Jetlaggy celebratory goodness

Today is officially my third bloggiversary, says my calendar.

I know. In the past, I’ve been quite happily geeking out about such a thing, but mostly today I’m jet laggy and dealing with the all-too-sad truth that after a wonderful vacation (which I hope to have the energy to at least somewhat recap for you all soon) I have to SMASH BANG CRASH back into the real world and (sigh) WORK for a living now, rather than gallivant around with Andreas and his family looking at castles and eating a lot of cake.

Also, it doesn’t seem really fair to celebrate a third bloggiversary when over the last year I’ve published maybe 10 posts, or something. That’s kind of cheaty. But there you have it. The real world has gotten in the way of the blog world, for good or for ill.

So today, this little old place is three, and this little old lady with her (still!) sprained foot is heading back to work. Happy third bloggiversary to me as I try not to fall asleep because I seem to be still on Finnish time.

Oh, I will leave you with this:

It’s almost impossible to tell, but that is me, touching a lemur. TOUCHING A LEMUR. Because even though the signs said “probably don’t, they’re the most bitey,” I mean, how do you pass up a chance like that, I ask you?

Yep. Touched a lemur. Right on his taily-tail. Didn’t get bitten, either.

More soon. Happy third bloggiversary to me. Thanks for sticking around, folks, even though mostly you’re sticking around for nothing lately. You’re the tops, you are. *smooch*

 

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Leaving on a…well, quite a few…jet planes

I know.

I’ve utterly dropped off the face of the earth.

I could give you explanations – I have them, and they are legion – but I don’t think you want them.

I just wanted to say, hello. And I am alive. And show you this:

And this:

This is the bag of someone who’s leaving for the airport in a little over two hours.

And the face of someone who didn’t sleep much last night. Trust me, the lady’s excited. More so than she can say. Bouncing-off-the-walls so. That’s the face that, in less than 24 hours, Andreas will be seeing in Stockholm when I get off the plane before we make our grand trip to the land of the Finns.

I have every intention of blogging while I’m there – thank you, wifi and international data plan! – but can make you no promises. Might be too busy hugging Andreas and his family until they’re all “GET OFF ME YOU CRAZY MERKAN!”

Dad’s pretty sure I’ll come back a commie, and so I’ve taken to answering all his questions with “DA, KOMRADE!” and he does NOT like that at ALL, and I told him I promised that, every new person I meet, I’d ask to see their arms, to see if they had two, and then ask if they were a truck driver, and as long as they passed those tests, we’d know they weren’t one-armed truck drivers like he thinks everyone on the internet is, and he was SO UPSET by this and he said “do not. DO NOT DO THAT. Then they’ll know you’re onto them and they’ll throw you in the gulag! There are no cell phones or showers in the gulag!”

Dad apparently thinks I am going to Russia in the height of the Cold War, which is equal parts worrisome and amusing.

There will be many adventures, and many surprises, and I hope to have a minute to share them on here (I do have a nine-hour layover on the way home – don’t ask – so that might give me a little blogging time…) because I think you might like to see some of the most fabulous bloggers in all the land in the same place and time. I plan on taking a lot of photos. A LOT. My camera might explode.

16 days in Europe. Here we go, you guys. It’s only been in the planning stages for the last 14 months…and surprisingly, I can’t believe it’s already here.


Adventures in Vermont, with extra goaty goodness!

Howdy, bloggonians! A while back, I geeked out over the news that randomly, I had been contacted by people in Vermont who wanted me to come stay overnight and write about my experience. Well! Two weekends ago was the weekend! Only I’ve been busy with this and that and have not been able to blog about it until now.

Things that have gotten in the way of me blogging about this over the past week:

  • I got a new job! Which I love, and I think is a very good fit (I know! How did I find a job in three weeks? I have no idea. I don’t want to question it too much, or it might disappear.) I get to be creative, I really like the people I’m working with, and there’s a lot of room for growth and advancement. And, in the best news, when I was offered the job, I explained I’d need to be off for two weeks at the end of May/beginning of June, for European jaunting, and they were cool with it! So, Europe, I am still coming to see you soon!
  • I injured myself quite injuriously! It is very dark outside of my laundry room, and I was in a hurry to do my laundry, and BAM! I totally fell in a pothole. I spent quite a bit of Friday in the doctor’s office and then later getting a billion x-rays to see if I’d broken anything. I didn’t, but I’ve quite seriously sprained and bruised my foot and ankle. It makes walking a little dodgy and unattractive. I’m supposed to keep off it, but since there’s work and all, that’s not possible, so I’m probably not going to heal as quickly as I could. Also, OUCH. (I am, equally attractively, covered in cuts and bruises, so I look like I’ve fallen off a motorcycle.)
  • I had a piece of writing published elsewhere! And I promised I’d tell you when that happened, so here you go: Bully For You. I’m quite proud of it, and it seems to have been fairly widely read and appreciated, so I’m glad for that. I’m still waiting to hear from some other submissions, so fingers crossed for more publications this year!

But! We are not here to hear about all of that. We are here to hear about Vermont adventures!

So Mom came with me on Vermont adventures. She was excited about a weekend away and she loves outdoorsy things. So Mom arrived on a Friday, and Saturday morning, we were off for Vermont!

It was a couple of hours to get there. We went through many small towns with many odd businesses (and also some very wonderful old buildings and churches. I do very much love old architecture.)

Finally, we arrived at the Amee Farm Lodge in Vermont!

Pretty, right? And oh-so-appropriately named for this most intrepid blogger!

(OK, it probably should have been AMY farm, but close enough.)

Amee Farm is kind of the most gorgeous. It’s quiet, and it’s CRAZY-scenic. Seriously, this is the view from their parking lot, looking across the road:

The prettiest of mountains! And it smelled fresh and clean and it was very beautiful.

So this was a blogger’s weekend; there were all sorts of bloggers there. I am not good in social situations. I was very quiet. Mom talked to all the people. Mom is very friendly. At one point, I asked her if she saw a van with no windows with “free candy” painted on the side, she would go up to it to get the free candy, and she very seriously replied, “No, but only because I don’t like candy.” Can you even imagine? Mom doesn’t think everyone’s a killer at first, then make them prove to her they’re not over a number of months. This seems like a suspicious way to live to me.

We met Tom and Erlin from Perfect Vermont, who organized the weekend, and then Jessica, the innkeeper at Amee Farm, who showed us to our rooms. Mom and I had the best little rooms next to each other and a little bathroom in the hallway and everything looked all old-fashioned and woodsy and the mattress was SO HARD. I am such a fan of a hard mattress. Sincerely. I can’t even tell you. I sat on it and said, “I will sleep like a dead vampire here!” and Mom sighed and called me morbid.

My pretty room! Look at that bed. I wish I still had that bed. I’m crazy in love with it.

I also have this strange obsession with wood floors and this place was ALL wood floors. And a billion stairs. I kept forgetting things in my room and then telling Mom, “Oh, well that’s dead to me now. I’m not going back up to get THAT” and she laughed and laughed.

There were events planned for us, but first, Mom had to go to church, so we missed one of the events. (I was down with this. The event involved a lot of hiking. No thank you, says Amy!)

So Mom and I, despite getting a map drawn for us, totally got lost and almost missed church, but (she says because of God, but I say because I actually read the sign correctly) we got there with three minutes to spare. I sat in the car. I don’t go into churches; I feel I would burst into flames. Also, I don’t like hypocrisy, which is what I believe me entering a church would be.

This is Mom’s church. Doesn’t this town look like something from The Twilight Zone where everyone seems TOO NORMAL and then are really cannibals? It wasn’t, but I kept telling Mom it probably was.

This is a terrible photo of a very old Mountain Dew can I found outside the church in the woods. I took this as proof for Mom we’d entered a time warp, but she was not convinced.

When we got back, there was a little downtime for me to lounge on the MOST COMFORTABLE BED EVER ZOMG, then it was time for a VERY FANCY DINNER. When you combine Amy and a very fancy dinner (like, with multiple forks you’re supposed to use in a certain order) you get danger.

You can click to make this bigger, if you are so inclined. There was deliciousness all around. Things I loved:

  • raw asparagus. Who knew this could be delicious? Not me! I should have known, though, because I love regular asparagus more than anything ever. YUM.
  • Polenta is the best thing ever. I could have eaten just the polenta for the main course without the pork or the fennel and been a happy woman. (Not that they weren’t good, but still. ZOMG THAT POLENTA.)
  • I had never had pavlova before, and I can’t even tell you how amazing that was. It was like a big meringue/marshmallow thing, and had fruit and fresh cream on top, and I could have eaten fourteen of these things. (Well, only after I picked off all the blueberries and gave them to Mom. I am not a fan of blueberries. When The Nephew was little, he used to call them “boobies” and that’s the only good thing about blueberries, in my opinion. “I want boobies!” he would say. Hee!)

I only spilled a LITTLE food on my top, but it was a patterned top. So no one was the wiser. Whew!

Then it was time for bed because all that traveling was EXHAUSTING. Also all that fresh air. I am a city mouse. I’m not used to all that fresh air.

This sign is what you see when you go upstairs and it made me have all the giggles.

No. No, I didn’t see the rooster. Unless they mean the one on the sign. I did see THAT rooster.

I watched a terrible horror movie on my laptop and then took a shower, only apparently I did it wrong and Mom was all “that wasn’t right” the next day. See, here’s the deal:

This isn’t a great photo, but it was a bathtub and the shower curtain didn’t go all the way around. So did you have the gap in the front, where the shower head was, or the end, where the water would hit, you know? I was perplexed for a long time. Other people’s showers are always so confusing. New valves and levers and curtains and such to learn.

I put the gap where the showerhead was, but Mom was all, “NO NO! You were supposed to put it at the END!” but then she decided it was ok because the bathroom floor wasn’t soaked. Ha ha! Little did she know, it WAS all soaked the night I took the shower, but by the time she took one in the morning, it had EVAPORATED!

A sad thing is that I could NOT sleep in the very comfortable bed because it was not my bed and I was not used to it, and I am like the princess and the pea and didn’t have my fan, and I was a little too hot but afraid to open the window because there was no screen and what if moths got in? MOTHS. So I tossed and turned and then finally fell asleep right before it was time to wake up. As one does.

(Mom had a fan in her room, but that’s a whole story for later. You’ll like it. Wait and see.)

Then it was time for breakfast, and we were going to go to yoga until we realized the two of us brought NO appropriate yoga clothing, so instead I made Mom take photos of my favorite thing, which was HER CLOSET.

So the night before, I was going to grab Mom’s fan out of her closet, until we realized it would be very loud and it was late, because the closet door was very small, and the fan was very large.

Mom said, “how did they get that in there?” and I said, “THEY BUILT THE FARM AROUND THE FAAAAAN” and then we had the giggles.

So then of course I had to get IN the very narrow closet and pop out like a creeper.

Who’s this?

IS THERE SOMEONE IN THE CLOSET?

IT IS ME! (Mom was all, “oh, don’t put these on your blog, you are so crazy, you aren’t going to make fun of our nice Vermont stay, are you?” and I assured her I was not. I actually really loved the wee narrow but deep closet. If I had this wee closet I would hide in it all of the time. It was the best of closets.)

Mom and I also went to visit the country store in town and it had all the best things like syrup and sweaters and beer and stuffed moose. I was delighted.

Next was the thing I was looking forward to the most. What could that be, you are wondering?

GOATS!

Next door is Sweet Georgia P’s, which is the best of organic farms. There is honey and syrup and chickens and all the veggies and ALL THE MOST WONDERFUL GOATS!

These goats are not for eating. They are for milking and having babies and for the making of cheese. And also for being amazing and friendly. They were really the best sort of goats.

We got to go on a farm tour and at the end of it, there was goat-hanging-out time, which I’d been looking forward to all weekend.

At first I was sad, because no goats wanted to hang out with me. Don’t they know I’m the Goat Whisperer? I mean, I’ve already been the Helper Mule Whisperer and at one point I was the Duck Whisperer because I fed this huge flock of ducks some crackers and then they followed me around like a goddess and quack quack quacked at me and were the best. I can’t imagine I’m not the Goat Whisperer. But this goat didn’t want to hang out with me. None of them did. SO SAD.

But THEN! The goats realized I was the best at Goat Whispering and came to see me!

This goat was the first goat who wanted all the petting. Then another goat came and headbutted me on the OTHER side for MORE petting! I was surrounded by goats!

This was the other goat. She decided the buttons on Mom’s coat were delicious and tried to eat them. Mom was all, “no no, goat!” (This is the only photo of Mom from the weekend. She did not want to be bloggity. That’s ok. I don’t mind.)

The goat in the middle was eating the girl in the middle’s hair. She decided he thought it was straw. That made me giggle.

Then it was time for us to go home! We were tired and had a very grand adventure.

The GPS took us a completely different way home, and although it took the same amount of time, we were fairly sure it was trying to kill us. It took us through smaller and smaller towns that we’d never heard of and we were all “GPS WHAT IS HAPPENING” but eventually we came through the back way of Troy and were very confused as to why the GPS thought that was a good idea but were glad to be home.

Thank you, Amee Farm Lodge and Perfect Vermont and Sweet Georgia P’s, for a great weekend adventure! I can most heartily recommend if you are ever out their way, you stop by and visit. It is beautiful and quiet and smells nice and THERE ARE GOATS! You can sleep in very nice beds and go biking and hiking and visit the country store and take a break from all the things.

Time for some rest for me! Off to my bed limpingly I go! Thanks for coming along with me on our Vermont adventure!

 

 


An Open Letter to People Who Find my Blog Accidentally (Volume 34)

Dear People Who Find My Blog Accidentally:

Welcome to April, my little munchkins! I’ve had better months, truth be told. April’s not been my month, what with job-losing and all. But, strangely, I am in a fairly buoyant mood, for the crap that’s gone down this month. I have to assume that’s due to the fact that, in about a month, I’m LEAVING! on a JET PLANE! and going to EUROPE! (Well, actually, multiple jet planes. You have to transfer quite a bit to get to the land of the Finns.) So yes, I am job-hunting. Not fun. But I have a thing to look forward to, so that’s keeping my eyes all bright and my spirits all chipper.

I will NOT be going to all of these places. But I WILL be going to ONE of them. And I have BEEN to…let’s see…five more of them. I AM A WORLD TRAVELER!

I suppose, if nothing else, this is giving me more time for the writing of all the things. And watching all the television. Slowly but surely I’m catching up on my programs, which is nice. Someday I might actually be ALL caught up! Ha, yeah, right.

So many shooooooooows....

So many shooooooooows….

So, just in case you’re new (and if you’re new, the nametags are over by the door, along with your freshly-baked cookies and towels folded into the shapes of zoo animals), let me catch you up on this recurring post. I’m obsessed with my stats; I like to check what search terms drive people to my blog; then I feel REALLY BAD this isn’t what they were looking for. So I write them a letter of apology (as you can see, this is the 34th one. THIRTY-FOUR, you guys, can you even? I know. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so damn insane. If you’re interested, search for the others; they’re stellar.) Why do I do this? It makes the voices in my head quiet for a little while? Sure. Let’s go with that.

I didn’t get many questions this month, but I got a lot of search terms. So, like last month, we’re just going to have a big old list of search terms. Look at me rolling with the punches. I’m amazing, yeah? Totally am.

Here we go, ladies, gentlemen, and yes, even you, Ding Dong Joe. Even you.

- well ken, if you ask me, there is too much to complain about being young. it can really be hard sometimes, especially when your patents hardly ever you leave alone – you’re telling me! i quite like my mom and dad, but they’re always ready to criticize me. “don’t do this! you can’t that!”/ it’s often really hard to put with – oh, it’s really that bad. frankly, i’m having a big argument with my  Well! This is a very long paragraph. I don’t really know why you’d put all of this into a search, to be honest. It sounds like something from a radio call-in show. I don’t think you’ve found the right place. I mean, sure, we know a Ken here, and he’s one of our favorite humans, but I don’t know that he wants to give you advice on how hard it is to be a youth. He’s a grown-up man-person. I suppose he can come back and give you advice if he’s so inclined. That’d be up to him, though.

bitches be like i’m not materialistic  Oh! Bitches! Bitches be like, “I don’t like to be called a bitch, so why don’t you stop calling me that or I’m going to break up with you, you misogynistic piece of garbage!” In my experience, that’s what bitches be like, yo.

bluerose frommetoyou signifies  Blue roses don’t exist in nature. Geneticists have created them artificially, but you’ll never find a natural blue rose. Isn’t that interesting? If you see a blue rose, it’s either been genetically modified, or it’s a white rose that’s been dyed. The internets tells me that they are a symbol of love and prosperity. I think they’re a symbol of someone thinking you’re not savvy enough to know they’re not real. I don’t want fake dyed flowers. I like tulips and daisies and sunflowers. Cheerful flowers are my favorites. I’m pretty low-maintenance.

FALSEHOOD!

FALSEHOOD!

dating website “do you have more photos?” code  Shit. It’s a CODE? I thought it was just the guy wanting to see if you were a fatty, or wanting nude photos of you. This is why I am terrible at online dating and no longer doing it. I tried twice, both times were disasters, I am officially out of the game. I will become a crazy cat lady. It is my fate.

finnish sexy girls  I’m not sure of Finnish ladies are sexier than other ladies, but I’ll let you know soon. SO SOON. Seriously, guys. The date for the Finland trip is coming up SO QUICKLY. I’ll be sure to keep you informed on the relative sexiness of the Finnish naiset. (That’s ladies. IN FINNISH!)

I think this is a sexy Finnish girl. She's cute as a button, right?

I think this is a sexy Finnish girl. She’s cute as a button, right?

fucking sex in football sport tumblr   Good grief, there’s a lot going on in this search string. I don’t know that I can help you with any of this. Well, I mean, I drop the eff bomb sometimes. And I know how the sexing works. And I have a Tumblr. But otherwise…no. Sorry.

funny names of clowns n how to pronounce them  OK, clowns aren’t funny, first off. And how hard is it to pronounce a clown-name? Boppy. Slappy. Stabby. Those aren’t that difficult. I am confused about you, searcher. Are you wearing a clown mask and waiting in people’s bushes? The non-euphemistic kind of bushes, I mean? You are, aren’t you? Dammit. STOP IT.

go back my dinner no i’m a 1040 dun the rest just got legs  No idea. None. Usually I can get a clue about what you want from these, but this is just gibberish. The only thing that might have gotten you here is 1040 because of the time I spent working at the tax firm, but dinner, and legs, and I don’t even know, dude. Have we ever figured out who these people are who are searching these weird things, and what their motive is? No? Sheesh.

how do i get rid of the “people you may know” banner from the top of my page? i already know what friends i might know and do not need suggestions. these suggestions are annoying.  This is a nice little search term. Sentences and sentences about this. OK, I was saving this, but I’m going to give this to you guys, because you keep coming here for this: I HAVE FOUND A WAY TO GET RID OF YOUR PEOPLE-YOU-MAY-KNOW ON FACEBOOK. No, I’m not kidding. I’m very serious. It’s called F.B. Purity. It’s a browser extension (I have Google Chrome, and I’m not sure how this works with other browsers…but it’s an easy add with Chrome.) With this extension, you can get rid of People You May Know, and you can get rid of all ads and trending topics in your feed, you can get rid of people’s checkins with FourSquare, you can get rid of Goodreads status updates, you can get rid of that annoying automated list of friends they auto-populate for you on the left, you can make it ALWAYS show you “most recent” (which is why I looked into this – I was so tired of Facebook re-sorting my feed into “top stories,” I can’t even tell you)…it’s kind of awesome. You can also choose NOT to get rid of these things. It’s totally customizable and very easy to use. I don’t advocate things here that much, but I’m using this myself, and it’s totally uncluttered my Facebook. Now if it could only show ALL of my friends’ updates, and pages I follow, which is my biggest complaint right now…but I’m not as weird about it as you all are. I get hundreds of searches a month for people wanting to get rid of the People You May Know. I HAVE FOUND YOU A SOLUTION. You are so welcome. I should have found a way to monetize this, right? Dammit. I’m always so late on the thinking.

i think u r real persin but u r slut quotation  OK, I tell you this whenever you search this, but STOP CALLING PEOPLE SLUTS. It’s a terribly derogatory term. Also, a person can be a “slut” and a “real person” AT THE SAME TIME, even though I truly believe there aren’t sluts. I think calling someone a slut is just a way of shaming them for their sexuality. Just ANOTHER way. So stop it. Whenever you want to call someone a slut or a whore, think twice. OK?

my lane bryant bra underwire is coming out, do they fix it?   Ha! Of course they don’t fix it. They want you to buy a new $30 bra. You can fix it – just find the hole and do some whip-stitches there, it’s not a big deal – or you can just buy a new bra. My thought is, almost every time the underwire starts popping out, the bra’s on its last legs, anyway, and it’s time for a new one. And even if you stitch up the hole, another one seems to show up not long after. So…yeah. You can make it limp along for a bit, but it’s probably best to buy some new undergarments, darlin’.

neice and nephew are exhausting  Goodness, aren’t they just? But, like, in the best of ways. I know I am SO TIRED after a day spent with The Nephew, but happy-tired. GOOD-tired. He’s a ball of energy, that little guy. “Aunt Amy! Let’s do this!” “Aunt Amy, NOW THIS!” “You’re not too tired, Aunt Amy, DO IT AGAIN!” And then I’m like a panting puddle of exhaustion in the corner after about an hour, but he’s still bopping around like a jumping bean. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, though. He’s my best thing.

pepe le pew in tight jeans I could not find Pepe Le Pew in jeans. (He’s a skunk. Why’s he wearing jeans?) But I found THESE sassy pants with Pepe Le Pew ON them! Nice, right? I know you totally want them. They’re on eBay, go get in a bidding war over them. It’s ok. Have a good time, chipmunk.

sexsi kek tarifleri  You guys. YOU GUYS! This means “sexs cake recipes” in Turkish! OK, the “sexs” part of it made me giggle like a child, and then I was all, “what the heck would a sex cake even BE?” And then I couldn’t decide if it was, like, a boob or penis cake, or something you’d eat either before, during, or after sex, or something witchcrafty that made people want to have sex with you. Either way, I find this utterly delightful. Thank you, Turkish searcher! Lucy’nin Futbol hoşgeldiniz! (That’s “welcome to Lucy’s Football” in Turkish. I’m nothing if not inclusive!)

May I suggest, instead of sexs cake, baklava? It's almost better than sex. ALMOST, I said. Don't get crazy, here.

May I suggest, instead of sexs cake, baklava? It’s almost better than sex. ALMOST, I said. Don’t get crazy, here.

show me the bratz the nora dressed as hell and i really pretty bad breath  Again. AGAIN. I don’t even know. I know what a “Bratz” is (those things worry me. Their heads are way too big, they wear way too much makeup, and they wear far too little clothing) but the rest of it, again, is word salad. “Dressed as hell” and “i really pretty bad breath” don’t even make sense together. Or apart. Man, but am I confused this month.

Seriously, don't they look like a teenage aging actress with too much Botox, or something? These worry me.

Seriously, don’t they look like a teenage aging actress with too much Botox, or something? These worry me.

snoring on Amtrak  Oh, this was so written by someone who sat next to me either to or from Maryland or Virginia last year. I can’t even help it, you guys. I fall asleep and 99% of the time, I snore like a chainsaw. I don’t have a deviated septum or anything. It’s this inherited thing. All the people on my dad’s side of the family snore. Even The Nephew snores. And he’s four, you guys. So: I apologize to whoever’s going to be sitting next to me on the plane to and from Europe next month. If there was a way to make it stop short of suffocating myself, I would.

When it keeps everyone else around you on public transportation awake, I'd wager.

When it keeps everyone else around you on public transportation awake, I’d wager.

stubborness does not pays images and pictures  Are you going to find an image of this, do you think? Because I don’t think you’ll find one. This isn’t a common saying. Also, stubbornness isn’t something you can overcome. Well, I guess you can TRY. But for those of us who are stubborn, it’s a constant struggle. We just dig our feet in and REFUSE. Sometimes even when it’s not in our best interest. Like, me? If someone tells me what to do, I immediate want to do the opposite. Even if that person would say something like, “this house is on fire, get out now.” My first reaction, when faced with an order, is to rebel against it. Now, with age, I’ve learned that you can’t always DO that…but I still do it more often than a sane person should. This has led to some adventures, sure…but it’s also led to some major problems. So, does stubbornness pay? If it does, my bank account doesn’t show any rewards from it, that’s for sure.

And here's me!

And here’s me!

this really who just philosophy would you dare give heart’s cages in, working heart.  Again, people! THIS IS JUST NONSENSE! Are you finding any actual results with these sorts of searches? I do like “heart’s cages” and “working heart,” though. Somewhat poetic, you gibberish-spouting weirdo. Bravo.

what kind of nose does eric balfour have?  A super-sexy kind! He’s DELICIOUS, that Balfour. Such a profile. I have a total crush on that man. I have for a long time. (I don’t know if he’s the best actor, to be honest, but I sure do like to look at him.)

Yes, I could have given you his profile. Sure I could. BUT LOOK AT THIS PHOTO. You're welcome!

Yes, I could have given you his profile. Sure I could. BUT LOOK AT THIS PHOTO. You’re welcome!

what will cheer up my sugar glider  GETTING ANOTHER SUGAR GLIDER. We’ve talked about this, you guys. Sugar gliders die of loneliness. You can’t have just one. They need contact. They also can’t be left alone, so if you have only one, you need to bring it places with you. They’re the cutest little fellas, but they’re high-maintenance pets. Like with any other pets, you need to research them before getting them and know what you’re getting into, ok? And if you can’t give them a good home, get Sea Monkeys, or something. There’s nothing that bothers me more than people who don’t take proper care of their pets.

Look how sad this little guy is. HE HAD TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH A PRINTER, YOU GUYS.

Look how sad this little guy is. HE HAD TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH A PRINTER, YOU GUYS.

why does joel mchale hate zak bagans  Oh, I don’t know that he hates him. I think he pokes fun at him. Because Bagans is a douche. Per Joel McHale, he’s The Ghostdouche. I know he has this whole gang of obsessive followers and such, but he’s an overly-gelled Ed-Hardy-wearing slimy douchebag. And come on, don’t even tell me you believe those “ghosts” he finds. I’ve personally seen two shows where his “ZOMG I FOUND A GHOST” overacting made me laugh so hard I almost ruptured MULTIPLE internal organs. But remember: Joel McHale is an comedian. Do I think he ACTUALLY hates Douchebag O’Bagans? Probably not. But he’s a good target to make fun of. And that’s what McHale does. For a living.

Oh, no, people have been TALKIG about him! Not TALKIG! That's the WORST!

Oh, no, people have been TALKIG about him! Not TALKIG! That’s the WORST!

you don’t sincerely think love will end up disagreeing; good; insane, do you? quoted from batman STOP TYPING WORD SALAD INTO GOOGLE IT IS NOT DOING YOU ANY GOOOOOOOODDDDD

джейме ланнистер   This one is Jaime Lannister in Ukranian! Even the UKRANIANS love my Jaime Lannister! Nice choice, Ukranians. Я люблю Хайме Lannister теж! Я радий, що ти тут! (This is supposed to say “I love Jaime Lannister, too! I’m glad you’re here!” but it makes me suspicious that the searcher’s “Lannister” and my “Lannister” are very different. Oh, Google Translate, why you gotta do me like that?)

There. This is a nice note to end this on, right? Right. Sigh.

There. This is a nice note to end this on, right? Right. Sigh.

There you go, sweet potatoes! All of April. All for you. April showers bring May flowers…and MAY TRIPS TO EUROPE. And by this time next month, I will be on European soil. This is not even a drill. THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING.

Until next month, my poor lost lambikins. May Google be kind in your searches.

Love, Me.

(As always, thank you to Mer for the inspiration for these posts!)


It’s my party and I’ll glare if I want to

I don’t like surprises.

I have NEVER liked surprises.

I know most people say that, but they’re really ok with them. Like, if they woke up and found that their spouse had bought them a new car with one of those ridiculous huge bows on it, like in the Christmas car commercials, or if they showed up at work and right before lunch their coworkers threw a gigantic surprise baby shower for them, they’d maybe shriek a little, but deep down they’d think “oh, my. Am I ever loved” and they’d be secretly so happy.

Me? Nope. I’d shriek a little, then I’d furiously rearrange my face into what I think would pass for happiness because that’s what’s expected, then I’d go through the motions of whatever was required, like package-opening or little-meatball-eating and such, and when it was all over and I could escape from that, I would probably shake like my own private earthquake and be SO SO ANGRY.

"Do you think they know I'm mad? Do I look happy? I do, right?"

“Do you think they know I’m mad? Do I look happy? I do, right?”

I wouldn’t be thinking I was super-loved. I’d be thinking “THESE PEOPLE DO NOT KNOW ME AT ALL.”

This all sounds very petulant, doesn’t it? Yeah. Sorry. Can’t help it. I don’t like surprises. I don’t like people leaping out at me, and I don’t like people assuming they know what I’d like (unless they know me really well, in which case, they’d know me well enough to know NOT to leap out of a dark corner and trigger my PTSD) and I don’t like things I couldn’t think around corners about. I know that all seems very not-able-to-roll-with-the-punches of me. I’m not the kind of person that can’t go on a spur-of-the-moment trip, or something. I just don’t like that people were talking and planning and scheming behind my back and coming up with something.

This is a very long intro for what I can only deem THE WORST BIRTHDAY OF MY LIFE.

I don’t know how old I was. I’m thinking probably 6 or 7. Yes, it was a long time ago. Yes, I should probably be over this by now. No, I’m not.

It wasn’t my actual birthday. The weekend before, is my thought. I’m guessing a Saturday.

A thing you have to know about young-Amy is: there was nothing, nothing, NOTHING I loved more than running errands with my dad.

Running errands with my mom was a dull affair. You’d go buy groceries and she NEVER let you get a candy bar. You’d end up at K-Mart having to try on terrible dresses that were on clearance FOR A REASON and she got so mad if you hid in the middle of the clothes racks. (I had such a thing about hiding in the middle of those circular clothing racks. It was like my secret wonderland. Yeah, I don’t know, either.) You’d run into friends of hers and have to stand there and they’d talk about the MOST BORING THINGS. Like, clothes-shopping and grocery-shopping. WE JUST DID THAT. Can we go HOME now?

But! Running errands with Dad was the best best BEST. We went to the coolest places ever. Like NAPA Auto Parts which smelled like motor oil and had a gumball machine that he always gave me pennies for and the guys working there were always nice and funny and would cuss sometimes and say, “Sorry, kiddo!” Or to go buy a new car and we’d have to wear our old clothes and “act poor” so the guy would give us the lowest price. Or – possibly best – just driving around looking at things and and he’d tell me stories like “this is the bridge that your uncle told your grandmother I made him pee off, and he was so scared now he’s scared of all bridges, but if he ever tells you that, it’s not true. IT IS A LIE.”

That day, Dad said, “Amy! Do you want to go to the dump?”

DID I WANT TO GO TO THE DUMP? Boy howdy, did I want to go to the dump!

DUMP!!!

DUMP!!!

Now, the dump was AWESOME. Don’t even be turning up your nose. The dump smelled terrible, sure. This was long before you paid money and had to have things all neatly recycled. This was a pile of willy-nilly GARBAGE. Couches and dolls and food and dead animals and parts of cars and a million seagulls and everywhere you looked, there was a new thing. The dump was ADVENTURE. And Dad would drive in all fast and it was all hilly in there and the truck would bump all over and I would laugh and laugh.

Shush. I grew up in a small town. We took adventure where we could get it.

So Dad and I packed up into the dump-going truck and I put on my little red riding hood (it was the BEST red hoodie, so I was wearing hoodies before they were cool, yo) and we took off to the dump.

I don’t remember exactly what happened at the dump. I’m going to guess just dump-stuff. Dropping off garbage. Dad saying, “DON’T TOUCH THAT! IT IS FILTHY! WE DO NOT NEED THAT!” (I don’t know if I was ever really going to touch anything at the dump, but I wanted a closer look at it. It was like archaeology of castoffs. I was so fascinated.)

We went home. Now, the savvy grownup that I am would probably have picked up that something was going DOWN, you guys. But I was 6-or-7-year-old-Amy in my sassy red hoodie and a VERY successful trip to the dump on a happy October Saturday behind me, and I wasn’t much of a detective then.

I sincerely felt like Supergirl in my red hoodie. I need to get another one of these things.

I sincerely felt like Supergirl in my red hoodie. I need to get another one of these things.

Now, this is where, if I could find it, I would insert a photo that would make you laugh so, so hard, because it kind of perfectly sums up young-Amy in a single picture, but I have torn this place APART and it is not to be found. I have to assume that my mother has it, because I only have one album of young-Amy photos and it’s not in there.

Instead, I am going to include this very-well-executed internet drawing. YOU ARE WELCOME.

I'm pretty sure I'm the next Warhol, yo. Look right out.

I’m pretty sure I’m the next Warhol, yo. I especially like my red hoodie. It’s perplexingly terrible.

I opened the front door of my house and there was a deafening “SURPRISE!” and my whole family was crammed in there – I mean, all my cousins and aunts and uncles and my mom and my dad was all laughing behind me and you would THINK that would be such a happy surprise for a 6-or-7-year-old kiddo.

Nope.

I did the same thing I do now, when surprised. I froze, then I made the most fake smile ever, and ever single photo of me from that party – every one – is me with this terrible false frozen party-face on, but with gritted teeth and flared nostrils. I did not want to come home to a house full of people (albeit people I did then, and do now, love.) I did not want this terrible surprise. I did not want this thing that had been plotted behind my back.

My parents are totally apologetic now (even though they still think I’m weird.) They know better than to ever, ever have any sort of surprise function for me ever again, as long as I live, up to and including my funeral. (I have that planned to the LETTER. I just have to hope I die before my parents.)

And just so you know, it’s gotten worse – now, when people jump out at me from behind things, my first reaction has become to protect myself with whatever’s handy. Once it was a painbrush, pointy-side out. Once it was a pen. Once it was a cast-iron fireplace poker. So if you need further proof that maybe you should announce yourself before you get into my general vicinity, there’s that. I really don’t want to stab and/or bludgeon you. I have this fight-or-flight reaction…and it’s totally fighty.

So! Yes. I love birthdays. And Christmas. And, in general, all the holidays. And I will always be happy if you think of me!

Just please, for the love of Pete (and your own well-being) DO NOT LEAP OUT FROM BEHIND SOMETHING SHOUTING SURPRISE AT ME.

Thanks. Love your faces.

 

(This post was written for the lovely Emily’s Remember the Time blog hop! Have you visited Emily’s amazingness lately? You should! She’s one of my favorite humans!)


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