Reason #374 Why We Need To Stop Texting Each Other

Alex just told me (via text) that she thought it was a little weird that my va-jayge smelled like sunshine.

"Not if you like happiness and joy it's not."

The Spears Solution

I'm not going to talk about the fact that my heater is still coming on even though IT'S DAYS AWAY FROM JUNE! Chicago has decided to skip summer this year and set some sort of ridiculous record to see how many grown people it can make cry in a year by having the winter that wouldn't die.

To distract myself I've been talking to my sister a lot and all of a sudden she's got a really odd take on how to handle things. To be fair, she's usually drunk when I talk to her (yay maternal genes!) but every time I've discussed some issue with her she has one specific remedy:

Example 1
A: James likes to knead my back at 4am 'til I wake up and play with him.
B: You know what you should do? Shave his head.
A: Uh...
B: That'll teach him because he'll be all, 'Hey I shouldn't wake Amy up because now my head is shaved.'
A: I don't think he'll really think th-
B: Do it. You'll thank me.

Example 2 (10 minutes later)
A: So, then Mom said she thought it was 'groovy'. Groovy? Are you kidding me? Where's my mother?
B: What?! You know what you should do? Shave part of her head when she's not looking. That'll teach her to say 'groovy'.
A: What?


This actually went on for quite some time and for no apparent reason. She wasn't even giggling about it which was the weird part. Thank god she doesn't own clippers.

Yeah, They're Called Doctors.

This little pretty princess just graduated!!!!



AND I COULD NOT BE MORE PROUD!

Despite the 187 degree heat (yes, that was the actual temperature taken at the time), I still had enough water on my person to start bawling when Bubby walked in the tent in her cap and gown. Three hours later however, I was deliriously mocking every speaker, and taking turns being held back by, and then holding back Alex, as we both were pretty sure we had to kill this blond girl sitting in front of us. When we talked about it later we decided the only reason we could really come up with for our angst against her was that "she looked like a bitch". That would not have held up in court, so I'm really glad we were too hot to peel ourselves off our chairs and into little miss blond girl's face.

After the sweltering ceremony we spent a fun three hours with my grandma and mom driving them three blocks to their parking garage, only to have it end with us dropping them off in the middle of traffic and having my mother scream to her mother, "Get out of the car! Go! Go!" as Alex slowly continued to drive down the 110.

A big night of partying was planned. Big. Huge. But then we napped til 7pm and woke up when one of us started snoring (Alex). After we rally-ed majorly (put pants on) and made our way to a fancy dinner (Marmalade Cafe), we realized, leaving the house is overrated. Beds are at home! And tivo! And a phone to order food to be brought to your door! But it was Bub's graduation so we thought going out was the right thing to do.

There was no one at the restaurant, but for some reason our busboy acted as though we just stabbed his mom and then asked him to do our laundry. After about 30 minutes and no snapping of fingers (thanks for toning it down A!) the lad with the bread and butter marched over to us, threw our bread basket, and then slammed our butter down so hard it broke the ceramic, as he yelled, "WHAT?" and walked away.

It may be my favorite restaurant moment ever.

Needless to say it was not the big bang blowout night I'd wanted to celebrate the 8 years of hard work my baby sister has put into this, but the next day was amazing (and like four more posts in itself)! Plus I have all summer to celebrate with her. She's gonna wish she started prepping her liver earlier.

Congrats Rebecca Leigh! I'm so proud of you!!!

Our Relationship Has Reached A Whole New Level

I'm sorry, this is not gonna turn into an all-cat blog, I promise. This is the last one, it's just that THE DUDE GETS IN THE SHOWER WITH ME.

He doesn't even care that he's a cat and he hates water, he climbs in silently while I'm soaping up my face or something and then waits for me to scream uncontrollably/almost have a heart attack, because, dude, THERE'S A CAT IN THE SHOWER WITH ME!

Unfortunately my screams and efforts to cover myself up (lest I taint him?), did not dissuade him. He simply sat there being lightly sprayed by the shower, staring up at me with a look that says, "I do not like this water touching me whatsoever. But I'm afraid when I can't see you, you'll never be able to pet me again and I needs me some love, so hurry this 'washing' stuff up. Oh and you missed a spot."

My Cat Killed My Homework

This is how I found James just now:



He was so intent/freaked out about the printer that he sat there for a good twenty minutes like that, most likely thinking, "This sonofabitch has got to start up again, and when it does I'll be ready. Do you hear that? I'll. Be. Ready."

When I did print something he attacked it as if it were trying to rape him. If it hadn't been so goddamn cute and funny I would have been really pissed that he just clawed the short story (and the only printer paper I have left) I'm supposed to turn in today, to shreds.

Also, I've now officially watched Euro Trip about fifty times in five days, and it's still funny. *sigh* I need to get out more.

Obviously You Should Never Take A Mixed CD I Make For You

I typically mock, laugh at, and otherwise older-sister my mouth off at Bubby for her choice in music. When I inherited her laptop, complete with a full iTunes, I had to sift through about a million Avril Lavigne and Fall Out Boy songs to find anything decent to listen to (decent ended up being Chris Brown - my standards are getting weird).

Fighting about what music is going to be on has been an ongoing battle since birth. She pretty much came out screaming, "I want to listen to Rick Dees!" and then I threw up for about four years. It got to be such a problem that my Mom had to institute an every-other-song rule when we were in the car, so right after I had us listen to Cherish for the hundredth time, Bub would put on Hanson.

Now that we're adults we don't have that rule. We just don't ride together.

This being said, occasionally my emo-boy-band-lovin sister hits gold and shares it with me. And I'm quick to admit whenever she's right. So, now I am ridiculously OB-SESSED with these two videos. Not so much the songs, but the videos makes me happy in ways I can't really describe. Especially the first one.

Enjoy!

Only 93 Days Til Catalina

We're having a snow storm. AGAIN. If you need me I'll be the girl cutting myself in the corner.

Also, this whole 'protest to winter thing' where I don't wear a coat or boots out of spite (stupidity), is really not all that bad (I'm freezing to death). After a while 30 degrees feels not so bad (except where it sucks), and I'm starting to really think spring is right around the corner (it's never coming. never.)

Now Clean From The Waist Down!

Today, after hours of cursing and about $75 worth of Drano, I finally took a shower where I wasn't knee deep in ice cold water. I had grown so accustomed to standing in a pool of water when I shower that it took me a good five minutes to figure out why my feet felt weird. Oh! It's because they're not being immersed in your dirty shower water from yesterday! Happy Birthday!

I'm pretty sure my apartment is managed by some sort of Eastern European mafia so if it takes them a week and a half to get to my shower issue I don't really complain because I like my ears right where they are. Remember that homeless man who likes to camp out on my doorstep? I talked to my landlady about it and she said:
"I know. He make me so mad."
Then she leaned in conspiratorially, taking an unnecessarily strong grip on my shoulder:
"Don't worry. I handle. I take care of. You know what I mean?"
"I kind of hope not."
"Good. Between us."

Something tells me that's not the first time she's said that.

Jameson

So, on my birthday I went to kitty town (I'm not kidding that's what it's called) and thought I'd just look around, but then this handsome devil followed me around wherever I went and kept saying, "Take me home! I won't climb on your furniture, I just want you to sing to me and feed me grapes!"





So far he's pretty awesome, and he tries to eat my chocolate covered oreos which pretty much proves we were made for each other.

In other news I'm almost thirty now. And I just got a cat. Oh god.

Palmer for President in 2012!

That girl in the picture with me. . . yeah, that one on the right, she. is. here.



She got her just after 11pm and arrived to find me making her a quesadilla and pouring her a glass of wine in an attempt to lull her to sleep with a full belly so that I would not be brain dead waking up for class this morning. It worked, she went straight to bed without putting her dishes in any place that would be appropriate (note to Bub: window ledge is not appropriate dish place), but I was up from about 2am to 5am anyway. I heard a coughing noise which woke me up and I was immediately convinced there was someone outside my door, and that this person - upon hearing any slight movement from inside my apartment - would break down the door and try to stab and/or otherwise murder me and my baby sister. I was so freaked out I didn't move (or breathe) for a solid hour. Then I got up and, I kid you not, took ten minutes walking the five steps to my front door where I held my breath and cautiously peeked out my peep hole. (ha peep. hole.) After three hours of this I realized 'overactive imagination' doesn't even cover it, and that at some point I was gonna have to stop watching 24 right before going to bed. Either that or I'm gonna need more martial arts training.

Under Protest

I'm pretty logical most times. (Stop laughing) I mean, yes I kinda (read: absolutely) believe that when I knock on wood with all of my knuckles I'm maybe preventing something bad from happening. But that's not illogical, that's slight ocd. I mean I'm logical in that I turn my homework in on time so that I'll get a good grade, I go to the dentist twice a year, and I don't get in the middle of two people screaming at Tito's Tacos about how they're going to the car to get 'their backup'.

But . . . buuuuuuuuut, something about FIVE STRAIGHT MONTHS of snow and having to wear fifteen pieces of clothing at once has really started to fuck with me. Last week I decided that if I dressed for different weather, maybe different weather would appear. So I've stopped wearing boots and a coat as some sort of insane protest to Mr. Weather. So far it's not working, but I refuse to give in. It's mid-March for the love of God! I should be walking around in some dress that's way too short for me!

I told Bubby that if she brought me 80 degree weather when she comes out this weekend I would pay her a hundred bucks . . . and I mean it. And you know what's crazy? Part of me actually believes she can. Because she's just that awesome.

Something I Should Be Keeping To Myself, And Yes, I Am Mildly Embarrassed

Dear One Tree Hill,

Where have you been all my life? I'm sorry I just now found you but believe me, I will be making up for lost time with the sweetest loving you've ever had.

(That means oral. Lots of it.)

Love,

Me

At Least I Didn't Have To Pay For Gas

So, on Friday I drove Gige from Fresno to LA.

How can I do that whilst still in Chicago you ask? Do I have a robot replica or the ability to time travel?

I wish.

Nope, what happened was: she called, we started shooting the shit and all of a sudden it was three hours later. When she said, "Oh man, I knew I'd hit traffic at the Getty", I seriously considered the fact that the hour we spent totally silent while I cleaned my apartment and she, I don't really know what she was doing (singing along to Maroon 5 mainly), was probably not necessary.

But at least now when someone asks me what I did over the weekend I can say, "Took a road trip" instead of the usual, "Put on some flannel pjs and settled in with my new best friend (my space heater), and some dinner (half a box of chocolate covered oreos)."

Why I Always Have A Ding Dong In My Purse

Anyone who knows me knows that I eat pretty consistently throughout the day. Roughly every two hours. According to my mother I was like this as a baby, and while she cursed and prayed that I get over it soon so that she can get a full night’s sleep, I never did. I no longer wake her up to breast feed me at three am, but the sentiment is still the same.

When I don’t eat my blood sugar drops and my personality vanishes and is replaced by something that can only be described as ‘from the underworld’. Crying and or screaming usually ensues as a form of notifying myself, and the world, that I HAVE NOT HAD ANYTHING TO EAT SINCE BREAKFAST. A frequent response to my crying at a boyfriend for making the bed the wrong way, or screaming at my mother for putting my laundry in the dryer, or hysterically ranting to a friend that the nail lady made this one crooked, this one is crooked! is typically: When was the last time you ate?

And oh, how in those moments I hate that question. I loathe it. I want to send daggers flying across the room at anyone who deigns to even think that I might need food to calm me down, when can’t they just see, can’t they see that it’s the fact they bought corn tortiallas! Corn! Instead of flour! The horror! The humanity of this awfulness has absolutely nothing to do with my FOOD INTAKE FOR FUCK’S SAKE! Then after storming away and letting the full psychotic-ness sink in, I will eat a banana or some crackers with cheese and suddenly . . . suddenly the little girl from the Exorcist leaves my body and I’m my nice (somewhat) likable self again. I smile sheepishly at my friend, bat my eyes at the boyfriend, hang my head in front of my mother, and slowly daisies dance out of my mouth singing, “Gosh, I’m so sorry. I guess my blood sugar was a little low. I’m incredibly sorry I yelled at you, I’m such a jerk. Can I wash and detail your car for you?” Or better yet, if I’m still in the process of regulating from demon to a human again, almost there, I might say, “Oh wow. I’m sorry about that. Why didn’t you tell me to eat something?”

Luckily for me I am surrounded by people who also suffer from hypoglycemia, so when I have a meltdown they don’t stare at me in shock while rapidly dialing the police, because I’ve seen them in similar positions. We’re not all the same, that’s for sure, generally there’s a shorter temper than usual when we haven’t eaten in a while, but it doesn’t always go down like that. Well, my mother . . . my mother is just like me (not in reverse of course). But my sister, she snaps meanly and then gets quiet. Disturbingly, alarmingly quiet that is scarier than actual yelling. Gige usually just starts crying immediately, about anything, and I find it much more easy to handle than the yellers because I can just calmly steer her away from the restaurant that’s taking too long, towards a bench and hand feed her french fries. Gabi handles the question of “Have you eaten?” much better than me and while I’m sure she’s wishing she has a shotgun to blow a hole in my face for asking such a stupid fucking question, she wishes this quietly, says “No” and then drives us to the nearest Del Taco, and I’ve known her long enough to know, we do not speak until halfway through our burritos.
And once we feel better, we all hug and laugh and love each other again because we know what it’s like.

So thanks to all the boyfriends who have put up with us, and all the mothers who set down a plate of fruit in front of us despite the threat it could possibly be thrown at their heads. Thanks to the friends who call just to share how they almost started sobbing in the line at Trader Joe’s because it was moving too slow, and thanks to the friends who still love us when we’re making those calls.

It’s nice to know we’re not that hormonal. . . we just need some pizza.

Nachos Are A Balanced Meal To Me

Because I live alone I don't cook as much as I would if I lived with someone or if I was near someone who wanted me to be cooking for them. My dinner usually ranges from nachos to toast then back to nachos. Because I'm creative.

But I was feeling rut-y so I decided to cook-cook. Turkey and artichoke stuffed pasta shells with arriabata sauce. Oh yeah, I don't fuck around.

$37 dollars later (Bottle of celebratory wine included - as opposed to regular night wine. This one is different because I'm cooking before I drink it.) I set off to cook. After burning myself on the oil in the skillet and setting off my smoke alarm, all while maintaining a conversation with Gige, I got things handled.

I, for some reason, also used every single fork and spoon I own whilst making this dish. I have no idea what I was doing with them, or how the were applicable in this dish. It was like sleep walking but with using utensils and without sleeping. Or walking.

You can't tell from the picture below, but it turned out pretty good. It was way too much work for just me so I'll probably never do that again (unless you come visit and then I'll cook and burn myself for you to no end!), but now I can say I've done that.

Fracture Spoiler!

It's snowing as if it's trying to impress me right now.

I am not amused. You know what would impressive? Sunlight. Sunlight would be impressive, you know, so I don't become jaundiced.

My advisor just canceled our meeting. He left a message for me that simply said, "Hey Amy . . . I'm gonna pussy out on you. It is just nasty out and I don't feel like leaving my house. You should stay home too."

I love when people in charge of me use 'pussy' as an adjective.

Ooh! Also, Becky and I decided that if I can't make it home for the voting in November she's gonna take my driver's license and vote for me. I trust her judgment. But then I realized if she gets caught that's some serious fraud. I'm not really sure what kind of fraud, criminal? Federal offense? I know nothing about the legal system except that double jeopardy means you can't be tried for the same thing buuuuuut if it's attempted murder and then you get off (Sir Anthony Hopkins) and then pull the plug Ryan Gosling is gonna get you for ACTUAL murder! I love crime dramas. It's a good thing I didn't go into law or I'd be standing up forcefully yelling:

"Objection!"
"On what grounds this time Ms. Stern?"
"They tried to pull this buuuuullshit on an episode of Medium once, but it didn't fly because it was her twin sister! She was still dead."
"Overruled. Is that all?"
"I think I've made my point."

But the more I think about it the more I'm willing to risk her imprisonment and eventual prosecution for my right to vote. After all, it would be so fun to watch.

This Is Probably One Of Those Things I'm Supposed To Keep To Myself

You know that whole thing when you're leaving a voice mail that says - To send your message with normal delivery press blah blah blah? (Except it doesn't actually say, 'blah blah blah' it says 'one' or 'pound' or something, but if it did say 'blah blah blah' I think more people would be pushing things and more excited about leaving voice mails. "Why'd you pick up? I wanted to hear your sassy answering machine." "You called, so I picked up." "Stop being attentive!") They only have normal or urgent delivery sending, but no in between. I don't know about you all but (despite my blood sugar related mood swings) I don't usually crazily vary between normal or URGENT! (Usually.) Why can't they have a middle ground, or something less extreme like: I'd like to send my message with Super Delivery! And then when my - Oh you have a new voicemail - thing comes through on your phone it plays the theme to Superman, or Jem.

Or like, I'd like to send my voicemail with Hate Delivery. If you're mad at someone it'll just have Danny Glover saying, "Fuck you!" Ding! You have a new voicemail! DG-"Fuck you! I'm too old for this shit."

Or Scary Delivery and it'll just play the Ghostbusters theme song. Which isn't so much scary as it is rad but whatever, you get what I'm trying to say.

The possibilities are endless people. ENDLESS!

Ah grad school . . . thanks for driving me so insane that this is what I'm thinking about before breakfast. My mom is probably really proud.

I Haven't Seen The Light Of Day in a Week, But. . .

82 pages? Done.

Two acts? Done.

Finished my play? Fuck yeah!


I'm gonna go sleep for a week.

You Know How I Know I'm Feeling Better?

Because last night I had a half a glass of wine!

My wine glass is the size of a very large soup bowl, so your definition of 'half' and my definition of 'half' might be a little different. But that's ok. Don't judge me . . . lest ye be judged!

I don't know what that really means, 'lest ye be...' Like, don't throw glass stones or don't live in glass houses if you're gonna throw . . . I don't know, something like that.

It's sort of pirate-y, and I'm a fan of the sea robbers. This morning I yelled, "Arg me matey!" at my couch. "You be a sight for sore eye*!" And then, "Parlay wench!" at my landlady when she asked me for rent. She is severely not amused with me.

I probably should cut down to a quarter of a glass until my tolerance gets built back up.

*Sore eye, singular, because I'm obviously wearing a patch.

Gangrene or Amputation?

So, I had to go meet my professor this morning across town, which normally isn't a problem because I like to get out of my apartment once a week or so, and this gives me a good outing and excuse.
"What? You want me to come to the pub tonight? I can't. I went out on Friday."
"Wasn't that at 9am?"
"Yes."
"To meet and talk about your work?"
"Yes."
"That's not going out."
"That depends. That all depends."

But today. Oh, holy hell, today made me wish I went to the pub all day, every day.

It was snowing pretty hard when I left this morning, so much so that it took me and another dude about five minutes to open the door to the outside since it was snowed shut. Sign #1.

Since it was still snowing pretty hard they hadn't plowed our streets or sidewalks yet. Sign #2. But I kept going, because I thought, "Hey! Now I can say I walked a mile in the snow to get to school. Hey girl! Yeah you on the corner! I'm walking in the snow." She didn't care. And also, I've decided that you all need to go apologize to your grandparents for rolling your eyes, or scoffing, or throwing small little oranges when they told you about walking uphill in the snow both ways. It sucks.

Then it took my bus FORTY MINUTES TO PICK ME UP. Sign #3. And here's a fun little fact - when they don't plow, you can't really tell if you're stepping into something solid or not, so I stepped in about a billion ice puddles, thus rendering my feet numb and horrified at me for a total of about two and a half hours. I actually thought about taking off my shoes and socks, once I was safely on the el so that I could warm them up with my hands and try to bend over far enough to breathe on them, but I didn't want to be "that girl", so I just prayed the limit on frost bite was three hours of not being able to move your toes, not two.

As if that wasn't all awesome enough, I started laughing hysterically when the bus driver closed the doors ON MY LEG and then casually began to DRIVE AWAY. Sign #4 (I have no idea what the sign's are for anymore, but I'm gonna keep labeling things willy nilly. Attention span be damned!) Luckily I was so cold I didn't even realize what was happening for about half a block before I looked down and started crescendo-ing into, "Hey . . . hey, that's my leg. Uhm, excuse me? My, uh . . My leg? MY LEG! MY LEG IS STUCK IN THE FUCKING DOOR!!! For the love of god stop the bus! STOP THE BUS AND FREE MY LEG!!!" Then I started laughing and crying from laughing and the bus driver skipped all the rest of the stops to drop me off at mine.

Good man, sir. Good man.

Once home I inspected everything and my leg is fine, and my toes are all working. Now. So, I'm pretty happy about that. And I will seriously be rethinking this whole "meeting my professor to work on my thesis" thing. It's turning out to be pretty dangerous.