so cu. . . you should see how he jumps . . .
Bub: . . .
Me: Shut up.
Bub: I didn't say anything.
Me: I hear you making fun of me.
Bub: You're playing with a magnet!
Me: You watched the error signal!


Tomorrow we talk about Michelle Obama's muscles and how to get melted peanut butter out of your favorite pajama pants - you know, the important stuff.

Bigger IS Better

Oh my gosh I've got a lot of catching up to do. I've got about eight posts started that I just haven't finished because a) I'm training for a marathon again which makes me constantly sleepy; b) I'm stupid - see a; c) There's four seasons of Felicity out there and since I have a terrible memory re-watching it is like watching a whole new show, except I do have the same distinct feeling of anxiety waiting for her hair to grow out again; and d) How exactly does one start a post about how one's mother told her she doesn't know where her underwear comes from - it just appears in her drawers looking the way one's mother's boyfriend wants them to look?

Anyway, I know no one wants to hear about James and the shower and blah, blah, blah, but he's stopped doing it. He now just sits dutifully on the toilet (lid up or down, doesn't matter, that's where he sits) (and consequently, that's where he falls into at least once a week). Except! Except today he decided to try it out again, climbed right on in and (here's where it gets good) proceed to bat at/attack the bubbles from my soapy runoff. Like he was pouncing all over the tub, so much so that I had to back away for a while so he could get a pesky bubble that was floating away from him. CUTEST DAMN THING EVER. I swear to god, my unborn children have a lot of f-ing cute to live up to.

Here's a photo from Catalina just to let you know what sort of things I'll be posting in the upcoming week. I call it, "But they got bigger too! Why shouldn't we test them out?"

I Should Just Let It Air Dry Anyway

So, I have this hair dryer that I got about ten years ago, right before I moved to Arizona. It's all duct taped together because I lent it to someone in 2001 and they broke the heck out of the plastic but I still needed to use it and it survived all this time. Until, you know this morning when I was blow drying my hair and the thing caught on fire about three inches from my head.

(I didn't have a camera with me, but this is pretty much what it looked like)


It took me a solid five seconds to realize what was happening as I kept the sucker running and just looked around me like, what the heck is that smell? Then I caught a reflection of the flames and smoke in the mirror, dropped it into the sink, and luckily had the good sense not to turn the faucet on to put out my plugged in electrical appliance.

(Again, this is exactly what it looked like)


Yesterday I literally said to it, "You're the best blow dryer ever. You'll never die." And there are two things I learned from that, a) apparently saying that is like saying, "Wow we're making great time, we haven't hit any traffic at all!" and then you get stuck on the 405 for like ninety million hours, and b) I need to start hanging out with people more if I'm talking to my appliances.

I just tried it again to see if it would catch on fire again. It did. In other news, I should not be allowed to operate heavy, or semi-delicate machinery, or maybe even babysit if I'm trying to see if things will burst into flames again.

Not Just All Night Long, But An Entire 24 Hours Of Loving

Last night just after I'd gotten off the train at the Thorndale stop (someone peed on the train so I got off a stop early to avoid it rolling toward me - I don't wanna hear it brown line riders!) a guy, and what I'm imagining was his crew, stepped in front of me and said, "Hey baby you need some hot loving tonight?" I did, but declined with a polite "No thanks" because I already knew it would never work between us - he had glittery pants. "Hot loving? I will hold you for 24 hours." Which I thought was really nice of him - to specify the amount of time. 23 hours, too little. 25 hours, forget it I'm bored already. But 24 hours of being held by someone who I just noticed also had glittery shoes, well that would be the perfect amount of holding. But again I declined because, well because he was most likely a drug dealer, b) I don't just let anyone hold me, c) the glittery pants and shoes, and d) I had the sinking feeling the crew would want to hang around.

So I walked around them and started on my way home with the crew muttering, "Damn" and "That's some shit", and then just before I was out of earshot glitter pants said, "Just the holding then?" and I turned the corner totally giggling, and totally glad I live off the red line - you just don't get propositioned like that off the other lines. You don't get that, and you don't get pee on your trains so I guess we both sort of win.

Are We There Yet?

Seriously. Where else is it ok for the police to ride around in a golf cart chasing down people high on meth and then pepper spraying half the crowd while trying to wrastle said meth guy into the cart, then the pepper sprayed crowd decides the ice cream place is more interesting and leaves to wait in line for something gigantic and covered in whip cream and caramel, only to wash it down with margaritas half an hour later.
Catalina: where stomachs go to die.

New Habits

Did I ever tell you guys about the time I went on a road trip to my grandma's wedding and on that road trip is when I discovered my mom's arms were broken? No, I didn't? Well, it's true. That's the only explanation for why she never carried her own bags, opened her own car doors, or cut her own meat. (Ok, she doesn't eat meat. But if she did she wouldn't have cut it herself I can tell you that much.) Lucky for her, she's got a boyfriend who can do all that stuff for her, otherwise she'd just be stuck in that car forever.

Upon arrival to the hotel Bub and I walked up to the doors behind our mom and then slammed into one another when she stopped suddenly at the glass doors. Once I pried my nose out of Bub's back, and she disengaged from the weird mother-daughter sandwich we had just made, we turned to look at our mom who was just sort of eying the door suspiciously, like it was some alien life form she'd never seen before. I half expected her to start sniffing it to see what it was made of.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Why aren't you opening the door?"

"Oh my god," Becky said. "She doesn't do things for herself."

"Excuse me?"

"I had to carry all her luggage in the airport."

"Why?"

"She doesn't carry things anymore."

"Shut up."

"Yeaup."

We carried on like this for a while, talking about our mother like she wasn't standing right there with her arms crossed, smiling at us, amused we were noticing her new weird habits. I don't know why exactly but somehow she's decided Eduardo being chivalrous and opening doors and stuff for her has turned into something her daughters have to do too. Suddenly my tough, jeans-only wearing, here-let-me-carry-that-you-big-baby, dirt-digging mother has turned into a pretty little princess. There's nothing wrong with guys doing nice things, I'm pro everyone doing nice things for each other, but there's opening doors and then there's turning my mom into someone who will stand at a door waiting for someone to open it for her, even though her boyfriend is halfway across the parking lot still. Like a maniac.

"Eduardo likes to do those things for me," my mom said starting to laugh (I hope) because she realized how crazy she was sounding. "Isn't that right baby!" she called, and Bub and I turned to see Eduardo still at the car, piling himself with duffel bags, and trying to figure out how to balance one on his head while he walked.

"I know that's right!" he called back.

She laughed and then he started to laugh. At least I think he was laughing, it was too hard to tell with that strap in his mouth. Bub and I just stared at her shaking our heads.

"I miss normal," I said opening the door and letting Bub in.

"No you don't," my mom said. "Normal would mean I'd have my chore list out by now."

"We're in a hotel!"

"Your point?"

"You don't get to come in this door after me. You can open it yourself," I said pulling the door shut behind me.

"That's fine," she called through the glass. "Eduardo will be here just as soon as he picks up those bags!"

And so went the trip. Becky and I got everywhere five minutes faster than my mom because we can open doors for ourselves, but she couldn't care less. And she's right. If she's so happy she's not making me use the dust buster she brought along with her to vacuum the hotel room floor, then who am I to judge. I should just let her be spoiled and live in the peace that comes with a giggly, happy mom - it's totally worth all the crazy.

Two Pitchers of Sangria

I sort of drunk dialed my mom last night. Which was weird. She didn't seem to mind and/or notice so that's good. Chances are she was a few drinks in herself and was trying to hold her shit together while I tried to hold my shit together. Technically I wasn't really drunk, I was more like very happily tipsy, but still it was enough to loosen me up so that I'm pretty sure I said:

"That Star Trek movie rocked my fucking socks off. I want all the seasons of Star Trek for my birthday asap!"

She then informed me my birthday was ten months away.

To which I replied, "You think I'm gonna stop loving it?"

Yes, she did.

"Never!"

Turns out I woke up this morning and I'm suddenly re-thinking my position on the whole Star Trek love thing. She might be right. I liked it, but I didn't like it that much. Not enough that I was willing to commit myself to it for long enough that we'd get to the point where we would have to start talking about where this was going, and whether or not we wanted to move in together. The Sangria on the other hand . . . that stuff I will love forever.

Doing It

James just ate something crawly. Apparently whatever it was is incredibly tasty because he keeps licking his lips and scanning the walls for more of them. The good thing about having a cat is I always know there's a spider in the house before it's crawling on me. He's like a guard dog for all things under three inches. So, watch out tiny, little murdering men! My cat will most likely bat you around for a while and then get bored and eat you right before he decides it's time to give my shin a good licking.

So, my grandma got married this weekend! Yay! My mom, Bub, and Eduardo all flew out to Chicago first and hung out for a night before we rented a car and drove to Battle Creek, Michigan for the ceremony and so many meals consisting of 90% cheese I might be producing milk soon.

Battle Creek is where the Kellogg plant is, and from the looks of the town that's pretty much the only thing there aside from a few heavily bearded dudes offering my sister and me pitchers of their "special brew". We took a chance and they didn't end up to be roofied so that was good. Plus we drank it and then left immediately so we figured - well, if we're drugged at least we'll be drugged alone in our hotel room, the only bad thing about that is if one of us doesn't have the strength to turn off The Hills we're definitely leaving stupider than we arrived.

The cool thing about the town though is that the air smells sweet from all the cereal making going on. Like, you walk outside and it smells like waffles and syrup, and the people smell like powdered sugar. Ok, the people don't smell like that, but you'd think some of it would sink in after a while. It makes normal air smell real boring.

The lake we had a picnic at was really pretty.


For some reason (lots of beers) I didn't end up taking many pictures (except of my mom drunk), but we had a really good time (lots of rum punch), and the ceremony was really sweet and love-filled (except for the awkward getting communion my sister and I were planning on skipping but then somehow ended up in the line and got the bread but missed the dang wine!), and my grandma seemed so, so, so happy and that's what's important! Plus she probably did it! At 83 she's doing it! I hope I'm doing it at 83. I hope we all are.

Tacky

I got a cork board yesterday to hang above my desk, and as I was checking out the seventeen year old girl scanning my stuff said, "Oh I just got one of these for my desk!"

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I tacked up pictures of the cast of The Wire."

"The Wire? You watch that?"

"Yeah! Omar is my favorite."

"The gay gangster?"

(long pause as she stares at me in shock) "He's gay?"

"Shouldn't you have pictures of Zac Efron up? Cause that's what's going on mine."

"He's really gay . . . wait, Zac Efron? How old are you?"

"That's not important."

"You're like twenty years older than him right?"

(**complete silence as I stare her down willing myself not to scream I AM NOT IN MY FORTIES!**)

"Omar is gay and you're too young to watch that show."

"You're too old to like Zac Efron."

"You're too sassy to be a register girl."

"We're called cashiers!"

"I'm called 29!"



I actually liked her a lot after that. She was sassy, but she was fun. And we have the same cork board, so there's that.

Getting the cork board up by myself - not so fun. Turns out it's a lot harder than it seems, and I was pretty sure it was going to take all of two minutes and then I could start tacking things with wild abandon. Not so much. I documented the process to keep from crying every time it fell.

First attempt:



The sucker swung like that for a good five minutes, knocking everything off my desk, breaking a picture frame, but apparently not fazing James in the least.

Second attempt:
It fell on my toes and I have no photo of that as I was probably cursing more than my mom at a holiday party.

Third attempt:


At least this time it fell straight down and took nothing with it except a chunk of my wall.

Finally! Many hours later, I got the thing up and had a (much needed) glass of wine to celebrate! (That glow in the corner isn't a lamp, it's God shining on my handiwork with pride.)

Disposable Razors Worked Just Fine

Walking back from the lake today I saw three (yeah - THREE) used condoms, strewn all out and about. Apparently summer is here and Chicagoans are taking advantage of the warmth and doing it. Outside.

Once at home, I settled in with a nice cup of hot tea. Just as good as doing it in the street - and by 'just as good' I mean, a stupid idea. It's 80 degrees outside! And probably hotter in what I'm now calling The Apartment That Hates Sheltering Me From Weather Or Letting Me Go A Single Night Without Hearing Mariah Carey Blasting From The Rehab Center Next Door. Anyway, tea was not my smartest move. Ice cubing my feet however, very smart. So, as I was leaning over to ice, I glanced at my arm and saw this long black hair, like way too long to be an arm hair on me, a man - yes, a monkey - sure, me when I was in sixth grade - absolutely (I had long dark hair until high school for some reason, it did not make my childhood any more pleasant I can tell you that, but it did lead to an odd period of shaving my arms, and then being grounded for several months because I refused to stop shaving my hairy monkey arms).

I freaked out for a minute until I realized I live with a cat and it had to be one of his hairs. But then I pulled at it and it didn't just come with me because it was stuck in my arm! It wasn't a cat hair, it was my hair and so I freaked out some more and followed it down to my skin, because I clearly I needed to see where this sucker was coming from. - I tried to remember if I used shaving cream when I shaved my arms, because clearly I was going to have to start it up again. I know for sure I once used shampoo and conditioner.

Anyway, I find that the thing is coming out of what looks like a mole! What?! GROSS. I deserve to be made fun of. You know who has stuff growing out of moles? Witches. And seventy year old men that smell like Old Spice. But then suddenly the mole came off in my hand and I'm like, "Oh great! Now my skin is just coming off in chunks and I am like a leper, or a G.I. Joe where you can detach things if you just manage to snap the rubber band that holds his legs on to his pelvis." But I look closer (because I'm still holding the thing for some reason) and I realize (thank god), it's not a mole . . . it's a piece of melted chocolate and one of James' hairs stuck to it! Yay! No arm shaving necessary! Freak out can stop!

However, I will be watching myself more closely when I eat because I'm pretty sure I had showered in between eating the chocolate and finding the hair thing. Unless James was eating it, in which case, I'm gonna have to find a new hiding spot.

I Took It Right Back Out Of The Trash Though - It's Really Good Tea

It turns out you can't boil water if there's no water in your pot. It also turns out I do not function very well without a nap. Apparently I'm like a very tall, very talkative three year-old.

Once I got the water in the pot I was standing near the stove reading the tea box and the fourth step in how to brew a cup of tea is "Steep for 5 minutes while contemplating your favorite internal mysteries." and I was like - well that's different. My internal mysteries. What's going on inside there. What is going on in there? Clearly my heart is beating, that's a good thing. Blood pumping, I'm pretty sure my muscles are mostly at rest, I'm a little hungry. I wonder what my pancreas is doing right now? But then I realized that seemed way too medical for a tea box, they must have meant internal mysteries like - who am I, really? On the inside. But that made me just want to throw the box in the trash because I do not need that kind of pressure from my warm drinks.

I gave the thing one last glance before chucking it and saw that it was not favorite internal, but was in fact, "contemplate you favorite eternal mysteries". Which I guess sorta makes more sense, sorta, but not enough. And I don't have any favorite eternal mysteries so I threw it away anyway for being weird.

Not Ever

I'm getting over a cold right now, and that mixing with the new spring time is making my sinuses hurt like a sonofabitch. This was my Mom's medical advice:


M: Get yourself a neti pot.
A: What?
M: A neti pot.
A: You get yourself a neti pot.
M: It works, you'll thank me.
A: What is it?
M: It a thing. . . it sort of looks like Aladdin's lantern
A: Keep talking.
M: Or sometimes it looks like a tea pot.
A: Ok, not as good but go on
M: And you put water in it with this little packet of salt. Or maybe its minerals. I'm not sure. It's a white packet of stuff with water. Mix it up, then you tilt your head to the side and pour it in one nostril-
A: What? No.
M: Then it comes out the other-
A: No, no, no.
M: Nostril. It clears everything-
A: No way.
M: Out and makes you feel-
A: No no no no no no no.
M: So much better.
A: . . .
M: . . .
A: I don't think so.
M: Trust me.
A: No, there's no way. . . I don't like it.
M: But don't forget to put the packet in other wise it hurts. It's a world of hurt. I was screaming so loud Eduardo thought I fell in the shower.
A: You have to do it in the shower?
M: It was like a sharp burning-
A: What is the packet again?
M: White stuff. Salt maybe? Like I said, I don't know.
A: Cocaine?
M: No honey.
A: Do you think that's why you didn't hurt? Because you're too high to notice?
M: No way, I saw someone doing it on TV.
A: If you saw someone jump off on a building on TV would you do that too?
M: You're ridiculous.
A: You're pouring stuff in and out of your nostrils!
M: BECAUSE IT HELPS!
A: . . .
M: Sometimes I do it even when I'm not having sinus trouble.
A: Ok. . .
M: I do.
A: I don't doubt it.



I just looked it up. And now I especially don't like it!

http://www.himalayaninstitute.org/NetiPot/NetiPotInstructions.aspx


(the woman in the video looks like a robot. or a hostage. whatever it is, she does not make the whole process seem fun that's for sure.)

Almost Mastered

I just turned in my thesis.

There was no explosion of banners swaying, or confetti falling, or brass band blowout like I had expected (in my head the band is the band from the 1962 movie The Music Man, and everyone is sort of sherbet orange-looking the way technicolor makes people in movies look like oompa loompas). The girl we're supposed to hand them in to wasn't there so I just dropped it in her box and then looked around smiling, hoping I could at least high five someone, but no one was around, and I kinda felt like when teachers used to post grades outside of their doors and you would go with your friend to check and you stand there surrounded by people running your finger down til you find your name, and then scan over to see it's not just a B, it's a B+, and you thought for sure you were going to get a D, and you turn around already mid-scream, "Chels, I got a B mother fucking plus!" and realize your friend is gone and you're screaming your grade right into the face of your professor who is waiting for you to move so he can unlock his room and get in there for office hours; and then you get all mad at your friend and say something irrational like, "Don't walk away from me when my back is turned to you", or something and she's all, "Uh, I told you I was gonna go stand by the vending machine", and then you're all, "Whatever," because you were embarrassed but you don't really want to ruin the good feelings you just had about passing so you ignore the fact she just made you look like a fool, and decide not telling her she has a leaf and part of a spider web in her hair will make things even, and you say, "I got a B+! Whoo!" and she high fives you and you're happy again.

Anyway, that's how I was feeling standing there with my thesis all turned in and no one around me. I turned back and stared at it for a moment, almost as if I was waiting for it to burst into flames. Or start to glitter. Something, anything, and then I would say, "Ah, this is it. This is what I've been waiting for. Two years of hard work, and sixty thousand dollars of debt, this thing better glow in the dark too."

After a while I realized nothing was really going to happen, so I gave my thesis a little love tap and walked down the hall. On the way out I passed by a man who was carrying a bucket of something and said, "I just turned in my thesis." Nothing. "For my master's."

Without stopping he said, "Oh well, I got a bucket of cream cheese I'm taking to the second floor."

"Well, congratulations!"

He did not like me.

At least he has a job. I just have lots of debt. Well, lots of debt and a thesis. And pretty soon I'm going to have a burger and a few pitchers of beer and that, THAT, is going to make it seem totally worth it.

He'd Be So Cute In Scrubs Too!

So I went to bed feeling a little under the weather and woke up with a sore throat and an achy feeling. I didn't think much of it until I remembered I just saw a friend of mine who saw a friend of his who has relatives who know where Mexico is and suddenly my throat started to swell up and I was sneezing all over the place. I'm not one to freak out about worldwide sickness panic, but then I also realized I had just eaten some bacon recently and I'm not an expert on how things travel, like if there's a blood brain barrier it has to cross over or something, but I didn't want to risk it. I called my mom to double check and just reassure me everything was going to be ok (which looking back on it was kinda stupid on my part considering this is a woman who would scream, "Do NOT get blood on my carpet!" at her children.)

"Hi honey."
"Hi Mom."
"Why do you sound like you've been drinking?"
"I think I have the swine flu."
"You do not have the swine flu."
"How do you know?"
"You don't even sound sick."
"You just said I sounding as if I'd been drinking."
"That's fun honey. Not sick. But you shouldn't be drinking so early."
"I'm not drinking I haven't even had breakfast. . . Do you think I should get a medical mask for James?"
"Oh no. If he's got it he's already a goner."
"Mom!"
"Is there something you wanted to talk about, I'm late for my nail appointment."
"Nope. Just my impending doom."
"Ok, bye."


After that I did what I always do when I'm unsatisfied with her motherliness and called my sister.

"Yo."
"Hey Bub. I woke up sick. I think I have the swine flu."
"I'm sick too."
"Well, don't call mom for sympathy. She's getting her nails done."
"Why would you call mom for sympathy?!"
"I know."
"And she's not getting her nails done. I'm on the other line with her."
"What?!"
"I'm on the other-"
"Oh I heard you."
"Mom for sympathy **probably shaking her head at me**, that's rich."
"Sonofabitch, she's not getting her nail done?"
"No."
"Do you think I should get a medical mask for James?"
"Come on . . . if he's got it he's already a goner."
"Did she tell you to say that!"
"No, but she did tell me to see if you sounded drunk."
"I'm not drinking. I'm sick!"
"You sound swollen."
"What? What does that even . . . who sounds swollen?"
"Uh oh. Mom got cut off and now she's calling me back. I gotta take this."
"Fine. Tell her she can just hang up with me. She doesn't need to lie."
"Ok."
"You're not going to tell her are you?"
"Not on your life."


I called a few more people and no one thinks I have the swine flu, though a few people were kind enough to suggest the Avian flu and/or SARS. (Thanks Dad and Grandma!) I think I should still get some sort of protective gear for James just in case. I mean, I know he falls into my toilet a few times a week, and he's currently pouncing around in the parts of my wall that have fallen off on the floor, but still - you can never be to careful.

Horrorscope

The other day my horoscope told me it was a good day to buy a computer.
Uh . . . what? I know horoscopes are not specific to me, that they encompass all of the Aries category (or just all of any category. Any category at all. Baseball gloves if they must.) but I usually like to pretend they only apply to me - as if some psychic is out there channeling what my day is going to be like and then sending me an email every day to let me know I should be grateful for someone close to me, or try to take things easy, or be brave with my new venture. (And I am. I'm always brave with my new ventures. The other day I got my burger cooked medium instead of medium-well and I was brave about it. It turned out awesome.) And I'm actually really happy with these vague descriptions because I can morph them into my life and a part of me starts thinking the thing is actually, totally talking to me. Directly.

But it has it's downside too because if I read my horoscope in the morning and it says something like, "Things won't go your way today", I get totally devastated. I'm not really sure I was going to leave the house at all, so how could things not go my way, but somehow I'm sure I'll be devastated nonetheless and it ruins my morning.

But. . . But! If the horoscope is gonna get all specific on me, and out of the blue say something like, "You should buy a computer today", then I Have No Idea What To Do With Myself! I can't trust that. That can't be morphed into anything resembling my life! Clearly I'm not going to go out and buy a computer, and I can't even pretend computer meant ice cream Snickers bar (though if it did it would have been dead on). So now my faith in those suckers are completely gone until they start getting vague again. So vague it could possibly even apply to my cat if I want it to.

In other news my walls are melting off due to an insane amount of water damage.

When I mentioned it to my manager she just sighed and said, "I know. I'm sorry," and walked away. As if her horoscope had said, Someone will tell you their apartment is falling apart today - there's nothing you can do about it so relax and take some time for yourself. A bubblebath maybe.

Mystery Bulb

This weekend I went to a party at my friend's house where we were all supposed to dress like we were in Jr. High. Since I couldn't find my head gear or suddenly contract a crippling case of acne and self-consciousness about being two feet taller than all my teachers, not to mention the boys (my jr high boyfriend once stood on a chair to dance with me at our spring fling - very hot), I ended up wearing a jean vest with capped sleeves and a DARE button. The weird part was when I was traveling to my friend's house, no one seemed to notice the vest. Like not even a second glance, and I was prepared to start defending myself all over the place, but it was as if the denim vest was perfectly normal outer wear. I think this means I can wear it again, like for real.

My other favorites were one of my friends had actual pumps - those shoes with the little basketball on them that you squeeze and it fills some sort of air chamber with power. She'd be in the kitchen mixing drinks and stop suddenly to say, "Wait. I need to pump up."
Then my two other friends who showed up as goth (I miss that look) and a dude with a tight necklace, and a visor. It was awesome, especially because I don't think guys can get away with necklaces anymore unless they're Italian. Or Gabi's boyfriend.

When I went to make my final drink of the evening I started pouring and all of a sudden a lightbulb popped up along with my ice cubes. The cup had never left my hand so it's not like someone could have dropped it in there as a joke, and I looked around shocked, as if it had fallen from the ceiling, or like maybe I had just won something. But it hadn't fallen, and I didn't seem to be getting any sort of prize so I did the next logical thing and checked the 2 liter Sprite bottle. There wasn't anything lightbulb-like in there, and I tried fitting the thing back into the bottle to see if it could have even squeezed out of there but it couldn't. I found goth and necklace guy on the balcony and after just a few moments of thinking about it, it was decided that the surprise lightbulb fell out of the ice dispenser on the refrigerator. Sure enough, that's what it was. Thank god for them, because I was certainly never going to figure that out. I would have gone through a whole weird leprechaun scenario before I got to something logical like it coming from the fridge.

And that's probably why I never made it on the debate team in Jr. High - because "Maybe it was magic?" just doesn't hold up when you're trying to win an argument, no matter how tall or awkward you are.

I'm Taking The Stairs From Now On

I got stuck in my elevator last night with a guy who was delivering food to someone in the building. At the first slight shifting of the little cabin we were in, I reassured the delivery guy this always happens and he shouldn't worry about it, we'll be fine. He nodded and occupied himself by reading the writing carved into the elevator door, whispering the words to himself as he scanned down, "Dear Coont?"

"Oh," I said correcting him. "It's cunt. Dear cunt face."

"Dear cunt face," he continued. "Fuck you." I nodded and shrugged like, What are you gonna do? Elevators, am I right! But before he could laugh along with me the elevator started shaking and knocking back and forth. We weren't just stuck, we were stuck and now the elevator felt like it was having a seizure. I reassured him again that this was totally normal, there's no need to panic, it does this all the time. But he was getting sweaty and I was getting nervous and the thing would not stop rattling it's ass off, and after about a solid minute the dude hunched into a little ball in the corner and covered his head with his hands.

"I don't know if that's really going to help anything," I said. He ignored me and just stayed hunched, and after a moment, so as not to feel rude, I crouched in the other corner next to him. The shaking stopped and after a few minutes he decided it was safe to take his arms down from around his head and look around - Yep, still in the elevator. He told me we could always eat the food he was supposed to be delivering if we were in here for too long and then before I could answer, he proceeded to rip open the plastic bag and devour an entire egg roll in a single bite.

"Yeah, I don't think we're gonna be in here that long. . ." I started, but he was digging into the fried rice with such wild abandon that suddenly I started to get nervous. What if we were trapped in here for a long time? This guy was eating all of our rations! How was I supposed to survive? "Slow down," I said. "Maybe you should save some." He stopped and looked down at the food.

"But it'll get cold."

The man had a point.

Plus, if I didn't start eating, he was going to eat it all and then later I'd be forced to eat him because I'd be more hungry than him, and he'll be all plump and full of won tons, and I'd be tearing into human flesh for my own survival and peeing in the corner and none of that sounded fun at all so I grabbed a container and started eating the chow mein with my fingers, and he nodded at me like, this is how we're gonna make it.

That's when the rattling started up again and he began wildly shoveling rice into his mouth as if it would pad the blow when we hit eight floors of cement below us. But we weren't plummeting. The rattling this time was just the doors being pried open by my landlord and her husband who stood there staring at the two of us, hunched together in a corner, our mouths full of Chinese food, and our fingers covered in soy sauce.

"We were trapped in here for a while and got hungry," I tried to explain.

"You were in there for five minutes."

"Well, he freaked me out," I said standing up and made my way out of the elevator. "It felt longer."

The delivery guy got up and stepped out of the elevator. We both stood there awkwardly as if we should hug goodbye or something. Instead he just handed me the menu and walked away. I almost yelled out, "I'll always remember you!" but I didn't because my landlord was still standing there (judging me). And because I'm pretty sure I'll get stuck again, and if I'm lucky maybe the next guy will have pizza.

You Know How I Know I've Been Watching Too Much Alias?

Not because I've seen the first three seasons in the past week (that thesis is coming along swimmingly, thanks), but because I've been waking up every night at 4am and momentarily questioning James's identity. I freak out and gasp when I see him sitting on top of me, convinced he's a spy in a very good disguise, until I wake up a little and realize he really is a cat, a cat with claws in my stomach, and then I spend a moment whispering my thoughts to him about how I can probably make it to the bathroom without being in the cross hairs of some sniper rifles if I just duck and roll through the hallway past the open windows. I'm usually too sleepy to roll, so I just shuffle really fast and hope they're thrown off by the state of my hair to actually fire on time.
"I've got a shot, I'll take it on thre-what the crap is on her head?"

I know Lent is over this weekend, but I didn't give anything up, so I'm extending it this year and giving up Alias for a month, quick before I start demanding an eye scan on my friends to prove they are who they say they are. I thought about asking them personal details like, "What did we do on Monday?" Ate and drank. "Oh yeah. Well, what did we do on Friday?" Ate and drank. "You're good. You're real good." - but clearly that won't work, so no Alias it is. No more for a month.

After I finish just this one more episode.

Cookie Time (*sung to the tune of the song 'cookie time' from the 1989 hit Troop Beverly Hills)

I had a birthday recently - a birthday in which both my parents asked me how old I was going to be.
Uh. . . you birthed me. You made me (thanks again for getting that vasectomy reversed Dad!) and then I was born 7 months later, you of all people should remember how old I am! Then they both went into some weird laughing thing and my mom said:
"Oh honey, you expect me to remember something from thirty years ago? I can't even remember what I had for breakfast."
"Twenty-nine! You can't remember something from twenty-nine years ago you mean."
"I'll love you no matter how old you are."

Like that makes it better. She's always giving me love. How about some money? Or some Girl Scout cookies? I told Bub that all I wanted for my birthday was some Girl Scout cookies shipped out to me because for some reason I cannot find a Girl Scout here to save my life. I've even internetted where they would be selling them, but then snow storms hit and apparently it's not "safe" to set up a booth in such "dangerous" weather. Can't they get a badge for selling in the elements?

Anyway, Bub's response to my birthday request was, "Why don't you get your own?"

Oh. Well, happy birthday to you too.

"Didn't you just ask what I wanted?"
"I'm not getting you that. Go to the store and find some little girls in green."
"DON'T YOU THINK I'VE TRIED THAT?"
"Whatever. Mom and I are going to the movies, think about what you want and call me later."
"Fine, have fun. I'll talk to you la-"
"I love you."
"Aw, I love you t-"
*click*
"-oo."

She hardly ever says I love you first. Not because she doesn't, but because I'm much more of the gooey sister. Sometimes I'll say it if I know she's at work because she'll always say it back, but doesn't like to have anyone hear her so she'll just sort of mumble it really fast then remind me later not to make her display affection when other people are around.

So, I didn't get any Girl Scout cookies, and I still haven't caught up with those elusive little suckers, but when I do I'm gonna buy every box they have, I'm gonna tell them they deserve extra patches for being so wonderful, and then I'm going to ship a box to my mom and my sister, but not until I've taken the biggest, fattest sharpie I can find and written, in really big letters all over the box, I LOVE YOU TOO.

A Lady Cop Friend Told Me If I Blogged Again She'd Have Anyone I Wanted Arrested. The List Is Shorter Than I Thought.

James has decided my chair is now his chair, and my food is now his food. He has been sitting in my favorite chair the past few days. A chair I had been trying to teach him the wonders of for the previous eight months, but he would have none of it! Not when there's a cupboard under the sink to be sleeping in! But now . . . now, that it's cold (Again. Cold again. We'd been having a really nice warm spell [the high 40s people!] and then Sunday I woke up and the land was covered with snow. Before I was could register what I was looking at my brain was like, "Oh shit. Someone moved the island, we're back in time to Christmas." But then I looked around and realized that lump under my covers wasn't Richard Alpert, it was my printer and some buckets of pencils I'd stashed there in the middle of the night because James wouldn't stop playing with them and the only way to make him think they've disappeared is to cover them with a blanket.)

Anyway, it's cold out and he discovered the chair is poised perfectly close to the heater so he won't let me sit in it. Screw the cupboard, he's got cushions instead of plastic bags to lay on now.

And it doesn't stop at the chair. My food is now his. He stole the chicken breast I made for dinner the other night, stole it right from under my nose! He practically shouted, "Look over there!" picked it up in his mouth and trotted off with it so he could eat it in his cozy new chair! He's cute, and I burned the chicken so it's ok. For now.

In other news, 7-11 has gotten mighty used to me showing up at all hours of the night demanding to know where the coffee filters are, and if they have and drano (for the morning) in a very flattering combo of over sized men's flannel pj bottoms (Thanks to Gige having a if-we-go-to-Target-we-buy-half-the-store rule. Best rule ever. Aside from if-I-give-you-a-look-don't-ask-me-what-I'm-trying-to-say-to-you-
with-my-eyes-just-assume-I'm-talking-about-whomever-we're-sitting-with-and-I'll-
tell-you-later-about-how-I'm-pretty-sure-I-just-saw-her-nipple rule), a t-shirt I stole from my brother that has Luc Robatille on it, a paint-splattered hoodie from 1998, and Uggs. I know they're getting used to it because when I showed up this morning to buy a bottle of wine I expected a "It's 9am, why are you buying wine?" but instead I got:
"Oh my gosh, Emily?"
"Yes?" they all think my name is Emily no matter how many times they check my id or I say, You know, it's actually Amy.
"Emily, you look so . . . nice? Wow. Look at your hair, see Roger, I told you she's not balding."
"All I did was take a shower and put on some mascara guys."
"Well let me tell you something Emily, you do that more ok? You do that, I'll see if my son will go out with you."

That's nice. His sixteen year old son.

I slunk home slightly depressed. Not because the 7-11 guys think I can only get a sixteen year old, but because when I was laughing about it in my head thinking about how I would tell them I can't date him I'm like fiv. . . no ten . . . no . . . oh god. I'm old enough to be his mother. His very young, High School dropout, we like to hang out at the same bars mom - but still. Old enough to be his mom.

From now on, I'm shopping at CVS in the middle of the night. They never offer me dates there.

Walking Home Past The Rehab Center...

I am frequently talked to, or more appropriately talked at. I sometimes talk back, but they don't really listen or care, and actually get a little freaked out when I say, "I'm just fine, how are you?" There's some stuttering and looking at me questioningly like - listen lady, our job is to shout out the crazy, yours is just to give me a dollar and keep walking.

Last night after coming home from some $2 burgers (with bw and tb and popcorn while you wait! yeah that's right. . . popcorn! while you wait!) I was walking past my favorite rehab center when these two people started a conversation that I'm used to, until it took an unexpected turn I'm definitely not used to.

"Do you see that girl?"
"Yeah, she's..."
"She's tall!"
"Yeah, she's..."
"She's basketball player tall!"
"Yeah!"
"You don't usually see girls that tall."
"No, well not like her. She's..."
"She's really tall for a white girl."
"I didn't know they made white girls like that."
"Hmmm...tall white girls. That's something."
"Maybe she's not white."
"Huh?"
"Maybe she's not really white."
"But we were just looking at her. I think she's white."
"You sure?"
"Well, now I don't know. Maybe she's not white."
"Maybe she's black."
"A tall black girl...that makes more sense."
"She's probably black."
"Now that you mention it..."
"Right?"
"That wasn't a tall white girl, I think that was a tall black girl."
"What girl?"


So, there's that. All this time I could be a tall black girl.

I love where I live.

Inaugurating

It's really softly sunny out, like a nice warm glow of orange . . . and for fun it's also snowing. But really pretty snowing, like big flakes, taking their time, checking things out, looking in my window before they land. (Yes, snowflakes, I have clothes on , move along.) Anyway, this weather combo is making me feel a little sentimental and gooey inside, well that and the fact that today is new president day! I actually had a dream last night that my sister called me up this morning and said, "I'm gonna inaugurate. I'm gonna inaugurate my ass off!" Not sure what she meant, but we were both excited about it, and then she turned into a turtle and waddled away.

So, I'm feeling all happy, watching the snow and sun mixture, kinda wishing my sister was a cute little turtle (not you Bub), when I go to take a shower and discover that not only is there no hot water, but there's actually no water. No water at all. Which is fine because I don't like washing my hands after I go to the bathroom anyway.

When I called my landlady to tell her about it she just sighed and said, "Did you turn it on?"
Uh, what now? Yes I turned it on that's how I knew I didn't have any.
"Oh yeah," she sighed again. "We don't have any water either. My husband will fix it."
You don't have any water either but you just asked me if I had actually turned it on?
"Ok, we'll fix it. Make sure you pull the knob out all the way to turn it on."
Does she think I usually just walk in there and look at my shower head, eyeing it into turning on? Is that how hers works, because if so, I might want that.

Get To My Crib And Do That Night Thang

I can't remember exactly what we were talking about, it was probably about what we should do for dinner, but while we were visiting Gige in Fresno, Bub, Gabi and I started a conversation that I (unintentionally) ended abruptly when I said:

"Well, that's ok because I'm in love with a stripper." **insert record scratching noise and both girls stopping to stare me down here**
"What the hell are you talking about?" Gabi said flipping the page of the magazine she was reading without looking at the page. (this is for a different blog, but I love, LOVE, that sometimes when Gabi says she's got to 'catch up on her reading' she means US Weekly and InTouch with Jennifer Aniston on the cover)
"I'm in love with a stripper," I repeated a little more sing song-y.
"No, no," she interrupted. "We heard you. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Oh lord," Bub groaned. "Do you have some secret stripper lover we don't know about? Is it that guy from Gige's bachelorette party?"
"I wish."
"Gige's bachelorette party was like six years ago," Gabi said dismissing Bub's question. "If she was still sleeping with that guy we would know."
"Still?!"
"I never slept with that stripper!"
"Which stripper did you sleep with?!" Bub yelled.
"None of them! I've never slept with a stripper," I said yelled back.
"You're just in love with one?" Gabi asked. "Wait is this a joke? By stripper did you mean me, because you found those pictures on your own, I never meant for you to see them!"
"First . . . ew," I said pointing. "And no, I didn't mean you."
"I would like to see those," Bub said. "So I can follow along with the conversation!"
"I'm in love with a stripper," I sang again. "It's a song."
Blank stares.
"It's a hip hop song," I prompted.
More stares.
"How in the world can I know this song and you guys don't?"
"What because I like strippers?" Gabi asked.
"No, because all you listen to is hip hop!"
"That's not true!" she protested.
"Yeah," Bub said coming to her defense. "She also listens to bad country music."
"Yeah. . . hey!"
"It's a song, and I can't believe I know it and we just spent like ten minutes of weird on it."
"I can't believe I spent ten minutes of weird on you."
"What?"
"Yeah you heard me!"
And then it was decided we all needed to get some dinner because clearly clarity had left the room.

And it is a song:

Oh 1984, How I Miss You!

So, it’s currently -7 and the expected high of today is -1. Yeah you didn’t read that wrong, that’s not the ‘low of negative one if you piss god off’, no no no. . . that’s a high of -1. If you’re lucky it’ll be negative one. Otherwise you’re looking at temps so low your snot will freeze, and you can forget about hard nipples cause those suckers are freezing up for a second and then just falling right off when your shirt brushes up against them. Weather so cold it turns you into Barbie.

Anyway, I was telling various members of my family (yes Gige, you’re included in that) about the slight dip in weather and all of them. . . all of them. . . responded with, “Oh well it’s like 80 degrees here! It’s so gorgeous, I might get a head start on my base tan.” Not a single one of them thought, “Hey, maybe rubbing in Amy’s face that it’s tropically warm would be wrong right now. I mean, after she gets home from walking to the store it takes a good ten minutes before she can feel her legs again, that can’t be good. I’m gonna hold off on mentioning that I’m running barefoot through a warm summer meadow, the cool grass under my toes, bright sun rays warming my barely clothed body while Jake Gyllenhall runs along side me confessing he loves me, not Reese, but me, and that Tina Fey called and she wants to be my best friend.”

But that’s ok. I’m not upset they keep reminding me it’s beach weather where they are, because I would probably do the same thing. I mean, when that call from Antarctica comes in today I will definitely be dropping into the conversation that we’re having a high of -1, and then will sit back and wait for the groan of jealousy to wash over them.

Plus I have this little piece of magic to keep me happy. This picture brings me so much joy it’s ridiculous. Everyone in my family will probably disown me for posting it, but I’m willing take that chance. It’s the worst family photo we’ve ever taken and it is the only record we have that my mom dyed her hair brown that one year, or that my dad had hair at all. (Normally she’s blond and he’s bald. Becky, on the other hand. . . she still gets frowny like that.) Anyway, enjoy!

He's Just Putting Up A Front, He Loves That Show Just As Much As I Do

So, I arrived back in Chicago on Monday to dry streets, and weather warmer than Fresno. (By the way, the new thing in Fresno is to make your friends watch movies where old men are touching 13 year old girls. Yes, I said movies. Plural. We're gonna be talking about that by the way Gige.) There was not a drop of snow anywhere and apparently the weather had been fairly nice since I left. But as a little welcome back present Chicago snowed it's ass off that first night I was home and has not stopped. Thanks winter!
So, now I'm back to my old routine - wearing lots of layers of men's pajamas, and talking out loud to no one about how wonderful Jack Bauer is. Ok, so he tortures people, but he's saving lives dang it! Children's lives! James just rolled his eyes at me and trotted off to call his friends in the next room to talk about me.