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Category Archives: awkward

The cat’s still in the cradle. Only this time with trains and stoves. Even MORE exciting.

So, yesterday, we discussed adventures I went on with my dad in the summer. Listen, I don’t want you to think I DON’T want to go on adventures with my dad! No no. I love going on adventures with my dad. Because, listen. There are very few things I love to do in life more than I love laughing until I cry. Dad makes me laugh until I cry on a regular basis. He is FUNNY AS HELL. You know how he seems funny when I talk about him here? He’s actually funnier in person. I can’t put ALL his good stuff here. Because a lot of it wouldn’t make sense because it’s inside-jokey and stuff I can’t talk about because (I KNOW SHOCKING) I don’t tell you guys EVERYTHING. What? SHE DOESN’T TELL US EVERYTHING? Nope. Some stuff is just for me. So, just in case you were thinking, “GAH, Amy doesn’t even APPRECIATE hanging with her dad and he is the BEST DAD EVER!” you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s not that I don’t enjoy hanging with Dad. And yep, he’s the best. No question. It’s that a., we don’t have much of a choice for cool places to visit when I go home, so the places we bon vivant to are a little strange, and b., we tend to have wacky times when we’re there, because wacky times tend to find me. I don’t know. I’m a magnet. A magnet for the wacky.

OK, so yesterday we discussed visiting the otters (which ended up just being AN otter) and the vats of fish that are being bred for slaughter. ADVENTURES! BON VIVANTERY! (Oh, I mentioned the phrase “bon vivantery” to Dad a while back on the phone. He thinks I made it up and it’s not a real thing. But he doesn’t ever remember it, so he’s always all, “What’s that assassin do? That thing you made up? Vontery? Von vontery!” And that makes me laugh EVERY TIME. I’m easily amused. And I always say, “BON VIVANTERY!” and he says “whatever, that’s not a thing. Vontery. I’ve never even HEARD that before.”

According to Google, this is a bon vivant. Hmmph. I don’t know. This doesn’t look like Ken at all.

So next, one year we went to the Adirondack Museum. Once, we went there when we were kids and there was a WHOLE ROOM DEDICATED TO PEOPLE WITH MY LAST NAME. So my brother and I call it the…shit, well, most of you know my last name, but I’m not putting it here, because then when someone searches for me, my blog will be a result and I don’t want that to happen. Let’s say my brother and I call it the Lucy’s Football museum, because at least one of you thinks my name is Lucy’s Football anyway. (I’M KIDDING KEN I KNOW YOU DON’T REALLY. Oh! Side note SIDE NOTE! I mentioned that to my dad, that Ken thinks my name is Lucy’s Football. I was KIDDING. And he was quiet for a minute, and then he said, “Amy, I think you’ve known that guy long enough you can tell him your first name now. It’s ok.” Which made me laugh SO HARD. I love that Dad thought I really hadn’t told anyone my first name for all this time. Like I was all, “NO NO! I CANNOT! You must continue to refer to me as Lucy’s Football! IT IS DECREED!” But also, aw, Ken passed some sort of weird Dad-test! I’m not sure what the rubric of said test was. How long I have known him? That he is an assassin, but he refrained himself from killing me as-yet? Who knows, Dad makes up rules as he goes along more than I do. Where do you think I got it from? Not the mailman. (Mom always says “not the mailman” and one time I was all “who WAS the mailman when I was little? you talk about the mailman a LOT” and she was all “I think it was a lady back then” which was just very confusing, reproductive-wise. Anyway! KEN PASSED SOME SORT OF WEIRD NEBULOUS DAD-TEST! Congratulations, Ken, A+! Gold star!)

WINNER!

So anyway, my last name is kind of a big deal because people WITH my last name built the railroads and built super-fancy lakeside camps and also wrote some famous history books, and that’d be exciting except we apparently were the black sheep of the family because we never saw a single DIME of that money, yo, and when I was little there was a period of time we ate government cheese. But Dad likes to call those people our relatives. “Oh, yeah, that’s Uncle Billy!” he will say. (Just so you know, there’s no proof we’re related to these people, other than they lived in the same area as we do, and we have the same last name. We’ve tracked our family name back a little way and those people don’t show up in the family tree at all. We still pretend they’re ours. It’s one of our things.)

A WOODSMAN! Dad said I couldn’t touch anything. Sigh.

So Dad and I went to the Adirondack Museum. Here are things you can see at the Adirondack Museum:

  • historic log cabins which are really just recreated from drawings of REAL log cabins!
  • a billion canoes!
  • many dioramas of Native Americans!
  • many dioramas of logging and loggers!
  • so many different types of wood! (you can take that as a euphemism if you want.)
  • many photos of fancy lakeside camps!
  • many trains and photos of trains and things that are used while driving and riding trains!
  • much furniture made from sticks!
  • things you can play with like hats and pieces of fur and samples of wood! (again, maybe a euphemism.)

And even though I was all “WHERE IS THE LUCY’S FOOTBALL ROOM?” I had remembered it wrong and it was really just a small section of a wall in one room that talked a little about my “ancestors” but it was still kind of fancy and I was all “THESE ARE MY PEOPLE” and Dad glowered at them and shook his fist, probably because they were drinking champagne in their photos and he was still thinking about that government cheese. (Which, for the record, I remember fondly. It melted so smoothly and made the best grilled cheese sandwiches.)

Look, this says it’s “elegant.” Mostly it looks like it would be bumpy, and cold in the winter.

Dad liked the interactive children’s activities like “guess what type of wood this is!” and “look at this bin of hats and you can wear them and pretend to be things like an engineer or a woodsman” (I called that bin the “bin of lice” because seriously, you’re going to let your KIDS wear HATS that a BILLION OTHER KIDS have worn? But Dad wanted the engineer’s hat because he used to wear those all the time and now you can’t find those anywhere and he was all “THEY WON’T EVEN MISS IT” and I was like “you can’t STEAL from a MUSEUM” and also “LICE LICE LICE, Dad!” so he grumpily left the children’s room. Dad was the best at guess the wood. He was all, “ash! maple! Tell me if I’m right. TELL ME!” and it made me giggle. The kids were glad he was gone, though. He was playing with all their good toys and he wasn’t ever ever sharing. He was giving them dirty looks and everything.

This was an old-timey hunting cabin, which proves that hoarding was alive and well even in OLDEN TIMES.

The rest of the museum – um, well, it was the kind of museum your parents would drag you to and say “THIS IS SO EDUCATIONAL!” when you were a kid and mostly it just made your feet hurt. I mean, it was interesting to learn about the Adirondacks and see old stuff, but mostly I kept going into each room and saying, “oh, look. MORE CANOES.” So, I don’t know, I guess if you have a friend visiting from like another country who wants to learn about the history of the Adirondacks or something, it’s a good idea, but otherwise…eh, go for a walk in the woods instead. Oh, but the gift shop was pretty kickass, I got a pillow stuffed with pine needles and it smells like the FOREST and I love it so much.

Finally, we went to Almanzo Wilder’s boyhood house. You know who that is, right? He was Laura Ingalls Wilder’s husband. From Little House on the Prairie? Yep. He grew up in the town right next to mine. So one summer, I was all, Dad! I never went to see that, let’s do that this summer! And he was all, yeah, ok, fine, whatever. So I read Farmer Boy again so I would be prepared (what, I’m a total nerd, I always do the recommended reading) and then we went to the Wilder Homestead. So it’s like an old-timey house and barn. Fun, right? All the fun?

WILDER HOUSE! There was nothing wild about it. Promise.

Things I learned at the Wilder Homestead:

  • the tour guide didn’t want to be there. I kind of feel like maybe she was doing court-ordered community service.
  • I knew more about the Wilder family than the tour guide did from having read the book a couple weeks before taking the tour.
  • the tour guide was getting basic things wrong in her tour.
  • back in the day, houses were very small, and people’s beds were minuscule, and a billion people lived in these teeny-tiny houses, and I would have had claustrophobia and died. Oh, also, everyone worked like ALL THE TIME. No, thanks. The only time you got to relax was when you were asleep, in church, or dead.
  • when the tour guide asked questions like, “does anyone know why the wallpaper here is a different color than the rest of the wall” she doesn’t want you to SAY “because that’s where Almanzo and his siblings had to repair the wallpaper because they got the black crap they were polishing the stove with all over it and they did it on the SLY! Before their PARENTS got home!” because apparently, the questions were RHETORICAL, and they don’t WANT you to answer them. Well, then don’t ask them, then.
  • If you ask the tour guide a lot of questions she can’t answer, like, “what is that silver thing shaped like a heart?” she will eventually start to hate you. In addition: TOUR GUIDES SHOULD KNOW THESE THINGS.
  • If the tour guide starts to hate you, your dad will start muttering wacky things under his breath to cheer you up and you will get the giggles at inappropriate times during the tour, which will make the other people on the tour give you quizzical looks.
  • If you want to buy books, maple syrup, or honey, the gift shop is for you. If you want to buy something else, well, I guess go to the grocery store. It’s a very small town. The grocery store’s like ten minutes away.

BARNS! They were…um…just barns. I grew up around barns. I was not flabbergasted.

We were super-disappointed with the Wilder Homestead. What was even sadder was that the tour guide of the group behind us that we could hear in the distance seemed SUPER into it and we were missing out on a fun tour if we had just been a little later in arriving. Our lady was cranky-pants, yo. Plus, it was a farm, and there weren’t even any ANIMALS. Where are the animals? Sigh. I always want there to be animals.

This is the inside of the house. “Amy! It just looks like a house!” Um. Yeah. It really did. Sorry to be a total Debbie Downer.

We have run out of places to visit now, I think. Like I said, there really aren’t many places to go that you can go in a short daytrip. Sometimes we go to the movies and if it’s the summer I try to convince him to take me fishing because I like fishing. Otherwise, we have run out of events. Which is quite sad. Because he really is the best to go places with. Filled with whimsy, that dad of mine! ALL the whimsy. I didn’t get THAT from the mailman. Or maillady, I suppose. STILL VERY CONFUSED BY THAT.

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If I had a training company, you know I’d call it “Pulling a Train,” right?

I am very, very, VERY awkward with people and situations. No, seriously. NO SERIOUSLY. I know you’re all, ha ha, Amy, you seem lovely! But in all actuality I’m totally Socially Awkward Penguin. I don’t even think those Socially Awkward Penguin memes are all that funny because they seem like something I would do. And, in some cases, they are something I have done.  Or almost done. Or am afraid of doing to the point of near-total paralysis.

Haven’t done this. Have come VERY CLOSE. Am petrified I will. (Well, duh, her = him, but the thought is there.)

A few weeks ago, as I mentioned yesterday, our HR rep came to me all, “Hey! Amy! The admin staff from the new office we just merged with wants to come here and meet with you to see how you do things!” 

I immediately got drymouth and also palmsweats. This was not a good thing. However, it wasn’t like I could say, “I AM TOO BUSY!” because she’d just have said, “Oh, no problem, we’ll just let everyone know you’re unavailable to take on projects at that time” and it’s not like I could have said “Can’t ____ do it?” because there’s no one else that could do it. Well, I do have one coworker that could have done it, but again, as I mentioned yesterday, she won’t check her email, and so that way, she can say, “Oh, I didn’t know that was happening!” and she gets out of things. Why I wasn’t smart enough to figure that out on my own, I am not sure. I’m fairly sure it would have led to me being fired, though. Oh, and later on in this post, we will get into why what I’m doing RIGHT EFFING NOW will probably lead to me being fired due to something that happened while I was away from my desk today, but that’s a story for later on down the line. 

Aw, that totally makes it better. THANK YOU BEBEH SEAL!

So, because I couldn’t get out of it, and because my coworker was all “la la la I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” about the call for trainers, I got stuck with the whole “training the new people” day. Now, my office doesn’t understand theater people. They think theater people are all very good at anything that involves getting up in front of people and talking. VERY good. No matter the scenario – training, office meetings, calling people on the phone – doesn’t matter, my office is all “AMY WILL DO IT SHE IS AN ACTRESS!”

Not all theater people are like this. (SIGH. Wouldn’t life be awesome if they WERE?)

A., I don’t act anymore, hardly, and B., acting is a lot different than public speaking. They’re not the same thing at all. In one you have a script and are reading someone else’s words and playing a character; in the other, it’s like you’re stripped bare and EVERYONE IS STARING AT YOU while you say YOUR OWN WORDS and they’re judging you and you’re coming up lacking. It’s horrifying. 

Plus, again, as mentioned yesterday, I have this ADD-situation going on where I can’t stay on task, and also when I’m nervous I talk way too fast and I say things I probably shouldn’t. I’d be terrible if ever questioned by Homeland Security. I’d be telling them all about the time I stole markers from my art class in third grade. FINE, I’ll tell you about it. In third grade, I stole a couple of those markers that smelled like food from my art class. The black licorice one and the red cherry one. They smelled utterly DELICIOUS.

You had these in art class, right? They were AWESOME. The light blue one also smelled amazing. It was…um…mango? Maybe? SO GOOD UNGH.

I brought them home and just smelled them and smelled them and they smelled BETTER at home, because they were MINE. Until this crushing guilt started weighing on me. I was SO NERVOUS. Why? Because of God. I was sure that God saw me steal those markers and I was going to hell for it. So the next time we had art class (it was a once-a-week-thing), I brought them back. Even though it killed me and I wanted them to be mine SO MUCH. But I also didn’t want to burn in eternal hellfire over some effing markers, what a waste of hellfire.

Eternal DAMNATION! For MARKER PILFERAGE!

And listen, we weren’t even using markers that day, so I couldn’t mix them in amongst the other markers like they’d always been there like I’d been planning! So, always quick on my feet, I put them on the floor all surreptitious-like. I knew the teacher would find them while cleaning up and think they’d been left behind the LAST time he’d cleaned up, and they’d find their way back to the marker bin. And there you have it; my (aborted) life of crime. I did, however, when I was old enough and living on my own, buy myself a multi-pack of those smelly markers. THEY ARE ALL MINE. I have two of each color/scent. They are the BEST. And if I ever had a kid? I’d totally buy them their own smelly markers so they didn’t have to resort to stealing them from the art room and then self-loathing for a week. 

So for two days I’ve been all stomach-in-knots about this situation. Today was the day! I found out yesterday I not only had to train them for a little over two hours, I had to take them to lunch afterward. If there’s anything I hate more than office meetings where I have to talk, it’s eating with coworkers. You have to make awkward small talk and you have to order certain foods otherwise they look at you all weird and you have to eat like a LADY, yo. It’s all very nerve-wracking. 

Ha ha ha ha HA! All the false laughter! MY FAVORITE!

The ladies arrived. First, the receptionist trained them a little. While this was happening, I sat at my desk and chewed my fingernails all off. This was nice because I’m wearing glitter nail polish and so I got glitter all over my mouth. (Accidently, I wrote “I got glitter all over my mother” right there, and I almost left it because it was AWESOME, but it was also the most confusing.) 

Like this! Only, less fancy! And more frazzled! And more glitter-faced!

The HR lady came and checked on me and she snuck up on me like a NINJA (ok, no, she really didn’t, but I was busy being NERVOUS so I was in my own world – there was no way this woman could sneak up on anyone, she’s 7.5 months pregnant, and she’s REALLY pregnant, ladies and gentlemen, whoo!) and I jumped seventeen feet in the air like a PTSD sufferer and she asked if I was all prepared and I said, “Is anyone? IS ANYONE REALLY?” and I think that was not the right answer and she was all, “Ha ha, don’t worry, this’ll be a piece of CAKE!” and then I was not only nervous, but craving cake. Grumble. 

Is it THIS piece of cake? This one? I want this one.

Then it was my turn for the training. I knew it was probably not going to go well after the first few minutes because this is how it started: 

Me: Hi! I’ve never trained anyone before. I’m very nervous. This makes me talk very quickly. Here are some helpful handouts! Please feel free to ask questions!
Lady #1: We’re not here to be trained. Did someone tell you we were? 

Um. Yeah. That was…yeah. Not the most auspicious of beginnings.

I knew there was something weird about this whole thing yesterday when at first I was told I was training these people, but then my coworkers started saying things like, “They’re not going to change anything they’re doing in their office, though” so why am I doing this? Why, really? The answer seemed to be one of two choices: 

1. Because they wanted to see how we did things, and if they liked how we did them better, they’d change them;

2. Because they wanted a paid day out of their office. 

I’m going with a combination of both of these, to tell you the truth. 

Remember Jake from yesterday? He’s STILL suspicious, yo.

So I went through the very handy three-page outline I’d made for them, and they were very nice, but mostly it was just them nodding and saying, “We don’t do it like that” (ok, that’s…ok, but WHY ARE YOU HERE? Am I on Candid Camera? WHAT IS HAPPENING?) and it was supposed to take two hours, but it took about an hour and fifteen minutes. Why? Because about fifteen minutes in, I gave up. I just kept saying things like, “Well, you can read that on the handout when you get back to your office” and such. They weren’t there to learn anything. They were, for some reason I couldn’t ascertain (and still can’t) there to…um…listen to me talk about me doing my job and to say “We don’t do our jobs that way?” That could pertain to…well, any of you, right? Like, if it was, let’s say, me sitting down with President Obama, and we started rapping about our jobs, and I was all, “Yo, Barack, at my job, my coworkers sign jobs into a bin, and I sign them out and then do them and TRY not to stab anyone while doing it,” wouldn’t he be all, “That’s so interesting, Amy, I appoint you my Secretary of Awesome” and not “I don’t do MY job that way!” I mean, it just seemed like such an exercise in futility. 

Oh, Amy. You are SCINTILLATING. I can’t imagine doing my job without you. Come to the White House? We have ALL THE CAKE.

So then I was done, much sooner than planned, so I gave them a tour of our office (again, waste of time, but what the hell else am I going to do with people?) and it was very “here is a COPIER! Here is a SHREDDING BIN! Here is a FILE ROOM!” and they honestly seemed more impressed with the things in our office than the things I’d been saying in my super-awesome-shiny training that I worked REALLY HARD ON and if a person can’t compete with a shredding bin, I don’t know what point there is to LIFE, you know? To be fair, it’s a really awesome shredding bin. It has a bumper sticker on it with “IF I AM FULL CALL TO GET ME EMPTIED!” written on it in scary big letters. I never stood a chance. 

SO much more interesting than me. So much more.

Then we went to lunch. At 11:40. Because I finished too early. This was a total fail. Because by the time we were done, I had to work FOUR STRAIGHT HOURS in the afternoon without a break. I never do that. I take my lunch super-late in the day. Like, most days, at 2. That way when I get done, I only have 2 hours of work left, and it all seems a little more bearable and a little less “WHY AM I ALIVE,” you know? 

Lunch was one of those filled-with-awkward-pauses things that I hate, and it was giving me the vapors. Mostly it was them talking to each other and the receptionist and I talking to each other. Like the other people weren’t there. And us saying things like, “I sure do like alcohol! HA HA!” while looking at the drink menu. (NO, it wasn’t me that said that. I didn’t say much of anything. At that point, I had mentally checked out, and was sitting there contemplating making a run for the bathroom and rocking and making a long, drawn out keening noise for the next hour so no one would bother me. I HATE WORK LUNCHES.) 

“Please don’t make me go back out there. I HAVE RUN OUT OF SMALL TALK.”

Then we were done. And when I got back to the office, the HR lady was all, “How’d that go? Good? I KNEW IT WOULD! Because YOU ARE AN ACTRESS!” Ugh, it is NOT THE SAME THING! Right now, HR lady, I am ACTING like I’m not HATING YOU for MAKING ME DO THIS USELESS THING. 

Oh, and the firing thing? Well, when I got back, someone had been on my computer! Well! I do so love things like that! And a bunch of software had been added! That’s usually not a good thing. That either means more work for me in the future, or that we’re implementing a new system of something that’ll be infinitely harder than the last system, or something equally heinous. Nope! EVEN WORSE. 

VERITY CHILD MONITORING SOFTWARE. 

I hate this so much my head’s about to explode.

I was all, “huh, we’re monitoring children? I don’t have any, why would I need that” but then I looked it up and it tracks every website you’re on, every keystroke you make (including all your passwords! to your personal sites! so that’s pretty awesome and not at all a security breach into my personal life!), pretty much everything you do, and sends a report on off to management. 

YAY!  

So I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before I’m called into a “Um…do you need to be using Twitter, Facebook, Gmail and WordPress for your job? Do you really?” and the answer is, well, duh, yes, they help me stay SANE, thank you very much, but again, as with most questions I’m asked here, that’s not the RIGHT answer, just the only one I can say with a clear conscience. I know a normal person would see that software and immediately not go on any good websites ever again. (I also know most people would not spend as much time social-mediaing during work hours, and I’m well-aware they’re within their rights to spy on whatever I’m doing on their computer during their business hours. I’m not an idiot, I just hate my job so much. SO MUCH.) However: no one ever accused me of being a normal person. Also: I don’t much like being spied upon, or told what to do. Not much at all. If I get my work done, and get it done well, and in a timely fashion, who the hell even cares? 

I’ll let you know what it’s like from the unemployment line. I’m guessing…super-fun? Probably super-fun. I can’t imagine otherwise. EVERY DAY IS AN ADVENTURE WITH ME!

Hey, momma! I’m a superstar! Lookit me!


Don’t deplete my oxygen for the guy who’s turning blue, but ask me, and I’ll do anything for you.

Time for social media discussion. I promised. And if I promise, I try to follow through. I’m not always TIMELY, but I do try to follow through.

(Also, this became a total mega-post. More so than normal. Sorry to usurp your lives today. Maybe spread it out over three days or something, I don’t know.)

I was going to talk about social media friendships. And I am. That’ll be in here. But in order to talk about social media friendships, I need to also talk about friendship in general. You can’t just separate the two. Social media friendships are friendships, no matter what the naysayers say.

So let’s start with friendship, shall we? Sure we shall. Look at my shall usage, it’s all classy and shit.

I’m bad at friendship. I’m getting better, but I’m the first to admit, I’m bad at it.

You know how you learn things when you’re a kid? Like, you see how your parents interact with one another (if you are raised by parents, I don’t mean to be exclusionary, you might have been raised by wolves or frogs or something) and, on some level, learn how to (or how NOT to) behave in a relationship. Or, you watch older children play, and learn how to act when you get to be their age. Things like that. Well, I didn’t learn how to do friendship when I was a kid, because I was too busy spending my time duck and covering from the bullying, honestly. I didn’t trust anyone. (Still mostly don’t.) So that part of me got all socially stunted, like a bean plant that’s covered by a Styrofoam cup and its leaves get all yellow and twisty? That’s my friendship-muscle. All atrophied. So I have to work REALLY HARD at friendships. And it feels like acting. It doesn’t come easily. And I often forget to put in the work that’s necessary, and it’s not on purpose, and then I’m befuddled when it falls apart. Or drama happens and I don’t get it.

Here’s my wilty bean-cup friendship abilities. Please don’t judge them. They are trying SO HARD TO GROW you guys.

It’s a work in progress. I put in time. It’s not something that falls all easily into place like it does for most people. Thanks, childhood trauma!

Anyway, I did a little research into friendships for you, because to understand the relatively new phenomena of social media friendship, you have to understand friendship itself, and the psychology behind it.

Things that draw us together as friends – oh, I know, you’re all “blah blah, WHO DOESN’T ALREADY KNOW THIS” – stick with me, lollipops – are:

  • we have grown up with the person, usually in the same neighborhood.
  • we have similar occupations.
  • we have children the same age.
  • we have similar interests.
  • we are the same general age and the same gender.

Proximity and shared interests are most important for little kiddos. They get less important as you age, but still, important.

OK. Nice list. Vague, but nice. And it makes sense, sure. We like things that are easy. We are lazy as shit. And this list shows you that we choose our friendships based on the lame gazelle theory: we pick the ones that are easiest to catch. The most similar to us. That cross our path the most. (This site calls these people our “social equals.” That’s not classist at all.) And yes! Sure. We do that. I mean, who’s going to be friends with someone who you never see, who you never make contact with, and, when you DO, you have NOTHING in common with? That’d be tough.

WE WILL BE BEST FRIENDS NOW RAWR!

But in the defense of the chasing-down-the-faster-gazelle theory: sometimes, the faster gazelles can be worth it, too. Because the differences can make for a more interesting friendship. If everything’s the same, it gets boring pretty quickly. If there are a lot of differences, you have a LOT of things to discuss. Your discussions are exciting. You rejoice in the similarities and you delight in the differences. So go for the mid-range gazelles. They’re the best gazelles.

Also, do you know what’s missing from that list? And I know you’re going to laugh, so get your laugher ready.

Magic.

No, not Harry-Potter-magic-wand-magic, Sarcastic Sam. There’s a magic to friendships. Something you can’t put your finger on. You’ve all felt that, right? That click when you meet someone and it’s like they were always meant to be in your life? That you don’t even have to rearrange a space in your life or your heart to make room for them – it’s always been there, just waiting for them to fill it? I know, I know, you’re all throwing up in your mouths or whatever, SO SAPPY AMY. I’m not saying it happens with EVERYONE you befriend, sheesh. Just some people. The special ones. The ones that are part of you. The ones that it seems like were MEANT to be part of you.

And what keeps us together as friends?

  • Enjoyment and spontaneity–Spending time doing things together and sharing life experiences.
  • Trust–Believing that our friends act on our behalf.
  • Respect and understanding–Believing that our friends have the right to their own opinions.
  • Mutual assistance–Helping and supporting our friends and letting them help us.
  • Confiding–Sharing confidential matters with our friends.

Again, pretty basic. But the bare bones are all there.

Amy! You’re asking. YOU are backward in friendship, but WE are not. We KNOW how to be friends. Why are you talking to us like we don’t?

Well, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person out there who’s having some social awkwardness issues? But we’ll go more into that later, ok? Wait for it, oh-my-impatient-ones. I promised this would be infotainment, didn’t I? I don’t know how entertaining it is, but I’m going to try like hell for the informativeness.

Look at that list up there. No, I’m serious. I want you to look at it. Because it’s important you internalize those things. Not just read them and gloss over them. The first list, the lame gazelle list, that was more of a list of guidelines. This second list, as basic and silly and free-to-be-you-and-me as it is, it’s right. So even if you think you KNOW these things, look them over. We’re going to be discussing it further later.

Now, let’s go a little further into this. We know what attracts us to our friends, and we know what makes a friendship STAY a friendship. But how do friendships start? What brings two people together from two people who, say, work together, to friends who email, text, hang out?

The answer seems to be reciprocity.

It’s the most important thing in any friendship. It’s what takes acquaintances to the next level and it’s what helps people maintain a friendship. You can have the other things – proximity, things in common, all the things we learned about above. But if it’s one-sided? Not going anywhere, bub.

Let’s say you volunteer at an organization. You have a group of friends there. A new person starts working there. You like the new person just fine; the new person may or may not, given time, become a friend, as well. But the new person PUSHES. The new person inserts themselves into every conversation and usurps them; the new person invites themselves along to everything, even when if, had they waited, they probably would have been invited anyway; the new person assumes a familiarity that they have not earned and do not have.

Are you going to be friends with this person? Or are you going to avoid this person?

I mean, maybe they have the best intentions. Maybe they’re just lonely, or feeling out of place, or clueless. But the quickest way to stop a new friendship dead in the water is to assume it is going both ways when it’s not.

This is what you’re coming across like, if you don’t back off. PLEASE LOVE ME. (Also, how badly do you want this album now? The most, is my answer.)

Most people can sense when someone’s not interested in being their friend, and they back off. (Me? I assume ALL people are off-limits and wait for them to approach ME so I KNOW they’re interested. Yes. I take the fatalist approach when it comes to friendship. The risk-nothing approach. I do not recommend this approach; however, it does shield you from a majority of the rejection. On the other hand, it shields you from a majority of the FRIENDS, so choose wisely, grasshopper pies.) However, there are those people who think that when someone doesn’t respond to their constant attention (which can also be read as “annoyance”) they are not DISINTERESTED, they are PLAYING HARD TO GET. This is the same theory that stalkers use, babydolls. You all need to learn to read social cues. I know. It’s hard if you’re not born with the bone that reads social cues. Mine is oddly-developed and twisty like an old tree root, so I get it. Social cues are not the easiest. But if I, who has such a problem with them, can do it, SO CAN YOU.

If you’re constantly offering someone friendship and they’re ignoring you – GIVE UP. If they’re never available to hang out, yet they’re always checking into FourSquare with others on the SAME NIGHT they said they were unable to hang with you because of a bad migrane – the correct action is not to call them up and say, “let’s plan something next week!” but to take the hint and realize they probably don’t want to hang with YOU. Don’t butt into conversations when you’re not invited; you’ll BE invited, eventually, if the people want you there, so be calm, little chicken. And if you’re not – move on. Your people will appear. They will. You’ll find them. I promise.

Let me tell you a true-life story. Once upon a time, I knew a person. This person thought we were BFFs. We were not BFFs. But I was polite, because this person was in the same social circle as I was and I hate to cause waves and also? I felt kind of bad for the person. This is a problem I have. I feel sorry for people. It sometimes causes issues. This person was lonely, and had very few friends, and locked onto me like a damn missile with a homing beacon or something. I refused to hang out with the person unless it was absolutely impossible to get out of; I was cool, I told the person very little about my life, yet the person WOULD NOT BACK OFF. I moved away. The person sent me letters, telling me how lonely life was without me in it, and intimating they’d be moving to where I was soon so our BFF-ship could continue. The person called my parents, told them I’d said to give my phone number, and they didn’t know better, so gave it out. I then started getting phone calls. Five to ten a day. Desperate, yearning, “I miss you, BFF!” phone calls. Some with detailed sex-life information in them? Yeah, I don’t know, either. I’d come home to these things on my machine. Until I finally picked one up and screamed, “STOP IT! WE’RE NOT FRIENDS! LEAVE ME ALONE!” I’m not normally confrontational so that took a lot. I thought it was over. It was not. A few years later, the person called my father, told a lie about being ill, and convinced my father to give out my email address (after my father refused to give out my phone number.) I started getting emails. I responded to the email with “I thought I made myself clear?” The person was all, “I thought you were just in a bad mood that day!” The emails continued, more and more and more of them, until I got one with the same old “I was thinking I should move there, my old BFF!” Again, I put my foot down, only less screamy this time. I explained it was time to move on; we were not friends, nor had we ever been. I had only been polite back then, and had no reason to be now. I had never been a friend. Please stop contacting me. I blocked the person’s email. And guess what I got today? A Facebook friend request and message. “I found you! Please accept my request or I’ll get whiny, LOLLLLL!” Seriously? Seriously. I don’t even know what else to say about this. (I blocked the person and reported the message as spam. It’s gotten to the point where I’m kind of thinking there’s some sort of mental health issue happening here that’s bigger than I thought.)

Overall, rule of thumb? DON’T PUSH. Look back on the interactions you had with the person you think is your new BFF. Do you tell them a lot of personal stories and they don’t tell you any? Do you call them a lot but they don’t call you? Do you give and give and give and they…well, don’t? It’s one-sided. It’s not a friendship. It’s an acquaintance, and it’s never going to tip over into anything else. You’re wasting time. Move on. There’s a hint being given, and you are not taking the hint. You’re being annoying. Do you want to be annoying? I can’t imagine you do.

Remember I said to look over that second list? What do most of those things have in common? Reciprocity. Sharing. Giving AND getting. Allowing them to have opinions in the knowledge they’ll allow you to have your own. Trusting one another. It’s a two-way street, not a one-way street where you’re screaming “LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME” and the other person is covering their ears and grimacing and all “look at my wrist, gotta go” and you realize an hour later “THEY WEREN’T WEARING A WATCH!”

Now. I did promise we’d talk about social media. And, guess what? Fooled you. We have been.

What, Amy? I AM SO CONFUSED!

Social media friendships are the same as real-life friendships, with only a few amendments. They’re easy. And if I think they’re easy – me, Social Anxiety Jones – well, you can rule this. I’ll help. I promise.

Remember the lists from above? You can use those on social media, too.

I’m going to be using Twitter as the example. But you could also use any social media network where strangers gather. Reddit. Google Plus. Online gaming sites. Facebook, I suppose, if you use it to talk to strangers. The list goes on. But Twitter worked for me, so Twitter it is.

The things that bring people together in real life aren’t as fitting in social media. Pretty much what brings you together, since proximity is out the window (the neighborhood is the internet, now, remember) is similar interests. That’s your magnet drawing you together. Mine was my book club and blogging; yours might be crafting, or parenthood, or photography, or a million other things. It’s something to get your foot in the door.

BUT AMY! You’re asking. How does it WORK? How do I take these strangers I meet on social media and turn them into FRIENDS?

Well, here. A whole ARTICLE. The Evolution of a Social Media Friendship. And it’s actually pretty intelligent, too.

Here, in case you don’t want to read. Like I said, I’m going to talk about this as if this is Twitter; you can amend it for any social media network you’d like with very little effort.

  1. Connection. You find someone you think is interesting; you follow them; you talk to them. Easy as pie.
  2. Reciprocation.  They follow you back! They respond to something you said, or retweet you! I remember the day someone whose blog I admired responded to something I said for the first time. I think her response was something like “That was funny as shit, well-played” or something. I just GLOWED. I made someone who’d been making me laugh for months laugh! I felt like effing Leonardo DiCaprio on that stupid sinky ship. KING OF THE WORLD BABY.
  3. Engagement. This is the touchy one. Just because someone tweets you back once or twice doesn’t mean you are the best of friends and you should respond to all of their tweets and DM them a dozen times a day and ask them for their personal information like their home address and get shouty if they don’t give it and refer to them as “my BEST FRIEND SO AND SO” and follow all their friends so you can see what they’re saying and then jump into all THOSE conversations. You remember the example I gave above, about trying too hard? Same holds true here. It’s creepy to try too hard. It’s not *quite* stalking, but it’s close. It’s flirting with stalking. Be calm, be cool, be Fonzie, for the love of Pete. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t? MILLIONS of people are on Twitter (or whatever social network you use.) If the person you’ve focused your laser sights on isn’t responsive?  They don’t want to be your friend. Back the hell off. You are being creepy and you are being weird. STOP IT. Listen, I’m not talking out of my ass, here. I’ve been on both sides of this. When I first started, I was WAY too up this one person’s ass. And I was so confused when that person stopped talking to me. But I think I was being a weirdo. Sorry, person who I will not mention because I think you still read the blog because you are a class act. Also, I have had the “you must love me NOW NOW NOW!” people. And they make me mega-nervous. I appreciate that you seem to like me enough that you want to talk to me CONSTANTLY and use up ALL OF MY ONLINE TIME, but also? Back off, because you’re one step away from keeping me in an abandoned well in your basement and lowering me lotion in a basket, you know?
    (Please note that maybe this annoys NO ONE BUT ME. I know Twitter’s all social and we’re supposed to be all kumbaya and shit. I get it. But there’s a line between talking to someone and replying to EVERYTHING THEY SAY with INANE COMMENTS LIKE “LOL YOU SO CRAY CRAY” and then getting angry if the person doesn’t respond. There’s a line between having something of worth to insert into a conversation people are having, and just putting yourself in there to get ATTENTION because you are LONELY. I know I’m more sensitive to it than most people, due to the aforementioned person who wouldn’t leave me alone and my mom and I STILL call overly-avid-people-who-won’t-take-a-hint by that person’s name, which, let’s pretend the person’s last name was Thompson – it isn’t – we say, “Ugh, that person is TOTALLY Thompsoning me right now,” and it annoys the everloving piss out of me more than almost everyone, but I can assure you, it’s also annoying others. Just not as MUCH as it’s annoying me. And it’s REALLY annoying me. To the point I don’t even want to get onto Twitter anymore because I know the minute I say anything, it’s like a damn alarm goes off and you come a’runnin’ all “AMY AMY LOOK AT ME AMY.” Stop. Just stop. This is the exact OPPOSITE of how you make friends in social media. I assure you. You’re acting like a toddler who needs constant reassurance. It’s not adorable when you’re above the age of about 3.)
  4. Have patience. This one should really be 3a, I think. It means that social media is not our job. It’s what we do in our free time. Some people respond immediately; some people take hours. Some days. If you want everything NOW NOW NOW, then you’re going to either get your heart broken, or tweet someone with something like “ARE YOU OK FRED? IT’S BEEN TEN MINUTES!” and they’re going to unfollow your impatient and shouty ass. Also, adding on to be patient? Try to also be nice. It’s ok to be snarky. The internet is built on snark. But being a constant douchecanoe is a surefire way to get not only unfollowed, but to get a bad reputation. New people aren’t going to follow you if they look over your timeline and notice you’re yelling at people about politics or something ridiculous. The people on the internet are PEOPLE. You need to remember that. What do people have? Feelings. That can be hurt. Be nice. It costs nothing. I promise. (However: protect yourself and your friends. If someone is attacking you or your friends, you have my COMPLETE permission to rip them a new asshole. Just take a couple deep breaths first. And use big words, because that confuses the asshats and often gets them to shut up sooner.)
  5. Private communication. Now, there seems to be a step missing. You don’t just go from chatting to DMing all willy-nilly. Well, maybe some people do. I’m not one of them. When I get a DM from a friend? I like that. I like that a lot. When I get a DM from someone I barely know? It’s like a stranger peeking in on me in the shower. I feel you don’t DM someone until you know them better. I might be in the minority in that. If so, so be it. But the article even says, “It is like a complete stranger wanting to skip steps 1-4 on this list and just go directly to step 5.  It’s not cool,” so I think I’m not alone in this. Anyway. Once you start DMing, even if you’re not talking about anything top-secret, it FEELS secret. It feels special. It feels like friends having a one-on-one conversation. I like seeing my DM light light up and seeing it’s from someone I love.
    Anyway. The step that’s missing? Time. Lots of talking and – well, I don’t know that I can explain this. This is how you make a friend. Sometimes it takes less time, sometimes it takes more. There’s no set timeline for making a friend. You talk. And you share things. And they share back. And you laugh. Well, I don’t know. I do. I laugh a lot. That’s how I choose the people I love. They make me laugh. They make me laugh until I’m snotty and teary and my chest hurts. I want those people in my life. They teach you things. You teach them things. You help them when they need it; they help you when you do. They support you. You support them. It’s all very “when there was one set of footprints that’s when I carried you,” isn’t it? Gack gack gack. And one day, you’re friends. If it sounds vague and nebulous, well, that’s the magic I mentioned. I can’t explain all of it. If you don’t understand it, I’m sorry. Some of it is instinct. Some of it is something we have in our genes and something passed down generation to generation to generation. Like calling to like. Us banding together in the dark against whatever’s outside of the circle of our campfires. It’s not something that science or psychology or years of education can explain. It’s magic, dammit, how else do you need me to explain magic?
  6. You start communicating like real friends. You send each other your email addresses. You email. You DM more. You friend each other on Facebook and see each other’s real-life friends and start liking each other’s personal shit. I suppose if you like phones, you talk on the phone. I hate the phone. I don’t talk to my real friends on the phone. The phone makes me itch. I mean, if they NEED me, it’s not like I don’t ANSWER the phone, but it’s not my choice, ever. You communicate with them as much as the people you see on a daily basis. You find yourself mentioning them in conversation; sometimes this is awkward, because you  have to explain “Oh, that’s my online friend” and you always come up against someone judgey and then have to bite your tongue when you get someone all “You met them ONLINE? You don’t know them?” But you do. Know them. You know them as well as you know someone you see or touch. How can you talk to someone that much and not know them? Sure, they could be pretending to be someone they’re not. But how long, exactly, could they keep that up? Days? Weeks? Months? It’s unlikely. It happens, but not as often as the people who are scared of the big bad intertubes think it does.

    Aw, badger and otter! BFFs, yo!

  7. You meet in person. This one I can’t give you so much advice on, because I don’t have experience. I met an acquaintance, and waved at someone across a room. I may or may not be meeting some friends tomorrow night. That’s up in the air, depending on how long my rehearsal lasts. AND AND AND, I’m meeting my Susie two weeks from Tuesday, and I’m all over butterflies about that. But yes, that’s the next step, isn’t it? It breaks my heart how far I am from some of my people. It seems a little unfair that they’re all they way over THERE and I’m all the way over HERE and we can’t just sit down and have coffee and talk about our lives and laugh and laugh and laugh. But when I’m sad about that, I think, what if I didn’t know them at all? I’d rather have them in my life and have them be all the way over there than not have them at all.

This is a mega-post and at some point I need to get some sleep. SO. Listen.

I counted up the people that I consider my close friends today. Not just friends or acquaintances or coworkers or whatever. Close friends. People that I’d jump in front of a herd of stampeding okapi for, you know? And yes, I’m weirder about categorizing friends than most people. Cut me some slack, Jack, I went my formative years without any people so I’m a stunty bean plant. I’m very fiercely loyal to my small band of loved ones because I never thought I would HAVE loved ones.

Whole damn HERD of okapi!

I won’t tell you the final tally, because it’s none of your business, and I don’t want you to compare your total with mine and be all “I WIN” or whatever. This isn’t about winning or losing. It’s quality, not quantity, my little deviled eggs.

About half of my close friends (close friends, as defined as people I love, remember, people I would gladly give a kidney to, people who make me laugh and cry and who I know are there for me, and that I thank the world for helping me find?) I’ve found via social media. The other half from places in real life: college, work, shared interests. (Also, it’s split equally male/female, so much for the gender wall.) I don’t value my real-life friends any more than I value my social-media friends. They’re my people. They’re the ones I’d save if the boat were sinking. They’re the ones I know love me, warts and all. They’re the ones I’ve chosen, and, in a happy coincidence, they chose me right back.

I don’t have a summation; I don’t have a nice way to end this, other than to say thank you to my people. There was a time I didn’t think I’d have people, ever. And I convinced myself I didn’t need people. Who needs people? I’d say, and laugh all Cruella Deville-like.

I do. I need my people.

Thanks, my people. No matter where I found you, I’m sure as hell not giving you back.

Best of luck to you all in finding YOUR people. You will. Be patient and calm. It’ll happen. Don’t push; don’t be crazy. Relax. They’re there. They’re waiting for you to arrive.

(The title is – I know, ick – from a Phish song? And I hate Phish? But I adore the song. ADORE. Here, there’s no video but you can listen. It’s nice. Even for a stupid jam band.)


Who could ever, ever ask for more? Love without complications galore!

Remember a few days ago, I was all, hey, we don’t talk about sex enough around here? Well, friends, neighbors, and, yes, especially you, Ding Dong Joe, the TIME has COME. It’s Saturday! And it’s time for talking about ALL THE SEX! OK, well maybe not all the sex. SOME of the sex. And, just a warning, it’s probably not all that sexy. More “perplexing” and “generally off-putting” and “ew ew ew”-ing, overall. Sorry. Did you think things were actually going to get SEXY around here? Oh, I’m sorry. No. No, they’re not.

Are you ready?

SEX ROBOTS!

This scares me so, so much, I can't even. SO MUCH.

In this article I discovered today (helpfully entitled “Robots: The gateway to ‘mind-blowing sex’?” NO THEY ARE NOT I ANSWERED YOUR QUESTION) I learned some very important things.

Like, ROBOTS ARE THE WHORES OF THE FUTURE!

The gentleman above (please put air-quotes around “gentleman”), Douglas Hines, the founder of True Companion, has invented the horrifying soulless sex-doll up there. Her name is Roxxxy. The triple-xxxs are for how SEXXXY she is. She is also programmable, so Roxxxy can become Wild Wanda or Frigid Farrah. No, don’t think too hard about why you’d want to purchase a $7,000-$9,000 sex doll and program her to NOT have sex with you (unless you can program her to clean your house or go to to work for you so you can sleep in and blog all day, in which case, yep, I’ll take one, please, as long as I don’t have to touch her in any sort of carnal manner, ew.)

Apparently, according to this article, by 2050, all prostitution is going to be with robots. Because robots are cleanly. And can be hosed off between uses. (NO the article didn’t say “hosed off.” I did.) If we use sex robots, it will cut down on STDs and human trafficking. Well, I’m down with that. No one likes those things.

However, NO ONE LIKES THAT SEX ROBOT, EITHER.

According to the article, “What’s more, the authors add that robots will be so good at their job that they could serve as a gateway to ‘mind-blowing sex that few people currently experience.’ This, in turn, will make more people open to sex with a robot.”

Heh, “open to sex with a robot.” I am…apparently five years old.

Um. I don’t…really? There are men that read this blog. I’ve seen them. Would you have sex with a sex robot, men that read my blog? FINE, pretend you’re not married, if that’s what’s stopping you. Does that photo above turn your crank? Comment anonym0usly, if you want. I don’t care. I’m honestly curious. Like, maybe not because you’re turned ON by sex robots. But, maybe out of curiosity, or something? Just once, to see what it’s like to have sex with a sex robot? I think it’s important that I know this information.

OK, so you KNOW that I researched the website of this sex robot company, right? Of course I did.

OK, so here it is. It’s not REALLY NSFW, but it’s a little ick, so proceed with caution, my little marshmallow peeps.

On the homepage, you see one of the sex robots. You can tell she’s a sex robot because she’s all arched up. Also, shiny. Because she’s made of plastic. SEXXXY plastic. If you left her in the car on a hot day, your sex robot would get melty.

Apparently, the article I quoted above had overly-inflated prices. The prices are MUCH more reasonable. For only $995-$7,000, YOU, TOO, can own a sex robot. Because they’re having a SALE. I love sales, I don’t know if I can resist now.

Now, I’d love to show you some sex robots, but there don’t seem to be a lot of photos. So apparently, you just have to trust True Companion to send you something super-sexy.

For $995, you can get a Roxxxy Pillow. This is just what it sounds like. It is a PILLOW you can FORNICATE WITH. Here’s what the site has to say about the pillow you can screw:

“RoxxxyPillow is a sex robot which is 50 pounds and is stored within a pillow. We basically took our RoxxxySilver, took away the arms and legs and created a pillow which the head and body of the sex robot are stored within. The price is right, she is light and very discreet!”

It has no ARMS or LEGS. It is a HEAD and a BODY. So, in other words, if you buy it, you are getting this:

Tell me someone other than me remembers the movie "Boxing Helena." If not, I'm going to be one sad panda.

No, you’re not really getting Sherilyn Fenn. You’re getting that horrifying object at the top of my blog up there with the lamprey-mouth. Made of plastic.

But, no, wait, apparently that photo above was from 2010. Listen, it’s 2012! Technology is SO MUCH MORE ADVANCED NOW! This is what your sex robot will look like now:

Um. This is not that much better. I think I had those earrings in the 80s, though.Those dead, dead eyes will haunt me to my grave. It would be like screwing one of those heads that hairdressers practice perms on.

So you’ve got your sex pillow – your “light and very discreet” sex pillow (ZOMG, you could totally take it on business trips – “what’s that, Frank?” “Oh, nothing, just a…um…pillow…I brought with me…because…I don’t like…hotel pillows…”) if you want something on the lower-end, price-wise. But what if you’re just rolling in the money and love having sex with plastic?

Your mid-range sex robot – the RoxxxySilver – TOTALLY has arms and legs. Whoo, what a relief, right? But not as portable. You can’t sling her in a pillowcase and carry her around to have random sex with. That’s a shame, you never know when your urge to have sex with a robot will strike.

Want to hear more about RoxxxySilver? Well, of course you do.

From the website:

“RoxxxySilver is the entry level price for our full size Roxxxy robot (with arms and legs). She is basically the same general features as RoxxxyGold but she can only talk “sex talk” when she is interacting and she cannot hear. The base price for RoxxxySilver is $2,995.00.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “What’s this ‘sex talk’ thing? Why is she deaf? WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

Yes, minions. The sex robots TALK TO YOU. And LISTEN TO YOU. And, if you buy the pricey one? THEY INTERACT WITH YOU LIKE THE CREEPY ROBOT PEOPLE IN THAT A.I. MOVIE.

I like that this robot can only talk “sex talk.” I can’t even imagine how UNsexy this must be. Can you even imagine some of the dialogue from a porn, but in a weird electronic robot voice? “Har-der, fas-ter, yes yes yes” but all metallic and shit? NO THANK YOU.

Here’s a video of it talking. I’d embed it, because it’s HILARIOUS, but that “gentleman” above started pulling off the robot’s panties 3/4 of the way through and it took a total dark turn and I don’t want that here. But if you want to see the robot talk and a really, really awkward scientist-type guy try to make it look sexxxy and it is SO NOT SEXXXY, please click. Seriously, the whole time I was watching this I was all, “what is happening WHAT IS HAPPENING.” And also laughing like a moron. And saying “ew ew ew SO NOT SEXXY.” You have got to see this thing move. And the whirring, clicking noises it makes. It is possibly the worst thing I’ve seen all week. And I watch a LOT of crap.

OK, so now you’re super-rich and you want ALL the bells and ALL the whistles? RoxxxyGold, baby.

“RoxxxyGold is our premiere full size sex robot (with arms and legs). She looks exactly like RoxxxySilver. The major difference between RoxxxyGold and RoxxxySilver is that RoxxxyGold can hear you when you speak and she does not just carry on ‘sex talk’.”

Well, then RoxxxyGold is more likely to murder you in your sleep and pod-people you and take over your life, just so you know.

What else can Roxxxy do? Well, without being too graphic…um…here, I’ll let the website tell you.

Roxxxy is designed using the body of a fine arts model. All three Roxxxy’s have three “inputs” and are anatomically consistent with real woman!  (Hee, “inputs.” That couldn’t be less sexxxy and more electronic if it tried.)

RoxxxyGold can listen, talk, carry on a conversation and feel your touch as well as move her private areas inside when she is being “utilized”, for an unforgettable erotic experience. (“Unforgettable” or “forever burned into your brain area, so much so that a celebrated therapist couldn’t extricate it?” Also, “feel your touch?” That is horrifying.)

RoxxxyGold has a personality which is matched as much as possible to your personality. So she likes what you like, dislikes what you dislike, etc. She also has moods during the day just like real people! She can be sleepy, conversational or she can “be in the mood”! (Why does this company assume I want to have sex with someone JUST LIKE ME? I’m not that great. I think I’d like to be with someone as UNLIKE me as possible. If we were always in the same mood that would get old fast. Also, sometimes Roxxxy is sleepy? Or conversational? What if I don’t feel like chatting? She sounds like the worst roommate ever.)

Oh, and and AND, on top of the Frigid Farrah and Wild Wanda nonsense, there are three other personalities – a young girl (EW EW), an old woman (what?) and a dominatrix. And – ready? “You can add to the 5 preloaded girlfriend profiles and your Roxxxy’s personality. You can also change the existing 5 personalities to better suit your preferences!”

You are aware what this means, right?

This is totally about making one’s own Buffybot. No joke. Well, except it’s creepy. It’s totally creepy. Well, I mean, I guess the Buffybot was creepy, too, since she was created to be Spike’s sex robot, but at least she was HOT.

Don’t worry – if you are only turned on my certain hair or eye colors, that’s totally customizable, as well. My favorite choice for hair color that was offered was “patchy.” There was a photo but it was very small. All I could think of when I saw the word “patchy” was when in the movie The Craft they put that spell on the bitchy swimmer and her hair fell out in clumps and the special effects were so horrible? So, that’s sexxxy.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. But I like to have sex with MEN-TYPE PEOPLE! Well. Don’t you even WORRY.

There’s also Rocky. The MALE sex-robot.

Rocky is described as everyone’s dream date! – just imagine putting together a great body along with a sparkling personality where your man is focused on making you happy! This is Rocky!

When you are using Rocky’s private “area”, it is like sleeping with a beautiful hunk that is really big down there and he moves it around to please you instead of just pleasing himself! Plus, the vibrations from his manhood coupled with his erotic personality is described as unbeatable. He also waits for you to finish before he calls it a night!

Hmm. Private “area.” Those seem like oddly-placed quotes. Also, I think all the men I’ve been with have been broken. Their manhoods did not vibrate. I am really disappointed right now.

I’d love to show you a picture of Rocky, mainly because I want to see Rocky, but there are NO PHOTOS. I am having trouble believing Rocky exists. I think Rocky is a Canadian girlfriend.

And YES, I will totally answer my own question from above. I’d have to see Rocky the Sex Robot before I make that call, but preemptively, I’m going to say that no. No, I would not, even out of curiosity, have sex with a sex robot. Because I think it would make me laugh so hard I’d injure myself, and how the hell do you explain THAT when the EMTs show up? “Oh, this? This is my…um…sex robot…oh, please don’t make me laugh again, please, I think I’ve pulled something.”

Now, the Frequently Asked Questions section of the website has a lot of important things we need to know, such as:

For a date, what kind of place would Roxxxy like to go and which personality would you suggest be turned on for this kind of romantic setting? 

She is comfortable staying home and watching a movie or ordering dinner to be delivered.

(In other words, please, PLEASE, for the love of PETE, do NOT bring your sex robot to Burger King. You’ll scare the children. The only person who could carry that out and still seem adorable was Ryan Gosling in the sex doll movie.)

See? Still adorable. Gosling is made of magic and rainbows.

Does she have an off switch? 

Yes, she has an off switch.

(You know, in case you don’t feel like that robotic voice chattering away to you all the time, constantly BOTHERING you, even when you’re trying to SLEEP, and when you’re not home, the FedEx guy would show up and hear it and be all, “I know someone’s in there! I can hear you!” and Frigid Farrah would be all, “Don’t touch me there, Chuck” and FedEx would NEVER deliver your packages AGAIN and possibly would also call the cops. Do you really want that on your head? Do you?)

Is it true she can talk about soccer?

She can talk to you about soccer, about your stocks in the stock market, etc.

(ZOMG she can talk about SPORTS. And STOCKS. Well, this is an interesting development and makes her totally more sexxxy…no, no wait, no, it doesn’t. Still creepy. Still totally creepy.)

And…in case you were wondering…

We have a cleaning kit which takes care of any messes that may occur.

Oh, good. Good, good, good. So if I drop a whole English muffin pizza on Rocky’s private “area”, I have a way to clean that up. I mean, that’s hypothetical, of course. That didn’t happen to anyone in this household tonight, if you replace “Rocky’s private ‘area'” with “Amy’s khakis.”

And – AND – because I’m always looking out for you, and it’s a shitty economy right now – True Companion is hiring. I can’t guarantee the job opportunity isn’t “you have to have sex with a sex robot without laughing or crying hysterically while people watch,” though. The posting’s kind of vague. What? Stop complaining. Like my mom says when I complain about my job, “It’s a JOB. Do you WANT to be living out of a dumpster?” No, Mom. No, I don’t. I don’t know if I’d ever be living out of a dumpster? I don’t think people actually live out of dumpsters. I think that’s something moms say to scare their children.

(Title’s from one of my favorite songs of all time – The Dresden Dolls’ “Coin-Operated Boy.” Here. Watch. You’ll love. Promise.)


Yellow dancing and purple tears and WHAT IS HAPPENING

This is probably going to be scattery.  I’m in the midst of a project that is taking a bit of time and also brain power. It’s almost done, my little tater tots. Promise promise. I’ll be better early next week. Or maybe mid-April when tax season’s over. There’s an end in sight, I’m saying.

Anyway.

FRIDAY WAS THE DAY FROM HELL.

So in the clerical pool at work, there is me – full-time clerical drudge – and my co-worker K., part-time clerical drudge. K. had to take a vacation day yesterday, or she would stop accruing vacation time. I love K. Like bunches and tons. I don’t want her to stop accruing vacation time. I want her to have ALL the vacation time.

But when I got into work Friday, already KNOWING it was going to be complete and utter chaos with only me to deal with it, it was WORSE than that. Apparently, the tax elves had been busy overnight, so there were tax returns EVERYWHERE for me to work on. Plus all the typing. And filing. And the myriad other things I do in a day. Because I am VERY IMPORTANT. Like a junk drawer, where you put all the junk you don’t want but know you can’t get rid of? I’m where you junk all the jobs you don’t want, but know need to be done. Doesn’t that make me feel ever-so-fine? Sure does, bub.

So I worked and I toiled and I worked and I toiled and people came in and were mad I wasn’t working on THEIR job and they’d leave and ANOTHER person would come in and be all, “WHAT ABOUT MY JOB” and I just kept gesturing toward K.’s desk and muttering, “I’m doing the best I can.”

Then I started randomly humming “Totally Fucked” (sorry, did you need a cuss warning? Too tired to give one) under my breath (from Spring Awakening, because what better to help me out than a musical on the worst day of tax season yet?) because it entertained me that they just thought I was humming, possibly because I was mentally deranged, but really in my head, the lyrics “Yeah, you’re fucked all right, and all for spite, you can kiss your sorry ass goodbye, totally fucked, will they mess you up? Well you know they’re gonna try” were on repeat, LOUDLY, and it was AWESOME. Because they had NO IDEA. They thought I was humming a PRETTY LITTLE DITTY. Well, there you go, coworkers. THERE YOU GO. I was WELL-AWARE of my predicament, and I had the PERFECT SONG in my head to go with it, thank you very much.

Here’s the song. Starring my man Jonathan Groff. YOU ARE WELCOME. (Yes, I know it’s douchey some asshat filmed a live performance. But! GROFFFF!)

Also, I told one of my coworkers that I was pretty sure work had murdered my soul (this was after a billion other things went wrong and I was kind of chastised for something that wasn’t even WRONG and I was SO PISSED) and she was all, “Well, good, it’s about time, it’s a lot easier to work here if your soul is dead.”

I work at a place where it’s EASIER TO WORK IF YOUR SOUL HAS DIED.

I think maybe this is a huge old flashy warning sign, right?

Oh, and, there’s this thing where I have to sign up for a mentor, and I might have asked the lady in charge of it if my mentor would be able to help me with my career path of NOT LOSING MY SHIT. Probably that wasn’t wise as she’s in HR. I might be unemployed now. (If you’re interested, her answer was, in a soothing voice, “We may be able to find some resources to help you with that!” YOU GUYS I THINK MY OFFICE IS SENDING ME TO ANGER MANAGEMENT. Imagine the blogging potential there!)

Anyway. Then on my lunch break, I decided I had to get out or I would die, so I ran some errands, but one of the places I called to make sure that it would be open? Not open. Why would you be a liar? That’s disheartening. And also, every single person I got behind was driving SO SO SLOW and I was TOTALLY ROAD RAGEY and I wanted to punch everyone in the neck twice.

Yeah, so I had kind of a shit day.

But then things got better when I got home, and I had a package waiting for me in the mail which I will, once I have time, blog about in more detail, because it gave me such joy, and I got to talk to my dad (his solution for how much work sucks? “Record everything everyone says to you.” When I said, “What good would that do? Who would I give the recording to?” he didn’t have an answer. This doesn’t seem like much of a solution, to tell you the truth, but I love him for trying), and I learned that “doof” is German for “stupid” and that’s just a fun word to say, right? Apparently, you say it like “loaf” and not “roof.” You know, in case you wanted to call your cat that over and over. Not that anyone in THIS house would do that. And if they did, they did it in a loving VOICE, I mean, come ON.

So anyway, I was doing some stuff and driving around and two songs came on that bear note. One was happy; one was confusing because I finally listened to the lyrics.

The happy one first. I had never heard this before:

How much fun is THIS? Sorry, this is the live version, apparently there’s no video or something. But it’s like this adorable punk-looking British kid and he’s all swing-jivey! I kind of love this.

THEN, right after that, I was flipping around the channels because Bon Iver came on and I don’t allow that garbage in my earholes, and Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi” came on. I’m not putting in the video. I’m sure you’ve all heard this song. If you haven’t, you’re probably just old! Like me! Hi, old-timers like me!

Now listen, I totally enjoy the Gaga. I do. She’s nutty and a total attention hog but I like her music. It’s fun and it makes me want to dance around the house like a looney.

I think they might have done this song on Glee, which is why it sounded familiar to me. I only know a handful of Lady Gaga songs very well and this isn’t one of them. But I was all, oh, hey, I’m in the shittiest of shitty moods! I will listen to this!

I find this whole song very confusing.

I apparently am TOO OLD FOR LADY GAGA. Well, at least too old to pay attention to the lyrics. Maybe I could just nod and hum or something. Because these are confusing lyrics, you guys. Like, half of this is a weirdo acid trip and the other half is a sad-panda emo stalker movie.

OK, so we start with:

We are the crowd, we’re c-comin’ out
Got my flash on, it’s true

(I assume this is about, well, paparazzi. Easy enough. It’s in the title.)

Need that picture of you
It so magical, we’d be so fantastical

(Either the stupid lyric site I’m working with has a typo, or “it so magical” is a lyric. Either way, I hate it. This still seems to be about paparazzi, even though it’s kind of dumb.)

Leather and jeans, garage glamorous
Not sure what it means

(I’m not, either, Gaga. Is “garage glamorous” a thing? Then the guy at my auto body shop is FABULOUS!)

But this photo of us it don’t have a price
Ready for those flashing light

(Ugh, this has to be the lyrics site, right? It has to be “ready for those flashing lights.” Otherwise I’m sending Gaga to remedial grammar school. I can forgive the “don’t” in the line above, it’s a choice, but not the “light.” Also, this is the first sign we have that this is not just about paparazzi but about stalkers.)

Then we have the chorus. It’s totally boppy. I like it a lot.

I’m your biggest fan, I’ll follow you until you love me
Papa, paparazzi

(Um. “I’ll follow you until you love me” is a worrisome thing. Don’t be putting ideas into little kiddos heads, now.)

Baby, there’s no other superstar, you know that I’ll be
Your papa, paparazzi

(Confusing. Who’s the superstar? The paparazzi? Or the celebrity? OOH. Maybe that’s the POINT. Maybe they’re INTERCHANGEABLE. No, wait, probably I’m reading too much into this shit, right?)

Promise I’ll be kind
But I won’t stop until that boy is mine

(Please stop encouraging this behavior. Hey, teens? Please stop if the boy isn’t interested. There’s a fine line between stalking and crushing, ok?)

Baby, you’ll be famous, chase you down until you love me
Papa, paparazzi

(STOP THIS MADNESS GAGA)

Remember we talked about advice songs the other day? Gaga’s giving us advice. Advice about how if you don’t give up, YOU CAN HAVE THE MAN OF YOUR DREAMS. That’s not true, by the way. If it was, I’d be married about 47 times right now.

I’ll be your girl backstage at your show
Velvet ropes and guitars
Yeah, cause you’re my rock star in between the sets
Eyeliner and cigarettes

(So…did the stalker GET the guy, or is she like a backstage ho, or what’s happening? Also, I know guys in eyeliner are hotties, but they’re also usually douchebags. Let my experience be your guide, my little lost starshines.)

Shadow is burnt, yellow dance and we turn
My lashes are dry, purple teardrops I cry

(WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING. This is getting totally the most weird. It’s like the poems I used to write when I was in junior high: “My heart is a velvet balloon of sorrow…it expands, it explodes…confetti of your love like rain, doves of sorrow scream…”)

(Please note I never wrote anything like that in high school and my writing, much like my taste, has ALWAYS been EXQUISITE.)

It don’t have a price, loving you is cherry pie

(Whenever I hear “cherry pie” outside of mention of ACTUAL cherry pie I always think of that video with Tawny Kitaen on the roof of the car, you know? I can’t help it. It makes me laugh.)

Then the chorus again, more encouraging little girls to be stalky, etc.

Real good, we dance in the studio
Snap, snap to that shit on the radio

(Now we’re…dancing? In a studio? And cussing and snapping? I don’t know, what happened to the yellow dancing and the purple  tears of sadness?)

Don’t stop for anyone
We’re plastic but we still have fun

(How are these people related to the stalkers, the stalkees, or the backstage hos? It’s like it’s a whole different song right now.)

Then more chorus. Then we’re done.

I liked this song a lot more when I thought it was about paparazzi and not encouraging young girls to go after their dream men and NEVER GIVE UP even if they get a restraining order against you or something.

Also, recently, a lovely young woman of my acquaintance posted the following on Facebook. I think it needs to be addressed.

“I was so afraid, now I realize, love is never wrong, and so it never dies.”

Google tells me this is from The Lion King 2. There was a Lion King 2? Huh. Learn something new and unneeded every day, I suppose.

Love is never wrong, so it never dies.

REALLY.

OK, listen. We all went through our sad little emo phases where we were all “HE/SHE COMPLETES ME” and “THIS IS FOREVER” and such. Is there a way to just shake this out of teenagers? I love this kid to distraction, by the way. She’s one of my jump-in-front-of-a-train-for people. I want to hide her under my bed and give her chocolate and not let anyone hurt her ever again; barring that, I want to find whatever asshat decided it was a good idea to mess with one of MY people, and I want to take a fireplace poker and stuff it up his nostril until it comes out the top of his head. Then I want to hit it with ANOTHER poker so it makes his whole body vibrate like a gong.

But here’s the thing, babe. Love is OFTEN wrong. Can I just tell you HOW wrong? The most. The most wrong. SO EFFING WRONG. And also? It TOTALLY dies. It turns into hate, sometimes; it dies right off so you don’t remember the person’s last name a couple years later, other times. Sometimes, it’s not even love! Sometimes, it’s lust, or infatuation, and it PRETENDS it’s love, but it’s not. It’s just slutty lust dressed in love’s ill-fitting party clothes, or goofy infatuation wearing love’s best shoes.

You’ll learn this, eventually. I promise. But maybe stop watching The Lion King 2. Because it’s obviously not teaching you the right things. Watch the first one, that one was all circle of life-y and shit, that was nice.

Also, I’m hoping she stays the hell away from Gaga. Otherwise, she’s going to start stalking the shit out of love-never-dies boy and that won’t be good times for anyone involved.

ALSO, just quickly, I told Dad about how I was totally going to go to Europe, once the rich people sponsored me? You know, because he was totally going to have to be gentled into this idea. Because my internet people are killers.

His response?

“That’ll be nice. You get so excited about things. You’d have a nice time.”

OK, so either he’s PRETENDING to agree because he does not believe in my rich-person plan (if so, BOO DAD, it’s TOTALLY going to work, you just have to give it TIME) or he really doesn’t care and maybe he believes the internet people are real.

This is all very perplexing.

Also, remember I was all excited about porridge? I told my mom about it and she said, “That’s just Cream of Wheat. You hate Cream of Wheat.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever TRIED Cream of Wheat, MOM, since when do you know all the foods I’ve tried in ever?  But if you put it THAT way it SOUNDS totally unappealing. Porridge sounds EXOTIC and like FAIRY TALE FOOD. Cream of Wheat sounds like what Nana eats when her dentures stop fitting.

To end on a happy note, I found out about the BEST MEME EVER this week. Ready?

SOCIALLY AWKWARD PENGUIN.

You all probably know about this and are all “OLD NEWS AMY GAAAHHH” but it made me laugh so hard I snorted.

OK. Off I go. Planning. Scheming. Hoping. Wishing. Etcetera.

Happy Saturday. Hope your day is free of angstiness! And full of bubblegum!


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