Life is Sticky. Life is Sweet.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
In Which Amy Lives with Cara
Saturday, December 4, 2010
In Which Amy Talks Gifts
Holiday themed jewelry store commercials.
On Facebook the other day I may have hinted that I find holiday jewelry commercials obnoxious, insulting, and exasperating.
I loathe them. I really do. The women in them porn-gasm when they see the little box from Zales/Kay/Jared/Helzberg Diamonds. The men in them always have doofy grins on their faces like they just washed down a handful of 'ludes with a fifth of tequila. And if you're really, really (un)lucky, you get the uber-adorable commercial kids hiding in the other room making comments like, "They're so cute at that age."
Oh, my Christ on a cracker. Somebody shoot me now.
I think men who buy jewelry for their wives are lazy. Oh, I know some women live for the sparkly stuff and will pitch a fit if their isn't some kind of bling under the tree for them Christmas morning, and I feel for those husbands, I really do (even though this is when I can pull out the old "You knew she was like that when you married her" card). But, know what? Some women (yours truly included) would rather have our husbands buy them something that's less generic.
Don't look at me like that: Jewelry is generic. Do you know how many diamond heart pendants Kay Jewelers sell during the Hanukkah/Christmas season? Thousands. Thousands upon thousands, if I want to (kinda) exaggerate. So that gift you're buying your woman that you think is so special? Yeah, thousands of other women are going to open it and coo over it too.
Rock on, guy. That's the way to show your girl she's unique and original.
I would rather have something under the tree for me Christmas morning that shows me my husband knows me. That he knows what I like, what I'm interested in, and what will, in fact, make me porn-gasm.
My Gift List is short, sweet, and super easy: I want Barnes & Noble gift cards, tickets to the New York Renaissance Faire (you don't even have to go with me!), written promises to wash dishes/load and unload the dishwasher once a week for a year, and maybe--if I'm feeling really extravagant--tickets to see a show on Broadway.
That's it. Isn't that simple? In fact, I've never had any guy read my list and say, "Damn, Amy, don't you want an over-priced piece of sparkle that you'll only wear once or twice a year?"
Gee, Anonymous Male Person in my Life, I can't believe I didn't think about that. Why don't you run down to Zales and buy me over-sized, over-priced, over-jeweled ring that makes it look like I'm carting around half a South African diamond mine and dwarf the size of my hand?
No, thanks. Just wash the damn dinner dishes every once and a while and I'm a happy girl.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
In Which Amy Lists What She's Thankful For
Now this is where I'm supposed to be all "I'm thankful for my family and my friends and my health and blahdy blahdy blahdy," but that's all been done before, so I'm here to list the things I'm really thankful for.
In no particular order, they are:
1. Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream. More specifically Mint Chocolate Cookie, Strawberry Cheesecake, and Dublin Mudslide.
2. Captain Morgan. No, not the pirate, the rum. In case you haven't noticed, I adore rum. In fact, I plan on drinking a little bit of it after dinner.
3. Jeans. I love jeans. You can dress them up, you can dress them down, and--if you're wearing them just right--they have the ability to buy you drinks all night long. (now, some would argue that a good bra could also have the ability to buy you drinks all night long too, but jeans can get you drinks from the front or the back. no bra has that much talent.)
4. The Internet. If I could ever figure out who actually invented the Internet, I'm going to kiss him/her right on the lips. Unless they're dead. Because that would be really disgusting.
5. Barnes & Noble gift cards. Any denomination works for me.
6. Sarcasm. I don't think that needs any explanation. Especially if you know me even a little bit.
7. My imagination. At this point, I've been using my imagination to crown myself Queen of England, to win the lottery, to write stories, to escape from the crapartment, and to make myself smile for so long, I feel like I should give it an extended vacation . . . maybe over Christmas.
8. Facebook. Oh, don't give me that look. You know you love Facebook. How on earth can you re-make friends and cyberstalk your enemies without it?
9. Bedtime. It just makes me smile.
10. Salt air. Nothing reminds me more of home and makes me happier then to stand on the beach and inhale a double lungful of salt air. Erick calls it "refilling my salt air tanks."
11. Converse. High tops, black ones. Classic and awesome.
12. Coffee. Wawa, Tim Horton's, Wegmans. I don't care; I love coffee.
13. Long car rides. Now, I will admit I sometimes fall asleep during long car rides. Sometimes, I talk so much that I'm like a one-woman show in the passenger seat. Either way, we're going somewhere.
14. TV. Don't be uppity. You freaking know you love the TV too.
15. Curling up on the couch with a book, a blanket, a cup of coffee, some good music and warm woolly socks on a cold winter's day. Yeah. Oh, yeah. That's just nice.
So, Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Be thankful for your family and your friends and etc, but think about what else you're thankful for. You know, the selfish stuff that's just about you.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
In Which Amy Waxes Poetic About Words
I love words. I love to learn new words. I love to make words up. I love correcting people when they use the wrong words (yeah, that's one of my most endearing qualities). I love that some words are the same word with totally different meanings (think Coke and coke).
But what I love most about words is how you use them with others. The way you speak and the words you use with your parents, for example, are usually completely different than the way you speak and the words you use with your friends. The simplest feelings can be expressed so simply, it's like poetry or so eloquently, you swoon.
Words can make you melt. And it's not just the words someone uses; a lot of time it's their tone of voice or the look they give you as they say it. Said by the right person with the right look and in the right context, words can self-combust a pair of Victoria's Secret panties faster than gasoline can combust an old building on Devil's Night in Detroit.
But, unless the words can touch you in some way, the tone, the look, and even the person don't mean a thing.
Anyone can ask, "What do you like about me?" and get an answer like "'Cause I like you." or "'Cause you're cool." Wow. Thanks, Mr. Romance. But if you ask someone, "What do you like about me?" and they respond, "The way we banter. The way your hair smells when we hug hello. The way my hand fits perfectly in the small of your back.", you are way more likely to melt all over the floor than if they responded, "'Cause you kick ass at Halo more than anybody I know."
Of course, unless you want to know that you kick ass at Halo more than anybody your crush knows. Then, good on ya.
Guys get the short shrift when it comes to using words to their full advantage. Most men don't give women the answers listed above to the super-girly "What do you like about me?" question (notice I said "most"--I know a few guys who know exactly how to answer that question so the asker needs to be picked up off the floor).
But women don't always use the right words either. Now, I'm not talking about screwing up "runs" for "touchdowns" or think "PAT" means "Point After aTtempt." (oh, and fyi, girls: PAT means Point After Touchdown). Despite what guys might say, they want girls to throw out some wordy compliments too. Make it wordy, but make it short, ladies. It's tough to do, but if you get all Shakespearean on your man, his mind will start to wander. Then the next thing you know, you're yelling at him because he wasn't listening and he's trying to defend himself because when you asked him, "Are you listening? What are you thinking about?", he answered very honestly, "That part in Titanic when Kate Winslet gets out of the car in the beginning of the movie and she's wearing that purple hat. She's hot." (true story)
Yeah, words are awesome. They can end a romance just as quickly as they can start one.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
In Which Amy Talks About Blogging
(No, this isn't going to be a re-hash of my writer's block post.)
You get an idea while washing dishes or scrambling eggs and it starts to germinate. You spend your day doing whatever you do all day long--keeping house, working,
I find myself writing the whole blog post in my head, editing it, posting it, reading it, and then breaking my arm patting myself on the back because it's just frakking brilliant.
The only drawback is that--wait for it--IT NEVER GETS WRITTEN.
Something always comes up: more
It was suggested to me that I purchase a digital voice recorder and ramble my ideas into it so I don't forget anything (I only knew that the person meant "handheld tape recorder" because the guys on Ghost Hunters will say digital voice recorders and then grab handheld tape recorders). It sounded like a really good idea for about 30 seconds, then I had a terrible flashback of rambling into a tape recorder during my pot-smoking days, thinking I was spouting off pearls of wisdom. But--when listened to when I was straight--was mostly just hours and hours of me crunching Pringles and meandering through half-thought-out statements and many, many, many, many instances of me saying, "Uhhhh . . . yeah . . . like . . . mmmmmmm . . . " which I assumed wasn't an actual pearl of wisdom I was trying to get out, but mostly my Maui Wowie-induced appreciation of overly-salted potato treats.
Blogging is, in fact, harder than it looks. I can tell you a story that will make you laugh because of hand gestures and facial expressions and precisely placed sarcasm, but it loses a lot in translation when I type it up on a computer screen. (A friend of mine came in contact with this phenomena the other day when I made a comment about rape and being glad I'm not a guy. I could feel his tense uncomfortable-ness through the Internet so I backpedalled quickly with the always safe "That sounded a lot cuter in my head.") So many funny things happen around here during the day, but it always seems flat and boring when typed up. Told to girls I go to school with, though, it kills.
I read on another blog I love that the key to blogging is to write everyday. Dude, really? Thanks for playing. If I could write everyday, two of my posts wouldn't be about how I can't write everyday. But that blogger had a point. There are so many blogs, so many news stories, so many things that happen during an average day, how can I possibly not find something to write about? Easy.
1. Some things would make for great blog-fodder, but aren't worth the fight with {fill in blank with person or family member's name} that would follow the publication.
2. Some things really do lose a lot in translation. Read this statement: "I have no idea why you kept taking "no" for an answer. I couldn't if I were you. Guess it's a good thing I'm not a guy." Terrifying, right? Now picture me saying it while waving around a glass of white wine and giggling like mad with a flirty/snarky look on my face. Hysterical, right? (you really have to know me and my sense of humour to think this is funny. you know who you are)
So, I will press on, trying to find funny things to blog about. Don't be surprised if my next few blog posts are about my dull to the nth power life in MOFN or how I will never, never, never, never get to move back to New Jersey (this is the part of the sentence when I throw myself across the love seat with my hand to my forehead like a Massive Drama Queen).
God help you all.
Maybe Cara can save us all with some really, really brilliant blog posts. We know she can do it.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
In Which Amy Loves All Over Autumn
Is it the fact I can wear jeans again and no one will stare at me like I'm insane (I wear jeans all year long--even if it's so hot that you can fry eggs on the hood of your car)? Is it the fact that apples are my favourite fruit and they finally come into season in fall? Is it the fact that the nights get longer which means I can sleep longer (Oh, who am I kidding? I still stay up until 1am every night, regardless of the season)? Is it the fact that my birthday is in September?
Well, now that I'm in my (gulp) mid-thirties, it might not be the birthday one that much anymore.
Who knows and who cares? It's Autumn!
The air is crisp and cool. The leaves change colours. Hoodie sweatshirts start to be acceptable to wear here, there, and everywhere. Halloween and Thanksgiving beckon with the promise of society-approved gluttony. I can finally go outside during the day without the skin melting off my face from the humidity. Kids hate Autumn because Autumn means back to school (which, ironically enough, is the reason a lot of my friends gave me for liking Autumn).
Summer-loving people always lament the coming of Autumn because that means Summer is over. Oh, boo-hoo. Thanks to global warming, Spring has ceased to exist, so Summer starts in April now. Plus, when Summer ends, the bennies go home.
(I AM NOT A BENNY. I haven't assimilated to life in MOFN that much. I might have Pennsie plates on the Vibe, but I'm still All Jersey. So much so that I'm pretty sure that 90% of people at school think my name is actually Jersey and not Amy.)
Autumn means driving with the car windows down. Autumn means the air smells like burning leaves. Autumn means pumpkin picking. Autumn means you dig out the slow cooker and make soup, stew, and chili.
Autumn is like Earth's way to kiss outside life good-bye because Winter is just such a bitch.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Top Five Reasons why I Hate all Men--Literally
I told you to start writing and sending Cara and me stories.
Now do you believe me?
Amy
***************************************************************************************
Reason #1
First and most important, we menstruate. Will someone please tell me why men gets to be part of that word? Why not call it ladystruate or ladiesleaking? But, no. Some hoity-toity man thinks, "Ehhh, 'menstruate' is a good word." I think I'm going to call Websters and ask for an ethics committee meeting on the validity of using that word and its definition in print.
Reason #2
Fellas, the PMS blame is getting old. Anytime we are moody or bitchy, you blame our bad attitudes on PMS. I am here to set the record straight. Its not PMS: it's Y-O-U. Maybe if you cut the grass or took out the trash or played with your kids when we asked you to, we wouldn't get huffy and pissy when we see that, two hours later, you are still sitting on the couch. Then when we stomp past you to do it ourselves in a rage, you wouldn't have to wonder "What the hell's her problem?" and you wouldn't have to complain to your "boys" that your wife\girlfriend\whatever you call us now is ragging it or PMS-ing. Honestly, we are all pretty fun chicks if you would just help out a little.
Reason #3
When its time to pay bills, please wipe the dumbfounded look off your face and do not even bother asking, "Where is the money you got from me two weeks ago?" Please stop offering these ridiculously small amounts of cash like you are doing us a huge favor. Remember that running a house is more the rent\mortgage and utilities. We also need toilet paper, shampoo, food, laundry soap, diapers, wipes, tampons (see Reason #1 for clarification on this), etc. And throwing us a little cash and saying, "Buy yourself something nice." might be a nice thought but I see you are sporting some new kicks while my shoes have made it through two summers. Also this goes back to Reason #2. If we didn't have to beg for bill money repeatedly, we might be able to skip some of those PMS MOMENTS. Again, it's all on you.
Reason #4
You have been a male your entire life. Well, unless you had a sex change and I don't honestly know anyone who has. Please explain to me why someone who has peed the same way their entire life (minus the first two or three years) still finds a way to miss the toilet and instead pees on the seat, the floor, and all over bathroom carpets. Ahem, again this goes with Reason #2: if you didn't pee on my carpet, I wouldn't have to wash them. And if I didn't have to wash them so often they wouldn't fall apart leading me to stomp past you in a huff to throw them away. We wouldn't have to ask you for money to buy new ones, and you wouldn't be left telling your boys (again) how we were "PMS-ing" (yet again). See how Y-O-U created the problem?
Reason #5
The question of all questions: "Do I look fat in this?" We are asking this for a reason. Do not try to over think this one. Don't chew on your lip and think, "Do I tell her that she looks like a babe or do I tell her that she looks like a beached whale?" Honestly, I will most likely take that lip chewing as a sign you are lying and I will write you off as NOT GETTING ANY tonight. If I ask "Do I look fat?" it's because:
1) Duhhh, I want to know.
2) If you tell me I look great and I wear it, I am going to run into my lady friends who say, "What the hell were you thinking packing Texas in your underpants this morning? The J-Lo look is sooo last season." or--worse and better that that--they will break into a Glee-style version of "I Like Big Butts" by the legendary Sir Mix-A-Lot. And all without Puck, which will just piss me off even more.
3) I know at some point someone is going to take my picture and add it to their Facebook album where I will be tormented for all eternity by the caption that reads "The Wide Load Truck posed with us, but we had to take pics anyway."
Moral of the story: If I look fat, say so and risk the chance of me being mad at you. That is probably the only time I will accept the story you give the boys about being raggy and PMS-y.
Now, guys, I made this as easy as possible to understand. Don't break any more of these rules and we'll be good to go. If not, well, see Reason #2.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Would You Check That????
Men are scaredy cats.
I remember a night (no particular night specifically) when I heard a loud noise downstairs. I said, "Hey did you hear that?" I got the "Mmmm-hmmm." response. So, as I mutter under my breath about the ladies who asked for equal rights, I go to check it out. I think our forewomen should've been more specific when asking for equal rights: like asking for equal pay for jobs. I don't think they had intentions of us cutting the grass, changing our own oil and tires, pumping our own gas, unclogging toilets, and any other job I want a man to do for me. I have a tail light out; my first thought is "Daddy Dearest." I don't mind the fact that I have to do these things as a single mom, I just think that very nice men friends should say, "Oh, how about I help with that?" (HINT HINT)
I don't know if it was my pounding heart or the barking that scared the noise away. Maybe it was the wind. But I again was the brave one checking it out (Brave = Me + one bad ass pit bull). As I crawled my butt back into bed, I was full of thanks. And here was my quote of thanks:
A Skeptics Change of Heart or My First Experience with Kiddie Soccer!
Well, I experienced Kiddie Soccer yesterday afternoon. I was dreading going, being someone who has played soccer for half of her live at a very competitive level. I even brought something to distract me from the horror of Bumblebee Soccer (I really didn't think I could handle it). I also had no idea how Tristan would react to playing with other children, or if he would even enjoy playing a semi-structured sport.
I was so bowled away by how the BTSA runs their Kiddie Soccer, and how excited Tristan was to play that I never touched my diversion. I found his cleats, shin guards and a ball over at Dick's for a great deal $34.99 and Tristan got to pick out his ball (he wanted the red one). Well, on the ride over, he informed Nick and I that he needed to give the ball to his coach. We told him that the coach didn't want his ball and in fact that the coach was going to give him a ball and a soccer shirt to play! But still he insisted, so we just agreed.
We got to the field early since this was actually the second game but Tristan's first (he missed the first game the week before because of his cousins' 4th birthday). I sat him in the back of the car and put on his shin guards, socks and cleats, and when he jumped down he looked up at me and smiled, "I'm ready!" I smiled; this was a good sign. "Then let's go find your coach!" I said and off we all went. Armed with the stroller for Inara, a chair, blanket, lunch (for Inara), the camera, and the Flip we trudged to find someone to tell us where to find the Tigers.
Having basically grown up on Pinewood Park fields I felt right at home, but had a rock in the pit of my stomach, completely unsure of what was to ensue once we reached the team and new coach. We were directed to the second field, and were told the Tigers were the dark blue team all the way at the end. Upon arrival at the correct field, his coach came over and introduced himself and spoke directly to Tristan (this was a major plus in my book), telling him he had the jersey (t-shirt) and a new ball for him. Tristan took to him right away, and had a smile on his face from the moment he stepped on the field until he took his nap that afternoon at about 3 o'clock.
This is where my dread returned. Was Tristan going to listen to the coach? Would he behave? Even if he did actually listen, would he follow directions? Would I be able to handle 10 3-4 year olds buzzing in a hive after a tiny size three soccer ball? You will be thrilled to know (as I was), that all of my fears were untoward and I wish the hour could have been longer.
During the 1/2 hour practice, Tristan listened like a champ and followed directions with ease. It left me wondering if there is a soccer camp that goes all year long! LOL And he showed a great skill for the sport. Plus I found that watching 3-4 year olds learn how to play soccer was therapeutic. I laughed the whole time. They were adorable learning new skills and then announcing their achievements when they could manage to do it without falling down. It made me realize that dribbling a soccer ball while running is a complicated skill that takes concentration and coordination! (Even if it comes naturally to the child they still have to think about it. After years of playing, you forget that it is not a natural movement).
Then came the 1/2 hour game. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. They were great! Running around after the ball and each other, they listened to the coaches shouted instructions with the skill of pros! Unfortunately they all listened to both coaches equally and weren't really sure which goal to shoot at or which way to turn and run, so there was a lot of running in circles. Two little girls on opposite teams were holding hands in the middle of the field talking. Tristan decided he needed hold up the goal post with another little girl at one point (Uncle Ryan insisted he was flirting). One little girl refused to put the ball down and pouted when it was taken away by the coach. And the best part was Tristan, who ran over to us a number of times asking for HIS soccer ball, because someone took the other one away! LMAO! Nick and I would laugh and wave him back on the field telling him he had to go get that one back, and he would smile, laugh and run back to get the game ball!
He had a blast and out of the 8 children on the team, Tristan and another little girl were the only kids on the field for almost the whole 30 minutes! The coach was encouraging and I give him tons of credit for taking on this job. He certainly earned his wings!!! Upon leaving (which Tristan did NOT want to do), he asked to go back tomorrow and he refused to take his sweaty jersey until right before nap at!
I had no idea what to expect coming in to this as a mom new to this world of Kiddie Soccer, but I was thrilled with Tristan's reaction to the sport, and my own reaction to what basically can be called organized chaos! I have to say thank you to the BTSA and their volunteer coaches for running such a great program and for making a skeptic and pessimist have to rethink her ideas of Kiddie Soccer. It was such a joy watching my son playing and loving a game that I loved as a child and adult! And thank you to those mommy's out there who gave the BTSA props when I wasn't sure it would be the right place for Tristan to play!
Saturday, September 25, 2010
In Which Amy Tries to Understand Banning Books
Sunday, September 12, 2010
In Which Amy Views Her Future of Kids' Activities and Approved Snacks
So Cara is the volunteer coach for Will's soccer team. I think that is awesome. Volunteering is not really my thing. Lizzie's isn't involved with anything (yet, but I see Brownies and Girl Scouts in her future if not for a direct supplier for the cookies alone). I know Erick probably wants to get her involved with some sort of sport, but Kids' Crazy Sports Parents scare me.
I always picture Kids' Crazy Sports Parents as a pompous and officious little someone with a clipboard, doling out orders to the other parents because he's the one "in charge."
Someone whose wife shops at Whole Foods and buys $27 bottles of organic truffle oil because it looks pretty on the counter top.
Someone who comes up with and makes impossible to follow or understand "flow charts" with phone trees and snack lists.
Someone who will make Erick (or me, to be honest) react like this if we don't bring an Approved Snack:
Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I can see this happening.
Comfort Zone
Saturday, September 11, 2010
In Which Amy Blames Crazy Brain on Murphy's Law
Up, up, up, up the ladder! Yipppeeee!!!!
Down, down, down, down the chute! Sonuvabitch.
The sky menaced us all day long with grey clouds straight out of the movie "Twister."
Yeah, like that. Sorta.
Lizzie didn't "get" that I knew as soon as we got to the park, it was going to turn into a scene from "Monty Python & The Holy Grail" ("Run away! Run away!") because the sky would open up and monsoon on us. She whined, begged, and pouted, but I stood my ground.
"Puddy, if we go to the park, it's going to rain. I know it," I insisted to my whinging 3 year old.
"How you know?" Lizzie asked.
"Because I'm the mommy and I'm super smart."
My confidence soared as Lizzie looked at me with adoring eyes and said, "I know, Mommy. You super smart."
Well, guess what never happened yesterday? Yeah: rain. I am SUPER SMART. And apparently can also be a weather girl, since they're never right either.
And if any of you follow me on Twitter or read my obsessive-compulsive status updates on Facebook, you know that I had about 30 loads of laundry to do yesterday. Okay, only 3, but it seemed like 30 after I lugged the baskets down the 90-degree angle staircase from my apartment, around the corner and into the serial killer-style laundry room. When I got in there, I almost tripped over the 300 baskets that were already piled all over the place.
"You've got to be f***in' kidding me!" I growled.
The place was overrun by oil and dirt splattered boy clothes, so I was pretty sure that they all belonged to my new neighbors: The Two Guys from Texas who Work on the Gas Derricks. So I'm standing there, seething (thank you again, dictionary.com), when The Blonde One with the Glasses walks in.
I guess my hands on hips, gritted teeth, Darth Vader breathing scared him a little because he immediately started to apologize:
"Gosh, Miss. I'm real sorry 'bout this. But I gotta wash some clothes. You ain't mad, are ya?"
How can I be mad at a guy who a) apologizes right away, b) washes his own clothes, and c) insisted on calling me "miss" even though I'm actually and officially old enough to be a "ma'am"? So I left my baskets and went back upstairs to Lizzie, who immediately asked,
"Mommy, we go to the park now?"
Oh, my god. Was this for real?
The day continued like that. Unable to do the laundry and unwilling to risk pneumonia with a trip to the park, I tried my best to entertain Lizzie and keep my own sanity. By the time Erick got home at 4pm, I had just started washing clothes and was about one more "park now?" inquiry from flinging myself out the window.
By then, I had developed what I like to call Crazy Brain. See, Crazy Brain happens when you've been trapped in a small place with a wild 3 year old all day with no adult conversation, no car, and no escape. It starts with being overly-happy to compensate for the twitches that proceed to teeth grinding, facepalming, and grumbling under your breath. Your brain starts to think horrible and rogue thoughts from Satan like, "If she (or he) says one more thing to me, I swear I'm going to get in the car and drive until I run out of gas." or "Why, oh, why did I ever decide to do the wife/mother thing?"
The only respite to Crazy Brain is bedtime. I love bedtime. I love bedtime like I love not having Crazy Brain. Bedtime is a crap-shoot around here. Some nights, Lizzie passes out before we even shut the bedroom door. Other nights (like, oh, last night), Lizzie is up and having a blast like she's 14 and at a sugared-up slumber party. Erick passed out around 8.30pm in front of the Phillies game while Lizzie hung tight until about 9.30pm.
After everyone else was asleep, I realized that it was only 10 pm and I had the rest of the night to myself. Barely breathing, I thanked God for my good luck and began my long road to back to Normal Brain.
This is how I recovered from my case of Crazy Brain:
1. Cara, Michelle Blumensteel (nee Rodrick), and I had a running commentary on our wild Friday night--and how it wasn't all that wild. And how Cara found a rogue bag of Cheese Doodles in her kitchen cabinet.
2. I turned off the Phillies game and turned on "Ocean's Eleven" (Thank you, Mr. & Mrs. Damon: I so appreciate your contribution to society).
3. I FB-ed and Twitted until my fingers ached.
4. Tony Condo and I discovered that we both have the same really eclectic taste in music, spent many years of our lives horseback riding, and have to meet for "cawfee tawk" in Ithaca ASAP.
So, thank you, thank you, thank you to Cara, Michelle and Tony. You guys were huge contributors to helping me get over my Murphy's Law/Crazy Brain Friday.
Be prepared for tonight's therapy session for my recovery from 12 Hours of College Football Saturday.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Good Stuff
Friday, September 3, 2010
In Which Amy Wishes for Sunny Weather
How can you not love that? It's so exquisite, I could just faint.
I also have this dream about buying the old house on Clubhouse Road (also armed with a duffel full of cash), but that dream is more personal and tends to make me cry--because I'm a raging wimp--so I won't share it.
Recently, my dreams have been a little bit closer to home. I searched high and low for a preschool for Lizzie. I applied at almost every one I found or was told about, but we were turned down for each one. There was always the same excuses: we make too much money (??), they didn't have any room, there was a waiting list she could be put on, etc. The only preschool I found that did have room was a school right behind my school. Perfect, right? Nope. It's a not-great neighbourhood of Elmira and there had been a shooting less than a block away from it a few weeks ago. If I wanted that, I'd put her in preschool in Kabul.
I also have been dreaming about getting a job. School is almost over and we all remember my anxiety-driven post about finding a job. Everyone was so supportive about just applying for every job I found, so I will. Of course, the Perfect Job would be close to New Jersey (via Philly and vicinity or Easton and vicinity), but I'll take anything to help contribute to the household again. Hopefully, all the ass kissing I've been doing in Medical Transcription will encourage my teacher to hire me to work at the pain management office where she's the office manager.
But right now--specifically, right this very second--I'm dreaming about coming to New Jersey for Labor Day weekend. These plans have been in place for weeks. Dad invited us to come down. In fact, Dad insisted we come down. It seems Dad had already planned Saturday to a tee: a trip to Brick Beach for us three, himself, and Donna. He already had the beach passes and vouchers for free parking. Then we'd all go to Point Boardwalk Saturday night. Wow, talk about planning ahead, huh? The man is like Willy Wonka mixed with The Pied Piper with a dash of Walt Disney thrown in for more whimsy. Lizzie loves hanging out with her Granddad and I'm about 110% sure he's pretty cool hanging with her too.
Then Sunday, Erick, Lizzie, and I were to head to Cara's house for a bar-b-q. How jealous are all of you? I've never been more popular, with people asking us to hang out when we come to New Jersey. Usually, visits with friends are not in the cards, but this visit I specifically made time for someone. Cara seemed like the most obvious choice: we have a blog together, we have kids the same age, and she offered (snicker). Because of all those things, as Cara puts it, we're sort weirdly online dating. Cara had instructed me not to bring anything to her house, but I ignored her and decided that a batch of Erick's Above and Beyond Yummy Rum Runners were in order. I mean, what else do you do with someone you haven't seen in 15 years? You drink, of course.
Enter Earl.
I doubt I have to tell you all how much I hate hurricanes. Hurricane Gloria was pretty cool when we were kids: we got out of school, we lost power, and I got to read by candlelight like Abe Lincoln. But as I got older, hurricanes became less cool in the way snow gets less cool when you realize that they don't cancel work for 4 inches of flurries and you still have to sit in your office all day long instead of wearing your jammies and watching bad daytime TV all day long. Hurricane Katrina--well, I really don't have to go there, do I? That being said, I didn't want Earl to hit the Gulf Coast. Haven't they been through enough? But I sure as hell didn't want Earl to land in what the newscasters were calling "the Northeast." Guess where New Jersey is. The Northeast. Guess where I was supposed to go for Labor Day. The Northeast. Guess where Earl was going. The freaking Northeast.
So I now sit and wait for Dad to call and let me know if I should start packing for our trip to New Jersey. Every time the phone rings, I leap out of my skin and grab at it. So far, it's only been Erick and Mom, both asking if Dad's called yet. Good Lord, no, not yet. Knowing Dad--and my luck--I'll get the call so late in the afternoon after being on edge all day long that I'll end up running around like a chicken with my head cut off as I try desperately to get ready to leave.
And don't try to tell me to get ready beforehand: To get ready beforehand would spell abject disaster.