O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, How Tempting Are Thy Branches... and Ornaments... and Lights

The war over the family Christmas tree has begun. I recently made the mistake of remarking to someone that my cats don't really bother my tree too much and that I've never really had a problem.

This is so not true. I seem to suffer from some freakish form of amnesia that makes me say this same thing year after year when this is completely not the case. I think I like to block it from my mind and make my cats seem angelic or perhaps better than the average housecat. Or maybe I don't want to think about my gorgeous tree with its pink lights and girly ornaments being savaged by naughty little felines.

My domesticated cherubs hear the irresistible call of the wild twice a year. It happens in the springtime when the windows are first opened and the birds and bunnies are out in plain view. They run from room to room, sitting in each windowsill making these strange, almost primal noises (I assume they are fantasizing about catching said birds and bunnies and feasting on them) and running headfirst into the screens when the urge to maim and kill overcomes them (this slight head trauma usually brings them back to reality for the remainder of the season).

All is well after that until the Christmas tree goes up in late November. Like I said, I told someone that my cats don't mess around with my artificial 7 foot tall beauty. False, false, FALSE. From the moment I brought the box down from upstairs last Sunday, my cats have been on high alert. They immediately starting sniffing the branches I had strewn around while simultaneously trying NOT to look too interested but I knew damn well that by the end of the night one of them would be going all Cliffhanger on me and climbing that tree.

I'm not sure which one was up in the branches when I woke up around 4 a.m. to use the bathroom that next morning but I could hear the whole tree shaking. I was too tired to do anything more than yell in a half-assed manner (which the culprit completely ignored, by the way) but I have my suspicions as to who it was.

Who it probably WASN'T: This guy. This is Binxy, and this is a photo of Binxy doing what he does best. His other favorite pasttimes are eating and hiding from everything. The only time he comes out is when he needs his food freshened (that's right, freshened. He doesn't like it when food sits in his bowl too long so I have to add fresh food and mix it up) or when he decides I should pet him, which happens about once a week. Otherwise he doesn't bother anyone and prefers to live a hermit-like existence in the basement or spare room. He simply can't be bothered with activities that thin, active cats partake in, such as trying to destroy the household Christmas tree.


As far as I know, the only thing that can entice Binxy to exert any energy (besides hearing me shake the bag of cat food) is if there is a box laying around that is way too small for his portly body. Then he's all up in it.

Lily didn't worry me too much this year because she is still wearing The Dreaded Cone. Or she was. I saw her try to take a running leap into the tree branches the other night, only to be snapped backwards because her cone wouldn't fit. (As a brief history, Lily intermittently has to wear the cone because of an injury she had when I initially found her. She has very sensitive skin on her face and sometimes scratches it too much, causing it to bleed.)

However, I came home yesterday to find The Dreaded Cone on the ground and Lily was MIA. She's like a little cat Houdini the way she can wriggle out of that thing and disappear into thin air (she seems to realize that once I catch her the cone has to go back on). If Lily is going to fuck my tree up, it'll be at night or when I'm not here. And it'll be out of spite, a revenge killing of my tree for making her wear that cone.






This brings us to Kenni and Meredith.

Meredith is kind of the wild card. At nine, she is the oldest cat in the house which means she spends most of her time hissing at everyone else and laying in my lap. Or in the sink (hey, she prefers FRESH water). However, she has taken an open interest in the tree this year and as I lay on the floor typing this post she is lurking under it, probably reverting back to her kitten days and plotting which ornaments to knock down and drag off into oblivion.


Then there's Kenni, my little crackhead kitty. Kenni has been a maniac from the time she was a wee little kitten, so if anyone is going to completely annhilate the Christmas tree this year it will be her. While I was putting ornaments on earlier, she was laying on the table next to the tree and blatantly swatting at anything in her reach, not even caring that I was right there scolding her. When I tried to brush her off the table and away from the tree, she bit me.

A video should honestly be done about Kenni in the style of the Honey Badger. I can hear Randall the Narrator's voice now: "Crackhead Kitty don't care. Look at her! Crackhead Kitty takes what she wants. So nasty! Oh look, she's chasing things and eating them."

(Maybe Kenni and Meredith are secretly mad at me for giving them fucked up names. In my defense, and as I have tried to explain to them time and time again, I was NOT responsible for naming them. Both were named by exes, I had zero to do with it.)

A whole branch was pulled out of the center pole this evening. No one would confess.

You know who DIDN'T do it? My best buddy Joe! He loves Christmas and his mama!

I give my tree two weeks, tops. I can already envision myself coming home from work to find it tipped over and all cats off in hiding except Kenni, who will likely be sitting on top of it looking pleased with herself. I am going to attempt to weight it down at the base but I think this will only make it more of a challenge for them. Either that or they'll get bored and someone will pee on it.

This is Christmas in the Miles house! Never a dull moment when you have a cat menagerie.

Writer's Block

Writer's block is a real bitch.

I don't know if it's the lack of heartache in my life or the abundance of happiness, but I don't have shit to write about. I've never had it this bad before. Frankly, I'm a little concerned.

I thought it would be really easy to write about the adventures my love and I have had the past eight months. And maybe those words will soon be able to flow, because there certainly are some entertaining stories to tell.

But I've had writer's block for almost two months now and it isn't getting better. I've tried drinking mass quantities of wine and posting, which generally results in an intellegible, half-finished post that never sees the light of day.

This really sucks ass. I don't have better, more descriptive words for it than that. Just know I've been working on stuff, but that stuff normally gets deleted because it sucks.

Tips for writer's block cures are completely welcome in the comments section!

Ghosts of Family Holiday Gatherings Past...

*Post removed due to censorship. God I hate censorship*

"You Can't Save Everything."

I have been told this time and time again all my life in regard to homeless, abandoned animals. Even as a young girl, I would try to save injured birds, homeless cats, stray dogs. I have never been able to turn my back on an animal in need. I have let strays hop in my car, went to the dog warden and "bailed out" I dog I hadn't even MET, taken in injured cats and nursed them back to health- the list of things I have done for these helpless creatures is extensive.

I'm not writing this to pat myself on the back or brag. I'm writing because I have taken in another animal in need and frankly, I had forgotten how rewarding it is. I received a text from a co-worker on Monday talking about a dog who had been THROWN FROM A CAR and left in the street. The dog was understandably bewildered at having been dumped like a piece of trash and apparently hopped right in the car of my co-worker's friend, who took her in for the day but wasn't going to be able to keep her into the night. If she couldn't find someone else to take the dog, the only alternative was the dog warden.

I wrestled with this for a good hour or so while at work. I knew I had enough pets (four cats and a giant, slobbery Boxer) but I also knew that this animal would certainly be put to sleep because she was part Pitbull. I literally made my decision while heading home from work- I swerved from one side of the highway to the other to meet Rescuer #1 (also named Amanda) in downtown Toledo to pick up this poor animal.

I was wondering what I got myself into on the way to get the pup. Any apprehension on my part completely vanished when I pulled up and saw the dog hop out of the car.

She was absolutely precious. She had the head of a Pitbull but the body of a stocky Bassett Hound- she looked like a midget Pit! Her face was sweet and she had a wagging tail despite the ordeal she had been through. So what did I do? I immediately starting crying like a little baby in front of Amanda and her daughter. I couldn't control it- I was unable to wrap my head around how someone could throw away any dog like a piece of trash, let alone THIS little angel.

(May I take this moment to say that I wholeheartedly hope that there is a special place in hell for the asshole who dumped her and that he or she spends eternity in a continuous loop of riding in a car, being booted out onto concrete and nearly run over by another car over and over and over again. And THAT, my friends, won't be punishment enough in my eyes.)

Anyway. Roxy (had to call her something, I spent the first day calling her "Puppy" and "Little Fatty"- she's quite the porker) fits in very well at our house. Joe Boxer ADORES her and loves having a constant companion to wrestle around with. The cats aren't thrilled with yet another lumbering beast in the house but they're dealing with it. Unfortunately, my darling boyfriend doesn't think we should keep her so I will be fostering her until she finds a forever home through Planned Pethood (or until he has a change of heart- I'm still holding out for that).

This blog isn't humorous like my normal posts, but I needed to take the time to share Roxy's story and remind everyone that when searching for a new pet, ADOPT A SHELTER DOG! And please, do your research before making such a large commitment- a pet is a big responsibility, and he or she will depend on you to be the best owner you can be.

Report any animal cruelty to your local authorities! Donate to shelters this holiday season, even if you only donate an hour of your time to play with a shelter pet!

And, without further delay, I am pleased to introduce you to Miss Roxy!

I Have Nothing Interesting To Write About, So Let's Discuss Dog Urine

After some thought, I have decided that there's no need to delete this blog and start fresh- at least not in the near future. I see some changes on the horizon that may warrant a new blog but for now my life, while borderline disgustingly happy on the relationship front (at least to outsiders- I'm perfectly fine with disgustingly happy, as long as we don't ever get to the "You hang up!" "No, YOU hang up!" "I'm not hanging up till YOU hang up!" stage), still has plenty of lemony stories just waiting to be told.

For example, Joe Boxer has decided to make my oh-so-comfy La-Z-Boy recliner his own personal piss pad. The first time it happened, a few weeks ago, he did it WHILE STILL LAYING IN THE RECLINER. The little asshole was too lazy to get up and properly pee on something, or, God forbid, walk seven steps to my room to alert me that he needed to go outside.

In his defense, he was on Prednisone at the time due to his allergies spiraling out of control. A side effect of Prednisone is a constant need to urinate. This medication didn't just make Joe have to pee frequently, it made him pee for what seemed like minutes on end. At one point while out in the yard relieving himself, I saw him look back at his own doggy penis as if he were thinking, "Shouldn't it have stopped by now??" He then switched legs, putting his right hind leg on the ground and his left hind leg in the air. It was insane, the amounts of pee.

Anyway. So he was urinating frequently. No big deal. He even peed on the way to the sliding door once- I was willing to overlook that as it was on my hardwood floor (easy clean-up) and I knew he was making a genuine attempt to go outside before tinkling everywhere.

The Pissy Recliner is a whole different matter.

As I mentioned, he didn't even get up, he just remained in a comfortable position on the recliner and let the urine flow. Again, I turned the other cheek and cleaned the mess- poor baby was having an allergic reaction and was on medication.

Then he did it again while I was at work, except this time he had been off the medication for a few days. I was highly pissed (haha, get it?) and even yelled at him a little for his misbehavior (he went and laid under the dining room table and made me feel bad, so of course I had to go apologize and pet him and give him lots of treats).

It happened again last Thursday. LAST. STRAW. I thought my head was going to explode. So did Joe.

I may have to get rid of my super soft, ultra comfy recliner. I do not know if it will come clean and even if it does, my dog, who I am currently referring to as "Joe Pisshead," may very well soil it again- which would likely result in me screaming at Joe Pisshead, Joe Pisshead retreating to safety beneath the dining room table and me drinking a beer and feeling really, really bad for making Joe Pisshead feel sad enough to hide and therefore crawling under the table with him and apologizing profusely.

Twice now I have almost flopped down in The Pissy Recliner without thinking. I miss being able to sit in my living room and read a book (I don't like my couch). I am not looking forward to the day Dave sits in it without thinking- Joe Pisshead and I both will probably need to hide under the dining room table.

The Pissy Recliner doesn't bother Joe Pisshead- he is still using it for his afternoon naps despite my attempts to deter him from doing so. This morning I flipped The Pissy Recliner upside down so he couldn't lay in it and/or pee on the seat, although I am sure he will just pee on the side of it instead- my punishment for moving it so he couldn't lay on it.

Note: Please refrain from comments involving seeking advice from Cesar Milan- I shunned him and his methods a long time ago. There is no reason why my dog and I can't share the same fork or co-sleep. None. You won't convince me, so I am saving you the trouble.

Note #2: No, Joe Pisshead does not have a urinary tract infection. He's just being an asshole.

When Life, Uh, STOPS Handing You Lemons...

... or at least stops handing you them so frequently and in such large quantities.

I have a dilemma. This blog was created during a point in my life when I could not see past anything but my own heartache, depression and grief. I was certain things would never be the same for me.

As it turns out, they weren't- they've gotten BETTER than I ever could have imagined. I mean, come on. I have been at my new job for almost three months and I love it. As far as the "heartache," I'd go through it all again to get to where I am now because now I'm in a healthy, non-toxic relationship with a man who makes my heart beat really fast when I'm near him. I'm learning to trust and be myself and not be so afraid of being hurt.

Also, in the very recent future, I decided to make a change in my eating and exercise habits.

Oh, and my beautiful niece arrived! She turned two months old on 8/16.

These are all terrific, exciting changes for me.

They are not terrific for my blog, which was based on my exploits and mishaps as a cynical, slightly bitter single woman. I was going to shut it down and start a fresh blog (I'm still considering that). HOWEVER. Just because I am in love and happy doesn't mean that I can't make my readers laugh with stories from my life. Because believe me, shit still happens. Just not shitty shit, if that makes sense... ?

Case in point: I stopped writing this on my lunch break to go get ice cream with my co-workers. In our defense, we did WALK to the ice cream place and I only got a SMALL Death by Chocolate Artic Blast. This means my new "healthy eating" kick lasted approximately six hours.

Healthy eating? Who?

Dear Dave

I have a small confession to make.

There won't be the same amount of beers in my fridge as there were when you left last weekend.

I know, I know. You KNEW it, right? You knew if you left beer in my fridge I would totally swill it while you were gone like some sort of alcohol junkie. Or open it, take one taste and dump it out.

But it didn't go down that way. Honest.

Those beers were in mint condition, just waiting for your return, up until about half an hour ago.

As you know, my dear, today right after work I went on a quest to find shorts that didn't make me look like a big fatty. It was a long, tiring endeavor and I didn't even end up with any shorts.

I did get some capris, which my mother bought for me. Remind me to tell you the story of how she forced me to let HER buy them as opposed to paying for them myself. Hilarious... but I digress.

I took too long shopping. I knew I did. I was having such a nice time by myself strolling around after my mom left, dodging unruly chidren running amok with no parental supervision because Mommy was too busy hitting on the prize-winning thugs that troll around the mall on Friday nights looking for the hood rat of their dreams. I found some great sales. I was in my own little world.

Then I remembered Joe, that beast. I knew it had been too long, that he was used to me coming home by 5 and that I would pay for my neglect in one way or another.

I just assumed it would be a puddle of urine on my hardwood floors.

I did not, you see, expect him to have dragged the garbage out all over the house. The garbage that contained what was left of my hair dye... which he had taken into the living room, streaking my carpet black.

I thought I was going to maim him (I also hoped he didn't ingest any of the dye).

Instead, I put him outside, cleaned up the mess, put some stain remover on the spots to soak and looked for a suitable place to sit and cry.

Then I remembered your glorious, glorious beer.

(At this point you're probably wondering, "Why the fuck couldn't she just go get a six pack of that shitty Bud Select 55 she loves so much?" Well, Dave, I was in my underwear, OK?! I was in my underwear cleaning up garbage and hair dye and holding back tears because it was really hot in the house and I couldn't stand being in my jeans a moment longer and the trash was just EVERYWHERE. I didn't want to put pants on and they won't let people without pants into stores! At least not stores in Lambertville...)

So I decided that you, being the generous, kind man I know you are, would have WANTED me to have some of that beer you left in the fridge. Had you been with me when I came home to Garbage Armageddon I imagine you would have wordlessly walked over to the fridge, grabbed an icy cold beer, opened it, gave me a kiss and handed it to me.

Or at least that's how it would've went down in my version of it.

Anyway. I took a date stamped photo of your beer while it was still intact. Please refer to the picture below.

See? There's the three Harpoons, the can of Hell or High Watermelon, the bottle of water my mom gave you when we went to meet her and Larry... and off to the side, please note the bottle of Pyramid Haywire Hefeweizen (which WILL still be here waiting for you because I don't drink things I can't pronounce).

At the time of this blog, your collection is one Harpoon less. But I'm not crying thanks to you and your unwitting generosity. You're like a Beer Spiderman or something cool like that. I shall try my hardest not to dwindle the supply down too much more.

Why am I making a blog out of this? First, I need something to distract me so I don't beat my dog. Second, I know after BeerDumpedDownSinkGate and the Intercourse Brand Beer Disappearance, your faith in my ability to leave your beer alone is not very strong. Third, it's kind of funny now that I think about it- you're chuckling too... right?

Hey, look at the shirt I bought! (Distractions are always helpful)




You're number one. Really.





XOXOXOXO Your Well-Meaning, Adoring Girlfriend

Anonymous Comment Posting...

... will now be disabled from my blog.

I mean, selfishly I am hoping this will make my anonymous readers publicly follow my blog where they are free to comment their little hearts out.

But my main reasoning behind this is: anonymous= creepy. I don't mind criticism and I LOVE feedback on my posts. I rarely delete comments (good or bad) and all I ask in return is you, dear readers, possess the balls (not necessarily LITERAL balls, ladies) to leave your name along with your remarks.

Just trying to cut down on stalkers. I wouldn't stalk me anyway, for the following reasons:

1) I'm actually really annoying in real life. I would wear on your nerves if you kidnapped me and held me captive in your basement. You'd be begging me to leave. I whine a lot, I'm sort of high-maintenance and my demands as your hostage (room temperature bottled water, green grapes off the stem, chilled Moscato- Barefoot brand ONLY!, use of your shower at least twice a day with warmed Egyptian cotton towels waiting for me when I emerge, etc.) would make you regret the day you started pinning various pictures of me on that wall in your "safe room."

2) My dog will eat your vital body parts if you try to creep around me.

3) I own pepper spray.

4) My boyfriend is bigger than you. I promise.

5) I know karate.

Ok, one of these is a lie. But you get the point.

Thanks for reading!

XOXOXO Amanda

A Breakup Letter to Liquor...

... but first, due to unforeseen events that occurred in the last 45 minutes, I must give two shout-outs.

To whichever kitty of mine coughed up the giant hairball on the dark area rug so that I would not see it as I happened along in my bare feet- thanks. There's nothing quite like the sudden feeling of a squishy, wet ball of regurgitated fur between my toes to make me feel alive and glad to be a cat owner.

To Convertible Boy, thank you for pulling up alongside me while I was walking my dog a bit ago and making me feel slightly creeped out yet relieved that I am still remotely attractive to strange men, even from behind. When you slowed down, I assumed you needed to pull into the driveway I was crossing. When you continued to follow me blaring your rap music as I walked, I was flattered for two seconds then completely annoyed. I'm sure the dirty look I gave you spoke volumes, as you drove away after that. I imagine you're very nice and probably wear long shorts that go down past your knees, perfectly starched Ed Hardy t-shirts, extremely clean Nikes and way too much cologne when you take girls out on dates, but there was just no connection. I am very into my boyfriend (who, by the way, doesn't drive around like a total douche and leer at innocent women walking their dogs while playing even douchier music as loud as his speakers will go) and not only that, my dog was ready to eat your balls as hors d'oeuvres. Better luck trolling the streets of Toledo in the areas where the hood rats walk around.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Liquor.

Dear Liquor,

I know this will be a devastating blow to you (as well as to the liquor sales at Flicks). We have such a history, after all. You've comforted me in bad times and amplified my happiness in good times. I owe my "Life Of The Party" title to you, I really do.

But I'm breaking up with you. I just can't see you anymore.

Surely you saw this coming. Didn't you feel my resentment when I would wake up the day after a fun-filled night together and you were still hanging around bringing me down? You're always so much fun in the moment, but you never know when to leave and I don't always know when to quit you.

You've made my 20s quite the party, old friend. Remember when you got me and my friends kicked out of the bar on my birthday because the bartender said my dress was way too short? I would never have had the guts to wear that dress if it weren't for the fact I was imbibing you while I was getting ready to go out.

And who could forget the liquid courage you gave me to sock that nasty blonde in the mouth after she slapped my male friend in his face? I don't fight, nor do I know HOW to fight, Liquor. You gave me brute strength and false courage that night (you also got my hair pulled, as the horrible blonde did not appreciate some dark-haired, pissed off girl walking up and punching her without any warning or explanation whatsoever... but I didn't feel it thanks to you!).

You've made me embrace public nudity, idiocy and all out craziness throughout the years. I will never, ever forget you (neither will my friends- TRUST me).

However. The world only needs one Ke$ha. And while I still have ten months left to wear glitter, I do not want to go skating into my 30s still slamming the hard stuff (although I may need your help coping with easing into my thirtieth year- I don't know how I will deal with it otherwise). There's nothing more unattractive than a woman in her thirties who boozes too much. Plus, by the time I'm in my mid thirties I'm sure I will have children and be far too busy for you, so it's better we part ways now (please note, if I do not in fact have children by my mid-thirties I may beg you to take me back to help me come to terms with my sad, sad life as a cat lady).

Don't be jealous of beer, wine and homemade brandy (yes, there ARE loopholes to my no-liquor rule) who are, for the time being, allowed to remain in my life. They just don't have the same "Holy shit, that's girl's gone batshit crazy!" effect on me that you tend to. Our relationship is toxic, Liquor. It's love-hate and I just can't handle the emotional roller coaster. And it isn't fair to you- you deserve better than me. Go find yourself a girl in her early twenties, one with no responsibilities or conscience who can swill you without throwing up or breaking into the neighbor's pool for a midnight swim. Or drunk dialing her father using a British accent as a prank.

I know you'll be OK. We both knew this day would come, Liquor. I feel bad about dumping you, I really do. I feel just as bad as I did when I was thirteen and realized I had to stop playing with Barbies or become the laughingstock of the entire junior high. But as it was when I put Barbie in her suitcase, this is for the best.

XOXOXOXO
Amanda

My New Year's Resolutions... Six Months Later...

I have decided I need to make a few changes in my life. That's right, losing my job, getting a divorce, having my heart broken, finding a new job and re-entering the dating scene all in under a year and a half isn't enough for me.

I just crave excitement, I guess.

Anyway. I figured actually sharing them with the 21 people who subscribe to this blog (and the creepers who lurk and read anonymously- you know who you are... Hi!) would hold me more accountable for making the changes happen.

Don't worry; they aren't TOO drastic. For example, I am not giving up alcohol. That would just be fucking crazy. What would I even do?? Ugh. I don't even want to think about such a thing, so let's get to it:

I Will Walk My Asshole Dog Every Day

I can call him an asshole because he's mine. YOU, however, cannot.

He's very high strung and part of that is my fault. By the time I get home from work each day during the week, I'm just coming down from an eight hour caffeine trip. So, while I'm ready to drop into bed, Joe Boxer is bouncing off the walls (I picture the thoughts in his head are a constant reel of something like this: "She's home! She's home! Oh, look, a cat to chase! Oh, look, she's home! What can I pee on? Oh, look, she's home! Toys! What can I drool on? Oh, look, a cat to chase! Pee. Pee. Pee. Oh, boy she's home!").

I can avoid his spastic fits by walking him as soon as I get home regardless of how tired I am.

Proof? This is him after our walk today:

On the other hand, this is Joe on any given day when a walk is NOT involved:

All up in my grill and shit.

I Will Have Abs like J-Lo.

I don't care what I have to do. I will use ItWorks! wraps till my skin melts off. I will do assloads of situps every day. I will stop eating ice cream sandwiches.

I will even boycott McDonalds, even though they'll likely go out of business without me.

I'm tired of having a muffin top. I need to look good while I'm still young under thirty. Jennifer Lopez is almost 40, if not older, and she looks amazing. I'm 29 and I look frumpy. She's had fucking TWINS and her abs are pristine. I've had no babies and I can't even actually SEE my abs thanks to the layer of flab sitting on top of them.

Clock's ticking, bitch.

I Will Enjoy My Time Spent With My New Boyfriend

I'm sure he'll balk at the term "boyfriend" directed at him, but tough luck, baby! I'm only seeing you, I cut the other boys loose because you're awesome, so I have to put you into SOME kind of category (the alternative ain't pretty, trust me). Anyway, yeah. I'm going to enjoy all of the time we spend together and attempt to stop worrying about things waaaaay in the future. It's difficult to do at my age (I'm very sensitive about the fact that I'm 29 and I don't have a family of my own) but I'm going to try my hardest because (and this is the first time in a long time that I'm publicly giving props to a man because, well, most of them just didn't deserve it and I don't enjoy looking like a fool all that much) he and I have SO. MUCH. FUN. We have the same taste in music (it'll be identical once I get him to share my love of Lady Gaga and the awesomeness that is Ke$ha), he takes me places I've never been before (trying to make Amanda not be a recluse, I assume) and I can laugh with him.

Not to mention I find him extremely sexy.

So that's a big one, not ruining this. It should probably be at the top of my list. Oh, hey, scroll all the way to the bottom of this entry to see a picture of New Boyfriend.

In the interest of self-preservation, I hope he knows I'm quite the catch too and he better hang onto me.

There, I said it. It's part of my next change, which is:

I Will Not Be So Hard On Myself

I want to be more secure about myself. I want to like myself. Lately, I haven't done that at ALL. My inner voice is like that bully bitch in high school (come on, we've all known one) who tears me down constantly- I'm too chubby, my makeup doesn't look right, I said the wrong thing, I didn't get enough acomplished in a day... I want to reach a point where I can stop all that. I want to start accepting myself for who I am.

To an extent, I have tried to do this. I have been nothing but myself while dating, and it's cost me a few guys (hahahaa) who didn't seem to like Real Amanda. But those little heartbreaks were nothing a little vodka couldn't fix and, looking back, they weren't really heartbreaks at all. It was luck shining down on me and guiding me AWAY from the assholes.

I'll practice now: I'm fun. I'm pretty (ish). My boobs are really, really nice. I'm caring in my relationships. I'm a fairly good dog owner (see above). I can make people laugh. I stand up for what I believe. My eyes are such a nice blue.

Yeah, that's all I can muster. I feel like that Lords of Acid song
and it's making me feel all vain and big-headed.

I Will Be On Time For Stuff

I'm always late. I get it from my Aunt Karen, who is always at least half an hour late for everything (it doesn't top the time I was SIX HOURS late in going to New Boyfriend's house for the first time). I try to allow myself extra time to do things but it seems in the end I'm always rushing around and I'm STILL late. I almost made New Boyfriend late for a Tigers game once and I honestly don't know why he didn't kill me (my blue eyes or sparkling wit, I assume).

So, I'm going to make a sincere effort to be on time for things. A friend once told me, "If you're not fifteen minutes early, you're late." Words to live by.

Now I must go, as I'm super distracted because A) there's a squirrel on my porch B) I've had two beers and C) my friend Laura just texted me asking if I want some of her Busch (haha).








































































Just kidding- it's a picture of a squirrel with giant balls. I'm not showing you my boyfriend, creepers.

Dear Mr. Right

... you are really starting to piss me off.

First of all, where the fuck are you? I've been waiting my whole life and I'm not getting any younger.

No, really. I looked in the mirror the other day and am now seriously considering a facelift by the time I'm 40. You need to hurry up and find me before my looks go and I need silicone and Botox in order to turn you on.

Second, I'm tired of encountering Heartbreakers while I look for you. They're everywhere and holy shit, are they sneaky! I actually thought I found you- then I was slapped in the face (not literally- I have mace, see) with the cruel reality that either I suck at life, you don't exist or you're just really, really well hidden... or I'm REALLY good at finding Heartbreakers.

I'm actually having a shirt made that will read "I Heart Emotionally Fucked Dudes" (I'm thinking I'll get a discount on it since I'm also going to order my Betch a shirt that says "I Heart Vodka"). I will probably have some sort of glitter embellishments added to it, which should make it easier for you to spot me.

When we meet, you're going to have some explaining to do. Do you know what I've been through while I try to find you? It's been a blur of crying, drinking, partying, eating chocolate and online shopping. Just call me Ms. Hot Mess. I'm on the brink of becoming a cat lady, dude. You better materialize, and fast.

But lucky for you, when I wasn't busy drinking my weight in vodka and collecting cats, I managed to preserve my inner Ms. Right to some extent. She's a little black and blue, and kinda bitter. And she may need a new liver in the next year or so. But she's in there, she's awesome and she's waiting for you.

So come find me. I'm waiting and I'm getting fucking impatient.

Oh, yeah. Ms. Right swears a lot.

XOXOXOXO Amanda aka Ms. Right aka Crazy Cat Lady aka Lambertville's Chelsea Handler

Officially Old and No Longer Hot

I have returned after a brief hiatus due to a serious case of writer's block. I hope all is well with you and yours, unless I don't like you- in which case, I hope things are wretched and miserable.

Let's see, since I've been gone I have turned 29, gotten a new job and ventured into the world of contact lenses.

I hate two of these things.

The new job as a legal secretary for a law firm starts May 24. I was hired on my birthday, so it was a nice cushion to the blow of turning 29.

My last year in my twenties.

My last year of wearing ridiculous amounts of glitter when I go out (Cosmo magazine says no glitter after 30).

My last year of LIFE, as far as I'm concerned.

I've already informed my loved ones that I will not be leaving my room the day I turn 30. If it's a workday, I'm calling in sick. I will stay in bed all day in the fetal position, only moving to sip from a bottle of Jack Daniels. Oh, and to go to the bathroom.

And no, Mom. McDonalds chicken nuggets will NOT coax me out of my room this time.

Then there's the whole contact lenses thing. What a fiasco. When my mother asked what I wanted for my birthday, I told her all I wanted was contacts (I didn't think she'd spring for a keg of Miller Lite- she's so mean). I've never had them before and was really, really excited at the thought of not having to wear glasses all the time in order to be able to see. Plus, my glasses broke awhile ago and I'm just too cheap to get new ones. For the last couple months, in order to see, I sit with them perched on my nose (the side thingies fell off- bitch at JCPenney optical said they were "completely and totally beyond repair" so I decided to show her by continuing to use my "lost cause" eyeglasses rather than spending money that I could use for my wine fund on new ones that would actually stay on my face) and try not to move my head so they won't fall off.

Anyway. So I get the exam on my birthday. The contacts take FOREVER to come in because I basically have the eyesight of a 14 year old dog with cataracts. When I got the call last week that they were finally in, I was SO freaking excited.

It was short-lived.

I was able to put them in just fine. I don't have problems with putting stuff in my eyes (drops, etc.) so it wasn't difficult. Problem is, I still can't see. I sat in the waiting room for fifteen minutes as the doctor instructed and waited for them to adjust. My eyes went in and out of focus... and when they were in focus, I happened to glance across the room and see a slightly pudgy, frowny-faced woman with really bad hair scowling at me.

She just looked so... unfriendly.

I almost gave her a quick middle finger till I realized I was looking at my own reflection. Holy shit, I did not realize how horribly old I looked till I put those stupid contacts in. I was so furious I wanted to claw them out of my eyes and go home right away to lay in bed, possibly with some wine, but then the doctor wanted to have me read stupid letters off a chart so I had to put my issues with my physical appearance aside for the moment.

He flicked the screen on in the exam room. "Ok, read the chart."

"I can't see the letters."

He stared at me. "What do you mean?"

Let me spell it out, doc. "My vision is WORSE in my left eye than it was before I put the contacts in. I can't see unless I cover my left eye." Or when I'm looking in the mirror, because the Powers That Be want me to see what a hag I've become in my old age.

He decided to send me on my merry way with the contacts from hell that go in and out of focus, showing me glimpses of my hideous self and then blurring things again just as I'm about to turn suicidal about looking like I'm 37 when I'm only 24 29.

I get another pair to try on Friday. Until then, I'm blogging without moving my head, glasses balanced on my nose. And before you think I am ungrateful for the birthday gift from my mommy, please know that I am still kind of excited to eventually find contacts that work for me although I must now live with the cruel reality that I am nowhere near as pretty as I thought I was all this time.

Also, there is a squirrel living in my attic, but I'll save that for my next blog. I have to go rub anti-aging serum all over my body and practice smiling.

Carb Intervention

So, yesterday, I was sitting at work enjoying a delicious bagel during our morning slow time. I had slathered it with cream cheese and was minding my own business and enjoying pure carbohydrate heaven.

Then someone came and brought his fist down and crushed my bagel.

Well, not literally. But he might as well have.

One of our customers was sitting at the counter. When he noticed me sitting there devouring my bagel, he said something to me that I couldn't hear. I assumed he asked what I was eating and I gleefully held my bagel in the air and said, "Bagel!"

He shook his head slightly and came and sat down across from me. The following is the conversation as I recall it (my blood sugar levels had spiked from the bagel, see):

"Hey, you know I could get you in shape in like a month." I think he also snapped his fingers to show just how quick he could transform my fat ass slightly chubby body into something off the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition.

I stared at him while I finished chewing. "But... I love carbs."

He must have expected I'd say this. "Sure, sure. Carbs are great. I love bread. You just have to avoid it. Eat lots of protein, eggs and vegetables."

I took another bite of my bagel and stared harder. "But... I don't even keep bread at home. A bagel just sounded good! And I'm not giving up my alcohol! And sometimes I just CRAVE carbs." My voice had started to take on that whiny tone I usually reserve for when I want someone to rub my back or let me see their MP3 player.

He took my admittance to experiencing carb cravings to mean I was also admitting to being an alcoholic. "There's a supplement you can get for that. It helps with the carb cravings. They use it to help alcoholics sometimes." (I cannot for the life of me remember the supplement he named.)

I asked if I could easily get said supplement at any drugstore, thinking it WOULD be nice not to lust after toast and fried potatoes. He waved his hand and said he could get me some if I needed it, and then he reiterated that it would make me crave alcohol less.

He wasn't hearing me. "I don't CRAVE alcohol. Sometimes I just want it. I'm not an alcoholic." I thought of my beloved wine that I'd consumed the night before. Mmmmm...

He wasn't buying this. "Oh, yeah? When was the last time you drank?"

Last night. "I don't remember."

"Was it last night?"

Yes. "No."

"The night before?"

No. Ha! I was telling the truth. Ish. "No. I guess the last time I drank was Saturday, at the concert." And while I was getting ready for the concert. And at dinner.

He asked how much I drank the night of the concert.

Shots of vodka and lots of beer. "Um... I don't know... maybe a beer or two? Oh, and one shot because, you know, it was a concert." Then I felt a little defensive and thought I should point out one of his vices. "Hey! You drink too!!"

He nodded. "Yep, and I can admit it. You can't."

Psh. What was this, an interrogation? A Carb Intervention? I crammed the rest of the bagel in my mouth and the conversation was over.

And before you think this person is a total asshole, let me tell you that he is one of the nicest, most laid back and genuine people I have ever met and I know he did not mean to hurt my feelings in any way, shape or form.

Plus, if he thinks I'm an alcoholic then he's an enabler because he's bought me shots before.

Still, his words irked me. I started to wonder if I was really in such bad shape that people just look at me and think, "Ugh. Alcoholic carb junkie blob face!" or something along those lines.

I get it: I've gained some weight. I don't really like exercise. And I adore desserts of any kind. And beer. I don't have a boyfriend right now and you would THINK this would make me want to be sure I look good to attract one but I actually feel just the opposite (I've become pretty apathetic about romance these days, you see).

After he left, just to spite him I ate a bag of potato chips with some pickles and ranch dressing.

That'll teach him to try and do a Carb Intervention on THIS girl.

I Think This Blog Is Really Starting To Take Off!

Why, you ask?

Well, two things have happened in the past week that have me super excited and anxious to write more.

First, it turns out that my blog is banned at Promedica for pornographic/prohibited content! That's right, one of my readers was at Promedica and was surfing the net using their WiFi and could not access When Life Keeps Handing You Lemons because, apparently, this site contains words and phrases inappropriate for the general public.

You have no idea how pleased I was with myself when I found that out. It did negate from it a little that the same reader tested my blog at Monroe Junior High School and was able to access it. Still, Promedica is a start. Besides, kids these days are desensitized to such talk.

Second: I have a hater! An anonymous hater, but a hater no less! I read somewhere that you haven't really made it till someone hates you. I know I only have 16 followers so far, but I know for a fact that my Facebook friends read, a few customers at work read and also, Anonymous Hater reads. So the followers count really isn't accurate.

Since I'm an open, sharing person I decided to answer Anonymous Hater's questions that he/she so kindly left on my post about the Eight Cent Tipper.

Here goes.

Anonymous Hater: perhaps get a better education and get a real job? Stop complaining when you're just a waitress at how old? You like to be stereotypical and harsh?well you're a waitress...one of the lowest jobs ever...

Dear Anonymous Hater,

First of all, thank you for reading! I'm glad that you enjoyed my blog enough to take time out of your obviously busy schedule of lurking the internet and leaving comments on the work of others without admitting your identity/ masturbating to my profile picture to attempt to make me feel bad about myself for being offended at receiving an eight cent tip. You really did make my day. I apologize it took me so long to notice your heartfelt, well-thought out remarks.

Now, on to the questions. To make it easier, I will answer them one at a time. I won't correct your lack of capitalization or improper use of question marks, because that's not why we're here, now is it?

perhaps get a better education and get a real job?

I don't understand... is this a question or a suggestion? Are you speaking to the internet in general, or me specifically?

I'm going to treat it like a question for posterity's sake.

I have an Associate of Applied Business degree in Paralegal Studies and am a Certified Legal Assistant through the National Association of Legal Assistants (NALA). I do apologize that this is not good enough for you. I'm assuming you are an Ivy League professor writing from your tower above all the other lowlife, working class people as you smoke a Cuban cigar and drink the blood of endangered animals while wearing a monocle. Do you by chance own a falcon?

Also, what consitutes a "real" job? I get paid, receive a paycheck and pay my taxes... did I miss something here? Please explain in your next rant so I can better answer your inquiry. Further, are you insinuating that unless a person works at one of these "real" jobs you speak of, it's ok to not pay them?

Stop complaining when you're just a waitress at how old?

How old do you THINK I am? (Fingers crossed that you guess below 25.)

Is there an age limit for waitresses that I was not informed of? If so, there's about to be a mass overhaul in the food service industry as a lot of us will apparently be retiring...

I wish I was as smart and talented as you are. I really do. I know we don't know each other very well, but you remind me a LOT of my ex-boyfriend, Mr. Murder, so I feel very close to you. If I were still into mental and emotional abuse, I would ask you out on a date. I have a lot of free time since I'm "just a waitress." Your words gave me a female boner (I would explain what this is, but I'm fairly certain the only vagina you've seen is your mother's as she was birthing you) and frankly, I'm still a little turned on as I write this.

You like to be stereotypical and harsh?well you're a waitress...one of the lowest jobs ever...

First of all, champ, I did not say I liked being stereotypical and harsh. What sort of monster do you think I am?

Taken from my post:

Stereotypical and harsh of me? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Not really. If you can't afford to leave a tip, you shouldn't be eating out at all, White Trash Skank! I'm not waitressing simply to spend time with you and your rude, Mountain Dew swilling family- I'm trying to pay my bills!

So you see, Anonymous Hater, I never said I enjoyed being stereotypical and harsh. I simply admitted I knew I was probably being such and that I did not, in fact, give a fuck.

(Wait. Waitressing is one of the lowest jobs ever? Is it lower than hooking, because if so I think I'm gonna switch to that since I think it might pay more... unless hooking doesn't count as a "real" job, in which case I might not be paid for services rendered...)

I'm trying to think how I can make you understand... ok, how about this? How would you feel if someone came to you and wanted you to train their falcon and then, after you did, they paid you for your time in Werther's Original butterscotch toffee candies rather than money even though everyone KNOWS you should always compensate a falcon trainer monetarily AND your monocle was destroyed in the training process? I mean, yeah, you'd have the candy to enjoy when you weren't busy puffing on those cigars/ jerking off while staring at pictures of me or yourself (or both)... but at the end of the day, you KNOW you deserve more than that for your hard work training falcons.

It's a lot like that.

Have I helped you to relate at all? I hope so.

Feel free to submit more questions; I'm off to buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate my first hater!

XOXOXO Amanda aka Lowly Waitress Girl

Yes, I'm Using My Blog To Shamelessly Pimp Myself In A Contest

Click on this album, dear readers, select my photo (I'm the one holding the wine glass) and click "Like"!

Thanks!!!

I'm Giving You Eight Cents- Don't Spend It All In One Place, Now.

Actual conversation between a Dirtball Customer* and I today:

Me: How was everything?

Dirtball Customer: Oh, it was good.

(She then hands me a credit card and her bill, which was $20.92.)

Me: Would you like a copy of the receipt?

DC: Yes. And unfortunately, I can only afford eight cents.

Me: Eight cents?

DC: Yes. Eight Cents. For the gratuity.

Me: (actually, I didn't say anything right away. I just blinked at her in disbelief.) Um. We don't need to put eight cents on here.

DC: Oh, yeah, go ahead- it makes it easier for my husband to balance the account.

So I put an EIGHT CENT TIP on her stupid credit card. I'd like to go to her job and pay her less than what she's worth or nothing at all, but I'm convinced she doesn't have a job and probably lives off government funding so she can buy cigarettes for herself and pop for her offspring.

Stereotypical and harsh of me? Yes. Do I give a fuck? Not really. If you can't afford to leave a tip, you shouldn't be eating out at all, White Trash Skank! I'm not waitressing simply to spend time with you and your rude, Mountain Dew swilling family- I'm trying to pay my bills!

I'm just sayin'.




*Dirtball Customer- a patron who is rude/ ridiculous/trashy and has a tendency to not tip and act aloof about it. These customers, thankfully, are few and far between at my work. But they still wander in from the bowels of our town now and then simply to ruin my day and make me want to smash their faces in.

"Here's some cat food. Oh, and the lever from an armchair."

The other day, my maternal grandmother thought of me and prepared a care package of sorts for my million cats. She packed it all in a brown bag and had my aunt leave it on my back porch a few days ago while I was at work.

I arrived home and brought the bag in and peeked inside. My thoughtful grandmother had packed enough cat treats to last my herd of felines the rest of the year, as well as about twenty cans of wet cat food (note to readers: wet cat food is like blow for cats- I'd have to give them this stuff in moderation or I'd never get them to eat dry food again. Ever.).

Then I noticed something else in the bottom. It looked like a wooden cook spoon or something. Closer inspection revealed that it was not, in fact, a wooden spoon but rather the lever to a La-Z-Boy chair.

Oh, Grandma.

I knew what this was about. Grandma had presented my sister with the same exact "gift" months ago. See, my grandmother cleans for La-Z-Boy furniture two mornings a week. Apparently at some point during one of her shifts, her eyes fell on a recliner with a wooden lever and a giant light bulb went off above her head as she thought, "Golly gee, that chair lever could be used as a self-defense weapon!"

Yeah, my grandma wants her granddaughters to carry recliner levers in their cars and use them on would-be attackers. Not pepper spray, a switchblade or hairspray and a lighter (all much more my speed)... a recliner lever.

I looked at the lever, held it up in the air for a second. I swung it a few times. It was a bit short for my taste- I'd have to be really close to the attacker to inflict any damage.

I wondered how many recliners out there are missing levers because of my grandma and her proclivity to fashioning weapons out of random objects.

I called Grandma to thank her for the cat supplies. We chatted about my cats (as cat ladies tend to do) and then she said, "Did you find the other thing in the bag?"

"Yeah, I got the stick."

Grandma was pleased. "Good. I want you to put that in your car and you use that if you need to. Can you believe how heavy those things are?"

"Grandma, I don't know how effective it will be against a mugger. Plus, I have pepper spray. And not only that, no one wants to mess with me. I'm crazy."

She laughed. "Honey, I've been watching television lately and you need to be aware of your surroundings. These girls go into a gas station and the next thing you know some deviant follows them out and attacks them. And with all these TV shows showing such sick violence... television is creating rapists and criminals."

Aha. She'd been watching Dateline and Criminal Minds. I decided NOT to tell her about the date I was going on the next day with a guy I'd technically never met in person. And that he and I had openly joked that one of us was probably a serial killer, it was just a matter of figuring out whether it was him or me.

"Well... OK. I'll carry it. But I'm fine, Grandma."

The next thing she said is why my grandma is fucking amazing: "You just keep it in your car and use it if you need to. I don't care if you beat the hell out of someone, you just say you had a recliner in your car to take in for repairs and the lever fell off and was still in your car. I'll vouch for you. Then you won't get in trouble for having a concealed weapon."

This is the woman who called a BOMB THREAT into a bar years ago because my uncle, her son, got jumped while hanging out there. This is the woman who sat with me two summers ago at my aunt's campground and drank clamdiggers with me til we both were buzzed. This is the woman who came over to go swimming with me and my aunt and my friends and did not bat an eye when her precious granddaughter (me) drank too much boxed wine and decided to swim topless. At noon. On a Sunday.

Grandma and I have had our differences. But over the years, we've bridged a gap and I can tell this lady anything. We've discussed sex, marriage, drinking, life... I don't talk to her nearly as much as I should. Which is why I'm going to carry that damn chair lever in my car... or maybe in my purse... I mean, come on- would you mess with THIS?



I know I wouldn't.

Thanks, Grandma. This will come in handy should I ever find myself about to be stuffed in the trunk of some dude's car. Or stuffing some dude in the trunk of MY car.

Apparently My Death Will Be a Result of Blood Poisoning, NOT Liver Failure or Murder...

There's a reason I'm sitting here updating my blog with a bottle of Smirnoff Raspberry Vodka sitting next to me. I've had it up to HERE with creepers. All creepers can go fuck themselves immediately. I hate you with every fiber of my being, creepers of the world.

Normally I don't mind Saturdays at work. We generally have a fun crew working and most of the customers are our Saturday regulars and they're all pleasant.

Normally.

Generally.

A creeper has infiltrated our regular patrons and today he single-handedly suceeded in pissing me off and ruining the rest of my shift. It was all downhill after Mr. Creeper showed up.

He always sits at the counter. Always. He sits at the counter near the waitress station and he bugs the ever living FUCK out of us while we work. When he first started showing up a month or so ago, we all tried being polite and laughing at his stupid ass jokes. It started to wear thin when he would make comments to my co-workers, including gems such as, "I love watching you walk across the room" or "I love watching you shake the chocolate milk" or, my personal favorite: when asked if she could get him anything else, Mr. Creeper said to my co-worker, "You could get up and dance on the table."

Sick. He's taking total advantage of the position we, as servers, are in. We're supposed to smile, laugh at his stupid bullshit remarks and act like it's perfectly fine to make comments laced with sexual innuendos? Fuck that.

So, back to my story. The morning started out completely pleasant. I got to work with Mama Kimmy by myself for an hour, our boss was in a good mood and the other girls scheduled to come in were ones that I love dearly.

Then Mr. Creeper came waltzing in. I'll skip past all the word vomit that spewed from his mouth and go directly to the point. Mama Kimmy wrote on my arm with her purple pen (ironically, she did it because I made her wait on Mr. Creeper).

She did not stab me.

It did not break the skin.

She barely applied pressure.

It was a fucking pen mark.

Mr. Creeper immediately developed this insane fixation on the ink mark on my arm. Being used to him zeroing in on things about me in a fucked up attempt to connect us on another level besides customer/waitress, I brushed it off (he does it to all the girls- "Oh, come here. You have a [piece of lint/hair/etc] right there" or "Your hair is just a little out of place right there" - I don't know how else to describe it but it isn't normal and I don't like it).

"Hon, I'm concerned about that hole in your arm. Let me see it."

I glanced at the faint pen mark on my arm. No puncture hole, no gaping wound. "No, it's nothing. It's just pen. It's fine."

Five minutes later, he made a grab for my arm. "I'm concerned you have ink poisoning."

I stared at him and said, "It's FINE. It didn't break the skin. I'm FINE." To prove my point, I went over to the sink and washed the ink off of my arm. "There's no hole. It's fine."

A few minutes later, he made another grab for my arm. I was, at this point, highly annoyed- I don't appreciate strangers touching me and I was busy trying to work. He held out his hand and demanded to see my arm. "There's a hole in your arm."

That was IT. I said, "There's NOT a hole, I'm FINE and you're starting to make me mad."

Mr. Creeper did not like my response one bit. "Well, FINE! I hope you get blood poisoning and lockjaw. I hope you DIE from blood poisoning." He was actually serious.

At this point, two thoughts were going through my head: 1) I wish UnBoyfriend was sitting here at the counter having breakfast so he could hear this and maybe put Mr. Creeper's head through a wall and 2) I'm gonna slap this fucker off his stool if I don't get away from him like, NOW.

Thought Number One bothered me because I don't like relying on some boy to rescue me and for me to even think of such a thing was just so... damsel in distress-y. Not my style. Still, it did flash through my mind because I'm pretty confident UnBoyfriend wouldn't like some creepy asshole trying to grab at my arm and wishing death on me.

Thought Number Two was a really, really good idea because I was literally ready to kick this dude's balls up into his throat. I said, "Oh, THAT'S nice" and walked into the back of the restaurant. Meanwhile, my co-workers were defending me and shaming Mr. Creeper for wishing such a thing. He ended up leaving right away, pissed off.

The rest of my day, thanks to Captain Fuckface, was just SHIT. I spilled a pitcher of water on myself. My boss got mad at me for not writing my name on my tickets (I rarely ever do- oops), a table didn't tip me because their pancakes were "cold" (they weren't) and my beloved Hoda disappeared into thin air and left the rest of us to die.

Ok, not die. But suffer. Well, except for me, because I was (and apparently still am) slowly dying of blood poisoning anyway.

I know this post isn't funny but I'm too irritated to care. Don't bother telling me I shouldn't let things like this get to me. It's not gonna help me right now. I'm tired of people operating under the mindset that waitresses are not people and that it's ok to subject them to sexual harassment and/or general rudeness.

So, again, every creeper in the world can go fuck off. I'm one step away from going batshit crazy on your stupid asses.

Dear Lucy: A Word on Boys and Education

Dear Lucy,

Now that we've established that you are, in fact, a girl and your name will be Lucy, some things have been weighing on my mind. First of all, let me say I am thrilled to no end that I will soon have a niece. You see, your Aunt Amanda is doomed to grow old childless except for about 75 or so cats (we call women like this Crazy Cat Ladies) so the arrival of a little girl she can spoil and play with and feed Pixie Stix to and then send her back home to her mother will be one of the highlights of her adult life.

That being said, I'm concerned about a few things. You're going to be gorgeous. This is inevitable. Your mother is gorgeous. Your father is hot. The odds that you will be anything less than a ten on the looks scale are slim to none. This means that when you get older, boys will chase you. This is not satisfactory to Aunt Amanda. Boys are evil, scheming beings whose sole purpose in life is to make us crazy. They hurt our feelings, they forget anniversaries and they are messy. Some of them smell bad. Some of them don't like holding jobs. Some of them smoke pot in your parents driveway.

Unacceptable, my dear niece. Totally unacceptable.

For this reason, I regret to inform you, little unborn cherub, that you will not be dating till you are 30 and I will be screening your potential suitors. By the time you reach 30, I will have likely met every kind of jackass (pardon my language- atually, never mind that- you've probably already heard that word and more since you're in your mother's belly when she drives- she's an angry little woman who has zero tolerance for stupid drivers... or other drivers in general) on the face of this earth and will be able to detect them on sight. I'm sure I will own several guns and a taser since I will be 58 (pesky weapon laws be damned!), so should any of these aforementioned jackasses have a problem with Crazy Aunt Amanda telling them to hit the road because they're just not good enough for her precious niece, her arsenal can do the rest of the talking (don't fret- I have a large backyard and shovel- they won't be missed and my lawn could use the fertilizer).

With that out of the way, let's rewind back to education. I am hoping like hell you get Aunt Amanda's brains. I'm not sure how your daddy did in school but your mother, God love her, well... she's really, really good at doing hair. And if she sees this and gets mad I have but one thing to say: "What kind of eggs do squirrels lay?"

Yeah. She asked that once. I blame myself, partially. I dropped her on her head when she was a wee lass. It was not intentional, contrary to what Grandma Linda thinks. Your mother had a giant head when she was small, see, and my five year old body simply could not compensate for how top heavy her bulbous noggin made her when she was being carried.

I didn't even get to ride in the ambulance. They left me behind, probably with a weird neighbor. Can you believe that?

Anyway. Education. Aunt Amanda needs you to do well in school. You're already going to be beautiful but you cannot coast through life on beauty alone, especially since you're going to be the CEO of your own company by the time you're 28. If you want to screw around a little in kindergarten, I'll allow it. Eat some paste. Bite a few kids. Throw blocks. Pee your pants on purpose. But from first grade on out you're gonna have to buckle down and pull straight A's.


For every A you get, Aunt Amanda will give you a kitten. I was going to say I'd give you $10 but I am sure I will be a broke cat lady so the best I can offer you is the offspring of my 75 cats- I can't watch them all the time so they're bound to reproduce (hey, how do you think YOU got here?).

I'm sorry to tell you that you'll be going to an all-girls college, if such a thing even exists when you graduate high school with honors a year ahead of schedule. Boys will only distract you and mess things up with their general sloppiness and dumbassery. Boys in college are like crackheads in a Crack Store- they just go nuts, start snorting anything they can get their hands on and urinate in public.

Translation: college boys are like retarded cavemen so we must avoid them.

If we can't place you in an all-girls college, I will simply sell a few of my cats and hire you a bodyguard. A FEMALE bodyguard- there's this really old movie called The Bodyguard and I've seen it and therefore I know what happens when the bodyguard is a male. No WAY.

I plan to write you more letters. The subject of the next one will be your mother... I have to devote an entire letter solely to this topic. You'll understand why when you read it.

Well, Lucy, I have to go pry a cat off my leather couch. You just keep growing and kicking the hell out of your mama for me, OK? Oh, and please put pressure on her bladder from time to time. I know, I know- it's a little mean but it's also very funny.

(If you have my sense of humor, you'll do it.)

Love always and forever,

Aunt Amanda

I Almost Died Driving To Canton, Ohio

Normally, I am not overly nervous while driving. I remain calm in snowy conditions, I don't freak out if it's raining like hell and visibility is nearly zero. I like to think of myself as a pretty good driver, as a matter of fact (which is why I really think that I should be allowed to pull over dumbass drivers- sort of like citizen's arrest except I'd be issuing tickets for stupidity behind the wheel). I have spun out on the expressway and ended up facing the opposite way and not freaked out (NOT my fault, naturally).

Then I drove to Canton, Ohio in an ice storm last Sunday and all my confidence in myself as a driver went flying out the window.

I started out so bravely. In fact, I wouldn't even say I was being brave because the weather really seemed like no big deal. I hit the road at about 3:30 p.m. It was snowing pretty heavily but I had no qualms about it. I called my mom to chat. I called my grandma to chat. I dismissed their concerns about my journey two and a half hours south in inclement weather and jammed out to my favorite mix CD, swilled my Sugar Free Rockstar Energy drink and mentally got myself super psyched about the fact that I would be seeing UnBoyfriend* in less than three hours.

About halfway there, things started to get a little tricky. The roads turned to absolute shit. I felt like I was driving on a road slicked with cooking oil. If I even strayed half an inch from the tire tracks made by cars ahead of me, my car would start to fishtail out of control. Suddenly the ditches started looking deeper than they had before... and much, much closer.

It is important to note that when I dared to remove one hand from the death grip I had on the steering wheel, I would quickly take a swig of my energy drink. In hindsight, WHAT THE FUCK, AMANDA?? This was NOT conducive to remaining calm in a life or death situation. This actually produces the OPPOSITE effect of remaining calm in a life or death situation. It's like giving a line of coke to a junkie and then telling them to walk on a tightrope over a pool filled with jellyfish, piranhas and that annoying little Justin Bieber. It's just not possible.

Anyway. Every few miles or so, I'd either spot a car that had spun out of control off the road or I would actually WITNESS a car go flying off the road. I started talking to myself, lecturing myself for not leaving earlier... or not waiting till the next morning to leave. I was driving about 30 miles an hour. Elderly drivers in Kias were actually passing me.

I promised to be a good person if I made it to Canton without totaling my car and getting my decent looking face all mangled after slamming into a guardrail. However, I think I blew that deal with God when I screamed, "THIS IS A FUCKING ICE STORM, YOU LIMPDICK FUCK!" at a truck behind me that kept riding uber close to my bumper in an attempt to bully me into driving faster (as well as peeling one hand off the wheel to lean over and give him the middle finger when he finally passed me).

Basically, I wanted my Mommy.

I truly did not think I'd make it. I started wondering things I'd never thought about before- if I died, who would take care of Joe? Would the undertaker make my makeup all whorish looking? Would he know to use an anti-frizz product on my hair? Would my mother be the one to find my vibrator hidden under my bed? How embarassing it would probably be for her that her eldest daughter was a masturbator who couldn't drive. But could she really fault me for it? Studies have shown that 85% of people admit to jerking off and the other 15% are either liars or don't have arms and therefore CAN'T jerk off... I made a mental note to find a better hiding place for it in the event I survived my voyage through this hellscape of ice and sleet.

The exits seemed to go on forever. I didn't think mine would ever come. I started to get really, really paranoid that I'd missed it altogether (taurine from an energy drink will do that to a girl). When I finally reached it four stressful, nightmarish hours after leaving my house, I literally drove down the ramp at fifteen miles per hour, as I was certain that my car would slide right through the red light at the end of the exit if I gained any more momentum than that. That would be my luck, too- to die in a fiery crash mere miles from UnBoyfriend's house.

I pulled into the mall parking lot where he had met me the first time I went to see him. I turned the car off and laid my forehead on the steering wheel. I considered getting out and kissing the ground but my legs were rigid with tension and anxiety so that was out of the question. I called UnBoyfriend and, I admit, I was a little crabby as I listened to him tell me the simple directions to get the rest of the way to his house (I'm really, really bad with finding places even if I've been there before. I'm surprised I can find my way to my parents house half the time). A small, stubborn part of me wanted to blatantly refuse to drive any further and make him come get me but the logical part of me that wanted UnBoyfriend to keep liking me prevailed and I made myself drive the 1.5 miles to his house.

I took great satisfaction in describing my harrowing trip to UnBoyfriend. I may even have embellished a little for dramatic effect. But then I noticed how good he smelled and how nice he was being- he'd even gotten the shower ready for me (probably because he thought perhaps I'd peed my pants during the horrific drive) and said we'd go have dinner when I got out... and he told me to TAKE MY TIME GETTING READY. What guy EVER says that? (Foolish man.)

I love the newness of an UnRelationship**. But I HATE winter.

*UnBoyfriend- I'm calling Sean "UnBoyfriend" because of my general resistance to labeling us due to my belief that the second you slap a label on something, it turns to shit. UnBoyfriend thinks I'm crazy (and also doesn't know this is his nickname on my blog yet- Hi, Sean! Look how funny I am!) but I'd rather have him think I'm crazy and still be dating me than start buying shirts that say things like "I Love My Boyfriend" or "Taken!" only to have to burn them a week later while drinking a shit ton of wine.

**UnRelationship- this is what I have decided to call what UnBoyfriend and I have. It's lovely. We call, we text, we snuggle on the couch and giggle like kids till his roommate stands up and informs us how much we disgust him and that he can't leave the room fast enough, we lay in bed till ridiculously late in the day... bet you wish YOU were in an UnRelationship. It's ok to be jealous, all you smug people in your "Relationship" with your "Boyfriend" or "Girlfriend." Have fun arguing about things like where your "Relationship" is going or what color to paint the bathroom while we sit in our tower in our UnRelationship and eat ice cream and laugh at you. Fools.

I'll Crush Your Sandcastle

"Hello, my name is Amanda and I wreck shit."

This is going to be my "About Me" if I ever join one of those dating websites. Signing up on a dating website will be an indicator that there is almost nothing standing between me and a life as a cat lady.

Admitting I like to wreck shit is me being forthcoming about my personality. My first attempt at an "About Me" in the event that I place my romantic fate in the hands of a website went a little something like this:

Hi! My name is Amanda and I love long walks on the beach, romantic movies and cooking elaborate meals! I like old people, spending quiet nights at home and knitting sweaters for dogs. My ideal man likes to scream at the TV while watching football and simultaneously chugging beer and scratching himself while I slave away in the kitchen making appetizers for him! IM me!

This is about the time I decided maybe I should be a little MORE forthcoming and a little less of a liar in my non-existent dating website membership profile. So I rewrote it:

Hi. I'm Amanda. I've been married twice and I'm not really all that into taking shit from men (hence, two divorces). If you plan to forget my birthday, announce that you don't believe in Valentine's Day and therefore won't be sending me flowers or getting me a card or if you'd rather travel the world in a small boat than settle down and have a family, please go fuck yourself and/or find some bimbo in the 18-24 or 42-48 age category. Also, if you have a problem with women who get "emotional drunk" on occasion please continue perusing for a mate because I'm REALLY not the one for you. Oh, and my biological clock has been ticking like a son of a bitch lately. IM me!

You can see why I finally decided on, "Hi, my name is Amanda and I wreck shit." It's less intimidating and ultimately, it's me in a nutshell. I don't necessarily need to join a dating website to find a man. However, I have single-handedly wrecked quite a few opportunities at being with a nice guy the past couple months so I'm sort of running out of options (well, there's always being a cat lady but today my cat Kenni bit me super hard for no good reason and I really had to take a good hard look at the lifestyle of a cat lady and now I'm not entirely sure it's for me).

Anyway.

The problem is almost always me. I admit this. Either the guy is too nice or too aloof. Too short. Too tall. Talks too much. Doesn't talk enough. Texts me too much. Doesn't text enough. Hates my dog. Smokes. Chews with his mouth open. Wears tighty whities. Won't watch Twilight with me. Can't handle that I take an hour to get ready. Even worse... HE takes an hour to get ready.

Or, most recently, he refuses to put a label on what we are even though things are progressing JUST FUCKING FINE WITHOUT A GODDAMN LABEL and I end up in tears and things are forever ruined because I'm a stupid, stupid girl who wrecks shit.

I'm like that asshole kid on the beach who runs up and stomps the shit out of the pretty sandcastle that you spent lots of time building. Then, depending on his mood, he either laughs maniacally as he stands over you then eventually runs off to destroy something else or bursts into tears and goes and sits by himself on the water's edge wishing the waves would sweep him off to a deserted island where wine bottles grow on trees,people never age and vibrators don't need batteries.

Wait. That's doesn't seem like the correct train of thought in the mind of an asshole kid on a beach...

Oh well. It's my blog and if I wanna wreck it with bad analogies and self-deprecating humor, I will. And unfortunately, I will probably continue to crush the metaphoric sandcastles of the men who cross my path till there's nothing left but me, a box of wine and 75 cats.

Contaminating My Orange Juice: Don't Do It

Here is a perfect example of why I can't be in a relationship. Of course, this involves my younger sister not a significant other BUT it touches on one of my pet peeves: taking something out of the fridge and drinking straight from the container. It's just gross. All the backwash... saliva... germs... Men are notorious for container drinking. Absolutely notorious. My aversion to having a "community container" might be viewed as nagging by some. Doesn't matter. It makes me crazy and I can't deal with it.

See, I bought some orange juice this evening because I did not feel well and it sounded so good. I brought my precious juice home and nestled it safely in the fridge with the intention of pouring myself a glass after I put the other groceries away but then life got in the way (read: I started surfing the internet while drinking a Diet Sunkist) and I did not get to savor any of the orangey goodness.

Knowing it was chilling in the fridge just waiting to fill my body with all that vitamin C was a great comfort to me and about half an hour ago, with much anticipation, I stumbled into the kitchen to pour myself a nice, cold glass of liquid happiness.

As I reached for the container, I noticed the seal was broken and the cap was screwed on at a funny angle. I felt the way victims of burglary must feel when they come home from a nice dinner and see the door to their house is ajar. Further inspection showed a small amount of my precious juice was missing- like the amount one would GULP STRAIGHT OUT OF THE CONTAINER. There was definitely not a glass worth's missing.

Heidi.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed an orange (NOT the same) and padded back into my room. I was going to let it go till the morning but the thought of my delicious orange juice being mouth raped by my careless, flippant, GERM INDIFFERENT sister made sleep impossible.

Being too cold and tired to get up and sucker punch her, I texted her. I wanted a confession and I wanted it now.

Me: Did you drink out of the OJ container?

(no response)

Me: DID YOU??

Me: I know you're awake I can hear you talking on your phone.

I heard her stop talking. Then a response came through.

Heidi: I put a little bit in my Steelers cup.

(FALSE! Her Steelers cup was sitting in the dishwasher with other dirty dishes.)

Me: Really. Where was your Steelers cup?

Heidi: The sink.

AHA! The deception!

Me: WRONG!

Me: You took a swig right out of the container and I want to hear your dirty little mouth admit it!

Her reply came after a moment or two. Clearly she was debating whether she should send a smart-assed reply or not, and whether I was going to come out and sucker punch her. It probably threw her off that I was incorporating quotes from our favorite movie, Step Brothers, into my line of questioning. I wanted to be inside her head like that, making her unsure of her next move...

Heidi: Okay. I'm sorry, I did drink out of it. It was just a sip. I lied because I didn't want you to be mad at me.

I admired her newfound honesty. Perhaps she wouldn't be headed for a life of crime as an Orange Juice Raper after all. Plus, I didn't mind if she drank some of the orange juice as long as she didn't swill it straight from the container like a goddamned cannibal savage assface.

Me: I'm going to put my nutsack on your Steelers cup [again, a movie quote]. DO NOT DRINK STRAIGHT OUT OF FUCKING CONTAINERS THAT WE BOTH USE.

Pretty soon I heard her shout, "Please don't put your nutsack on my Steelers cup, you fucker!"

If I had a nutsack, I TOTALLY would.

UPDATE: Joe put his nutsack on Heidi's Steelers cup. Ah, sweet revenge.

If Marilyn Doesn't Kill Me, The Shots Will

I am in the process of decorating my new room. Everytime I think I have exhausted all my creativity regarding the color scheme and decor, I get a new and even more brilliant idea.

Hence, my black and white photograph of Marilyn Monroe. I had wanted one to hang above my bed but couldn't seem to find the right one till yesterday. I got so excited when I saw it on the rack that I actually dropped some of the stuff I was holding as I frantically tried to grab it before someone else did (there wasn't even anyone on that aisle with me, but there could have been).

The only downfall? This picture was HEAVY. I picked it up and dragged it to the checkout line and ignored the voice in the back of my mind that was telling me the picture was too heavy and that there was no way I'd have the patience to wait for my stepfather to come over and anchor it properly. I'm pretty sure I whistled all the way to my car and possibly skipped, too.

I ended up hanging Marilyn myself. I was too excited about her and I knew my stepdad would tell me where I could shove my picture if I called and demanded he come over right away and hang it. I'm quite proud that there are only a few chunks out of the wall (Marilyn is covering them) and that I had the good sense to measure and center where I hung her rather than just blindly hammering a couple nails in the wall and hoping for the best.

Marilyn is not as securely hung as I would have preferred. I truly believe that at some point in the near future she will come crashing down on my head while I sleep. But as you can see from the extremely dim picture I took, she LOOKS fabulous so who cares? In my mind, my untimely demise at the hands of Marilyn is going to be something like that awful hotel scene in Bride of Chucky when the mirrors break and fall from the ceiling in giant shards and slice the couple in the bed below into itty-bitty bloody pieces.

Except it'll just be me and possibly a cat or four and I'll probably have on stupid pajamas that don't match.

And if Marilyn doesn't kill me, the shots will.

I went out last night for the first time in about ten days. I had repeatedly told myself that I would NOT be imbibing shots, that I would stick to light beer and behave myself.

This went well for the first half hour or so. Pretty soon, though, as more people I knew showed up at the bar, I abandoned ship on the no shots pact I'd made with myself.

I was introduced to a wonderful shot that involves dragons and rum. It smelled like a perfume I own and love so I assumed it would be harmless to drink several of them.

Perhaps this is what lowered my awareness and defenses and allowed for the following conversation between myself and this lady stalker my new friend has (his name shall be left out as I fear he will soon have to enter the Witness Protection Program to escape her) to take place. I must set this up for you by explaining that she and I used to be married into the same family.

She appeared at my side out of nowhere and said, "Hey. Did [name of my ex-husband] have a big penis?"

I blinked at her. "Um. What?"

"Did [blank] have a big penis?"

There was no winning here. I didn't know her angle. If I said yes, maybe she'd try to go rape him then kill him and make a suit out of his skin or something. If I said no, I'd be insulting him. "Well... it wasn't, um, HUGE... it was just... uh... average?" I wanted to be anywhere but in that conversation, people. My brain was soaked in alcohol and just not producing the witty one liners I would've spouted out under normal circumstances. "It wasn't like, massive. It was just... normal."

She looked crestfallen. The next thing she said just blew my damn mind: "Oh. I was just curious because my ex had a small dick and that means there's probably no hope for [name omitted] to have a big one, then."

She was referring to her son. I stared at her for a second to see if she was serious.

She was.

What do you say to that? Should I have told her how sorry I was that her boy would never be hung like a donkey and that I could totally relate to why she'd be concerned with that, because I, too, hoped to someday have a son with a pecker the size of a jumbo rolling pin?

I'm pretty sure I just laughed in response while making slow movements towards someone, anyone else.

Or my pepper spray.

Or my car.

Or my mommy.

Yes, if Marilyn doesn't kill me, the shots will.