Game Day At Our House Has A Lot More Hard Core Cheating - Usually From My Mom Even Though She'll Deny It Til The Cows Come Home

So I went to my cousin's baby shower last week, and out of the fifty something people that attended either me or someone in my family won all of the game categories. At first I thought it was because we're just all really competitive when there's no alcohol around, but then I realized, nope - we all just like to cheat.

It's not like we planned it, and it's not like we were playing a scam on Who Wants to be a Millionaire or anything, it was just light cheating. Like, so light I announced I was doing it as I was doing it just so I wouldn't get in trouble. (Because I like living on the edge, but am still too afraid I'll get detention, or worse a C in one of my classes, like they'll go back and retro-grade me somehow, and my High School GPA will dip down and I'll never move out of my Mom's house and will have to go on welfare and eat only bologna for a week straight and start hooking just to get by.)

Anyway, after the party I was mentioning to my mom how I won the make-a-play-doh-baby-blind-folded game, and then she launched into how she won.

". . . blah, blah, blah and that's how you win by cheating!"

"Wow."

"I know, pretty cool right?"

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Longer than you've been around."

"Nice Mom. I don't think I've ever seen you do anything bad. You feed the meter next to you just in case."

"Well, that's the thing, the best part is, it's not technically cheating. It's just tilting the odds a little. And you can't put this on your blog."

"Of course not."

"This is just me as a mother passing down my knowledge to my eldest daughter, that she has to take to her grave."

"It's not that serious is i-"

"TO YOUR GRAVE!"

"Ok! Sorry!"

"Oops, I think I just ran a red light."

"This is a tender moment we're having."


And really, I didn't cheat. That much. We had to be blind folded and make a baby and some baby stuff out of play doh, but they didn't say human baby.

So, here I am explaining to everyone that I'm going to make a panda baby. And Becky and DD are thrilled with my explanation of how I'm going to fashion the tummy out of some white doh.



And this is how it turned out. It was much cuter than the picture makes it seem.



Here's an example of what the other teams came up with. Clearly, panda-baby is cuter than pink-blob baby.



Uh. . . also, I inverted panda baby's head colors. He's like an x-ray-head panda baby.

No photos please!!!

My birthday is coming up people. . . I'm just saying. I want one.

It's just like having a puppy! But it's sort of a bear.


So then we won!


And I kept the blindfold on my head like that way too long. I took it home with me, just in case I ever want to test my skills and challenge myself on my off time. Watch out future baby showers, and possibly my future children's kindergarten classes! I'm gonna play-doh the shit out that game.

Ok, the real winners are these guys - because in that polka dotted belly is a little girl that's gonna be cute and awesome, and incredibly science-class inclined. And when she's old enough I'm gonna teach her how to play games Auntie Lori's way. And then how to celebrate with a box of chilled wine and some Cold Stone, Auntie Amy style.

Good Morning To You Too, Hole Where My Pocket Used To Be

Do you ever have one of those mornings where you can't remember if you put on deodorant, let alone pants?

I got into the car this morning, hair curled, shoes tied, makeup on, all that, but something felt wrong.

"Maybe that's cause it's 6:15 in the morning," I grumbled to myself. "Six mother fucking fifteen." I like to talk with a Samuel L. Jackson accent when it's early in the morning. Crystal loves it. "Mornin puppy dawg. Let's get this potty time buuuuuuullshit over with, this mother fucker has got to get her ass to work."

So, I start the car and look away from the clock to my pants. My pajama pants. My flannel pajama pants, tucked neatly into my socks, where I put them while I was tying my Vans on.

Awesome.

Good thing I checked, otherwise I would have had a really awkward time trying to explain to the auditor why it is I had the clothes-version of a mullet on - Business on the top, party on the bottom. Now lets get this fact checking shit on the road Mr. Aud-i-tor, mama's got some mother fucking instant oatmeal to eat.

But It's Just Sort Of Expired

Sometimes I eat string cheese I find in my purse six hours after I put it there simply so that I can tell Gabi I just did that. Because it freaks. her. out. She would check the expiration date on tap water if it had one, and when we were in Fresno she complained the milk tasted too milky. (That doesn't have anything to do with expiration dates, I just thought it was awesome of her. This milk is too milky! The bed is too bedy! And my hair is too hairy!) I only tell her because it cracks me up how much she gets the heebie jeebies from it, and since she doesn't have any siblings of her own, I have decided it's my job as her friend to antagonize her in an older sisterly way. It takes some of the pressure off Becky, and give me the same sort of giggles I get when I come back from the bathroom, hands unwashed, and let my mom know I just peed and didn't wash my hands.

Don't get me wrong, I totally believe in sanitation - I shower every day, I brush and floss, I wash my hands after I take out the trash, I practically boil them if I touch chicken, and sometimes even after I touch cooked chicken (thanks to Home Ec circa 1992, chicken = disease, salmonella, and possibly HIV. Oh, Mrs. Matthews I love you for teaching me how to sew a pillow that looks like a pig, but I hate that you made one of my biggest fears raw meat; now my future husband will have to learn how to survive on nachos alone.) (Don't worry John Krasinski, I will learn how to make some sort of stew before then!), but I guess I don't get too worried about missing a hand washing here and there, or eating warm cheese because it's really not that bad.

Some people like to tell me that will all change when I have children. That suddenly I'll be obsessed with expiration dates and hand washing and general cleanliness of my cleaning supplies themselves. But a) I'm not pregnant; and b) I don't think it's gonna really change my mind that much. I mean, how can you actually make sure everything is super clean before it gets near your baby? Plus I heard nursing mothers put cabbage leaves in their bras, and weird lotions, and stuff that you should not be putting around your boobs - roots and things. What am I supposed to do then? Wash my nipple every time before it goes in for a feeding? No. That's crazy talk. I'll tell you what's gonna happen - that sucker is going straight from my baby daddy's mouth into my baby's. If anyone needs to worry about cleanliness it's the lucky dude who decides to knock me up then have up-top sexy time in between baby naps. Because do you know where that child's mouth has been or what's been in it? Yeah, I don't either, that's the point.

Ok, I might wash my hands a little more, but I refuse to throw away milk five days before the expiration date. I'll just freeze it and save it for later. Maybe something to mix the formula with.*


*kidding

Rainy

I love when it rains here, mostly cause it never happens so when it does So Cal-ers go ape shit crazy and start wearing wellies and carrying umbrellas around inside their houses (my OCD with bad-luck-avoidance just FREAKED OUT), and people suddenly think driving is a sport wherein you try to avoid each individual rain drop by swerving out of the way of the rain and into each other, like bumper cars in a pinball machine that's been filled with water and Botox and Wee Man from the Jackass movies (he lives here and seems to be everywhere you ever want to go, including setting up his own taco shop where the Taco Bell used to be that I single handedly kept in business from 1994-1999). And yes, I'm from here but I handle the crazy differently - I drive like an 80 year old at the nice pace of 15 mph, and I brake if I see a stop light five miles ahead.

So, since it took me forty five minutes to drive the three miles to my work this morning, I got to see a lot. But my favorite wasn't the guy who strapped an umbrella to his dog's back for their morning walk - which really only protected the back half of the dog - it was a woman I saw getting off the bus. She missed the last step, like completely missed it, almost as if she just shut her eyes and jumped, and then fell straight into a pool-sized puddle, flat on her back. My instinct was to leap out of the car to help her - I mean, I was only going like 5 mph, I could just roll out - but then she started laughing hysterically flapping her arms and pretended to do the backstroke. Then came the fake synchronized swimming moves. Then some more backstroke. I'm pretty sure if the bus didn't have to move, and if she hadn't just realized she was soaking in a pool of brown acid rain water, it could have gone on like that forever.

Oh my gosh I love her so much. And if I didn't have to keep my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel to avoid imminent death by rain-driving, I totally would have taken a video of her. And then asked her to marry someone in my family so we could be related.

Note:

If you get into bed with a glass of wine and an episode of Cougar Town on your laptop, and wake up hours later with the whole situation still spread out like that, it IS perfectly ok for your sister and dog to be judging you, but also they should be admiring of how you managed not to spill a single drop because you thought this might happen and so you wedged said glass under your arm propped up with pillows. Way to go you!

(I actually woke up a half an hour later - just enough time to not have to watch Courtney Cox ruin Monica as my favorite - and cheered for myself a little bit. I don't ever not spill! Sometimes I just look at a glass from across the room and it knocks itself over. And I don't ever fall asleep with lights on, when there's still wine to drink, so clearly starting eleven hour work days again is hitting me harder than I thought.)

P.S. I can't use the word 'situation' now without thinking of Jersey Shore, and how much I wiiiiiiiiiish I could pull off a seven inch hair poof and battling on anything that might resemble a dance floor. While I was in Fresno this weekend I demonstrated battling for Gige, starting with beating up the beat and moving on up to all the fist-pumping, GTL body-flailing glory* and I totally think I'm ready! I especially love the part where the guys lift up their shirts on the dance floor to show the girl they're dancing with their bodies. What are the girls supposed to do to that? Applaud?

The 30 second mark is where the magic happens:



*GTL stands for Gym, Tan, Laundry - which is apparently the Guido creed for looking hot. Go to the gym, go tan, make sure your clothes are clean. I wish this show would never end.

Fire Engine Red

I got nothin against working early. (Thousands of my English teachers around the world just cringed and died a little inside at that sentence structure.)(And then my college friends cringed at my use of hyperbole.)(See that! Hyperbole. I did learn something in grad school Mom!) In fact, I like to get to work early because I tell myself it means I get to leave early. Get in at 6am - well then I get to leave at 3pm and have the whole afternoon to myself! But it never works that way because 3pm will roll it's pretty little self around and I'll be balls deep in some sort of tax something and suddenly it's 7pm and I'm starving because all I've eaten since breakfast is a half a pound of See's candy and some gum. So, I aim for 8am because it's early, but not so early that by 7pm I want to saw my own arm off so I have something to chew on on the ride home.

But, calling me at 6am to see if I'll be in soon? Too early Boss-Grandma. Too early.

But I answered, because I'm a sucker, and explained I'd be in as soon as I went for a run.

"You're going to run? It's pouring."

"I have a boob shelf now."

"What?"

"What?" Note to self: don't answer phone and try to talk to your grandma at six am, you will be inappropriate.

"Just get in as soon as you can. Make it a short run."

"Fine I'll just do ten miles then."

"Amy Michele, I swear to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. . ."

"I'm kidding. I'll be right in."

**click** she hates goodbyes.

"I love you."

So, I got in super early only to find out she'd called someone else in early too and now she didn't need me. And so, in retaliation, I painted my nails at work. On company time. Take that early-waker-up-er!

It's small and weird retaliation, but it made me feel better. (And just to be clear, the nail painting took all of sixty seconds. It was clear polish I found in the first aid drawer we have here - because chipped nails is a bigger emergency item than band-aids I discovered last week after an encounter with the stapler and some lotion.)

When my mom rolled in at her usual hour of 11-ish, I told her about the horrid call time, and she nodded sympathetically - being my mom, letting me vent - and then after I was done, told me how her client called her at one am to let her know about something she forgot to tell her. ONE. IN THE AM. This is taxes people, not organ transplants. Trust me, even if it was organ transplants you don't wanna be waking me up to tell me which lung it was you needed, because I'm gonna forget and then I'm probably gonna make a your-mom joke to it while I'm scrubbing in.

I'm bringing in some red polish tomorrow, just in case. That should take at least two minutes. Two minutes of pure renegade painting. You don't wanna mess with me - I take it out on you by making my hands look better. And giving my future therapist a lot of weird things to work through.

New Boots

So, I'm wearing boots right now that, I shit you not, make me so tall that when I just went into the bathroom I inadvertently saw over one of the stalls and looked a small Filipino woman in the eye as she pulled her pants down. I swear to God it couldn't have been avoided unless I had gone into the bathroom with my eyes closed to start my bathroom-napping just a few seconds earlier.

I was so embarrassed about just seeing her naked from the waist down that I started blabbering apologies all over the place while still standing there, glaring down at her from atop my gigantor perch above her stall door like some sort of creepy behemoth of a woman who goes around using her height to check up on the goings-on of office building bathrooms, and maybe the occasional bedroom window or two. She quickly said it was ok, and then when I looked away she proceeded to start peeing (probably out of fear) and so I took my cue and walked into my own stall while looking down at my feet the whole time.

We met back up at the sink, where I apologized again and pointed out that I wasn't used to my new boots, and I love them, I love them so much, but two inches taller makes me very weird.

"I mean, even sitting on the toilet felt awkward because my knees were all up here, and I'm used to them right about here." I demonstrated while standing, what it might look like if I was sitting, to this poor, poor woman who was probably four foot nine and afraid I was going to either knee her in the face or follow her around and hoover gigantically all day.

I let her go, then got out of there quick with my hand over my eyes because someone else walked in and I didn't want her to sit down and look up to see my head floating above the door like some sort of human Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

These are the new boots and I love, love, love them. I just need to figure out how to work myself in them.


And no, you don't need to adjust your screen. That is the actual color of the chair in my cubicle. And that tropical floor? That's the actual carpet. My office: where the 70s went to Vegas and and stayed at the Tropicana - for life.

Phonetography

So I was really excited about this picture I took with my phone (otherwise known as: the phone that sends people three of the exact same text or none at all just to make me seem vaguely like a psycho when I'm responding to things like a request for dinner - "I vote for m.f.ing MEXICAN food dang it! And I left my underwear in the kitchen." "I vote for m.f.ing MEXICAN food dang it! And I left my underwear in the kitchen." "I vote for m.f.ing MEXICAN food dang it! And I left my underwear in the kitchen." Note: No one wants to get that text three times, and my underwear were there because I didn't have anywhere else to let them dry after I washed them. Note #2: Those are not my only pair, I wasn't underwear-less, I was just taking note of where I'd left them.)

Anyway, I was excited about the picture because there was this weird blue haze in the air when we went out for breakfast the other week, and my phone captured it! But I noticed my screen was a little messed up, like there's this black spot on it, but I thought, No worries! I'll email it to myself and all will be well with the blue haze picture!




But the black spot wasn't just on my phone! It's some weird glitch that stuck when the picture was taken, or not a glitch, but as if it was blurring out something inappropriate to children on Becky's chin. (Makes sense, that is where she keeps her porn.)

So, I have to get a new phone soon. Because censoring my sister - not on my watch Verizon Wireless! Her chin can get naked and be derogatory to women other minorities if it wants to be. You know, just so long as it's not hurting anyone, and I can take a decent picture.

String Cheese and Capri Sun Was On The Previous List

This morning I was cleaning out my pockets and noticed my grocery list from yesterday, the list didn't seem odd to me yesterday but this morning I gave myself a dirty look and shook my head in dismay at . . . myself.

Ralph's: (It said, because apparently I need reminders of where to buy groceries)

Raisin Bran
Fudgsicles!

That's it. That's all that was there, raisin bran and a very excited fudgsicle request. Because I like to eat like a six year old. The good news is, if a kindergartner comes wandering into my yard all disheveled and hungry I'll have plenty of string cheese and popsicle-like things to feed him.

Ok, that's a lie, those weren't the only two things on the list. At the bottom of the post-it there was this:
porn (soft)

Yeah, and that's why I was shaking my head at me, because I added a joke item to my own list. Not even like tacking it on to my sister's, which is what I really wanted to do, but didn't because she wasn't sitting near me when I thought of it. My jokes are getting lazier and lazier.

In other news it's raining this morning and I went for a run anyway because I love running in the rain (ok, and I love running past the army base because they always cheer for me - as if running in the rain is the same thing as risking my life for my country! If that gets them proud wait til they see me taking out the trash in my socks!) Anyway, when I got back I noticed I was soaked all over except for the middle section of my shirt. Like, from just under the boobs to my waist was totally dry - which led me to the only logical conclusion - my boobs are big enough to act as a shelf!

"F yeah! I have boobs that can block rain!" I yelled to Crystal (the dog), and then did a little dance of breast-victory around my kitchen while eating a spoonful of peanut butter (I showed the spoonful to my boobs first and said, "This is for you.") Crystal didn't give me the sort of reaction I needed, but I was still sort of happy about it when I went into work so I decided to tell one of my co-workers about it because I have to listen to her talk about mattress shopping for fourteen hours a day so she can hear this.

"And it was totally dry! From here, to here."

"Huh."

"Pretty cool huh?"

"Well, are you sure you weren't just hunched over when you were running?"

"Yes I'm su . . . wait."

"Let me see your stance."

"It's like this."

"Jog down to the end of the hall."

"But I just got coffee."

"How can I tell then?"

"Fine." (**jogs to end of hall**then back**)

"You're pretty slow."

"I'm at work."

"Still."

"Was I hunched?"

"Oh, totally."

Well of course I was hunched over! I have shelf-like boobs. Rain-stopping boobs. Boobs that look deceptively tiny, especially in a smashed-them-down sports bra, and even more so in real naked life, but still! Clearly I was hunched because of them, so my theory still stands. And later, at lunch, you better believe I'm gonna be checking to see if any crumbs get stopped by those suckers. Anything can happen.

Sleep Deprived

I get insomnia once in a while, and it always varies between popping up once a month or so, or a few times a week. I'm on a few times a week kick right now - which is fun for my laundry and tv show catching up, but not so fun for the people who are trying to explain something to me at 3pm while I slowly let my eyes droop, just for a second, until I'm woken up a few minutes later with my head on a three ring binder and some paper clip imprints clearly formed on my forehead. Actually, that only happened once, after that I took my sleepy time in the bathroom, cause nothing says exhausted like taking a nap while sitting on a public toilet.

Anyway, last night was one of those nights, and once I realized I wasn't gonna fall back asleep by counting backwards from a hundred (Mom, that doesn't work - I think that was just your sneaky trick to make sure we could actually do something like count backwards) I got myself a big glass of warm milk (wine) and settled in with Anna Karenina (7 episodes of Modern Family). It usually takes a few hours but I know it's time for me to try and go back to sleep when I'm giggling so much at my laptop that I start to drool.

It may seem slow but I just got drooly-giggly again at work at around the 1:15 mark so it's totally worth watching the whole clip.


So, needless to say I was a little out of it this morning and decided I needed to stop and get coffee because I couldn't even get my brain functioning enough to want to remember where we keep the filters. But after I stopped and got my coffee I had that feeling - you know, that feeling you get when you're fairly certain they gave you decaf instead of regular and you now want to march back into the coffee shop and make that 16 year-old barista stare at the dark circles under your eyes until he starts to cry.

Plus what the heck is a 16 year old doing at work at 8am? Why isn't he at school trying to mack on Cindy in the back of the band room where they store the large instruments before first period?! I didn't march back in and make him stare, but I did ask why he wasn't in school (young man) while he was scraping the whip cream off my latte (because it's the new year so I can have a toffee nut latte, but I can't have the whip cream - ah, girl logic.)

"Mack on?"

"You kids don't say that anymore?"

"No. And we don't wear bell bottoms either."

"These are boot cut!"

I go in there a lot so it's ok that he talked to me as if I was an elder, I forgave him. And then he explained he was in fact 19, and gay - no Cindy, no high school band macking. It's probably for the better, I told him. Those band room romances only last so long, and then there's imminent heartbreak and pretty soon someone's emptying their spit valve into your Pepsi when you go to get some more powdered donuts at snack time.

"I wasn't in band," he said for the third time.

And I don't normally admit I made out with boys who said they wanted to 'warm up' for trumpet/sax/something-blowy practice with my mouth, but that's what two and a half hours of sleep will do to you. It makes you admit to virtual strangers how geeky you really are, and then later - not much later, like, thirty minutes later - makes you seriously consider the benefits of sleeping pills. If not for your health, at least to help keep your street cred in check.

Oh Yeah, I'm Totally Doing It Again, But With A Helmet Next Time, And Maybe That Mesh Body Armor Knights Wear

Christmas time with my family is . . . there wasn't as much alcohol as there was last year so . . . this might be the fact that my present to myself this year was to have Jack in the Box seven days in a row, but things were a little nicer and a little weirder than usual.

I love my family. I really do. I really, really love them. I do (she says repeating it as a mantra, a reminder to herself that she does not want to go looking for her birth parents, but does in fact love when her grandma's house narrowly escapes catching on fire because the 70 degree day wasn't enough - the people wanted to start two fires at the same time; and she loves when her little brother decides to try and jump out of the car doing 50mph just to make Christmas eve interesting, and then because said brother is still trying to wildly jump out of the car and, I don't know, run around on the highway spreading the Christmas spirit (?) she and her sister spend the majority of the evening standing in the cold in nothing but flip flops and t-shirts, waving to the passerbys and shouting, "No, no, we're fine. That's our brother we've got locked in there. Merry Christmas!"; and she loves that her cousins got her noise stoppers for her bedroom door so that she can't hear when the dog pukes just outside her door as a little wake up present for her feet.) (Apparently she also loves talking about herself in third person.) (She's so obnoxious.)

Anyway, I love my family, but there are two times a year that I'm so overstimulated with the 20,000 people crammed into one room that by end of day three of this the familial joy and love fest has started to wear off and is slowly replaced with a deep urge to commit a major crime and then act out in the prison mess hall so I can get some solitary confinement.

So what do I do for some peace and quiet? I decide to go hurtling down the side of a mountain with my feet trapped into long, sliding things they call skis - I call sticks of terror - and nothing to hold onto except two long poles I discovered are really good at swatting away children you don't want to murder with your 90 mile an hour, six foot one, a hundred and blah blah body. You know how James Bond says his body is a weapon? Or maybe it's ninjas and not James Bond. Well, mine is too, except less in a sleek and sexy strong sort of way, and more in a flailing, awkward blinding sort of a way.

The woman teaching me to ski was soooo nice, and soooo patient with me, and repeatedly let me crash into her at the terrifying speed of 5 mph. That sounds pretty slow but 5mph in my head, and with my complete lack of control over my own limbs, can turn into 75mph and gliding treacherously like a flying squirrel with my jacket puffed up to the perfect sail-like size over the middle of a cavernous glacier headed toward my rocky death in about 2 seconds flat. In fact I narrowly escaped one such death in which I almost went off a cliff by making the graceful move of going crotch first into a tree, and probably would have impaled myself on a stomach-high branch if I hadn't tried to use one of my, uh, ski canes (?) as a weapon to attack the branch as I fell to my back and slid with my legs in a position I haven't used since prom night into the huge trunk of the pine tree. (If I get pregnant I hope they look like him.)

(Just kidding about the prom night thing, I'm pretty sure I just curled up in bed with Gige that night and let her boyfriend share the other bed with mine because they both passed out before we even made it to hot tub time - but did manage to wake up in time for Denny's the next morning, during which we ordered seventeen plates of Moons Over My Hammy and then stopped for Taco Bell about an hour after that. *sigh* I miss teenage metabolism.)

Anyway it was a really great experience - life danger or no. And I just kept telling myself that if these three year olds zooming past me could do it then I could at least try to go down again without wishing I had some sort of harness they use in plays to make people look like they're flying. Plus when I actually let myself get a little speed and found that I didn't immediately explode and die it was so much fun. Totally terrifying and awesome all at the same time, which I quickly realized is not unlike spending lots of quality time with my family. They are terrifyingly awesome - with the added bonus of not leaving me bruised and shaking from fear at the end of the day. You know, most of the time.

Job (dis)satisfaction

Recent phone call with Gabi. Because if you can't call your friends crying about how old they are getting, then they're not really your friends.

A: Hello?
G: Hi.
A: Who is this?
G: What do you mean who is this? It's Gabi. You've had caller ID for like 20 years.
A:You don't call me though, it's usually only texting. How do I know this is really Gabi?
G:You want me to prove it?
A:Gabi doesn't call me!
G: Fine. In High School you were once in Gige's Dad's house and right before your Mom came over you were-
A:-OK! Stop right there. I believe you.
G: Are you sure? Cause I just remembered something else about that day.
A: I'm sure. What if your man secretary hears you?
G: He'll probably want to meet you.
A: With the amount of snot that was involved he probably won't.
G: What?
A: What?
G: We're not talking about the same thing.
A: I think we are.
G: Ew.
A: This is why we only text.
G: Are you at work?
A: Yes. Are you?
G: Yes. I hate it here. It makes me . . . (**muffled sobs**) ... my life is like... and everything is speeding up. My boyfriend's getting older. And you. . . I mean you're gonna be thirty!
A: What?
G: Thirty. You're gonna be thirty, my boyfriend's gonna be older. . .
A: Oh, I heard you. How come you're not getting older?
G: I'm always gonna be younger than you.
A: Ok. (**shaking it off. she's upset.**) So, I'm gonna be thirty - I'm still your friend. We still have fun right?
G: We cry and eat.
A: Well, half of that is fun.
G: We don't even eat as much as we used to.
A: Speak for yourself. Plus, we don't cry as like a thing we do together for fun. It only happens when you're at work and you start conversations like this.
G: It's sucking out my soul.
A: Yeah, that's the fluorescent lighting.
G: I'm serious.
A: So am I! Those pipe lights are like that scary octopus lady from The Little Mermaid who sucks out the voice of Ariel; except they suck souls and make you look like you just threw up a few times and then washed your face with gifilte fish.
G: Pipe lights?
A: That's what you chose to focus on in that sentence?
G: Hang on. . . (**to her fancy walkie talkie**)Yeah whatever, arrest him, don't arrest him, I don't care.
A: Do you need to go arrest someone?
G: Nah, whatever he stole probably wasn't that big.
A: At least you take pride in what you do.
G: I can't arrest everyone who steals! I'd have to fire 90% of everyone who steps into the store, employees included.
A: Well, that might be a good way to get out of working there now wouldn't it? You can't come to work if everyone is in jail.
G: . . .
A: Gabi?
G: Interesting. . .
A: Better than my second idea. That one involves a small fire in the children's section, and a goat.
G: I could just arrest everyone . . .
A: And then your job would be finished.
G: Oh my gosh I'm so happy. How come I never thought of that?
A: Well, I am always older than you.
G: Thank god for that.

Happy Christmas Eve!

My favorite Christmas present so far:



The best part about this was that right after I got it I had to call my sister and say, "When did Chanukah start? Is it over? Do you spell it with a 'c' and one 'n'? Or a 'h' and three hundred 'k's?"

"It ended already, it started on the 11th."

"Wow super-jew, way to keep up with things."

"I do have a hebrew tattoo remember?"

"So does Posh Spice."

"Ok, it's pre-printed on my work calendar."

"Awesome."

"I am gonna make fried matzo on Christmas eve when Dad comes over to celebrate."

"There see, we've fulfilled out duty then. Maybe I'll see if he wants to play dreidel with us."

"Do you remember the rules?"

"No, but I figure if I just start shouting out all the Yiddish words I remember and throwing gelt at everyone it'll seem like we're doing it right."

"I'm in."

"L'chaim."

"Uh. . . that's a toast."

"Goyim."

"Amy. . ."

"Shiksa."

"Oh, Jesus. . ."

"Anne Frank."

"Too far."


So, we might not get to the dreidel or even be able to talk my Dad into putting on his yarmulke for the spirit of things, but there will be lots of fried crackers soaked in eggs (oh my gosh, don't judge it's surprisingly amazing) and my Dad will be playing every Christmas song on the planet for us on his guitar while we get drunk on non-kosher wine, and watch Babes in Toyland - the Annette Funicello version - and have to listen to my Dad tell us again how he used to have such a big crush on her. It's not Christmas until your Jewish father is singing Jingle Bells and blushing about a Mouseketeer, while your brother is making the bells strung on the tree play Silent Night at an insanely high decibel as some sort of horrible back-up to your dad's acoustic guitar, and you and your equally tone deaf sister get just tipsy enough to join in for the "harmony" but end up stopping your dad dead in his tracks to cover his ears in mock pain, and even your brother focuses on you long enough to sign, "Stop please", which you do because I mean c'mon - you've just offended the boy who thinks New Kids On The Block still kicks ass - that's gotta be some bad singing.

It Does A Body Good

I just found a note stuck in the middle of my important work papers that just says:

"is awesome form of nutrition. is breastmilk!"

I cannot for the life of me remember writing this, but I'm almost 100% sure I wrote it yesterday. (You know, due to the date written in the corner.) I'm pretty sure it was a basis for a discussion I was having in my head with Gige about breast feeding. I like to have discussions with her with myself first, playing both sides, because now that she's a mom she's super busy we don't have a lot of time to talk, so when we actually get voice contact I like to bring something up that I don't have to get a ten minute rambling start to*, I want to be prepared for all her logic and well thought-out-ness. It's sort of like how I get pumped up to get into an argument with my Mom but on a much lesser scale. My mom goes into an argument knowing she's right and never, NEVER, loses. Even if she's wrong she somehow spins it so she's right. She's like a politician trying to avoid a sex scandal, only most of the time she's avoiding acknowledging that it IS embarrassing that she wears a pillow case over one of her arms when she drives. A pillow case. Over her arm. WHAT. Who does that?

"I don't want to get a sunburn."

"You're in the car."

"The sun is still shining isn't it?"

"But you're just going to the grocery store, what is that - like a three minute drive?"

"I have very delicate skin."

"Mom, couldn't you just use sunscreen?"

"I don't want to be sticky just to go to the store."

"What about long sleeves?"

"I'm hot, and what about my hands? You want them to get skin cancer?"

"No, I-"

"Are you saying you'd rather I get melanoma than wear the pillow case to spare you some embarrassment?"

"Well, no, that's not what I mean-"

"I love you Amy. I would give you my pillow case if you needed it."

"You would?"

And then suddenly I'm deeply touched my Mom would give up her protection, I feel four and like she's just picked me up from Kindergarten and carried me all the way to the car because she knew I needed an extra long hug after the whole running out of milk money, and peeing a little bit on my shoes thing because the Kindergarten bathrooms are different from our home bathrooms and I got nervous and missed. And somehow I'm tearing up and telling her I love the pillow case idea, I really love it, and end up wearing the matching one to hers as we head to 7-11 for some Chocodiles and Dr. Peppers. She's sneaky. Very, very sneaky.

(*This is good in theory, but it never works. When we actually do talk I tend to hit sonic levels only dogs can hear because I'm so excited to hear from her, and by the time we're both calmed down from our giggling and best friend love pouring, it's time for her to pump or for me to eat so we have to hang up.)(Because me and four-month-old are on the same schedule.)

Anyway, what I meant to discuss with Gige yesterday before we got all caught up talking about firecracker pork, was the fact that she and her husband seem very set on denying the fact that they have ever, maybe even just on accident, tried her breast milk. Like not even a little drop that spilled out. I think I would totally lick that up. I mean, I eat food I drop in the street, that's gotta be worse for me right? Last time I asked the husband he looked at me like I'd just asked him if he tried his own poop. I did not ask that - poop eating is gross - milk though, milk is perfectly normal. Babies live off it for goodness sake! Like my note says, "is awesome form of nutrition. is breastmilk!"

I started to get all worried and embarrassed though (with myself, because Gige wasn't actually saying anything back to me - and even if she was, she would never make me feel bad about wanting to try her breast milk) (I mean. . .)(no she probably wouldn't make me feel bad about that either - but let the record show, I don't want to try her breast milk, I want her to try her breast milk.)

There's a whole world of people out there who are so relieved right now that she got stuck with the job of being one of my best friends and they didn't.

So, I'm feeling really weird about this, because it is weird a little bit, but I've never had a baby so I don't know. So, I do the logical thing and text my mom who's working her a off ten feet from me.

TXT: thanx 4 getting the irs to fax me that stuff ur the best. also, did you ever try your own breastmilk, like even just on accident?

And then I watch her from behind a potted plant while she reads it and I see her face go from amusement to slight disgust, and then she began rubbing her temples, which is a reaction to me she does a lot lately. But then she looked up and saw me peeking out from behind a fern where I was starting to giggle, because breaking my Mom's concentration is hard to do and making her giggle at the office is even harder, but she kept looking at me and her face started to break, and reluctantly, against her will, a huge smile broke out and she started shaking in silent giggles, and the fern started shaking wildly because I was laughing and holding on to it, and she calmed herself down enough to look up at me, nod slowly and mouth:

"Of course I have."

Of course she has. She wears pillow cases for goodness sake. And apparently now so do I.

I Also Once Had Nightmares After An Episode Of The Facts Of Life

So on Saturday I decided to go to a party with one of my teacher friends and was pretty sure I'd be home and in bed by nine because the thing started at 4:30. Becky went out of town for the night but before she did she said, "You are not gonna be in bed by 9, when you hang out with her its for like four days straight, and you come back eventually all hung over and talking about this zoo you broke into and that it's quite possible one or both of you is pregnant."

"That's totally not true."

"What happened last time you guys hung out?"

"Fun happened."

"Exactly."

And despite my best efforts to keep it normal, at the end of the night (which to be fair was only like 11pm) my teacher friend and I were sitting on the floor, having a tea party with the host's four year old son, and were pissed when we were told it was his bedtime because we knew that meant tea party was over. Apparently we were together enough to know if we continued to have the tea party with just the two of us, things would get weird.

Anyway, the whole point of this is to say that Sunday I was a little out of it. I'm too old to drink til 11 apparently and then try to be functional the next day. (My 21 year-old self is shaking her head in disgrace at my now-self, but that's ok, because my 21 year-old self also thought Justin Timberlake was the un-cutest of the boy band boys . . . oh my gosh if only she knew what Chris Kirkpatrick would end up like.)




He's not terrible. But he's not this either.




(Hi Justin. Just kidding about when I was 21. Here, let me make it up to you. By that I mean with sexy stuff, you know that right? Ok, just so we're clear.)

Anyway, I was couch-bound on Sunday and spent the entire day reading this book In The Woods, and it was so (dork alert) nice to be reading! Like actually wanting to spend hours reading because I liked the book so much, I haven't had that since. . . well, probably since the last Harry Potter came out. (Gabi, I swear to god if you finish the Twilights and don't read any of the Harry Potters we're gonna have to rethink our friendship.)(Ok, not really, but I am gonna start making more fun of Britney.)(Consider yourself warned!)

So, I was totally thrilled with this book, and it's a mystery so I was trying to figure out what happened, and I'm always wrong - always - because I usually end up thinking it's the best friend, or the supporting character, even though there's been nothing but awesome from them, because in my head that's the scariest thing that can happen. Your best friend turns on you and stabs you in the woods and then leaves your body in some hollow somewhere even though you have no idea what a hollow is, and you're all, 'Oh this is neat, thanks for showing me this hollow' and secretly your best friend is pulling out a serrated hunting knife, and you just keep blabbering, 'I wonder if this would be considered a sleepy hollow', and your bff rolls her eyes because she knows she's about to stab you and leave you there, probably for reasons not far off from the fact that you just wondered about the identity of this hollow, and then you're all 'It's sorta dark in here, I'm hungry' and then she says, 'Not for long' and then bam! you're stabbed to death. But since it was a stabbing and not something fast like a gun shot to the eye, you have time to process everything that's happening, and that's the scary part - not the actual stabbing, that just hurts, the scary part is when you see the murder creep into the eyes of the person you just told that you had a burrito for breakfast, lunch, and dinner yesterday and watched fourteen episodes of Say Yes To The Dress and thought she understood, and suddenly that all vanishes because she's not, she's not the person you thought she was. She's the one who kills you in a hollow, sleepy or otherwise.

So, yeah, I guess wrong, and mysteries scare the living daylights out of me. I was reading this book for hours on end, and it was REALLY captivating, but it started to get really twisted and really creepy, and before I knew it, it was dark and I was so scared and skittish that not only could I not move from the couch, but then the dog sneezed and I screamed so loud my neighbor came over and asked if I was ok.

"Oh yeah, the dog scared me."

She looked down at my deaf, fourteen year old, snoring dog.

"Well she didn't scare me now. Now she's harmless, but earlier she sneezed."

The walking away without saying goodbye was probably totally deserved.

I could not shake the freaked-out-ness though, and when Becky got home, I heard her jangling her keys in the door, I heard her open it, and saw her face through the crack, in all real-life senses I knew it was her, but I still screamed (in a freakishly mannish voice) when she came in (sisters are the 2nd on my list of scary secret murderers). My only solution to such terror was to finish the book immediately so I would know what happened and could return to a normal life.

Once I finished I breathed a sigh of relief, and Becky breathed a sigh of relief because she was sick of me shrieking at her in terror at inappropriate moments.

But then yesterday, this happened:

"Becky guess what?"

"What?"

"I just found the sequel to my scary book."

"Oh Jesus, Amy no."

"But I have to-"

"No."

"But I want to know what hap-"

"No."

"What if it's not as ba-"

"No."

"I already bought it."

"Shit."

"I'm gonna start reading it right now."

"Thanks for warning me. I'm gonna call you as I'm walking up to the house so you don't throw something at me when I walk in."

"Don't call me! Have you heard my ringtone? It's like Satan's siren."

"Goodbye."

"Don't call me!"



I'm so excited.

Ten Reasons Why My Sister Deserves A Really Great Brithday Today

1. Because yesterday when I couldn't find my ice cream and vehemently decided to blame it on the cleaning lady, Becky backed me up - even when a half an hour later I found it in the oven where I'd left it to defrost like, four days before.

2. She's not ashamed to wear her Paramore concert shirt out in public.

3. She's not ashamed when I wear my high school P.E. shorts out in public.

4. If I quote her yelling at me from a home video circa 1984, she will, without fail, roll her eyes at me and yell, "You can't quote a home movie weirdo!" and will then quote a different one to me. Because as children, we spent a ridiculous amount of time documenting ourselves. My mom wouldn't even know how to turn the thing on, and my dad was too busy filming the scenery around us and announcing it all, "And here's the tree in our front yard . . . it used to be smaller . . . but now it's a little bigger . . . and look. . . it's right next to our honeysuckle bush . . . which is about the same size as it was last year." Someone had to capture our youth, and it sure as hell wasn't gonna be our parents.

5. She once broke her toe from too much dancing.

6. Up until she was about eight years old she refused to wear a shirt if it was hot out on the grounds that 'the boys didn't have to wear shirts, why should she'.

7. She's stopped getting mad when she notices I'm wearing her underwear.

8. This is probably because one day we both realized we were wearing our mom's underwear.

9. Our mom has not stopped getting mad about us wearing her clothes.

10. When she was five she finished building a Construx house the size of a recliner and turned around and proclaimed, "I'm going to be an architect," and then she went ahead and did it. She has more dedication and talent than she ever gives herself credit for. And now she puts these in her clients houses.




11. She always shows me her toe cramps because they don't hurt her (alien) and her feet get so out of whack it looks like she has rubber bones, and this never fails to freak me out.

12. Anytime she's going out-out she'll ask me what she should wear and lets me do her hair, but always, always refuses the jewelry. It's the one girly moment we have together a year, in between her teaching me how to do a beer bong, and me showing her how half my toe turned black from running.

13. She has every episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman on VHS.

14. She never cries at movies, not even if a little baby dies, or if that underprivileged black kid makes it as a pro football player because a sassy southern lady decides to raise him as her own - but if it even looks like a puppy, or some sort of animal is maybe going to get hurt, or just taunted, she'll bawl for four days.

15. She's really funny.

16. I don't even need to add this one, because it's totally obvious, but look at this - she's totally grown up into this ridiculously beautiful person.



Oops, wrong picture. That was the first time I did her makeup, she was very grimace-y about it.




And that was more than 10 reasons but I wasted some with all that embarrassing underwear talk.

Happy Birthday Becky!


(*And Michael! I didn't forget him people, he's getting Do You Know The Muffin Man sung to him 10,000 times tonight, and that's way more than equivalent than a blog post about him to him, trust me*)

Not Contagious

So a month or so ago, I got in the car to go to Costco because suddenly my sister and I were out of anything paper, and I had been holding it for two days. Ok, that's not true, because I did go out at midnight (read: 9pm) one night to get some tp and Becky pitched such a fit that it was only 1 ply that I was pretty sure her tiara started to slip off. The only solution: go buy a package of 14 million rolls.

Anyway, so we get in the car and I'm feeling a little feverish, which I chalk up to the fact I was just wearing full sweats even though it's like 80 out (because I like to dress as if I still live in Chicago), and I look in the mirror and notice I look wrong. I look wrong because I am covered in red spots. Like, not just a little bit covered, it's all over my neck, chest, face, torso - but not my arms or legs - which causes me to turn to my sister and yell, "It's not on my limbs, it's just on my body!" (because logic and me part ways when I'm fairly certain I've just inherited a latent strain of SARS) (because even in my freak-outs I'm not cool enough to get a disease when it's popular)

I pulled down the visor-mirror thing to check the rash from different angles while Becky just keeps repeating something about how I need electrolytes. That's her solution to my SARS - just have some Gatorade, you'll be fine. This was not that shocking to me though - when we were kids if Becky had a stomachache my Mom used to hand her the bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos, tell her they were her medicine, and Becky would have to lie on the floor while she ate them. For headaches I was given my choice of See's dark chocolates; for colds we got a combo of butter-peanut butter toast and jars of baby food; and for the flu - Taco Bell. The flu was the best.

It seemed to always work somehow, we survived childhood without any major illness anyway, but right then in the car, with my rapidly spreading rash, I did not think a lime-flavored beverage was going to cure me. I took several pictures with my cell phone to send to Gige's husband so he could diagnose me via a grainy picture the size of a Triscuit, and then went back to examining myself in the visor-mirror when I noticed the SARS was not just on my body, it was also on my eyeballs.

Cut to immediate panic and thoughts of having to have my eyeballs removed and robot ones put in - if I even made it that long, because pretty much, I only had minutes to live.

I couldn't even cry because I was afraid the tears would somehow cause a reaction with the rash on my eyeballs and things would start to explode. I made Becky double check for me, which she refused to do until we were at a stop light because she "didn't want both of us to die today" or something safe like that, but once we stopped she looked at the whites of my eyes and then gave me a look I've only seen on Grey's Anatomy right before they tell the patient he's got a baby bird stuck in his gallbladder.

"You do have a rash on your eyeballs. Holy shit."

"Oh my god I do?!"

"You're the one who made me check!"

"I was hoping I was just feverish and hallucinating!"

And so on. Becky was still convinced all I needed were some electrolytes, and after several minutes of wondering who I could have caught this from, Gige texted me back and said:

"Did you run today?"

"Yes."

"How far?"

"Eighteen miles."

"Then did you shower and put sweats on?"

"Can you see me?"

"You have a heat rash. Stop freaking out and tell Becky to turn the air-conditioning on."

I was fairly certain it was not a heat rash, that would be silly, but I rolled down the windows, Becky cranked the air while muttering about how of course it was the heat and hadn't she been saying that all along? And then magically, ten minutes later of fresh air, the rash on my body and on my eyeballs was totally gone. Heat rash, not SARS. Weirdest side effect of running ever.

Then yesterday night (a month later and forty degrees colder) I got home and sat down next to Becky who looked at me and said, "What the heck? You have that rash thing again!"

"Is it on my eye?"

"Not yet!"

"Quick open a window so it doesn't spread!"

"How much did you run today?"

"Just five!"

"Your exercise is causing problems!"

"The fact that I just came in from 40 degree weather to 80 is causing problems!"

And so on until the season finale of Glee came on and we were both distracted from my temperature change problem by dancing singing adults pretending to be teenagers - and by the time it was over and I'd stopped crying (I love that show a little too much, and I'm a little too emotional these days if I'm crying just because the Cheerleaders are on the Glee Club kid's side) my redness was gone, and no eyeballs had been harmed.

So now if it ever happens again I'll know I can either get somewhere cold real fast, or turn on a musical. Both can fix me - and that's exactly what I'm going to explain to my kids when I'm holding them out the window of a speeding car to help cure their diaper rash.

Holy Crap - You're Welcome In Advance

Happy (3 days after) Thanksgiving!

So, it was 85 degrees here on Thursday. Yeah, 85. This isn't some weird post I forgot to put up back in July, it's the end of November, and it was Thanksgiving, and it was so hot Becky and I wore tank tops and were sweating our asses off because someone had the audacity to make us bake on such a hot holiday.



You can't tell from my cell phone picture, but we are sweaty, and in matching tank tops - because when people ask us if we're twins we like to make it that much more awkward when we say no. I'd also like to point out that we look absolutely nothing alike in this picture - we're both tall, but that's about it. Had I angled the camera down a few inches you would have been made insanely aware of the fact that Becky's bra can hold three of mine inside of it and that my legs start around her belly button. Our limbs are sometimes like a baby giraffe's or one of those wind blown dudes at a used car store.



So, Thanksgiving was weirdly hot and made me miss weather ("This is Ohio, we have weatha.") a lot. Like leaves that fall, and skies that get cloudy, and waiting anxiously like a 3 year old for the first snow, and then walking around in it after consuming gallons of wine and proclaiming "This is a Winter Wonderland!", because the first snow - untouched, freshly fallen, white snow - is glittery, and smooth, and if you're from California it looks fake, like Disneyland sparkly fake, and you just want to cry when you realize - nope, all this gorgeous white stuff - that's real. (Well, that and because you're still drunk, and you cry a lot when you're drunk; ask boyfriends 3 through 7) Of course, four hours later it's brown mush, and you've got 8 months of not being able to take out your trash without stepping in pee-snow, but still, it's pretty for a while.

Anyway, I was totally missing that. And then I watched some people jump in the ocean after their Thanksgiving dinner just across the street from my Mom's house and they didn't immediately die of hypothermia, or drown because there's no salt to help them float, in fact they stayed out their enjoying it for a long time, and then I looked down the coast and there were tons of people at the beach, just being all thankful for year-round tans and the fact that 'getting the winter gear out' means the warm hoodies. And I gotta admit, that is pretty nice. Being able to wear flip flops no matter what time of year it is.

Doesn't mean I don't miss this though, cause I do.




So cold, but so fun.


(For the first seven months anyway.)

I Now Will Have Dumbo Stuck In My Head For The Next Five Years

Last night was dinner-with-my-brother night, and instead of going out with my Mom we went out with my Dad, which was totally different a) because with my Mom we always eat out, because we love eating out, but also because since she hooked up with E she doesn't cook for herself, pick out her own clothes, or drive herself anywhere anymore. The other day she came in wearing something very comfortable looking, something very much like the way I remember my Mom from childhood, and I went up and hugged her, half expecting to smell Obsession and Suave hairspray, and having to duck out of the way of curls because they used to be stiff little spirals of eye-gouging death - but her hair was soft, and she smelled like fancy new-Mom, and when I asked her about the change in wardrobe she said, "Oh, E left early this morning so I had to pick out my own clothes. I think I got this in 1989," she said proudly.

"It shows," I commended.

"Right? I love it. The 80s are back."

"Not in the carpet-jacket shoulder-pad sort of way."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Remember when I wanted to get blue eyeliner tattooed on my eyes?"

"Every day of my life."

"Maybe I should do that. You can't go wrong with blue eyeliner."


And this is why it's ok E insists on being her fashion stylist.


Anyway, dinner with Michael was also different because b) it was at our house, and Michael is not used to being there, so upon arrival he opened every cupboard, went through every drawer, opened every single piece of mail we had and then flung the bills and letters to the floor, choosing to focus on the envelopes, flushed the toilet a few times for good measure, and then ran* back and forth between my room and Becky's room trying to decide which bed was going to be most comfortable for him to relax on. (He chose mine. No surprise there. I'm the favorite - but only in the way I'm also the dog's favorite. I give the dog human food when she looks at me all cute-like, and I give Michael pretty much anything he wants when he looks at me all cute-like. Lesson: if you want something from me, look cute.)

(*Michael doesn't run, he stomps. I'm not sure if it's his cerebral palsy or that he never learned, but stomping quickly is about as fast as he goes. Becky doesn't run either, and she definitely doesn't have cerebral palsy. I think it's just a thing they decided they weren't going to do when they were in the womb together. That and clean their own dishes. "No running, no dishes, lets get ourselves born!")

When we're out with my Mom, Michael tends to act slightly adult. He asks to listen to Michael Jackson, he doesn't want to hear the Disney songs we usually sing to him, and you can just forget about hugging in public. But when my Dad showed up he was immediately pulling out the Dumbo tape we played on a loop from 1983-2001, letting me dance with him (ok, fine, near him) and sitting all two bills of himself down on my Dad's lap. Michael is not a small guy, he probably outweighs my dad, and is the same height (the men in my family cap out at 5'8 while the women don't drift under 6' which makes family photos awesome), and so within 5 minutes my dad had lost all feeling in his legs and was beginning to look a little faint, but nobody wanted to tell Michael to move because it was so f-ing cute, and lovey, and adorable that my 27 year old brother wanted to be sitting on my Dad's lap that we just let him sit there, giggling, and happy, and smiling this smile that can break my heart from four billion miles away. And then I looked over and saw Becky smiling and laughing at the whole scene, and suddenly I couldn't stop looking back and forth cause here were the twins, smiling, and happy at the same time.

It was so goddamn magical that you could have asked me for my first born son last night and he would have been yours. He would have been yours a hundred times over.





Ok, not really. I want my first born son. My second though, he's all yours.