Spring Fever

Ah, spring. I have been single every spring for the past… well, it’s not really necessary to count years here, is it? We'll just say that, for awhile now, I’ve been single in the springtime. And every year, I forget about spring fever until it rears it's kind of ugly, yet ultimately welcome, head.

Springtime: finally warm enough to let the nipples out

There is this dude, at this place. Okay, it’s the guitar shop at a music school where I take J, the child I watch, for classes. I’ve always noticed that this dude is cute, obviously, because he’s so sexy. He’s like that guy who plays Chuck on that show on TV (Chuck, that is), but if Chuck was cuter, possibly taller, and had curly hair and the most adorable smile. But like a week ago, he came up to us when we took our routine trip to the store after class and asked whether we have class twice a week (we do).

You know those people who smile at you and somehow, with just a smile, some eye contact, and a sense that they are actually paying attention to you, make you feel like the only person in the world? Yeah, when this guy talks to me, I forget that I am holding a 2 ½ year-old child. 2 ½ -year-old children are bulky and kind of heavy. So… he’s a little distracting, this guy. (Sidenote: I hate people like this. What a gift, to make people feel so special. But you just know that they make everyone feel that way, and they either have a girlfriend to whom they are very committed, or they’re using this gift to bang 10 different chicks at a time, who all began coming in to get their guitars re-strung entirely too often because… hi, cute guitar shop dude.)

And you know it’s bad when your internal reaction to this kind of thing is: “zoooooooomg this guy totally notices that I come here twice a week. Hotttttt.” Er. Maybe he notices the adorable child I bring in twice a week? Or maybe my bright red hair and big glasses are moderately memorable? Yeah, he might not want to bone me.

But whatever. I kind of forgot about that conversation (how?! HOW?!?) until today, when he said hello to us, smiled and asked if we were there for… well, I actually don’t remember at all what he said because I got total butterflies that I almost mistook for heartburn because I haven’t had a frivolous, silly crush in so long, and I was kind of dazzled by his smile. And as we walked out of the music school and I pushed the stroller, beaming, I realized that I have a major crush.

What makes it “major,” you might ask? Well, I will tell you. I totally came up with this ridiculous plan wherein I buy something and “accidentally” leave my debit card (which has my picture on it) behind, just so he can learn my name. Mind you, since I couldn’t be sure he’d be the one to end up with my card, I’d have to cancel it. I was briefly willing to do that.

I love crushes, don’t you? Acting like a fool while smiling like an idiot. So fun.

And then, on the way home, a flock of pigeons came flying crazily out of an alley and missed hitting my face by inches. Ah yes, the downside of spring: nearly getting Fabio’d.

Making a Fool of Myself All Day Long

I have stories to share, but I'm lazy and they will take time to write. In the meantime, I'll share a few things that happened to me yesterday that, upon reflection, made me feel like an ass.

Yesterday, I wore a dress that is not incredibly short, but can sometimes lead to flashing if I bend over without thinking about it. I was getting the stroller out of my friend's backyard before taking J to the park and wasn't really thinking about the length of my dress while bending over. When I stood up, an older man was at the next garage smiled at me, waved and said hello. I said "hi" back. It took about five minutes for me to realize he'd probably seen my panties.

I don't think it looked quite this sexy

I had a doctor's appointment at 7:15. It was pointless to go home because I was already so far east, so I drove there straight from watching J. I was meeting friends at 8 for dinner, but that is kind of late so I had brought some almonds along. I ate them as I drove because I figured, while that's not an optimal way to eat, snacking in the waiting room is kind of gross. I randomly glanced over to the right lane and found that the man in the next car had just watched me eat an almond and brush crumbs off my chest. He continued to stare at me like I was an exotic zoo animal. I couldn't figure out whether this was more embarrassing for me or for him. Because even if eating in traffic is somehow bad manners, so is staring.

Then I arrived at the doctor's. I had about 100 big, ugly bug bites on my legs from a trip to Wisconsin this past weekend. My initial reaction was to wear full-length jeans to cover them up, but when I realized how itchy they were, I knew I had to wear the aforementioned dress and let the world see my mottled legs so that I could scratch the bites when absolutely necessary. This was a follow-up visit in part relating to my much-documented cyst removal. The doctor glanced at the upper scar on my back (visible with the dress still on) and said it looked fine. However, the lower scar is the one that had been at risk of infection. He seemed satisfied but I was not, so with no prompting I stood up and lifted my dress up over my ass and lower back and said, "So this one is okay, too? It's not infected?" After a brief pause (what, people don't just constantly jump up and reveal their underwear in your office? How boring for you), he said it looked fine, and also that he would prescribe something for the millions of nasty bug bites on my legs. Upon reflection, I kind of felt like a crazy person. I think I've been to the doctor too much lately; I've gone from "Do I really need to take my shirt off??" to unsolicited flashing.

I drove about five blocks to meet friends for dinner and managed to accidentally honk at a person on a bicycle along the way. What an asshole.

Then I had $1 fish tacos and $3 Tecates with some great ladies. I managed to avoid embarrassment during that, mostly, except for when I realized I was sitting at the loudest table in the bar and nearly shouting about hand jobs. But that's pretty much an average day for me.

The Saga is Nearly Complete

No, I am not talking about the Twilight movies. Although I did go to see Eclipse with Samantha and Rachel the other night, and it was totally fantastic, and not only because Samantha and I continually made lewd comments about werewolf/vampire guy-on-guy action.

Hahaha. Yes, kiss that doggy.

Hopefully this will be the last post about it, but I'm talking about my cyst removal saga. I went to the doctor on Tuesday to get the stitches out. Surprisingly, over the past two weeks, the bigger wound in the middle of my upper back hasn't been hurting much. However, the smaller one that's more in the center of my back has been kind of annoying. Every time I bend over to tie my shoes or pet my dog, I can feel it. At first I was really worried that I was going to pop the stitches, and then I just got used to the kind of gross feel of it straining against the (apparently super strong) stitches. Yuck.

The nurse quickly got to taking out my stitches, which hurt and felt disgusting. You might be able to tell that I have never had stitches before. Sewing up a wound is a gross enough concept, but pulling out the thread later is even more disgusting. When she got to the one on the bigger upper incision, it hurt like a bitch and I squirmed a bit. She said, "That was a very long one." Then she reminded me why I love medical professionals. They just assume that you want to see EVERYTHING. That might disturb some people, but I really do want to be forced into looking at every disgusting thing that is happening with my body. So of course she brought her tweezers up by my face to demonstrate how long, exactly, this thing was. They were gripping a thick squiggly fiber about two inches long. My long stitch, fresh off two weeks stuck in my back. Yum.

Thankfully I no longer have to deal with keeping these back gashes totally covered by bandages. Because my skin is kind of sensitive, so those "tough" bandaids that would stick with you through swimming, showering, baths in sulfuric acid, etc. leave me all red and raw and hurty. However, the gentler bandaids don't really stick in the summertime when you're walking around town and perspiration is gathering on your lower back. So what I'm saying is, you should have bought stock in Band-aids a few weeks ago because I've been spending my life's savings (which was like $4 to begin with) on these things. Luckily I still have a few left for when, like today, I wear something with a low-cut back. I try to avoid making my friends vomit by proudly displaying really, really fresh scars.

Anyway. When the doctor came in, he said the top back vagina looked fine, but noted that the lower wound looked a little infected. GROSS! Also, am I dying now? Apparently not, because he and the nurse were really nonchalant about it and just wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic ointment. Which I dropped off promptly -- I like to get rid of infections, I'm weird like that -- but they didn't have it in stock at the pharmacy. My options were to go to another pharmacy or wait a day. I'm lazy, and agreed to wait. Which then sent me into a brief and mild panic. I mean, sure, the doctor acted like it was no big deal, but can you get gout of the back? Would I lose a portion of my back? Maybe they would have to amputate everything below my mid-torso! Uh-oh.

Despite my concern, I went out to dinner with friends the next night, stayed out too late and missed the pharmacy hours. Whoops. I panicked again for about 2 minutes before bed, set my alarm early and vowed to get to the pharmacy first thing in the morning. Except what I did first thing in the morning was hit the snooze button five times and miss my chance to pick up the ointment. Er... I'll just keep putting Neosporin on this, I told myself.

Finally, I picked up the ointment yesterday. I've applied it twice and it still looks infected and hurts a little. Pray that I don't have back gout.

No Lifelines Needed Yet

So, despite an excessive amount of free time recently, I have successfully managed to completely ignore my duties as a co-contributor, and Rock N' Roll Unicorn once again, and I apologize. I have to say though, that this post is going to be a HELL of a lot more chipper than my last!

First off, let me report that I will be gainfully employed in about a month's time, when I start my stint as the new Contestant Production Assistant at the daily syndicated game show juggernaut, "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?" This is incredibly exciting, and really bizarre, because it tapes at ABC, who kicked me to the curb due to cutbacks this past April. I'm psyched to remain at my old stomping grounds, however, as my commute remains the same, and I know my way around, etc. Also, I know all the good places to eat in the area, including my fave, cheap sushi place, SCORE!

To celebrate my new found employment, I went to lunch with culinary goddess, and cake maker to the stars, Archana. She suggested this tiny place down in the West Village named, quite appropriately, "WestVil". Weirdly, she'd been to the one in the East Village, called.... WestVil East, um, really? Just call it EastVil! Anyway, I digress. So, the place can hold about 25 people or less, and the tables are JAMMED in there. We go in, and it's completely packed. There's a couple about to pay, and so we squish over to the side, as we wait to be seated. The waiter, who looked like a poor man's Christian Soriano (which is just sad), kept trying to get us to wait outside, where it was nearly 100 degrees, and my ass was in all black interview clothes, so that was not an option. Finally, we took our seats, and when Archana finally chose us a lovely bottle of white, to toast my glorious entry into the game show world, the waiter asked what we were celebrating. I told him about my new job, and his response was this, "Oh, I don't watch TV." Um... first of all, I DO NOT BELIEVE ANYONE WHO HAS EVER UTTERED THESE WORDS. Listen, I understand that I watch a disproportionate amount of television compared to the average Joe. Even when I held down a 9-5 and did a daily commute and all of that, I probably watch more tv than most of you, which is fine. I just have a problem the way people say this, as though it makes them better. Also, just say congratulations, did I ask for your life story? No.

Here's how I see it. If you tell me you never watch tv, I don't suddenly respect you more, or think you're smarter, cooler, or edgier than me. I think you're a socially retarded douche. I'm not only speaking of people like this because I'm scared that the industry I love to work in is slowly being overtaken by the Internet, it's more than that. Also, if this fool didn't watch tv, than it's even more pathetic how much he was trying to look like Christian Soriano, sorry. Finally, as Archana pointed out, this particular show I will now be working for was just featured in one of the most popular foreign films of our time, "Slumdog Millionaire." You didn't see that either? Liar.

Ok, so aside from that, I am actually really happy. I realized something the other night as well. I remember talking to my Mom when she would come in to say good night to me as a kid. Throughout the years our time together evolved from silliness (she would make my Potbelly Bear do situps, and it would always make me laugh), to more serious conversations about my future. My Father had always wanted me to be a lawyer, and although he never pressured me in a terribly intense way, I had gone along with it for a while, but I realized that was definitely not what I wanted. I remember telling my Mom how I hoped I would one day be able to learn about broadcasting, and work in radio, or maybe even TV. What's cool is, I've done both of those things already, and it looks like I might actually be able to maintain somewhat of a career in television. Realizing I'd achieved a childhood dream has been really surreal and awesome at the same time. Now I guess I'm going to have to expand my career dreams. I have some ideas, but we'll see how things go.

Best Place Ever

Today, I came home early and had plans to meet Samantha for dinner. I decided to take a short nap first. There were thunderstorms here in the morning, but when I got home around 3 p.m. it was sunny and humid. I got in bed around 4:30 and was awakened by a text message from Sam asking whether I still wanted to have dinner due to the rain. What rain?, I thought. And then I realized it was really dark in my room at 5:45 two days after the longest day of the year, and I heard the distant rumbles of thunder. Turns out there was also a tornado warning and about 15 minutes later I heard the tornado siren, but I quickly texted back that, duh, I still wanted to have dinner.

Anyway. I lay in my bed a few minutes longer listening to the thunder and gradually realized that it reminded me of something, something incredibly pleasant. And then I remembered my favorite place on earth.

I have been to 27 states (a few of those just driving through, I guess, and Vermont we specifically drove to because they'd still be selling liquor when the tiny New York town we were in was not). I've been to seven countries on two continents, and I've been to the moon (j/k!). But my favorite place ever (well, so far) is the Milwaukee Public Museum.

Okay. Picture this: Milwaukee, 1985ish. My grandparents live in a giant house on 31st Street. It's not the best neighborhood but I have my doubts as to whether it's quite as bad as I later realized my family thought it was. I looked it up on Wikipedia because I know very little about Milwaukee geography. Apparently the neighborhood directly adjacent is currently kind of on the mend but is known for drugs, prostitution and low income and property values. It was in this neighborhood, five blocks away from my grandparents' house actually, that Jeffrey Dahmer would be arrested in his apartment of horrors. That wouldn't happen for like six years, though.

Anyway. My grandparents lived on a quieter street and had a backyard that wasn't giant but seemed huge to me. They had a sandbox and a large garden and a swingset, and for some reason my little pea-brain interpreted this all as kind of "country." We were in the middle of a low income area of Milwaukee, but the old folks and their old timey ways and the tomato plants and home cooked meals had me thinking we were nearly on a farm. The funny thing is that the neighborhood in which I grew up (in Chicago) was definitely more suburban-esque than this one. But children are basically totally dumb.

So there I was, enjoying weeks at a time over the summer and school breaks hangin' out on the 'hood farm with the grandparents. And they introduced me to the Milwaukee Public Museum, rather than forcing me to play with the tomato stakes and dirty sand all day long.

I'm sure nostalgia plays into my abiding love of this place given that I haven't been there in years and years, and both my grandparents have passed away and the house is no longer where the family gathers for the occasional reunion, etc. Overall it's your typical natural history museum, with sections devoted to Asia and Native Americans and the Rainforest, etc. But really, this place is kind of amazing, mostly for three reasons.

The first is "The Streets of Old Milwaukee" exhibit, in which you walk through a recreation of old timey Milwaukee. Who doesn't love old timey towns? I sure do. There's a candy shop, too. Candy. Fun.

If memory serves, once you follow these streets around to a certain point, it becomes a different exhibit entitled European Village. This one is genius. It consists of a bunch of tiny little houses with windows strategically positioned at the height of a child, which you are encouraged to peer into. An exhibit that encourages peeping into people's houses is obviously gold, appealing to the snoopy voyeur in each of us. Each room into which a visitor can peer represents a different European country, and of course the inhabitants and interiors are old timey. You might spy on a Belgian lady painstakingly hand-sewing lace. Or a couple of French friends wearing striped shirts, sharing a baguette and a bottle of wine, sneering and bashing America, or whatever country they hated in the 1800s.

But my favorite exhibit is actually just one big diorama thingy (are the big scenes at a museum considered a diorama, or are those just the things you make in a shoebox in 5th grade? Whatever, you know what I'm talking about). It opens another exhibit, a trek into real, real old times, like those of the dinosaurs. There are also, for some reason, a lot of gemstones involved if I remember correctly. But this particular scene is simply that of a giant Tyrannosaurus Rex (possibly built to scale, though I know little about the exact size of a real T Rex) eating a Triceratops while some little dinosaur guys look on, undoubtedly ready to scavenge when Mr. Rex loses interest/satiates himself (which seems risky; what if a Triceratops is not enough for lunch today?). And the T Rex is eating, with blood on his jaws, not just, like, knocking the other dino down or playing a game like you might see on a kid's cartoon about affable, talking dinosaurs. The side of the Triceratops's belly has been ripped open and we see the internal organs.

Here, look, I found a picture:


Except that this doesn't really capture the feel of it, first of all because it was taken with a flash and this scene is in a dark room. Plus, my favorite way to view it was to walk up to this little balcony in front of the dinosaurs, which allowed you to view it from the height of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. But most importantly, there is an ambient track on a loop that uses both sound and lighting to indicate that a thunderstorm is approaching. As the thunder grows louder, the lighting dims further and there are flashes of lightning (okay, I think there's lightning. I may be making that one up). Then the storm retreats. Then it comes back. Then it retreats. And, um, little and not-quite-so-little old me would stand on the balcony and watch the storm come in and out and in and out while a T Rex feasted on a Triceratops until my grandparents or my parents forcibly removed me. I have probably stood in front of this for 20 minutes at a time. It was Jurassic Park before Jurassic Park existed, and that is one of my favorite movies. I love dinos.

This may sound like I am an undiagnosed autistic or something, which is a possibility. I also used to watch Dumbo at least five times a day and have actually never, ever tired of that movie (I watch it maybe once a year now, though). However, my sister loves this museum just as much as I do. When she was dating her longest-of-long-term boyfriends and she brought him to Milwaukee to spend a day with my Grandma, she also felt compelled to take him here and show him one of her favorite places.

So anyway, this T Rex and his thunderstorm is what my thunderstorm today reminded me of, and it was quite pleasant, especially since we weren't whisked away in a Twister as we braved traveling for some burgers.

He's Gone! Along With Another Friend!

Yes, I've decided that my cyst was a he, because only a dude could cause me so much grief and heartache.

On Saturday morning, I went to the doctor to have the cyst cut out of my back. YUM! If you know me at all, you know that I am not a morning person to begin with. And I like to sleep in until anywhere from noon to 5:00 p.m. on Saturdays. So I was already kind of pissed that I had to schedule this appointment at 10:30 a.m., and who in the holy hell is up at that time on a Saturday? Oh, apparently everyone. Traffic was terrible. And having witnessed the traffic and glaring sunshine of a Saturday morning, I have to say that I now know I haven't been missing much at all when I'm acting like a vampire.

The waiting room was full; so full, in fact, that for the first 15 minutes of my 45-minute wait (and that was to just get into a room, and then wait some more), I had to stand next to the office doorway and put my hand out every time someone entered to ensure that the door didn't swing all the way open and crush me. Then, some 30ish guy (dude A) who was there with his parents recognized a new dude (dude B) who came in and sat down, and they proceeded to have the most awkward start-and-stop conversation ever. It was really painful for all of us there, I think. Dude B was like, "Yeah... I work at Com Ed still, but I transferred to the Addison and California office from Oak Park because it's closer to home..." and Dude A would immediately say "closer to home" a beat after, pretending like actually HE had been planning to say that because he was so totally familiar with this guy's life even though they obviously hadn't seen one another for years. You know that weird, annoying conversational style where someone interrupts you with your own just-spoken words. It was horrible. Then a few minutes passed and Dude A asked, "So what do you do for Com Ed?" and Dude B said, "I work in customer service" and Dude A smugly nodded his head like, oh yeah. Of course. In my omniscience, I knew that. The best part was when Dude A and his parents were leaving; his father apparently knew Dude B as well and came over to say goodbye and Dude B said, "Bye Frank" and the dad was like, "My name is Ray." hahahaha.

Anyway. Eventually I was called and they took me to a room and I sat there for another half hour or so. The doctor came in to mark the cyst on my back with a sharpie so that the nurse would know where to inject the vicodin (yay), and he noticed this little bump I have further down on my back. "Oh, we'll have to remove that too." What?!?! That little nubbin never did nothin' to nobody! That's just my lower back bump! WTF?!?!

In reality I was just like, "um, really?" And he told me that it would probably eventually swell up like the other cyst. I find this theory suspicious, as it's been there forever and seemed to enjoy just chillin' on my lower back being all small and stuff, but whatever. He marked them both with the sharpie and there was no turning back because that shit is permanent-ish.

The nurse left so that I could put on one of those crappy-ass paper gowns with the open back. I hate those things SO MUCH. Like being half-naked in a doctor's office while all the staff get to keep their clothes on isn't humiliating enough, they give you a robe that rips open with one quick, wrong move. I would so totally be okay with a real cloth robe that had been laundered after the last use. I'm not afraid of getting HIV or scabies from a damn robe. Also, this would be much more environmentally friendly. But no, I get to put on a paper smock with a flimsy plastic tie. Awesome.

The nurse came back and told me to lay face-down on the surgery bed/table thingy so that she could inject me with that vicodin. Which was the worst part; those shots sting like hell! Then she gave me the after-care instructions. Now apparently the doctor and nurses here are Serbian (I just looked up the doctor's "languages spoken" and I can assure you they were not speaking English or Italian, his other two, to one another). However, I'm terrible at accents and they sound Polish or Russian to me. So even though I'm sure she's totally a lovely person, everything she says sounds very forceful and kind of barked. Plus I was kind of pissed at her anyway for shooting up my back so I was mad at everything she said. She told me no exercising for the next two weeks, after which I would have the stitches removed. However, when she said this she also pantomimed using a weight machine, which is something I don't do. So I was like, "um, can I run?" And she very firmly said, "Maybe after five days, but be careful with your arm movements." Then she was like, "And if you have pain, you use only extra strength Tylenol. No ibuprofen." She said this one very severely. I had kind of been hoping for a vicodin prescription but I wasn't about to argue with her. I also didn't tell her that my drinking habits -- particularly my Saturday night drinking habits -- would probably preclude any acetaminophen use. She also said they'd call me with my results, which confused me. Did she just say this out of habit? I didn't know there were any results to be expected. Hmm.

She told me the shots would kick in ten minutes later. So I lay on the bed thingy. And lay. And lay. My hands were falling asleep from propping up my head. Probably about 20 minutes later, the doctor came in and got right to work. He began to cut my back open, asking if I felt any pain, which I did, so the nurse had to give me yet another shot. He was cutting open the troublesome cyst at the time and explained that scar tissue was more difficult to numb. Then things just felt really gross because I could not see or feel what he was doing but I could feel him moving the skin on my back around and that made me want to vomit. I knew stitches were coming at some point -- and sewing up skin just creeps me the fuck out -- but I had no idea when. Oh wait, NOW you're cutting loose the final stitch... okay, I got it. Then he moved on to the smaller, inoffensive cyst on my lower back. That one went much more quickly and he... not so much asked whether I wanted to see it as he said, "Now I'm going to show you this one , see it's not so small" and he brought the tweezers up by my face and showed me a little cyst the size of, say, a single edamame. I had been kind of pouty about the waiting and the shots and the insistence that we remove an inactive cyst up until that point, but the moment I realized he intended to show me something he'd just cut out of my back, I got really cheerful really quickly. And it was everything I'd hoped for and more.

Soon I was all sewn up and ready to go. He ran out of the room (that man is BUSY) after telling me not to have TOO MUCH fun this summer (ahahahah, doctor humor). I stood awkwardly clutching my paper robe while the nurse put the cysts into little jars. She asked if I wanted to see the big one and I quickly and loudly exclaimed, "YES." It was HUGE! Ever since the last time it angrily blew up, it's felt like a pea-sized lump in the middle of my back. Honestly, the lower nub felt larger to the touch. But this guy was a super secret giant! I think he still had some flesh attached (YUCK!) but he was about the size of a superball. You know, smaller than a ping pong ball but bigger than a large marble. Maybe the size of a walnut in the shell. I am terrible at making size analogies. But it was glorious! She told me that they were most likely just cysts but they were, in fact, sending them to the lab and would let me know. Is there some kind of malignant cyst disease? I have no idea. Neither she nor the doctor told me what a bad lab result would entail, so... um, I may be dying of bumpy back. I haven't a clue.

I was finally able to remove the bandages this morning, and now I'm totally freaked out by the stitches on my back. Luckily I'm supposed to keep them covered with giant band-aids until I have them removed. Easier said than done, though, in summer. I already had one slide off due to some minor sweating. I think I'll be spending all of my money on big band-aids.

So, there ends the tale of my little cyst. Or cysts, now, I guess. Unless something goes terribly awry in the next two weeks, I'll just have two small scars as a reminder. Goodbye, guys! Have fun in the lab.


I decided to spare you guys a picture of cysts. Here is my dog in a bag. Despite the crabby look on her face, she seemed to really enjoy this.

I Heart Gossip Girl

I seriously love this show. Schemes and hot dudes, what more do I want in life? I just watched the second-to-last episode of the season and here are the things I think need to happen on the season finale (which happened over two weeks ago; I'm behind) and into next season:

Serena needs to continue wearing tight mini-dresses

I love Serena. She is the best chick on the show. She also has a really hot figure, all hips and ass and tits. They are constantly putting her in ridiculous mini dresses that are way inappropriate for the occasion, but I like it. These need to continue, if only as an ode to Blake Lively's older sister, Robyn Lively, queen of late '80s B movies and early '90s failed television dramas.

Serena and Dan need to have a troubled relationship for the entire next season

Let's face it, Vanessa sucks. She's going to Haiti. This episode had this whole Serena/Dan unexpected thing at the end. WE NEED THIS REVISITED. Firstly, they are step-siblings and that is a hot situation. Secondly, Dan is only hot when he's with Serena. He briefly attempted this macho Ernest Hemingway bullshit and that was unappealing because he has way too many feelings and is essentially a PMS-ridden chick at heart. Serena, however, is fickle and kind of slutty due to daddy issues (aren't we all?). So when they're together, she's the dude and he's the lady, and I cannot express how much I love that dynamic. Plus, he's totally beneath her on paper and that is so true life.

Serena tells Dan his business, as usual

Jenny and Nate need to bang a lot

This is the only way I'll like Jenny Humphrey, who so far this season has proven to be an ungrateful, obnoxious little bitch with possibly the worst extensions since Britney and Kevin: Chaotic. They tried to redeem her character this episode by totally re-writing her, and I'm not buying it. However, Nate is boring but handsome (and also full of comic relief, like when he catches on to schemes 2 to 3 episodes after even Dan fucking Humphrey has caught on, and pats himself on the back for slow detective work). He needs something to do, and that is not Serena (his current but soon to be ex-girlfriend -- keep up here), because she's better than that and they are ridiculously snooze-worthy together. They were hot when they banged at that wedding because he was dating Blair. They are not hot, not at all, any longer. Nate needs someone new to bone, Jenny needs to accomplish something good. Two birds, one bang.

Chuck and Blair need to not get back together until at least mid-season next year

Remember, I haven't seen the final episode yet. I'm figuring they will actually Affair-To-Remember this couple and have someone injure themselves en route to the totally ridiculous Empire State Building meet-up Chuck proposed. Or something like that. The point is, Chuck and Blair both need space to separately fuck with other people's lives. Particularly Chuck. I don't know how in the holy hell this dude has gone from date rapist (ep. 1 of the series) to nearly respectable guy in love, but holy shit, writers, you really worked a miracle there, huh? Guess it's easy enough when you play the "my mother died in childbirth; j/k she's back from the dead to completely swindle me with my douchebag paternal uncle" card (a popular one, that). But he needs to be evil again for awhile. This show crashes when he's a touching little sweetheart for too long.

That said, I want more Lily/Chuck touch my cold black heart action

I really like Lily. In fact, the Van der Woodsens (or whatever the fuck this lady's name is after 5 or so marriages) are the only people I really care about here. And when she manages to convince this total degenerate to be good for a milisecond, it really melts my icy heart. This only needs to happen about twice a season, though.

Most importantly, Eric Van der Woodsen needs to become a righteous schemer again

Remember when Eric briefly became interesting because he schemed against Jenny Humphrey when she first turned into a total, horrible, irredeemable bitch from hell? This was before the bad extensions, I think, and coincidentally, right around the time he finally got rid of that awful blond dye job. Anyway, he was interesting rather than just being the token gay. Let's not do gays an injustice by pretending they can only be upstanding members of society. Let them scheme like everyone else! It's only fair.

Kill Vanessa under a landslide of rubble in Haiti

Seriously. She's going to Haiti. Is there any other reason to send her there than to kill off this killjoy? My god, she's boring.

Give Rufus back his balls

Every time I see him wearing a sweater over a button-down and taking care of UES teenage business, my soul feels sad. He's an ARTIST. A popular grunge musician, allegedly. My god, Lily, give him back his testes.


I think there was more, but I drank some cherry wine, became briefly impassioned about this, and now I've kind of lost interest.

xoxo, Amanda

Well, My Life Will Never Be The Same

So, I finally found it. "It," in this case, being the one thing that actually grosses me out to my core. I know that last post, I indicated that the "sac" inside my back cyst makes me dry heave, but I was exaggerating. Its mention creates a brief, slight nausea, but then brings on a sinister smile when I think of telling other people about it and grossing them out. (What a great, strange phrase by the way. "Gross out.")

I am not easily horrified. In fact, I like to think I could weather the following scenario: Woman giving birth vaginally while someone creates a "Boston Cream Pie" on her chest. Nearby, Dirty Sanchez and Rusty Trombone are being enacted, while Saw 25: Finally, Torture Porn with No Plot! plays on a screen. Someone is cutting off the fingers of people with gambling debts, while at an adjacent station, doctors reattach said fingers. The baby is finally out of the birth canal and its eyeball falls out of the socket and dangles. The afterbirth is produced and someone eats it for the nutritional value.

I mean, this sounds like a delightful carnival to me. Additional things that I find funny/pleasant/totally whatever: farts, diarrhea, vomit, menstruation, period sex, facials, semen in general (although I'm currently eating creamy broccoli soup and taking a bite after typing "semen" was slightly strange), pulling poop out of my dog's butt when she's eaten the bush in my parents' backyard (this is, in fact, a thing that happens -- I use a plastic bag, not my bare hand), shaving people's backs, etc. etc. etc.

So what finally got to me? What actually made my vadge wince -- you know that feeling, when you KNOW it's bad?

A bloody nipple. SO GROSS.

All I can say about said nipple is that it was not mine, thank god. And it was not one of those running-related ones, which is I guess not the worst (but is still DISGUSTING). Everything else is left up to your imagination.

This is the closest thing I could allow myself to post.

Goodbye, Little Friend.

So I went to the dermatologist the other day, because at 29 (ha, I typed 30 originally. I'm ready for it.) I decided to FINALLY do something about this goddamned acne. After waiting for over an hour, answering the nurse's questions and then re-answering them when the doctor quickly barked them at me as two assistants hovered around him, I was forced to reveal that I have a secret.

It must have been... I'd say 2003, because Boulos and I were living on the Upper East Side. I was in Chicago for some reason. I'd like to say it was when my brother graduated grade school and we (me and Boulos, not my 13-year-old brother) split a bottle of tequila and got in a loud fight on my parents' basement stairs at two o'clock in the morning and had to be yelled at by my mother. WE ARE CLASSY. But no, that was in 2002. I was visiting Chicago for some reason (Boulos, were you there for this? Somehow I feel like you were) and revealed to my mother the plague that had been... plaguing me for a few days: the giant cyst in the middle of my back.

My mom was concerned, but I like to ignore things like this. I mean, come on, eventually that giant, painful, I swear to god pulsating oval on my back will just GO AWAY, right? Like, what did people in the olden days do about cysts? Nothing. They just powered through. Or were stoned to death by other old timey people because the cyst was obviously the mark of the beast or something. Or, the cyst ruptured and they got infections due to unsanitary conditions (which were common in the olden days, you know) and then they died. WHATEVER. I don't have time to deal with cysts on vacation.

When the cyst reached its pinnacle, which was quite impressive -- bright red, the size of an egg, pretty firm except for this nice pokable little dime-sized area in the center (did you vomit yet? good.), my mom finally convinced me to go to the ER. This was the first of two ER visits I have made for really stupid reasons. I had a youngish, kind of good looking doctor who would not stop fretting about whether or not I was pregnant because of something he was intending to give me for the pain. We spent a LONG TIME discussing whether this was a possibility (no. I firmly stated. No, it is not). Then he'd leave. Then he'd come back, again concerned about my potential zygote. (No. There is no way I'm pregnant. Do you hear what I'm saying here doctor? NO WAY.) Sigh. I didn't have the heart to tell the cute doctor that I'd been celibate for years at this point. Eventually, after giving me a diabetes test that left me with a bloody finger, he made me take a stupid pregnancy test. I peed all over my bloody finger. Ah, well, at least that won't get infected.

I lay on my stomach while the doctor gave me shots to numb the area and then cut it open. Numb or not, it hurt like a bitch. I gritted my teeth while he... (don't vomit) squeezed all the pus out. YUM! I hope you're eating.

Then he packed it with gauze, told me he was sure he'd gotten "the sac" (this would be my first experience with that amazing term, which surprisingly is the only aspect of this whole thing that grosses me out), and revealed that he'd had a "giant man" in the other day who had cried like a baby through the exact same procedure. He assured me I'd do well in childbirth (?!) and sent me on my way. To this day, I am kind of worried about his level of interest in my offspring.

I went home to Boulos, who had to help me clean and redress the wound since it was on my back. She found the situation horrifying, but proved herself as a wife and lifelong friend by actually assisting me in this. I will be very, very lucky to ever find a man who would do the same. We nicknamed it my "back vagina," decided that "Chicago Style" referred to sex in the back vagina while both parties eat deep dish pizza, and eventually it healed, leaving only a small scar. Yay, no more cyst!

Yeah right. This thing comes back about yearly. During the first recurrence, I was again in Chicago (travel does something to the monster on my back) and visited my dad's dermatologist. He cut me back open, removed more pus, said he got the sac, but recommended I have them cut me open when it was normal again to make sure the entire sac was gone. Gross! This sac, like, divides and conquers? Ugh. I briefly discussed the surgery with my general practitioner in New York, but you know what? It's really hard to convince oneself that surgery is necessary when everything is fine. Hey, dude, my back is good. No vagina here! I'm sure that last guy got the sac.

After the threat of surgery, I started taking care of this thing myself. Oh god, that sounds so gross. No, what happened is that once I wasn't able to get to the doctor before the thing kind of de-pussed itself on its own. Exploded, kind of. This part of the story is where I venture into true TMI territory, I guess, and we all throw up together. Anyway, after I didn't die on that one, I decided to just buy some big bandages in preparation for any flare-ups, cover the thing when it became a monster, and wait it out. This method has been working pretty well for years. It's safe! I buy the large anti-bacterial band-aids.

So on Friday, my new dermatologist asked me whether I experience acne anywhere other than my face and I was like, "um, well. I kind of had this cyst on my back and it flares up sometimes." With no fanfare, he marched over, yanked the back of my shirt open, peered down for a millisecond, poked my back and said, "Oh, you'll have to have that removed; the sac is still in there." Trust me when I say that, even after years of talking about this cyst, the word "sac" still makes me dry heave a bit. As I left the office, the receptionist scheduled an appointment for sac removal.

And then I was a little sad! Mostly because I have never had surgery except for the removal of my wisdom teeth and I'm of the firm belief that the less surgery, the better. (In reality this is an outpatient procedure and I'm pretty sure it's only going to require another shot or two of local anesthesia, so I should just stop being a crybaby already.) But also... no more little harmless friend who becomes an angry red monster and then settles into back vagina before hibernating again :(

Goodbye, little sac (barf). I hardly knew ye.

I am hoping that Dr. Wilson finally closes my back vagina

(There are youtube videos of cyst removals but I cannot recommend them. The two I watched were really disgusting. I would stick to my story, which has the benefit of a first-person back cyst story, i.e. I didn't see anything.)

Mother's Day Update

You know how I mentioned that, on Mother's Day, my whole family made fun of me for folding my underwear? Here's a cute little follow-up.

On Sunday, we went to my parents' house. We do this most Sundays and we call it "Family Day" and we watch America's Funniest Videos and basically make you vomit with our ability to act like Leave it to Beaver, except if you know anything else about my family, you know we are no fucking Cleavers (what a fucked up last name! God that makes me laugh, and think of murder). I'll get into that another time, though. Suffice it to say our family gatherings are characterized by too many sex jokes, and sometimes too much substance abuse, for '50s prime time TV.

So back to Sunday. My dad grilled burgers and my mom bought cupcakes; how cute is that? My grandmother came over and we watched the Blackhawks game (um, they did. I did a crossword puzzle). Lest you find this too sweet and/or nauseating, let me step in and spoil it by telling you that when I drove my grandma home, we passed a number of Korean businesses a few blocks from her house and she said, apropos of nothing, "Boy, the Asians sure love to gamble." (Maybe we'd just passed an OTB? I honestly don't know.)

My sister owns our place and we have a washer/dryer in-unit, but the dryer has been broken recently so we've been doing some laundry at my parents' house. She put in a load and then I put that in the dryer and put in my load, and promptly forgot about it. I wanted to leave by 8:30 so I could go running when I got home, but at about 8:15 my mom reminded me about my laundry. I swore and got crabby. She then kindly offered to fold my stuff and send it home with my sister the next day if I didn't want to stick around.

My sister brought it home and I just unpacked it, and found that my mother had folded all of my panties! Adorable. Except this: she had asked how I fold them, and I told her that I fold them in half and then in half again. She said, "Oh, well I'd probably fold them in thirds," one-upping me on something she doesn't even do. Guess how she sent them back?

Of course, all arguments can be settled via the internet. According to this Youtube video, she's right. Or at least closer to right.

Mother's Day

I'm sure everyone has tales about how strange their family is. "Normal" doesn't really exist, does it? However, crazy family stories are fun. I thought I would describe Mother's Day at my parents' house in an effort to capture the particular strain of crazy that has infected my family.

My sister and I arrive late due to traffic and those unfeeling bastards (aka my paternal grandmother, my father, my brother and my mother) have of course begun eating without us, because they don't care. After distributing large bones to the dogs so that my dog can steal both of them and take them to the rug where she will shut up and let us eat in peace, my sister and I sit down at the table. Everyone teases Melissa (sister) because she is in the last week of training for a fitness competition and thus can only eat one dish on the table, kale. People do horrible things like loudly proclaim, "Oh, it's really too bad you cannot eat this beef, IT IS DELICIOUS. You can't have JUST ONE BITE?" (my father).

Between bites of his actual meal, my father stands up with a fork, reaches for the pineapple cake in the middle of the table, and shoves large forkfuls of it into his mouth. In my family, we generally don't do things like cut a cake into pieces and eat it off dessert plates. When he sits down, his dog jumps up on his chair and pushes her head through his free arm, panting and attempting to lick his plate. In response, he feeds her from his plate and everyone laughs. We discuss my former job at Chuck E. Cheese and I mention that a man once approached me when I was dressed as Chuckie and whispered "Are you a man or a woman? A man or a woman?" and how horrifying that was. I then determined that I'd met a furry before anyone knew what a furry was. Then I had to explain furries to my mom and grandma. They both greatly enjoyed this, and my mother later referred to them as "fluffies." I turned this particular aspect of the night into my Facebook status. My small dog eats a large piece of bone and requires assistance in order to not die. My mother helps her create a giant disgusting puddle of bone on the floor and proudly exclaims, "See, I just had to massage her throat! Now it's out!" We discuss dogs who eat things like underwear and socks and throw them up later. Probably half of us are still eating throughout this vomit portion of the evening.

After the dishes are cleared, my mother tries to redeem us from my father's lack of manners by actually cutting a different cake and distributing pieces. At my sister's request, I provide an in-depth description of the chocolate mousse cake; she cannot eat things like cake and thus gets off on looking at and hearing about food. We give my mother and grandmother their gifts. My grandmother received two books, and she expresses concern that she may not be able to read them. I ask if I should return them for large-print versions and my sister jokes, "Or should we get audio versions? Or exchange them for an aide to come and read them to you?" And my grandmother says, "I'm just sorry I won't be around to see YOU at 70, you little bitch."

My dad goes upstairs to take a nap. He takes about three a day now, I think (he is only 51). My grandmother needs someone to put an eyedrop into her eye, so I volunteer. She also needs someone to cut her bangs, which my mom does at the kitchen table while my grandma holds a newspaper ad under her face to catch the hair. My brother says, "Jesus! Eyedrops, haircuts... what the fuck do you think this is, Mother's Day?!" My mother remembers that there is cookies 'n' cream gelato in the freezer. My sister convinces me to try some, though I don't want any. I explain to her that it's not very good and they obviously used generic cookies, not oreos. She wants me to eat more and I refuse.

My sister and mother go to the Vitamin Store together (seriously. This is what they do together on Mother's Day). They say they will be gone for ten minutes and about fifteen minutes later, my grandmother proclaims that they lied and she needs to go home now and feed her dog. I drive her home. When I return, my family is watching America's Funniest Videos. I cannot lie, I fucking love that show. It's best to watch with my family, because my mother cackles loudly any time something remotely funny happens (and, um, most of the show is funny things happening) and my father only laughs audibly when someone gets injured. He is the man who appreciates all of the hits to the groin. However, he was still napping. My sister and brother like to pretend they are too cool for the show, but they always get sucked in as well.

Anytime my mother disagrees with a video -- i.e., does not think it's funny enough for the show -- she does so loudly. "That was not FUNNY. Ugh, that was just dumb. I liked the dogs who opened the gate." There is a video about a woman who continually locks her husband out of the house or car and makes him dance before she'll let him back in. My brother and I loved it and my mother rolls her eyes and says "This is so dumb. I mean, I wouldn't let her take my keys then! COME ON!"

Later on, my sister and I finish up our laundry (our dryer is currently on the fritz) and everyone laughs at me when it is revealed that I fold my underwear. Then my mother says, "You know what I'm gonna do?" And I say, "Oh, this is about wine, isn't it?" She ignores me. "Well, it's getting late and I don't work tomorrow, and the kitchen is clean, so..." And she pours herself a glass of white zinfandel and lights a cigarette.

Happy Mother's Day, mom! I don't think you read my blog, though.

Buying in Bulk

I should NEVER be allowed in a Costco or Sam's Club. NEVER. My sister bought a membership a few years ago and I went with her a few times and bought the dumbest shit. Keep in mind that my sister maintains a very healthy, strict diet at all times and I eat like a frat boy, with maybe every third meal a half-hearted stab at healthful eating. I do actually try to get in my fruits and veggies, though, because my parents never made me eat them and I hated vegetables until like five years ago, and I'm relatively sure I have undiagnosed scurvy or something as a result.

Anyway. Point being, my diet and my sister's do not overlap much and we don't share much food. When we last had a Costco membership, I bought a giant canister of cashews. Because nuts never go bad, right? No really, I thought that. We moved probably six months after I bought that bad boy and it was still 3/4 of the way full and I packed that bitch and brought it to our new place. (I brought a lot of food along using the logic "Hey, we're only moving three blocks away." Except I don't own a grocery cart so that food had to be moved just like everything else.) And here it sat, very rarely tended to, until Boulos visited last May and was like, "Um, those cashews expired TWO YEARS AGO." And I was like, bullshit, nuts don't go bad. But yeah, it had an expiration date. I rebelled and kept those cashews for a few months, every once in awhile making an "omg I'm gonna die" face and eating one. Just a couple months later, I threw out a half-full canister of cashews that probably cost $20 or some shit.

My issue with Costco is that I ALWAYS FORGET who is supposed to shop there. You know, little league teams and PTAs and people with actual families. Not little ole single me, who never even has people over because her roommate goes to bed at 9:00 p.m and her friends are loud. I do not need a two-pound tub of hummus, ever.

But buying in bulk is SMART, right? I'm getting bang for my buck here, correct? Of course, if you buy a big box of weird Kashi bars that you have never seen in the grocery store and only eat 10 of them and then, three years later, start looking at the remaining 20 with shifty eyes because they have nuts in them and you just recently learned that nuts do, in fact, go bad.... well, throwing out 2/3 of a product you bought at a slight discount is not smart.

My sister had similar, if less retarded, problems last time we had a Costco membership, so she let it lapse. But now she's on this really strict diet which involves eating the same things again and again, and buying in bulk is actually a good idea for her. And she convinced me to accompany her when she renewed her card. I didn't really need much in the way of groceries, but Costco was only open for maybe another hour and I'd just pick up some wine or something. Duh. I won't get pulled into this again, I'm no fool.

She waited in line to get her card and encouraged me to go browse. I swear to god she loves to watch me act like a dumbass. But it was boring up front, so I headed straight for the liquor section, where I picked up a bottle of whiskey -- I had NO IDEA if I was saving money on it, because I don't even buy whiskey other than Jameson or Jack Daniels, really. But hey, it MUST be a good deal, right? Then I chose a giant bottle of cabarnet sauvignon. Also not sure if I saved any money on it. At this point, I looked really classy.

My sister called me and I met her by the frozen food. Then we walked toward the produce. I picked out a giant bunch of bananas, which wasn't genius, but I make banana bread with overripe bananas and I have 1/2 a loaf sitting here on my counter right now to prove to you that no bananas were wasted. I also picked up a 12-pack of apples, which I've nearly finished. So BOO YA, produce.

But. The produce, where my sister spends a large amount of time, is right next to the cheese. Giant hunks of cheese all over the place. First I picked up this bag of snack-sized Cabot hunks. Unfortunately, I did not realize until I made it home that they are low-fat, and I have to be honest, cheese is the one food that I believe should always be full-fat. The unbelievable 0ccurred and I purchased a Cabot cheddar product that is simply mediocre. Sad.

On to the giant hunks of cheese. Obviously I could only purchase one -- I know that cheese goes bad. I was looking at cheddars, and had nearly settled on a manchego when this older woman turned to me and asked, in a gorgeous accent (French? Russian? Polish? seriously I can't identify these things) whether one could freeze cheese. I was like, I have no idea. But it probably wouldn't taste as good if you froze it and thawed it. She held up a giant wedge of gruyere and said sadly, "It's so much cheese. But they so rarely have gruyere." With the accent and the sadness over fancy cheese, I was convinced this woman was a former queen fallen upon hard times or something. There was a sense of faded glamour about her. I think she bought the cheese. I KNOW that this interaction prompted me to buy the gruyere.

This was dumb. Turns out, gruyere is not tasty when eaten in chunks, which I didn't know because I've only ever eaten it on sandwiches at restaurants. A good 1/4 of that wedge is still sitting in my fridge because I am sick of slicing cheese and eating cheese sandwiches and making cheese omelets. The one thing I know is that I, for one, will never be found standing at a discount store sadly contemplating a giant wedge of gruyere.

Other things purchased? A dried fruit and nut mix, which is convenient but maybe not the best idea because holy shit that stuff is high in calories. And a big package of corned beef, and another of sliced ham, which worked well with the gruyere for croque monsieur sandwiches, but which prompted conversations with my sister like, "NO I cannot eat turkey with you tonight, I have some ham to eat" and "I'd like to get tacos for dinner, but I still have some goddamned ham to eat."

All in all, I spent about $90 on a bunch of crap that kept me fed and liquored up for awhile, but which I did not actually, technically need. I'm probably going back this weekend.

I found this when I googled "gruyere." This little guy could really help me out with all the cheese I have right now.

I Have a 401k and Other Boring Revelations

As recently as yesterday, I realized that I am an adult. I realize this fairly often and am always surprised. But I think it was as I stared at a photo of Justin Bieber with a confused look on my face YET AGAIN last night that I "realized" this for the last time and, finally, completely accepted and embraced adulthood.

This is a good thing, since I'll be 30 in like 4 months or something. And I DO have a 401k! With less than $2,000 in it because I started it maybe a year before I got laid off, and I wasn't making enough money for 6% of my income to actually amount to that much. When I think about the amount that my sister has in her 401k, and how she is over two years younger than me, I get a little scared. Then I go to Youtube and watch a video of a dog pushing a ball around a room with a frisbee and I feel better.

So here are a few additional things that have led me to reluctantly admit that I am an adult.

1) Alluded to above, but bears repeating: I finally do not understand teenage pop stars at all. Now, lest you think I'm just a music snob: I attended a New Kids on the Block concert when I was 8. For whatever reason, I understood the popularity of boy bands like the Backstreet Boys and N'Sync, and I have danced to Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera while singing along. However, Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift and Justin Bieber are beyond me. I don't begrudge today's children, tweens and (young and/or awkward) teens their heartthrobs and Tiger Beat cover stars, but I can't lie. I kind of wish they would all board a rickety puddlejumper together and let nature take its course. Mostly because Miley's voice, both speaking and singing, grates horribly and her father's "contribution" to country music should have brought a curse upon his offspring if karma worked as it should. Taylor Swift is annoyingly sweet and wholesome, and has a horribly weak singing voice, and her songs are like bad lowfat vanilla ice cream. Justin Bieber is... well, here he is. I think a picture is enough.


I guess I should just be happy that his popularity is an obvious step in the right direction in terms of widespread acceptance of gays. If the public is embracing a little lesbian boy in this way, actual lesbians can't be far behind, right?

2) The soundtrack to my high school experience is now being referred to as "Classic Alternative." At least, that is the name of the Comcast music station that plays Bjork, Nirvana, Hole, Pearl Jam, etc. Also, rock music from the '80s is "Retro Rock." I simply cannot pretend to be a teenager anymore.

3) Sigh. This one is kind of hard to admit. I am currently watching The Breakfast Club yet again, but probably for the first time in years (it's not my favorite brat pack movie; those would be Pretty in Pink, About Last Night and St. Elmo's Fire). And John Bender is no longer sexxxxxxxxy. He is an annoying asshole. He thinks he's being provocative, but he's being mean. I do not like him at all and I no longer want to make him my loveslave. And I actually don't like any of these characters, except maybe Allie Sheedy. This is, for me, the saddest of these realizations.

Still good-looking, but too annoying and self-righteous to allow in my bed.

Guest Appearance

I think that the pic at the top of our blog seems to accurately represent the balance of the contribution to the blog. I suck, but what can I do. As you can see from the time stamp on this post, I am at home on a Friday night, lame. My recent unemployment status has really thrown me for a loop. I mean, when I am a normal commuter/employed person I'm often psyched to not have plans on a weekend, or at night, because I'm exhausted from the hustle and bustle of the week, however obviously this is not the case now. It really sucks when you finally have the time to do everything you would like to do, with none of the funds in which to do them.

Things I'd like to do right now if I could:
-Go to Chicago to see my wife, like I was originally planning to in June
-Head out on the cross-country road trip I've wanted to go on since High School, staying with people I know throughout the continental US, and heading up to Canada as well
-Basically anything but continuously staying at home in my apartment most of the time

Sorry to be such a downer, but both Andy and I getting laid off within one week of another really threw me for a loop! Like, are you f-ing kidding me, life? To make matters worse, our Landlord has decided to put the house on the market in July. So, basically, it's REALLY possible that I will be jobless and homeless soon (ok, not homeless, but in search of a new home, and since moving sucks just about as hard as losing your job, this does not seem appealing AT ALL). Although I'm psyched I'm approved for the highest unemployment amount per week, it's still less than half of what I was clearing before. All these other ridiculous things keep popping up as well, just making me think like I've suddenly become some sort of Biblical character being put through a series of tests. I know there are so many people all over the world going through much worse, but sometimes it's hard to think of that bigger picture. I am grateful for Andy, and my family and friends that have been helping through this shite, but I don't get to see a majority of my friends on a regular basis even when I am employed! A lot of them live in NYC, so for me to see them, I have to spend money.

Oh well, most of tonight was good times, we had our first spring time BBQ in the backyard, and I had a much needed martini. I even did some yoga today, but haven't dragged my lazy ass to the gym in like two months. It's awful, and since I can't cancel my membership, I suppose I should venture there during the day, with all of the Jersey housewives. Maybe I'll even become a Zumba freak. My gym offers tanning as well. Perhaps I should just turn myself into every Jersey stereotype now being made popular by shows like "The Real Housewives" and "Jerseylicious!" OMG, this is a fantastic idea! I can become everything that I hate about stereotypes from my home state, and then exploit it all to my advantage! Since my dream job currently lies in TV production, I really should work on making this happen.

Alright, I'm already feeling a bit more positive. At least I have a mission. Since I haven't been to the gym recently, I won't even have to spend money on acquiring a tighter wardrobe! There's the silver lining, people! Alright, it's on. Next time you'll see me, my hair will have grown larger, my skin will be a shade of orange not found in nature, and I will have developed an accent that currently only exists in movies and on TV.

Look out for me, my babies!! I'll be the one with French Tips and a HUGE Starbucks CAWFEE.

(Please blame any intense disjointed ramblings in this post on the boxed wine that has followed the martini, thanks)

Girls Girls Girls

Dear Kelis, My milkshake brings all the... girls to the yard. I prefer boys. Can you help me with this? I understand that you have to charge, and I'm willing to compensate appropriately.
Love, Amanda

It's not that I never attract boys. I do okay with this. My favorite of the dudes I have attracted recently is the one who kept telling me, "Girrrrl, you're dangerous." Haha. If I were a mature woman of nearly 30, this wouldn't appeal to me, but I'm not and it does. In fact, I'd had a bit to drink and after knowing him for about ten minutes, I was like, "Damn. I am dangerous." And for the rest of the night I felt like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, but with panties.

However, ladies hit on me. Like, a lot. Moreso than I'd expect the average girl gets. It's piqued my interest.

One possible reason is that I stay out late, go to bars that cater to staying out late and to acting a fool/acting a bisexual. Are those the same thing? I think not, but perhaps ladies being into ladies is, for certain ladies, a late-night/crazy type thing. I don't really know.

Another thing is that this happens frequently when I'm out with my male friends. I do not have a lot of (straight) guy friends. Mostly, if you are male and heterosexual and I like you, I am not thinking of you in a "friendly" way. But sometimes, I get to that point with dudes, that point where we can hang out and be platonic.

The other night I was out with my friend Roy. Dana was talking to him when I returned from the bathroom, and I assumed she was hitting on him. Blah blah, I was looking the other way to allow him room to, you know, get her. I'm an excellent wingwoman. Or so I like to think.

Then she's introduced to me and, by no prompting of my own, it's all about me. How my hair matches my dress; did I plan that? No I did not, because my hair is red and my dress is a raspberry pinkish-purplish color. Maybe she's color blind? Then Dana told us about belly dancing and made us both feel her belly as she rolled it, telling us about her muscle control. And staring at me most of the time. And I knew it'd happened again: a chick was totally into me. Roy briefly tried to accuse me of cockblockery, but agreed that my only weapons in this regard had been my existence and my ability to listen.

I'd like to say this was an anomaly, but it wasn't. Chicks dig me, man. One other time, Roy and I were out with Ryan, another friend. This chick sat down with us and Ryan was really into her. She had giant boobs. At first I hated her (due entirely to jealousy; she was thin with giant tits and I am not-so-thin with middling tits), but all of a sudden she's talking about how much she loves me. "Blah blah, I love this girl! Blah blah blah, I really love Amanda!" God, I wish I were a lesbian. I do NOT hear this shit from men.

Let's be honest. There is probably an explanation for these particular chicks. The first option I have is that they liked the guys I was with and did not entirely understand my relationship to them. Thus, they needed to make nice while sleuthing, and attempted to in a very ridiculously overt way.

The other option, obviously, is that they were fishing for a threesome. I'd imagine that if you, a single lady, approach a heterosexual couple (assuming these ladies mistook me for half a couple in these scenarios), the woman is the one you have to convince. I mean, the popular conception of heterosexuality tells us that a woman loves attention and a man loves a chase.

However, I've been hit on by ladies a fair amount otherwise. Perhaps I'm just that awesome and sexy and blah blah blah. Or maybe they can just tell that people in high school suspected I was a lesbian because I attended Lillith Fair and listened to Tori Amos and foolishly bought a pair of gym shoes with a rainbow on them. These things + small Lutheran school = total lesbo.

Below, you will find the creepiest lesbian photo a quick google search could supply.

Goodness, Gracious

Here's a ditty about another film that shaped my young self, one that I probably should not have seen as a child. And that film would be Great Balls of Fire, starring Dennis Quaid as Jerry Lee Lewis and Winona Ryder as his incestuous child bride, Myra. I loooooooved this movie as a child -- I was nine when it came out and we had cable with free pay-per-view so I was watching every recent release about 5 times a day at that point. Like Goodfellas, which was my favorite movie when I was ten. Boulos has been aware of this for some time, but what she recently found out is that my absolute favorite scene in that movie is the montage in which we discover all of the bodies of the dudes that Jimmy has killed in his paranoia over the heist. I was watching it with Boulos and I mentioned that it's always been my favorite part of the movie, and she was totally horrified. In retrospect, it's pretty upsetting. I'd like to say that it's because the epic "Layla" is played over this montage, but I also really enjoy discovering the clever ways in which Jimmy had the guys killed and disposed of. I've greatly enjoyed that for nearly 20 years now, and I'm just going to accept that I am a sick fuck.

Anyway, back to Great Balls of Fire. I loved the music, I was hot for Dennis/Jerry, Winona Ryder was in it and she got a house that she was allowed to completely furnish in the manner one might expect a 13-year-old would, and it was fantastic. I re-watched the movie last fall and I still loved it (I was drunk, too, though). Then, a few weeks ago, I was talking to a friend and he said that he hates all musician biopics. I was like, "Um, what about Great Balls of Fire?" And he said, very sarcastically, "Oh, the movie in which Jerry Lee Lewis marries his 13-year-old cousin?"And I was like, "Yes. She was his cousin twice removed, by the way." (I still do not know what the hell that means.) During this conversation, I was still totally behind this movie. I was like, when the hell did Roy become such a moralist? What the fuck? THEY WERE IN LOVE.

Upon reflection, the movie is totally fucked up. Sure, it's based on truth, but the relationship (which, finally, I do recognize as utterly disgusting) is represented in an almost comical, and certainly an inevitable, manner. Like, of COURSE he wants to fuck his 13 year old cousin, of COURSE she wants it, and of COURSE they should be married. And no, her father should not kill him. And when they first have sex and she is kind of terrified and she cries? Don't worry about it, because in like 5 minutes she will be a total nympho.

Normally I don't really believe in too harshly censoring the movies kids watch. I saw Pretty Woman as a child and I did not want to be a hooker, though I did have a crush on Richard Gere (duh). I saw Beaches, which a friend's mom wouldn't let us watch at her fourth grade sleepover (prude, there's like two tasteful sex scenes) and sure I became a redhead and maybe sometimes a loudmouth, but I didn't marry my dad's lawyer and wind up a single mother. I saw Dirty Dancing, but I didn't understand the abortion plotline and now that I consider it, I think it's awesome that when I finally understood it, I knew innately that the illegality of abortion at that time was bullshit, and also how cool is it that the girls who have sex in that movie are all nice girls, with that exception of that married hussy who wants Johnny and settles for Robbie?

This isn't to say that I became a child bride, thank god, but it's kind of fucked up that it took me 21 years to finally decide that, when they go to London and the Brits hate them and boo them offstage, it's not because the Brits are a bunch of uptight prudes. It's because Jerry Lee Lewis was a pervert. I still have a crush on Dennis Quaid, though.

These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things

This dumb Nebraska law restricting abortion due to "fetal pain." ZOMG. Seriously? Seriously? How did you find out about this fetal pain? Have your fetus call my fetus to discuss. Wait. What? Our fetuses don't have cell phones? They can't even TALK? Then who the fuck told you about this? Oh right. You made it up to further rule women's bodies with an iron fist, because you're the patriarchy. Thanks, we needed that reminder that our vaginas and other lady equipment are really YOUR vaginas and lady equipment.

Do you guys have Crazy Bread?

People who have cell phone conversations -- especially MULTIPLE cell phone conversations -- in inappropriate places, including but certainly not limited to dressing rooms, airport bathrooms, and any other large communal space in which my jeans are likely around my ankles. For an example, I will just copy and paste my Facebook status for today: Things I learned in the dressing room from a woman who had at least three cell phone conversations while I tried on jeans: 1) She tested positive for hepatitis and plans to re-test tomorrow 2) She is no longer a size 16; she is now a size 14 and a Large on top 3) She coddles her boyfriend, who sounds like a total asswipe. He will be dumping her, either if she gets fat, or if she has hepatitis. Unsure about that one.

iPhone commercials. "Oh, looky, my iPhone told me that song was She and Him, and when they are coming to town, because I'm an idiot yupster tech junkie who is too dumb/2010 to remember lyrics/carry paper to write them on and then google them when I get home like poor folk, such as Amanda. Also I have soooo much disposable income and/or I'm a total poseur/dilettante, so I just buy tickets for bands from whom I've heard one song. Teehee!" Also -- you do NOT need the ability to use the internet while talking on the phone. This is a lie.

Reggae. It's possible that reggae is too closely associated with sun and sand and surf, all of which turn me off. It's more likely that old commercials for Jamaica and jukeboxes in bars have made me hate Bob Marley's music with a passion. Since all reggae seems to have essentially the same beat, it's all ruined for me. Plus, the whole stoner association feels so junior year of high school. It's the musical equivalent of the dead horse, in my mind.

People who do not use turn signals. What the fuck? It isn't hard, it's not even a real flick of the wrist. And I am not a mind reader, so when you are slowing down in front of me to turn or park but have not turned on your turn signal, I might assume you are running out of gas, having an epileptic fit, fucking with me, or a million other random things. They need to start giving tickets for this again, it's so anger-inducing and dumb.

I feel like this will probably become an ongoing blog feature. Exciting, isn't it?