tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34842392988026969652024-03-12T23:08:40.069-05:00amymeshellThis is me, honest... What about you?~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-44998084656202703812010-06-28T15:33:00.002-05:002010-06-30T19:54:53.118-05:00There's Something About MaryI haven’t been here in a long time and I must admit that I am a bit ashamed of myself. For so long this blog was my true refuge and I just slacked off entirely. You (and it) have always been there for me. So I have done some redecorating here with the notion that a fresh coat of blog paint will inspire me to look around life more often and share what’s happening because it helps me so much. And I have taken some things that have happened recently as a sign to get off my bum and come back. I hope you will still have me. <br />
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My personal life has certainly had its ups and downs. Let’s start on the low end, shall we? Until last month, I was on my way to being a “Mrs.” for the second time in my life. Unfortunately it was not meant to be. Though the decision to end the relationship was mine, it was not the clean break that I’d proposed. Instead, the process itself was a long three weeks, complete with promises of change, some begging, a few immature attempts at attention, and visits by law enforcement. The other person I’m sure will tell you differently, but such is the nature of break-ups. Bottom line is that as hard as it was, I know I have done the right thing. To top it all off, the night the shit initially hit the fan just so happened to be the eve of my birthday. (Further confirmation that I should have stopped trying to celebrate them years ago).<br />
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But in the midst of the entire ruckus, there was Facebook. And more importantly, Mary on Facebook.<br />
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Now, when it comes to fb, I liken myself to the old man in the commercial that calls it “The Spacebook and Myface.” I don’t do Farmville or any of that crap. If you “just clobbered a snake” or “need fast money,” don’t look at (or poke) me. Furthermore, I will not be boring you with what I just cooked for breakfast or what shade of toenail polish I am wearing. I just don’t find me that interesting every minute of the day and neither should you. However, if you are the friend that used to be my world and I haven’t talked to you in twenty years, I am going to sit up, take notice, and yes, answer you. <br />
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Mary came into my life when I was a junior in high school in Fairfax, Virginia. Before that , the majority my high school days were spent alone and in silence as I had no friends to speak of. Suffice it to say, I was miserable. Finally, the summer of driver’s ed, I managed to acquire a small and happy circle of girlfriends. It was through someone in that small circle that I met Mary. We hit it off instantly, but at the time I had no idea why. I was a total dork. Mary was the coolest person I had ever seen or met: Creative, outgoing, individualistic, beautiful, and so very, very talented! She could make stuff with her hands. Beautiful things were her hands themselves, as were the creations that were born from them. <br />
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For whatever crazy reason, Mary and I just clicked. <br />
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Mary and I didn’t have any classes together, but we kept each other posted with our “note” books: Spiral things that we passed back and forth to each other between classes that were as much journals as they were a way of swapping information and gossip. I don’t know how many of them we filled, but I know that it was several because we just never ran out of things to say to each other. After school and on the weekends we were almost always together and we had such a damn good time! We’d drive around town in my mom’s silver Honda Accord, blasting whatever cool music Mary had introduced me to. I remember fondly my tape of a tape of The Violent Femmes' “Blister in the Sun” and "Add it Up." (I thought I was such a badass because I knew this song with the F word in it! Ha.) People gravitated to Mary, and rightfully so. And I happily went along to see what would happen next. Never did she disappoint me. Most of all I was so thrilled to have an awesome friend who thought I was pretty awesome, too. She made me happy.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/TCkF5I8toMI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/You4EGzDwcU/s1600/RiverStab.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ru="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/TCkF5I8toMI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/You4EGzDwcU/s320/RiverStab.JPG" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">How cool is this?!!! Mary sent this of her and me... </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">This is us on the beach, I think, in San Diego. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mary is on the right... Notice her hands??? </span></div><br />
Unfortunately that spring, I would find out that I would be finishing my high school career in San Diego as my dad was once again being transferred. So though Mary and I didn’t get to graduate together, we communicated constantly through letters. And I don’t mean one-pagers, either… Our letters took the place of our notebooks to me, and we told each other everything. A couple of years later I would be thrilled to find myself back in Virginia, and to be reunited with Mary. Unfortunately, it is also when we would part ways. It has been a very long time… <br />
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The day I got that first message from Mary on Facebook I was thrilled. What was written in it was so special and lovely, but really I was just so happy to see her name. What it made me think of was my wonderful friend, and not what had kept us apart for so many years. To me it is just water under the bridge, and there is no need for apologies, only a lot of catching up to do--and hopefully a face-to-face meeting before too much longer. <br />
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The story within the story is a great one, too: As I mentioned, The Big Breakup happened on the eve of my birthday. In all of her sweetness, Mary ordered me a lovely bouquet of flowers and sent them to the address she found for me via the Internet. Only “problem” is, there is another Amy in my relatively small town, who lives only a few miles from me; another Amy with my same last name! So the “other” Amy was surprised to say the least when she got the delivery intended for me. Turns out, her husband works at a local church and he was willing to take the flowers with him and leave them at the church office so that they might be retrieved by yours truly. In the meantime, I was dealing with trying to get someone out of my house (no, they were not going quietly!) and all the drama that went along with it. So it was my sister to the rescue to retrieve the flowers. When I picked them up from my sister’s house, I was so touched, not only by the gesture of the gift, but also by all that had gone into getting them into my hands. They were so bright and beautiful and lifted my spirits more than I can ever express here. <br />
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The flowers were beautiful and so were the notes with them. The original enclosure card was a high-energy, happy note from Mary. On it was also a hand-written note from Amy Samelastname. Hers was just as sincere, and what I took from her words was that she enjoyed very much being a part of The Big Flower Caper. The flowers are gone, now. But I keep the note on my nightstand to remind me of everything this time in my life has meant to me, and to remind me that there is so much that is good about this world, and so much that I have to be thankful for. <br />
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Through our email exchanges since, I found out that Mary has been dealing (and quite bravely, I might add) with some issues similar to my own. Yet her spirit remains as high and her outlook as luminous as I remember. It is remarkable how we seem to have just picked right back up where we left off. I am thrilled to pieces to have her back in my life. <br />
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More than twenty years ago, Mary showed up in my world when I was the loneliest I had ever been. Though she may not have known it, I believe she saved me. I don’t care about what happened so many years ago that kept us from talking for so long, what I do care about is that we have the opportunity to know one another again. The fact that she showed up this time when I was again at a very low and lonely place just proves to me that there is just something about her that I don’t want to lose ever again. Her coming back to me has inspired me to come back here to you. If there is anyone out there reading, thank you. If not, that’s ok, I will do this for me.~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-27677623069977435882010-01-04T18:42:00.000-06:002010-01-04T18:42:36.115-06:00Mom's Brag BookDear Everyone,<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/S0KKDvPFdcI/AAAAAAAAANw/e0qjN06vY4I/s1600-h/mom_jeans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/S0KKDvPFdcI/AAAAAAAAANw/e0qjN06vY4I/s200/mom_jeans.jpg" /></a>Please check out some of the stuff my kid has been working really hard to create for your entertainment pleasure. At the ripe old age of nine, he now has two blogs (both of which are linked over on the sidebar) ...His latest creation is called <a href="http://www.thetwiseries.blogspot.com/">The Twilight Series</a>, and contains all things Bella and Edward. Even if you aren't a Twihard, I bet you know someone who is and who will love it... The other was his first creation that he decided to rename <a href="http://www.coolthingj.blogspot.com/">Cool Crap</a> (did I mention he's nine?) and is all things boy: rollercoasters, funny animals, horror movies and hot babes. <br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When you get the chance to check them out, I know he'd love to read your comments!<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">All the best,<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Amy<br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-49960756009377116492009-12-21T10:36:00.004-06:002009-12-21T11:02:20.356-06:00I Do Not Like It, Not One Little Bit!Last night I was laying in bed watching television when my son came over to me. We were both winding down from our day of shopping and cookie baking and present wrapping and he was smelling good (finally!) just out of the shower.<br /><div></div><br /><div>He leaned down and looked at me thoughtfully and I was thinking how much I enjoy our little moments of sweetness when he said something to me that I will never forget:</div><br /><div></div><div>Mom?</div><br /><div></div><div><em>Yes, baby?</em></div><br /><div>You need a razor for your face.</div><br /><div></div><div><em>What? I do not!!!</em></div><br /><div></div><div>Yes, you do! You have little hairs right here (points to my upper lip).</div><br /><div><em>Well I don't need a razor.</em></div><br /><div>Yes you do! You look like The Cat in the Hat! (literally falls on the floor laughing).</div><br /><div></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sy-m5MYbwhI/AAAAAAAAANM/wCNJDdFp2X8/s1600-h/cat-in-the-hat%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 145px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417732378256458258" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sy-m5MYbwhI/AAAAAAAAANM/wCNJDdFp2X8/s200/cat-in-the-hat%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br /><div><em>You better watch it, mister!</em></div><br /><div></div><div>What? Why? (still laughing).</div><br /><div><em>I haven't finished Christmas shopping for you, yet, but I could be!</em></div><br /><div>He walked away then, but had a hard time controlling his snort-laced giggling.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><div>...I am off to buy a razor. Or some moustache wax...</div>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-52748811646058684052009-12-19T12:17:00.000-06:002009-12-18T14:06:05.483-06:00I Don't Want No ScrubAn appropriate rerun...<br /><br />To my married and otherwise committed friends out there:<br /><br />I know your spouse/significant other sometimes gets on your nerves, or says something stupid, or farts too much, but please do me this favor: First, thank your lucky stars you aren’t “out there” right now, looking for love. Second, go hug, kiss or otherwise pleasure the person you are with because when I get through here you will feel like the luckiest person in the world. Why, you say? Two words: Internet dating. Yup, I am there. Gone are the days when Chuck Woolery was here to help. Now it seems I am at the mercy of the Web.<br /><br />So it’s been interesting to say the least. Sometimes it’s downright hilarious. And yes, there have been some holy-shit-who-is-this-crazy-bastard moments, too. Thankfully, though, there are just some plain nice people out there who I won’t make fun of. They are the ones that keep the hope alive that at the age of sixty I won’t be talking to one of my ninety cats all day long and calling my son over to rub lotion on his momma’s feet.<br /><br />The best way to explain this, I guess, is to break it down into categories:<br /><br /><strong>Perverts:</strong><br />Good god almighty. It’s one thing to have someone stare at the girls during a face to face conversation, but behind the keyboard and across the web there is a whole other perverted and eye-contactless world waiting there. Good thing I’m not that hot, because who the hell knows what they would say, then… I’ve been asked to meet here or there inside a five minute email exchange. I’ve been asked for photos (and no, not because I have a nice smile and they want to see more of the same). I’ve been asked for videos, and yes of exactly what you think they want on that video tape. Sorry, my camera is in the shop.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SyvdutlvhuI/AAAAAAAAANE/7YCl-NbkNv0/s1600-h/Family_Guy_Stewie_Chat_Total_Idiot_Black_Shirt%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 164px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 158px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416666771424773858" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SyvdutlvhuI/AAAAAAAAANE/7YCl-NbkNv0/s200/Family_Guy_Stewie_Chat_Total_Idiot_Black_Shirt%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a> <strong>Stupid Idiots:</strong><br />I’m sorry to have to call out the dummies, but they deserve it! The language is English. If spelling the word “the” is a challenge to you, please go elsewhere. I got a message from one (of <em>many</em> of the language-challenged) who asked me to call. No, I won’t call you. After reading your profile, I am confident I made the right decision because the caption of you pictured next to the General Lee reads “me with car at paint shop.” What it <em>should</em> read is “Me man. You woman. Me club you on head. Make you mine.” That would be charming. Next!<br /><br /><strong>The Clingers:</strong><br />Please, please, please! Just because I answered your inquiry by saying “hello, I’m fine, and how are you?” Does not mean that I am immediately interested in eighty exchanges every day about how you have to go fix your momma’s stopped up drain or what fabric softener you prefer or what your dog’s potty habits are. I don’t want to be mean to you but you are making it really difficult not to tell you to please get a life and go the eff away.<br /><br /><strong>LOLers:</strong><br />Let’s get something straight: I use “lol.” I like “lol.” But not every question/comment/show idea requires “lol” at the beginning, middle and end. And just because your question/comment/show idea is peppered with “lol” it does not erase the fact that you just asked me to “get naked,” or do “x, y and z” to you… Sorry, Cowboy, that ain’t no way to lasso this filly.<br /><br /><strong>I HEART CAPS LOCK:</strong><br />STOP YELLING AT ME. I DON’T CARE IF IT’S EASIER TO KEEP YOUR CAPS LOCK ON BECAUSE THE SHIFT BUTTON IS SO HARD TO PRESS AND YOU DON’T WANT TO OVERWORK YOUR FINGERS. IT’S JUST ANNOYING, I MEAN LOOK AT THIS AREN’T YOU ANNOYED? AND THIS IS ONLY FOUR SENTENCES.<br /><br /><strong>The Marryers:</strong><br />I’m sorry. I’ve never laid eyes on you and I will not marry you. As thoughtful and romantic as being proposed to via email is, I’m afraid I can’t lower my standards on this one. I hope we can still be friends. (Not really, but you are supposed to say that, right?)<br /><br /><strong>Mister Cliche:</strong><br />"If I could change the alphabet I would put u and i together." Are you fucking kidding me? If <em>I </em>could change the alphabet, I would put k and m in front of a!!!<br /><strong><br />The Axe-Murderers:</strong><br />Yes, they are out there! Beware, sisters. I got a beautiful email from one. When I looked at “interests” on his profile he listed “poking things with a stick.” I shit you not! His idea of a first date: “Sex first, then we will see if we can be friends.” Wow, I am tingly already! Oh and just shy of a swastika tattoo on his forehead, he is a shoe-in to win the next Charlie Manson look-alike contest. Be afraid! Be very afraid!<br /><br /><strong>Shirtless Rednecks:</strong><br />Unfortunately, geography is not in my favor here. Shirtless is OK, I suppose, but probably not truly appropriate for your profile picture unless you are at the beach or pool. You, shirtless, sweaty, leaning on your pickup truck in front of the junkyard/trailer park just doesn’t do it for me. Oh and if “four wheeling” is all you can give me under what interests you, I’m not.<br /><br />So my friends, I’ll say it again. Thank your lucky stars you aren’t along for the ride… Oh and wish me luck, I have a date Friday night.~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-77650062493931523192009-12-16T09:30:00.000-06:002009-12-16T09:05:18.433-06:00A Gift Real Special<p>This is what I call a Christmas classic. </p><p>Uncensored version, so proceed with caution...</p><p><object width="512" height="296"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/JwB8oTlBc_BndPOX5NpuHw"><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/JwB8oTlBc_BndPOX5NpuHw" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="296"></embed></object></p><p></p><p></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-41800942986082487192009-10-22T20:28:00.003-05:002009-10-22T21:00:25.837-05:00Hot StuffI'm guessing the conversation went something like this:<br /><br /><em>Mom?<br />Yeah, Mom, it's me. Mom I've got awesome news!<br />No, no I'm not getting married.<br />Mom, listen...<br />No, Mom, I keep telling you I like women.<br />Yes, really.... Listen, Mom, I got the commercial!<br />No, not the Pepsi gig.<br />What?<br />No, not that one, either... It's actually for Tabasco!<br />Yes, the hot stuff.<br />What? No, I'm not wearing the blouse you gave me, Mom, guys wear shirts.<br />No I don't have a love interest, it's a commercial.<br />A pepperoni.<br />A pepperoni.<br />Pep-a-ro-nee!!!<br />Yes like on a pizza!<br />What?<br />Singing.<br />No, singing!<br />Yes you heard me!<br />No, there's four of us.<br />Yes, we all sing.<br />What do you mean how will you recognize me?<br />The second pepperoni from the bottom...</em><br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kF5BkbOcDRI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kF5BkbOcDRI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-50744895376257053132009-10-10T16:37:00.011-05:002009-10-10T17:15:20.934-05:00Thanks, Stadium Pal!!!<p>Last night I had the most fun I have had since... well... a <em>long</em> time. </p><p>We went to Birmingham for <em>An</em> <em>Evening With <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Sedaris">David Sedaris</a></em>, author of <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Me_Talk_Pretty_One_Day">Me Talk Pretty One Day</a></em> (which got me hooked) and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naked_(book)"><em>Naked</em> </a>(which has led me to put down Dan Brown's new one in favor of it). They are just two among many others that I will devour as soon as I get the chance. We laughed, <em>howled</em>, even, as we listened while Sedaris read his essays about everything from jury duty to email to shopping at Costco. My sides still hurt. </p><p></p><p>Check him out here, and if you evereverever can, in person... </p><p></p><p><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YBdymtyXt8Y&rel=0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YBdymtyXt8Y&rel=0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p><p><em></em></p><p><em></em></p><p><em><br /><br />It was my friend Frank, a writer in San Francisco, who finally set me straight. When asked about my new look he put down his fork and stared at me for a few moments...<br /><br /></em></p><p><em>"A bow tie announces to the world you can no longer get an erection." </em></p><p>- David Sedaris</p><p></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-91717504784178865092009-09-19T19:45:00.004-05:002009-09-19T19:53:24.916-05:00Are You Tired Of Being Turned Down?When I figure out what the little girl in the beginning is saying I will feel the same as I did when I found out about "tin roof rusted" from <em>Love Shack</em>. Anyway this is an example of genius advertising in my area. The quality isn't so hot, but you get the idea.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gVP4G85FGI8&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gVP4G85FGI8&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-69849815652273278382009-09-15T11:18:00.012-05:002009-09-15T11:38:04.938-05:00Ryhmes With Larry Jay<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sq-_A4WSq8I/AAAAAAAAAMM/Co6f--WsWfk/s1600-h/makeup_myvintagevogue%5B1%5D.jpg"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 185px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 199px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381730101577821122" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sq-_A4WSq8I/AAAAAAAAAMM/Co6f--WsWfk/s200/makeup_myvintagevogue%5B1%5D.jpg" /></span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Last week I was having lunch with my mom when this perky little thing approached our table.<br /><br />Excuse me, she sang, I hope you don’t think I’m crazy but my friend and I over there were talking about how gorgeous your eyes are!<br /><br />Thank you, I said, that’s very nice of you.<br /><br />Well I was just wonderin’ if you would be interested in helpin’ me out? I need a face model…<br /><br />Now, flattering as that was, I was skeptical to say the least. As much as I’d like to claim that people stop me in restaurants all the time to tell me how pretty my eyes are, they don’t. So I wasn’t quite ready to run home and tell all my friends how I’d just gotten discovered at the Golden Rule BBQ and that at 41 my modeling career was finally going to be launched…<br /><br />What do you want me to do? I asked Perky.<br /><br />Well we would just do your makeup and take your pitcher.<br /><br />I told her I didn’t mind but that I lived in a different city. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Omahgaaawd! Me toooo! (Apparently we weren’t just neighbors we were also soul mates) Would you mind givin’ me your phone number?<br /><br />She handed me a business card. The card was not from a famous modeling agency, but from a cosmetics company famous for its in-home parties.<br /><br />She leaves the table with the promise of calling me the next day. When she does call, it’s more flattery. I thank her again and then ask what it is she wants me to do. She says she can come to my house or I can meet her at her “training center.” I say I prefer to meet her. We agree on a day and time, but before the conversation ends I tell her that I have no problem helping her out if she needs to demonstrate her products, but that I am not in the market to purchase anything.<br /><br />Oh, noooo! You’d be helping me soooo much! She is singing again.<br /><br />Fine. We end the conversation with pleasantries and her promise of a goody bag for me for my troubles.<br /><br />So last night was the night. I arrived at the designated time and was shown into a room in which every piece of furniture had been covered with pink leopard print material and its walls adorned with pictures of women driving pink Cadillacs. Perky sits me down at one end of the table and starts opening her case full of cosmetics. Meantime, a group of women who all know each other also come in and sit at the table. The other women are asked to fill out a card while my hostess assembles a few items in front of me. She also tells me that she has a gift card for me for “helping” which sounds promising for a moment. There is another version of Perky in the room who is dealing with the rest of the group. At this point the little faith I have that I am going to be the subject for the demonstration quickly disappears when Perky announces that she will be back a little later and that I should just follow Perky Two’s instructions.<br /><br />So for an hour I sit and follow my cleansing, exfoliating, moisturizing and application </span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sq-_QQRf7NI/AAAAAAAAAMU/vwIqY1017vw/s1600-h/CAV0X1A1CAT3TQ9BCAD9D6A0CALEDOOZCALS18HOCA5ANAPKCAOLA8DECAC2XCA9CAAF9FBQCAIL1B70CABKVWJKCAA5C20LCA39TI82CA1QUZ2ZCA4V017KCARXD3XQCALX2JGHCAVV2L48CAJP3QNGCA3HKT5C.jpg"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 81px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 119px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381730365698206930" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sq-_QQRf7NI/AAAAAAAAAMU/vwIqY1017vw/s320/CAV0X1A1CAT3TQ9BCAD9D6A0CALEDOOZCALS18HOCA5ANAPKCAOLA8DECAC2XCA9CAAF9FBQCAIL1B70CABKVWJKCAA5C20LCA39TI82CA1QUZ2ZCA4V017KCARXD3XQCALX2JGHCAVV2L48CAJP3QNGCA3HKT5C.jpg" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">directions. When we were done, Perky reappeared with some of her colleagues and </span><span style="font-size:85%;">addressed the group. Other than not being allowed to ask her weight (who the hell would?) we were told we could ask whatever we wanted to know about her and her job. The more questions we asked the more raffle tickets we would get in order to win a free eye shadow. (A $6.50 value!) Out of the dozen or so people in the room, myself and one other person asked questions and I was The Big Eye Shadow Winner. So I would get that along with my “gift card.” The demonstration was over once The Other Perky announced that we could own the items demonstrated to us for a mere $189.<br /><br />My Perky then presented me with a brochure listing items beginning at $48. (For the record, my skin care regime is generic apricot scrub and Dove lot</span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Sq--i-NGxTI/AAAAAAAAAL8/cfaDuKlyn40/s1600-h/CAV0X1A1CAT3TQ9BCAD9D6A0CALEDOOZCALS18HOCA5ANAPKCAOLA8DECAC2XCA9CAAF9FBQCAIL1B70CABKVWJKCAA5C20LCA39TI82CA1QUZ2ZCA4V017KCARXD3XQCALX2JGHCAVV2L48CAJP3QNGCA3HKT5C.jpg"></a><span style="font-size:85%;">ion) I asked what else she might have that wasn’t quite so expensive. She said that she had a bunch of eye shadow or she could get her other case with other cosmetics in it out of her car. When I told her I did like the eye shadow that was used in the demonstration, she said that those were $10 because they were <em>crème</em>, but that I could get both colors with my gift card if I liked. I said fine, I would. I asked about the lip gloss. She told me that’s $13. Thirteen effing dollars for <em>lip gloss</em>? Never mind, I’ll get me a tub of Vaseline and some glitter and my lips will shine just the same. She again presented me with the brochure and a selection of non-<em>crème</em> eye shadow. As pretty as colors like violet and navy are, I am not wearing them on my face. Finally I said that since I’d only used $20 of the $25 gift card and I’d won an eye shadow, (a $6.50 value!) why didn’t she just let me get the lip gloss and I’d be on my way. After some hesitation she agreed, but not before she asked me if I’d help her again.<br /><br />I think I will stick with my routine the way it is. Maybe she’ll discover someone else at Golden Corral. </span>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-68293709663560678952009-08-28T09:32:00.009-05:002009-08-28T11:53:54.989-05:00376<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Spfu8IIwlPI/AAAAAAAAALs/4tdg17-UQoA/s1600-h/Bridge%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375027397033759986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 126px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 194px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/Spfu8IIwlPI/AAAAAAAAALs/4tdg17-UQoA/s200/Bridge%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a> August 17<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span>, 2009 wasn't anything like I thought it would be. For the 364 days before that I had been counting down to it, thinking that there would be some kind of music or bright shining light that would follow me around and that people would know I was something special. Truth is, the day was cloudy and blah and I spent most of it in the car in search of a job, so with the exception of the time I spent during my interview with the Human Resource Manager I was by myself, and I realize now that it's just fine.<br /><div></div><br /><div>August 17, 2008 was the day I stopped drinking. That day I was scared, lonely and very sick. I'm not so scared or lonely anymore, but the sick part will be with me forever. The difference now is that I know it, admit it, and love it. I love it because alcohol no longer runs my life. I love it because I have an answer. I love it because I now know how many people there are that know exactly how I feel and that I can talk about it without reservation or fear of judgement. I love it because I feel a freedom like I never have and I am not willing to give that up. I am a grateful, recovering alcoholic.</div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SpgHgxSYvCI/AAAAAAAAAL0/WUevGYEcUi0/s1600-h/serenity-prayer-angel-english%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375054414834351138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 116px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SpgHgxSYvCI/AAAAAAAAAL0/WUevGYEcUi0/s200/serenity-prayer-angel-english%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Some of you who have visited here before may be familiar with what I call The Beer Ticker. It was my way of counting my days sober, and another level of accountability to myself. Many of you have counted the days right along with me, something from which I have drawn a tremendous amount of strength and encouragement. I can never express how humbled I am by the words of love and support that you have shared here as it has helped me beyond description. I've decided, though, to retire the ticker. Frankly I don't feel that I need it anymore and it's time to move on. So this will be the last time you will see the words: </div><br /><div>"The value of Budweiser stock continues to plummet on this, the 376<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> day of Amy's sobriety... <em>Sell! Sell! Sell!"</em></div><div><em></em> </div><div><em></em></div><div>I love you all.</div><div>~Amy</div>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-64732538887716248042009-07-19T16:36:00.002-05:002009-07-19T16:44:38.101-05:00What's That Smell?<p>I get these a lot...</p><p><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0RHtiTjBxJY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0RHtiTjBxJY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-74079401593397614712009-06-24T19:53:00.007-05:002009-06-26T09:20:49.503-05:00Reality BitesOn May 13th, a Wednesday evening, my son asked me if he could ride his bike up to his friends' house and see if they could come out and play. I told him the usual: "Sure, just check back with me in an hour if you decide to stay." A little while later I tore myself away from whatever <em>Wife Swap </em>or <em>Trading Spouses </em>rerun I was watching to go in the kitchen and start dinner. I had just dragged something out of the freezer when I heard the front door open and Jamie yell, "I'm back!" Or at least I thought that's what he'd said the first couple of times. Finally I went to the door to see why he had insisted on announcing his arrival with so much enthusiasm. What I found instead was my child standing on my front porch, bleeding. I asked him what happened. He said he'd been attacked, and I kept waiting for the punchline. For him to tell me that he had taken his fake blood outside with him and that this was a (not funny) joke. There was a stain on his shoulder. He had wet his pants. He was holding his wrist. "What?" I said. "I've been attacked by a pit bull!" He was sobbing and embarrassed that he'd wet his pants. I pulled him into the bathroom to look at his wrist, which was bleeding heavily. Once I got a good look at it, the reality of the situation finally started sinking in...<br /><br />I ran back to my bedroom both to grab my cell phone and my jeans because I knew we would be leaving soon. I called 911. I sat Jamie down in the kitchen and took all of his clothes off because I didn't want to miss anything. There was a bleeding hole at the top of his chest just below his left shoulder. There were bleeding tears on his right side. His right wrist was swollen and bleeding terribly. When I hung up the phone I went to his room to get him some underwear and a towel because by then he was telling me he thought he was going to throw up and because I knew he wouldn't want the paramedics to see him without any clothes on. I noticed someone standing on my front porch and realized it was the dog's owner. The man stood there with a lit cigarette. He wanted to know if he could come in and I said no, that my son was too upset and that the ambulance was on its way. The man told me my son "swatted at the dog." My response to that was to ask his name and phone number, which he gave me.<br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351086946832472914" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 205px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 154px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SkLhOhQt21I/AAAAAAAAAK8/wH8nn6MwyA0/s200/wristwound.jpg" border="0" /><br />The paramedics approached while the man was still standing there. Once inside, they could not have been any more professional or caring when dealing with both my son and me. The same goes for the police and the nurses and doctors at the emergency room. Luckily the x-ray showed that Jamie's wrist was not broken. The doctor told me he did not like to stitch dog bites and that was just fine with Jamie and me both. They sent us home with prescriptions, extra gauze and something to wash out his wounds. </p><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351086462318674466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SkLgyUToAiI/AAAAAAAAAK0/yakYu7vLp34/s200/chestwound.jpg" border="0" /><br />That night was a long one. Jamie was sore and scared and did not want to be left alone. I stayed in bed with him until dawn, went I went to lie down in my own bed to get a little rest by myself. I laid there only a few minutes, the first I'd had alone since Jamie left the house to go look for his friends. It was then that reality--and my emotions--hit me hard. My sweet boy left on his bicycle and came home scarred for life. The night before he'd told me that his friends didn't answer when he knocked on their door so he decided to ride his bike down the hill because he likes to feel the wind in his face. Instead, a vicious animal charged at him and knocked him off his bicycle and attacked him. The owner finally--thankfully-- pulled his animal off of my son. Then, bleeding, scared and soaked in urine, my son got on his bicycle and rode home. By himself. I cannot even begin to imagine the terror and the pain that he must have felt. I am so proud of him for having the bravery and the wherewithal and the goddamn guts he did for getting himself home.<br /><br />I am angry, too. Angry that the animal's owner has never once said to me or to my son that he is sorry for what happened. Angry that this man seems to think that he bears no responsibility whatsoever in this case. Angry that the law where I live allows an animal like that to still be living today. Angry that since my son was attacked that the animal once again got loose and put other innocent people in danger. Angry that these animals are allowed to exist at all. Angry that my son is afraid to ride his bicycle.<br /><br />Today was a small victory in court. The man and his wife showed up to plead not guilty. They tried to tell the prosecutor that their animal didn't bite anyone, but the prosecutor had the photographs. They tried to say that their animal had been on a leash and got away, but the prosecutor didn't buy it. They tried to say that their animal was (brace yourself) going to be a search and rescue animal for the police department, and the prosecutor was just as stunned-looking as I was.<br /><br />So they plead guilty. They will have to pay fines. I don't know how much, but like I say this is only a small victory until the next court date. </p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-12441366723754628342009-02-28T09:08:00.001-06:002009-02-28T09:08:48.141-06:00I Love You, Baby<div style="width:480px; text-align: center;"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" src="http://w271.photobucket.com/pbwidget.swf?pbwurl=http://w271.photobucket.com/albums/jj155/amiller0321/jamie/a1a6309c.pbw" height="360" width="480"><a href="http://photobucket.com/slideshows" target="_blank"><img src="http://pic.photobucket.com/slideshows/btn.gif" style="float:left;border-width: 0;" ></a><a href="http://s271.photobucket.com/albums/jj155/amiller0321/jamie/?action=view¤t=a1a6309c.pbw" target="_blank"><img src="http://pic.photobucket.com/slideshows/btn_viewallimages.gif" style="float:left;border-width: 0;" ></a></div>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-22328525354618867972009-02-12T06:53:00.002-06:002009-02-12T06:56:27.714-06:00Fabulous!<p>I'll be darned: Superbitch Janice Dickinson actually has a sense of humor. </p><p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KyiV12WdJew&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KyiV12WdJew&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-51733008977505709982009-01-24T10:49:00.003-06:002009-01-24T10:58:31.543-06:00Blah. Blah. Blah.<p>Ha. Ha. Ha!!! </p><p>Cheesy revenge. Cool. </p><p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TPuq8F8_SR0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TPuq8F8_SR0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-5181555862197217352009-01-03T11:57:00.004-06:002009-01-03T12:21:55.125-06:00Do You Ever Get That Not-So-Fresh Feeling?<p>Apparently, Brett Michaels is not itching enough. Here we go again with <a href="http://blog.vh1.com/2008-12-05/rock-of-love-bus-meet-the-girls/"><em>Rock of Love Bus 3</em></a><em>. </em>This time the "hotties" get to ride around on buses while Brett is on tour. Fun!</p><p><br />Watch this while I go boil myself in Clorox...</p><p></p><div style="MARGIN: 0px; WIDTH: 423px; BACKGROUND-COLOR: #212121"><embed src="http://www.vh1.com/video/player/videos/player/embed/" width="423" height="318" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" base="." allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="CONFIG_URL=http://www.vh1.com/video/player/videos/player/embed/configuration.jhtml%3Fid%3D1601165%26vid%3D325656%26allowFullScreen%3Dtrue"></embed><br /><br /><br /><div style="PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; MIN-WIDTH: 423px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 2px; MARGIN: 0px; OVERFLOW: auto; WIDTH: 423px; COLOR: #fdef35; PADDING-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND-COLOR: #4d4d4d; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /><br /><ul style="PADDING-RIGHT: 0px; PADDING-LEFT: 0px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; MARGIN: 0px; LINE-HEIGHT: 12px; PADDING-TOP: 0px; LIST-STYLE-TYPE: none"><br /><br /><li style="DISPLAY: inline; MARGIN-RIGHT: 4px"><br /><a onmouseover="this.style.textDecoration='underline'" style="PADDING-RIGHT: 4px; PADDING-LEFT: 10px; FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-SIZE: 10px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; COLOR: #fdef35; PADDING-TOP: 0px; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana,sans-serif; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onmouseout="this.style.textDecoration='none'" href="http://www.vh1.com/shows/" target="_blank">VH1 TV Shows</a><br /></li><br /><br /><li style="DISPLAY: inline; MARGIN-RIGHT: 4px"><br /><a onmouseover="this.style.textDecoration='underline'" style="PADDING-RIGHT: 4px; PADDING-LEFT: 10px; FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-SIZE: 10px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; COLOR: #fdef35; PADDING-TOP: 0px; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana,sans-serif; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onmouseout="this.style.textDecoration='none'" href="http://www.vh1.com/video/music.jhtml" target="_blank">Music Videos </a><br /></li><br /><br /><li style="DISPLAY: inline; MARGIN-RIGHT: 4px"><br /><a onmouseover="this.style.textDecoration='underline'" style="PADDING-RIGHT: 4px; PADDING-LEFT: 10px; FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-SIZE: 10px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; COLOR: #fdef35; PADDING-TOP: 0px; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana,sans-serif; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onmouseout="this.style.textDecoration='none'" href="http://www.vh1.com/photos/" target="_blank">Celebrity Photos</a><br /></li><br /><br /><li style="DISPLAY: inline; MARGIN-RIGHT: 4px"><br /><br /><a onmouseover="this.style.textDecoration='underline'" style="PADDING-RIGHT: 4px; PADDING-LEFT: 10px; FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-SIZE: 10px; PADDING-BOTTOM: 0px; COLOR: #fdef35; PADDING-TOP: 0px; FONT-FAMILY: Verdana,sans-serif; TEXT-DECORATION: none" onmouseout="this.style.textDecoration='none'" href="http://www.vh1.com/news/" target="_blank">News & Gossip</a><br /></li><br /></ul></div></div><p></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-66156288267142041832008-12-16T11:03:00.004-06:002008-12-16T11:14:29.615-06:00I'm Thinking Nasty<p>My hatred of certain commercials continues with this gem from Arby's. I am the farthest thing from a prude. Promise. However would someone please explain to me what remodeling one's bathroom or a deep-fried piece of chicken topped with ham and cheese has to do with anything remotely seductive? Please! Thanks...</p><p></p><p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TaHDN3_X4QY&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TaHDN3_X4QY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-48087984654932458122008-11-30T10:39:00.003-06:002008-11-30T10:52:53.216-06:00Euuuww"Loverboy"? Are you serious? And <em>this</em> guy? Really?<br /><br />I'm not against most well-used terms of endearment, but people that use that particular expression are the same ones that say things like, "No one puts Baby in a corner." Bleah. Ick. Tooey! Plus this guy is just, well, you decide...<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyDf2uTE6oQB0iypb0hqki_wL5Qszf8noy8KqND-27jLmlARamLdVWnzY5vKO1QX7k07pkB59N_ZMPhRc85MA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><p><span style="font-size:78%;">I need a new bathroom, but not this bad!</span></p>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-10016508483039502162008-11-24T05:31:00.006-06:002008-11-24T06:21:38.547-06:00Doing The MathHey, check it out! Today the beer ticker reads <span style="font-size:180%;">100!!!</span> Woohoo! One hundred days that I haven't had a drink...<br /><br />Only a few days after I stopped drinking something strange happened. Not only was I not drunk/hungover, but life in general became much more manageable thanks to something I like to call Beer Math. The beer ticker over there is one thing, but actually sitting down and looking at the numbers involved in my personal consumption were staggering--even in the early days-- and are much more significant now as the days mount up.<br /><br />One of the most important (and most difficult) aspects of sobriety for me has been this math. The difficult part is thinking about what I have been doing to my body all these years but guess what? I can't undo the past, and I accept that. My past has made me what I am today. Bitch with a beer aside, I'm a good person with something to offer the world: The real (sober!) me.<br /><br />So check this out: This is based on a daily consumption (and a conservative average, by the way) of twelve (count 'em!) beers a day. Yup, t-w-e-l-v-e. Toldja I was a drunk...<br /><br />Twelve beers a day times one hundred days equals 1,200 beers not consumed. That's ONE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED beers!!! (How the hell did I get there?)<br /><br />Twelve beers a day times 110 calories each times 100 days equals 132,000 (one hundred thirty-two thousand! Yikes!) calories not consumed. (No wonder my old clothes fit me again!)<br /><br />A twelve-pack a day (again, a conservative average) at $11 each times 100 days equals $1,100 not spent on beer. (Good thing since I'm not working and my son's teeth have cost me that much in the last three months!)<br /><br />So today is another day, but is going to be a good one now that we are in the triple digits. I have to say this, too: Those of you who have offered to share your own experiences, love and support to me have been absolutely priceless in my sobriety. There is no kind of math in the world that can measure what you all have meant to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-86226013726333590432008-11-21T09:51:00.004-06:002008-11-21T09:59:31.076-06:00Soup! There It Is...JT showed up on SNL last weekend with Beyonce. It was funny, but this one is second only to "D*** in the Box" for me!<br /><br />You gotta hand it to the guy for not taking himself to seriously: Among other things, he's appeared on SNL with a gift-wrapped hoo-hoo, wearing high heels and a leotard, and here as Cup O' Noodles... I loves me some JT!!!<br /><br /><object height="296" width="512"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/5oer-rqhg9Bh1JHjDJm-AA"><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/5oer-rqhg9Bh1JHjDJm-AA" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="296"></embed></object>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-90074639273881784032008-11-16T17:19:00.004-06:002008-11-16T17:47:31.050-06:00How Do I Feel This Good...?<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The latest from Pink, entitled "Sober."<br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t wanna be the girl who laughs the loudest</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Or the girl who never wants to be alone</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t wanna be that call at 4 o’clock in the morning</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">‘Cause I’m the only one you know in the world that won’t be home</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3tQUsenjMmo&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3tQUsenjMmo&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-78447206733900629912008-11-14T21:24:00.009-06:002008-11-14T22:31:21.520-06:00TWOOWhen I was a kid, there was a certain time each year that one of our three television channels would air The Wizard of Oz. Each year, we would watch it. Each year, the flying monkeys scared the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">beejeezus</span> out of me.<br /><br /><div><div align="left">Tonight my son and I were watching it and talking while I cleaned up the kitchen, and that was just about the time that the monkey swarm started on the TV. I told him that the flying monkeys used to scare me when I was his age. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SR5Nnut8ONI/AAAAAAAAAIk/bVLRXNiPqDM/s1600-h/23_ph%5B1%5D.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268733959021017298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 207px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 222px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SR5Nnut8ONI/AAAAAAAAAIk/bVLRXNiPqDM/s200/23_ph%5B1%5D.gif" border="0" /></a>He laughed... A total Mom-you-are-<em>such</em>-a-dork laugh...</div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">What? I said. You don't think they're scary?</div><br /><div align="left">No! He says. I think they're funny! </div><br /><div align="left">Why do you think they're funny? I say.</div><br /><div align="left">Because they are. Look at 'em bouncing around with their little wings! He says.</div><br /><div align="left">Well I thought they were really scary, I say... </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">While I scrub the top of the stove I start in on him and tell him that he gets to see a lot of stuff that I wasn't allowed to when I was his age and that back then that type of thing was <em>really</em> scary. Then I stop talking and start thinking: My mind switches from defensive to paranoid. I'm thinking that I'm a bad mom and my kid is jaded and that maybe I am too lenient and oh god what if he thinks torturing girls (and their little dogs, too) is something funny?!!! Holy crap what have I done? I'm raising a desensitized, violence-loving, girl-with-dog hating son when I look up...</div><p></p><p>He is at the opposite end of the kitchen from me and is in the midst of doing a spot-on, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">pre</span>-flight flying monkey impression, hopping around the kitchen all crouched over and begins ooh-ooh-oohing as we lock eyes. It was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">freakin</span>' hilarious... And so are the flying monkeys. </p></div>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-46231591801279846882008-11-05T08:45:00.003-06:002008-11-05T08:54:46.914-06:00Duh!!!Last night I asked my son what kind of homework he had.<br /><br />Math.<br /><br /><em>What else?</em><br /><br />Watch the election.<br /><br /><em>Good. We were going to do that, anyway. What else?</em><br /><br />Fluency.<br /><br /><em>OK... What kind of math?</em><br /><br />Times... Clocks, not this: (makes an "x" in the air with his finger).<br /><br /><em>You could have just said t-i-m-e-s, too.</em> (Just as the words escape my lips I can't believe how stupid that statement is).<br /><br />He looks at me. I look at him. We laugh. A lot.<br /><br />Normally I take issue with the word, but in this case it was warranted:<br /><br /><em>Say it,</em> I tell him.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">DUH!!!</span>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-1899083306759348502008-10-31T08:27:00.003-05:002008-10-31T08:34:46.551-05:00Punk'd!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SQsIDBNcVnI/AAAAAAAAAIM/7jxoCTNmE5w/s1600-h/026.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263309437470004850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-kD3HFlM-2k/SQsIDBNcVnI/AAAAAAAAAIM/7jxoCTNmE5w/s400/026.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />OK, I admit it: I went a little overboard buying pumpkins this year. I think I did it so you could check out our mad carving skills...<br /><br /><div align="center">Have a safe and Happy Halloween, everybody!<br /></div>~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3484239298802696965.post-78373053601495636942008-10-27T08:40:00.003-05:002008-10-27T09:23:42.751-05:00The F WordThis weekend was the first in quite some time that I've had overnight guests in my home. What originally was supposed to be one night happily turned in to three. Five of us spent the vast majority of our time together: Eating, playing, traveling back and forth. My son was a super host to our younger guests and made me proud, as always. Everyone got along as well as I could have hoped and observed the one rule I have for house guests: Don't set anything on fire.<br /><br />I didn't realize until late yesterday afternoon, though, just how much I have become accustomed to my privacy and the freedom to do what I want when I want and where I want when I am at home. One activity in particular is one of my favorites (and I'm guessing might be some of yours, too). Under normal circumstances, I can do it in the kitchen, living room, on the stairs and--of course--in my bedroom without worrying. I try to make sure I am alone but sometimes my kid catches me. I refuse to be ashamed of myself because it's only natural. Sure he complains, but he's young and he'll get over it. He does it, too, and is better than me most times.<br /><br />So last night I had my house back, and whatever inhibitions I had over the weekend were gone. Actually I felt like I was making up for lost time because I went at it with a vengeance. Felt good, too! I admit it: I love it. What a release! Like a balloon that you let go before tying it, I sputtered all over the place and it was so nice to not have to worry who might be coming around the corner. What a glorious thing the F word is. Farting. Farting makes me happy.~amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13673864901706079422noreply@blogger.com6