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.