tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86890499223635405292024-02-21T03:17:59.967-05:00Bad ChoicesMandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-77032115823992407852013-07-19T16:55:00.001-04:002013-07-19T17:17:48.317-04:00The Best Birthday Party Ever.I have this weird friend who I met in Theatre II in high school. We were just mediocre friends at the time, but more importantly, we were brothers.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cory is the one with the long hair and the look of hatred. I'm the one lying on the floor with the look of hatred.</td></tr>
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<br />
His name was Leroy in "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" and I was his brother Ollie. See, boys weren't too keen on being in plays back in the day because obviously all males who act are homosexuals, so we used the few males we had sparingly on roles that legitimately needed to be boys. The rest of us were girls or weird hermaphrodite things. No girl ever understood if she was supposed to be playing a boy, or if the character were being revised to accommodate for her boobies.<br />
<br />
My bro Cory helped me to look as grungy as our family of characters were intended by cutting holes in my jeans and sandpapering them to give them the appearance of falling apart. Because they were. I helped myself look grungy by chopping off my own hair an hour and a half before the second night of the show.<br />
<br />
We didn't talk or see each other at all after our magnificent performances together, which was pretty much how all my high school friendships went.<br />
<br />
Then the magic of Facebook happened approximately seven years later, and we discovered we were both unmedicated insomniacs who should therefore spend our sleepless hours talking about nonsense and insulting each other.<br />
<br />
Me: My kitten is sooo cute. She's lying on my neck to sleep. :D<br />
<br />
Cory: I'm going to feed your kitten to a shark next time I'm at the ocean.<br />
<br />
Me: I'll feed your pet snake to a water buffalo, you jerk.<br />
<br />
Cory: No you smell like cheese.<br />
<br />
Obviously the perfect friendship.<br />
<br />
Knowing that I was doing nothing with my life at any given time of the day, Cory would occasionally call me and ask me to come hang out and do nothing with my life in a different location. Sometimes this was harmless and normal, like when we went out to eat at dinnertime. Other times it was sketchy and weird, like when I had to meet his friend (whom I had never met) in the parking lot of a used bookstore at 2:30 a.m., let him get in the car with me, and allow him to show me the rest of the way to the house because the directions were too complicated to tell over the phone. Of course I obliged unquestioningly, because what is the name of my blog?<br />
<br />
Actually nothing bad happened at all on that evening. We just played poker or something and listened to extremely loud music with lots of screaming. But I very easily could have been drugged and sold into a human trafficking network.<br />
<br />
The time it actually got bad was at Cory's birthday party two years ago. He had a bonfire in his back yard, which is nice and cozy and festive. I was the hottest girl in the yard because I was the only girl invited. It looked to be a lovely evening.<br />
<br />
It was in fact a lovely evening, despite some questionable decision-making involving illegal substances and the presence of a guy named Smoky who was friends with my ex-boyfriend.<br />
<br />
I ignored all that stuff and drank a warm Dr. Pepper from the trunk of my car. And I'm not just saying that because my impressionable young mother will read this.<br />
<br />
When these wholesome family-friendly activities wrapped up at around 4:30 in the morning, I was starving. There was a shockingly small amount of food at this soiree, which I did not appreciate. I needed to maintain my lovely lady lumps by devouring someone's entire kitchen.<br />
<br />
Only Cory, myself, and one of his friends were remaining by this time. I forgot his friend's name so we'll call him Dan. I kindly asked Cory and Dan if they wanted to accompany me to IHOP so we could eat our weight in syrup. They declined, saying they had no money, so I generously offered to buy their food and therefore their undying affection.<br />
<br />
With that problem easily solved, we went on our merry way to IHOP. Halfway there, trouble started brewing as the boys suddenly expressed their guilt about me getting their breakfast.<br />
<br />
Cory: I just feel bad. You shouldn't have to pay for my food... I just won't eat.<br />
<br />
Me: You're ridiculous. It'll be your birthday present. And, well, I'll just get Dan's food for the heck of it. No big deal.<br />
<br />
Dan: I'm RIGHT HERE. Don't talk about me like I'm some charity case.<br />
<br />
Me: I... wasn't?<br />
<br />
Dan: I don't need to be talked to this way. I should just go back to New York if this is how they treat people in North Carolina.<br />
<br />
Me: I don't... even... okay.<br />
<br />
Cory: ........<br />
<br />
We walked into the restaurant in uncomfortable silence after his unexpected outburst. I thought if we just didn't mention it, his rage would subside... mine always does.<br />
<br />
Waitress: Okay here's your table, can I get your drink order?<br />
<br />
Dan: *loudly* Check out that fatass marine over there.<br />
<br />
Waitress: *frozen smile, glancing at Cory and me to help*<br />
<br />
Me: Oh gosh. Golly. Tea please.<br />
<br />
Cory: *hands over face* Water. Sorry.<br />
<br />
With the waitress out of the way, I could see the two uniformed marines at their table nearby, glowering at us over their stuffed french toast. Dan was staring straight ahead at the wall, behaving as if he had not just offended and disrespected a man who could kill him with his big toe if he wanted to.<br />
<br />
The waitress brought our drinks, ignored Dan, took my order, ignored Dan, and ignored Dan some more. Cory had decided not to eat so now me and my food were the only reasons we were slumped at the vulnerable little booth at IHOP, stuck being subliminally assaulted by a slightly overweight marine and his average-sized marine friend.<br />
<br />
We said literally nothing for quite some time. Dan's rage filled the entire building; I could taste it in my hash browns. Why was he so angry? Why was he so suddenly offended by my offer to buy him breakfast when he was fine the whole night leading up to that moment? Why did he blatantly disrespect a man who fights for our country? Why did he not show any remorse for his unkind, not to mention unnecessary, remark? And why was he staring blankly into oblivion like a freaking sociopath?<br />
<br />
I tired of asking myself these questions because it was ruining my appetite, so I attempted light-hearted banter with Cory to distract from the situation and to fill the enormous silence.<br />
<br />
Me: Whoops, I put too much ketchup on my plate.<br />
<br />
Cory: Well you can never have too much ketchup.<br />
<br />
Me: I like cheese in my eggs.<br />
<br />
Cory: That's why you always smell like cheese.<br />
<br />
Dan quickly had enough of our strained laughter and culinary commentary. He slammed his fist down on the table, causing me to swallow my fork, and stalked outside muttering about moving back to New York where friends know how to treat each other.<br />
<br />
I regurgitated my silverware in time to notice the "fat" marine and his buddy heading for the door. We desperately flagged down the waitress, threw some money at her, and sprinted outside so we could rescue Dan, or at least watch him squirm his way through a tussle.<br />
<br />
Cory: Come on man, let's just go home, you don't know what you're doing.<br />
<br />
Dan: I know exactly what I'm doing, and I'm going to keep doing it, they can't stop me.<br />
<br />
"Fat" Marine: Learn some respect, boy, do you know what we've gone through to protect little jerks like you?<br />
<br />
Dan: I don't need protecting, nobody's ever done anything for me!<br />
<br />
Cory: Dude I'm letting you live in my house.<br />
<br />
Dan: Oh now I'm a burden to my friends. Just leave, I'll walk home. Or I'll find a new home, maybe that would make you happy. Nobody in New York would ever make me feel guilty about staying in their house, eating all their food, and having them drive me everywhere.<br />
<br />
"Fat" Marine: Maybe you should go back there then.<br />
<br />
Dan: I don't need some DUMBASS MARINE telling me what to do with my life!<br />
<br />
By this time there were quite a lot of people standing around the entrance, waiting to see some scrawny punk kid getting his face rearranged. They were also looking at Cory and me judgmentally, for being friends with this belligerent lunatic and bringing him out in public. I was horrified and painfully aware of how my tired eyes and sloppy hair could be easily mistaken for signs of drug use when combined with the evidence of my present company.<br />
<br />
Dan and the "fat" marine were standing inches apart, screaming hatred and venom into each other's souls, when Cory turned to me and said, "let's leave."<br />
<br />
I was behind the wheel before he was done with his sentence, and was halfway out of the parking lot before he even got his door closed. He apologized profusely for his ridiculous friend, and didn't seem at all afraid of what Dan would do when he realized we had taken him seriously on his threat to walk home.<br />
<br />
I feared that Dan would be waiting for us at Cory's house because he could obviously walk faster than 55 mph, so I only stayed around for approximately two and a half minutes after dropping Cory off. Just long enough to meet his pet cat and subsequently get fur all over my entire being.<br />
<br />
Dan called and cursed Cory out for leaving him at IHOP to get the poop beaten out of him "for no reason." I suffered through a mild panic attack while envisioning Dan hunting us through the woods with a machete for abandoning him. He said he was halfway to the house already and was ragingly pissed off, as if we didn't already know that part. Cory ordered me to drive home quickly, not look back, and not make eye contact with anyone walking down the road. I cried the whole way home.<br />
<br />
All I'd wanted was to have a good time and meet some new people.<br />
<br />
Dan is now living safely (I guess) in New York (I think) again where he can not bother me or anyone else I know (I hope).<br />
<br />
<br />Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-30099256685718007542013-05-03T02:27:00.001-04:002013-05-19T21:02:07.420-04:00Surprise! You're alone in life.<p>Does anybody enjoy seeing their exes by surprise? </p>
<p>I didn't think so. Even if you don't want them back and don't have any feelings for them, you don't want to see them, and you certainly don't want to see them without any warning. </p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>A warning gives you time to prepare yourself emotionally, to make sure you've moved on, to get any crying out of the way, and most importantly: throw on some lipstick and run a brush through your hair, you've gotta make him hurt so bad that he gave up this gorgeous bombshell and let him see that you are so much above his level now.</p>
<p>That is not, as I'm sure you expected, how it ever works out for me.</p>
<p>Here is what I actually do upon the gross misfortune of seeing any of my ex-boyfriends, ever, in any setting:<br></p>
<p>Notice them nonchalantly, as I would any human being.</p>
<p>Realize who they are and have no ability to control the unappealing look of shock and resentment on my face.</p>
<p>Unintentionally do a double-take to make sure it is that unfortunate fellow and groan, "oh my gosh there's that douchebag loser moron I used to date." Even if I'm alone.</p>
<p>Start to wave, because I'm a classy broad like that.</p>
<p>Notice he is with his wife, or baby, or baby-mama.</p>
<p>Become suddenly and harshly aware that I don't have makeup on to cover my acne and I didn't have time to wash my hair that morning and there's probably spinach in my teeth from lunch and I've done nothing with my life.</p>
<p>Awkwardly finish waving and glance away busily like I have way too much going on in my dumb life, so please don't even try to slow me down to chat about your great happy successful fulfilling lives and ask me whats the hold up, how come you aren't married and pregnant yet?</p>
<p>Wonder why they would come to my workplace if not to ruin my day. Or to my wal-mart, my gas station, or my mexican restaurant. They should have known they would see me and make me awkward and conscious of how pointless and alone I am.</p>
<p>Vow to lose 30 pounds so I can stop being embarrassed of my existence. </p>
<p>Spend the rest of the week evaluating my life choices and consuming 4000 calories of ice cream every day to bury my inadequacy and shame under a new layer of cellulite.</p>
<p>Look them up on facebook to judge how ugly and unhappy they and their families are.</p>
<p>Never, ever get rewarded by that endeavor.</p>
<p>Notice all the proud announcements in my newsfeed for two new engagements, one new home, four new jobs, and eleven new pregnancies.</p>
<p>Delete my own Facebook status because all of a sudden bragging about my choice to eat yogurt instead of ice cream seems... sad. And I don't want anybody to pity me for not having anything real to think about and thus feel inclined to share with everyone I know on Facebook. </p>
<p>Question the fairness of the universe while listing all the terrible people I know who get to be married and make babies and do other fabulous and annoying things with their lives.</p>
<p>Write an idiotic blog complaining about it instead of going to college because it's easier to impact the world in a small-scale, boring way.</p>
Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-29078039467316184982013-04-27T05:02:00.001-04:002013-04-27T05:03:19.063-04:00I have to go BACK?!<p>Whenever my parents made the brilliant decision to stop homeschooling my brothers and me, I was elated. I had this vision of public school based on my neighbor's exaggerated tales of her school, Harry Potter, and Nickelodeon shows where the characters spend about 4% of their time in a classroom because they're too busy solving mysteries or secretly being superheroes.</p>
<p>I was in for the biggest disappointment of my young life since the Christmas Eve I wandered into the living room to find my parents loading presents under the tree and my older brother carefully sprinkling baking soda around his shoes to create Santa's snowy footprints across the room. I always wondered why they never melted away like ours did. And where that snow came from. And why my parents didn't yell at him to take his darn boots off outside before walking all over the house for goodness sake.</p>
<p>We were moving from Asheboro to Lexington the summer I turned 13, to be closer to my dad's work. Don't ask what he does, I still don't really know. So when we started school, not only would it be a completely alien environment to us, but there was also a 0% chance we would see a single person we knew. But I didn't care - I was fabulous at making friends! I imagined myself passing notes in class, making everyone laugh at lunch, and effortlessly understanding everything taught in class.</p>
<p>First day of school. Also my birthday.</p>
<p>I wore highwater stretch jeans with tennis shoes and a shirt made of 97% glitter and 3% itchy elastic stuff. I know this because those were the only kinds of clothes I owned that magical year. Standing awkwardly next to a trashcan in the commons area before school started, holding the straps to my Powerpuff Girls backpack, I actually had the good fortune to be approached by a friendly girl who was also new. We talked about American Idol and her boyfriend. Of course she wasn't on my "team" of classes so the only time I would ever see her was before school. Her friendship was pointless but reassuring. Until she started hanging out with the cool children and pretending not to know me later that year... but that's a story for another time.</p>
<p>The bell rang and I easily found my homeroom class because I was one of the 3 students to attend orientation a couple weeks before. I found my seat and looked around expectantly through the cloud of glitter emitting from my stylish top. Everyone was talking and laughing and not wanting to make new friends since they had all known each other since elementary school and they didn't have time to get to know someone new. Especially if that someone had greasy hair and nervous pit stains.</p>
<p>Apparently there was a difference between homeschooled kids and public school kids that I hadn't counted on...</p>
<p>When the community of homeschool families got together, our objectives were:<br>
1. Learn new things<br>
2. Have fun<br>
3. Love everybody<br>
4. Make friends with other kids</p>
<p>Public school kids' objectives upon getting together seemed to be:<br>
1. Avoid learning anything, ever<br>
2. Have fun... at the expense of weird kids, teachers, defenseless animals, or parents<br>
3. Hate everybody. We're teenagers now.<br>
4. Alienate other kids</p>
<p>So I just looked around helplessly, smiling pleasantly so people would want to add me to their group of friends. Obviously that did not work on this particularly disturbed group of children.</p>
<p>I sat across from two "cool" girls at lunch. It was hard to differentiate who was supposed to be cool and who wasn't because nobody was particularly attractive or interesting. Even these alleged cool girls had braces, but one of them had not only cleavage, but shimmery lotion across that cleavage. It don't get no cooler than that. As it turns out, they were full of drama and gossip and STDs and anorexia.</p>
<p>I brought an off-brand lunchables pizza for lunch that day. When I eat lunchables pizzas now, which I do quite frequently, people think it's cute and nostalgic and I give them the Crunch bar that comes with it as a thank you for not spitting on me. However, bringing lunchables to eat on your first day of eighth grade does not get you respect or friends or anything but judgment. I made a mental note to request that my mom supply me with lunch money every day because yummy cafeteria hamburgers formed from crusty umbilical cords are more socially acceptable.</p>
<p>Here are some highlights from my day because I don't remember them in order.</p>
<p>I only got lost once, but when I realized my terrible mistake I turned around to go back the way I came and was nearly trampled by a mob of angry eighth grade ponytails.</p>
<p>I couldn't find my seat in social studies class and some genius said "duh" at me when the teacher showed me where it was. I snapped at him to shut up and everyone heard me and said "ooooooooh..." like I had just dropped an F bomb. Everyone should've told that kid to shut up, he was effing awful.</p>
<p>The social studies teacher scolded me in front of the whole class for bringing my backpack in, because it was supposed to stay in my locker. Which nobody bothered to tell me. That kid said "duh" at me again and I wondered if his parents would be angry or grateful if I stabbed a pencil down his throat.</p>
<p>A girl in gym class whose eyebrows had approximately 19 hairs each asked me if I'd ever waxed my eyebrows. Insecurity achieved. Then she was all, "you can stop staring at me now," when I said no and waited on her to say something else.</p>
<p>My English teacher told everybody I was homeschooled because she thought it was interesting. They did not share her interest but stared at me anyway and muttered to one another, probably glad they hadn't befriended me so I wouldn't have the chance to infect them with differentitis.</p>
<p>I put "reading" as a hobby on one of those "get to know me" information sheets classes always have on the first day. Apparently your answers aren't meant to be truthful, they're meant as an opportunity to promote your adolescent coolness. Nobody clued me in on that little secret. Everyone else's hobbies were things like, football, cheerleading, softball, dancing, partying, driving illegally, having sex, buying extravagently priced designer jeans... I can't even think of cool things middle school kids would do, but I know you were NOT supposed to list your nerdy hobbies or make yourself seem smart in any way. It seemed you could only keep from being a social outcast if you were a jock, stoner, or partier. What kinds of monsters were these 13-year-olds? Did they not watch Hey Arnold after school and read Babysitters Club books with a flashlight under their blankets at night?</p>
<p>When the longest day of my life finally ended at 3:00, I waited outside in a mob of strangers for my mom to pick me up. She had already been by the elementary school to get Thomas because I guess younger kids don't require as much torture time as us wicked teenagers. I pretended it hadn't been too bad and offered noncommital unenthusiastic responses to my mom's interrogation. It was my birthday and I just wanted to forget about my hugely undelightful middle school experience so I could be in a jolly-good-fellow sort of mood for my special dinner at Little Italy.</p>
<p>Thomas wasn't trying at all to conceal his contempt for school; he cried about being away from home for so long and other kids being smarter than him and not having time to finish his lunch. I didn't care because he was in the third grade and cried about everything that ever happened to him. It was my birthday so he needed to shut up and recognize.</p>
<p>We went to Little Italy when my dad got home from work. Apparently, earlier that summer he had told Thomas some reassuring lie about going back to homeschooling if he didn't like public school. So Thomas told him all the awful facts of elementary school life, since Daddy would obviously have to fix the situation by taking him out of school immediately. I stared sullenly around the restaurant, munching on my cheesestick and willing the conversation to turn to my brand new teenagerdom. Daddy listened sympathetically and slurped on his pizza so loudly we should have been asked to leave.</p>
<p>Poor Little Thomas: And then, we had to write our FULL NAMES down so everyone would know everyone's name. And plus also my crayon snapped so I had to use another color. I hated it.</p>
<p>Me: *Clearly not paying attention, won't even remember the exact reason he's so upset later*</p>
<p>Sympathetic Daddy: Well, son, it'll be better tomorrow, and as the year goes on and you get used to-</p>
<p>Poor Little Thomas: *Look of absolute horror, voicing my own dread* I have to go BACK?!<br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br></p>
<p>Several sidenotes:</p>
<p>**We did have to go back, and it did get slightly better. I even made a few friends, but I still shudder when I'm forced to think of middle school.</p>
<p>**Thanks to the few kids who didn't care about my humongous eyebrows and homeschooled background, especially Kelly, Carly, and Stephanie. You are all angels.</p>
<p>**Everyone else: screw you, you made an innocent friendly kid miserable for no reason.</p>
Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-21019042790485137782013-04-24T03:31:00.001-04:002013-04-24T03:51:03.973-04:00Identity Theft<p>I just spent the evening listening to my best friend read my blog posts out loud to her boyfriend, which was embarrassing and entertaining. Embarrassing because he kept falling asleep, and entertaining because I find myself so freaking hilarious.</p>
<p>So when I went to bed, I decided to look up my Blogger page on my phone and look at my pageviews and further revel in my marvelous wit. I couldn't remember the URL of the site so I typed in "blogspot" and "mandabanana" on Google. I saw my page, but I also saw some other page with the exact same name but with some bogus description accompanying it. Intrigued (pissed off) about this, I clicked the link which took me to a blog directory page.</p>
<p>That page sucks.</p>
<p>Why?</p>
<p>You can sign up and list your blog and tag different topics and themes so people can find it. Like if they want to read fashion blogs, they'll be able to find all the different blogs with the "fashion" tag. Helpful and cute, right?</p>
<p>Wrong.</p>
<p>Some idiot bitch signed up on that website and claimed my blog as her own. </p>
<p>Her description for MY blog: About life, music, mother hood and marriage. I'm 24 and probably act like it.</p>
<p>This blog isn't about any of those things, except life sometimes, and I am smart enough to know that motherhood is one word. Also I am much (4 months) younger than 24.</p>
<p>Her tags for MY blog: alcohol, baby, banana, cats, Dave Matthews, dogs, humor, husband, marriage, music, rock & roll, shopping</p>
<p>Who would read her information for MY page and think, "Oooh goody, I'll go read about this alcoholic mother and her collection of cats and Dave Matthews CDs and what she and her husband do to dogs with bananas after grocery shopping"?</p>
<p>I am offended first of all that she would claim my stories as her own, but I'm also disgusted at the way she attempts to promote herself (me) because she makes herself (me) seem incredibly stupid and boring and lame and ugly, which doesn't make people want to read her (my) blog.</p>
<p>I am not an alcoholic mother. I am not 24 and married. My name is not Amanda Trumper. I am a victim of identity theft, or plagiarism, or some crime I don't know the name for. </p>
<p>So to fight back, because I don't stand for this abuse, I created an account on their idiotic website and I am attempting to reclaim my creative property. They sent me an e-mail saying they had to review the claim and I have to prove I'm the author of this blog by posting a verification number they gave me and sacrificing my firstborn son in their honor. </p>
<p>But what I don't understand is how that dumb bimbo was able to claim my page so easily, because I know it hasn't been hacked and I would've seen a post with her verification number and been like, "Uhhhh I never said that nonsense because I don't steal people's websites or crush their dreams."</p>
<p>Anyway here's the stupid verification code so I can try to keep what's mine.</p>
<p>P35w7ces2u53</p>
<p>Also I'm probably going to start writing again. You're welcome.</p>
Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-22508953483503063732012-03-29T12:34:00.002-04:002012-03-29T17:22:18.265-04:00Eleven jokes your OCTOPUS will LOL over!Let's face it. Vaginas are about as attractive as an octopus wearing a headband.<br />
<br />
Even the word itself seems like an obscenity. I hate the sound of it so much I'm going to refer to it as an OCTOPUS from this point on so I can stop hearing the word "vagina" echoing in my brain, infecting all my other thoughts with germs and STDs. So every time you read "OCTOPUS" think "slimy monstrosity of female anatomy."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_TGf8aUphC9g8egfxJJYBcRCPO6LGtzoM38sc3PGr6Ip9wAaPZG8yhiD2WlzLyEYtM9XAd_nc0aBW5Lt9PoNoD204aPJXS-GTDf2zxdb6CwzTQ30Wp-5c6wE4s_gcLfrq9F-tgsK7hS0/s1600/octopus_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_TGf8aUphC9g8egfxJJYBcRCPO6LGtzoM38sc3PGr6Ip9wAaPZG8yhiD2WlzLyEYtM9XAd_nc0aBW5Lt9PoNoD204aPJXS-GTDf2zxdb6CwzTQ30Wp-5c6wE4s_gcLfrq9F-tgsK7hS0/s320/octopus_2.jpg" width="317" /></a></div><br />
But Manda Banana! All girls have one; it's just a natural part of life!<br />
<br />
False. First of all, nobody actually calls me Manda Banana. That's just a nickname I created to make myself seem cute to online strangers. Second, the reason you provide is actually the exact reason why there's no point in talking about your OCTOPUS. Every girl has one, end of story, no need for story to exist, let's talk about other things.<br />
<br />
Except everyone else <i>loves</i> talking about their OCTOPI. Every time I see a Cosmo magazine screaming "Eleven fun things to tell your OCTOPUS in the morning!" while I'm innocently waiting in line at the store trying to act superior and like a person who does not read Cosmo, I'm like, why? Is this part of female empowerment, loving your OCTOPUS so much that you have to sing to it in the shower?<br />
<br />
Because if so, tie an apron around my waist and I'll stay in the kitchen where I belong. Except for the time I'll spend making babies.<br />
<br />
People always tell me, oh, childbirth is such a beautiful miracle! And I smile and nod, wondering if they'd find it a beautiful miracle that I could shove a bowling ball up their OCTOPUS. I mean, I'm sure it is wonderful that you can create a baby, carry her inside your body, and push her out your OCTOPUS nine months later. That's awesome. But please forgive me if I decline to watch the video your husband took of your delivery, because squeezing a head out through your OCTOPUS looks like a child with a rubberband around his face.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHJZqDm1OKhYQ8XEE5I92NQKGW2hL6AdWbnlevWqX4Zq3ocAHN7hGZGwf2xwjSpXE1xm2zKD6GVO9FDoZdS0jn1byTbobAB7oXHm5K3igarCLyftPlsCXABpLa_ACgZmXQO59HeEOE3s/s1600/rubberbandface.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHJZqDm1OKhYQ8XEE5I92NQKGW2hL6AdWbnlevWqX4Zq3ocAHN7hGZGwf2xwjSpXE1xm2zKD6GVO9FDoZdS0jn1byTbobAB7oXHm5K3igarCLyftPlsCXABpLa_ACgZmXQO59HeEOE3s/s320/rubberbandface.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Told you so?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Personally, I can't handle even thinking about turning my OCTOPUS into a rubberband so a kid can walk out of my stomach.<br />
<br />
My view of anatomy may be a bit troubled. Uterus, fallopian tubes, vulva, clitoris, cervix... what is all that? I'd rather not know, so collectively, they're an OCTOPUS.<br />
<br />
But you should love and embrace every part of yourself!<br />
<br />
Well, I don't. Some parts are icky. I don't care who you are, I know for a fact that you do not have an attractive OCTOPUS. Whether you're a 12-year-old virgin, a teen idol recently discarded from her spotlight, or the <i>19 Kids & Counting</i> lady, an OCTOPUS is an OCTOPUS and it's not something to love or embrace. The only "sexy" thing about it is its function as a sexual organ.<br />
<br />
Maybe my opinion on this makes me an 87-year-old granny, but I just don't appreciate the openness girls have with discussing their OCTOPUS issues. Do they not have gynecologists they can talk to? Or mothers? Or a deaf-mute landlord? Surely they know someone better suited to help with their problems and listen to their list of feminine product preferences than some girl they've only met twice and thought her name was Amber. So please don't come to my work and ask me to recommend something for your itchy OCTOPUS while you have your hand down your pants and your fourteen sweaty children are destroying my brand new sunglasses display.<br />
<br />
While you're telling me that Summer's Eve douches give you a yeast infection and Tampax's super plus isn't quite big enough and sometimes maxi pads smell funky, I'm mentally playing Rock Band guitar on expert to "Octopus' Garden" by the Beatles.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/cgPqmRNjoTE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0Clemmons, NC, USA36.0215258 -80.38199839999998635.9780013 -80.422197899999986 36.065050299999996 -80.341798899999986tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-22677851520791063702012-03-19T17:11:00.000-04:002012-03-19T17:11:59.155-04:00oh ok yea lolEverybody likes to feel important, funny, and interesting. I base this observation on the fact that I like to feel important, funny, and interesting. Even while we're simply engaging in the least personal of all interactions, texting, we crave the witty banter, the flattery, the back-and-forth comedic insults that assure us that the other person understands what we're saying and feels the pull to respond, continuing the conversation and allowing you to say more and more things, however nonsensical or offensive they become. So what if all you're discussing are the various shapes of pasta noodles? Obviously the person you're texting either loves the topic of pasta, or likes you enough to let you rant about it rather than blocking your number and telling everyone they've never met you.<br />
<br />
But then there's the other side of it. On that side live the cold-hearted biotches who couldn't care less that penne noodles are the best kind for alfredo-based pastas. They'll take your well-formed opinions, and do worse than ignore them.<br />
<br />
They'll one-word you.<br />
<br />
Say you're a bit desperate. Just pretend. You reeeeaaaally want the guy you're texting to think that you're witty and charming, but you go overboard just a little bit in your attempt to act natural, and end up with this train wreck for a conversation:<br />
<br />
Your Unfortunate Crush: "So what are you up to?"<br />
<br />
Ridiculously Nervous You: "Practicing my kung fu skills. I just watched Kug Fu Panda so I'm feeling pretty inspired. Not about being a panda, but about learning kung fu. I mean, if a Jack Black panda can be trained, there has to be some hope for me, right? If not, I think I might just give up on life and become a dog whisperer. Or a ghost whisperer. Or a ghost dog whisperer. Hahahahahahahahahaha."<br />
<br />
Your Unfortunate Crush: "lol"<br />
<br />
...What does it mean? Why would someone respond with such a low level of care and humor, not to mention personality? Here is a loose interpretation of the bland lol, drawn solely from my own experience in both receiving and sending it:<br />
<br />
Your Unfortunate Crush: "Has anyone ever told you that you need to not say so many words? You're probably the least funny person I know of. And I've seen <i>three</i> Rob Schneider movies. I don't even read my messages all the way through when I see your name on my phone."<br />
<br />
The best way to respond to that douchebag is with the silent treatment. If he can't appreciate your ridiculous humor or understand that your ramblings (and your impressive pit stains) are a product of smitten-induced nerves, then he's a clueless unsympathetic moron unworthy of your sharp wit.<br />
<br />
Now check this one out. You text one of your buddies some sort of information or fact that isn't really conversational. Just a sort of friendly FYI.<br />
<br />
Helpful You: "Hey! Just wanted you to know that we're all having dinner at Sleazy Mike's tonight! You're welcome to join us if you're interested!"<br />
<br />
Ungrateful Party Guest: "ok"<br />
<br />
OK? How is that a useful reply? Is that his lazy way of RSVPing, or is he simply acknowledging that he did indeed receive the message? Let me clarify all that for you with a brief insight into the subtext of this text.<br />
<br />
Ungrateful Party Guest: "I don't care."<br />
<br />
That's right, your sweet thoughtfulness and exclamation points don't phase this guy at all. He just wants to be left alone, probably so he can watch dark foreign subtitled movies through his obnoxiously long bangs and write exclamation-point-free poetry about his tragically lonely life. Because he doesn't care, and you can't make him.<br />
<br />
The Siamese twin of "ok" is the even lamer "oh," but little difference exists between the two of them as far as their deeper meanings. They both bring any textversation to a screeching halt and hurt your feelings, and that is always their intention. Especially if shortened to "k" and "o" and accompanied by the rudest and most abrupt of all punctuation: the period. Slap me in the face, trip me down the stairs, spit in my hair, but please, spare me from opening my phone to an "o." <br />
<br />
Now say you've had a really terrible day and you just need to vent. So you go through your contacts and start ranting to some poor soul.<br />
<br />
Frustrated You: "I just don't understand the world. Like, can't school just be easier? We don't all need to be rocket scientists, ya know. Then my stupid boss wrote me up because he said being an hour late to work is unacceptable, but I had to curl my hair, ya know?"<br />
<br />
Poor Undeserving Friend: "Yea"<br />
<br />
Sure you're a bit hysterical and your friend did nothing to to warrant your lunacy being poured out upon her, but a little sympathy or encouragement wouldn't kill her. So why is "yea" all she has to say? Here's what she's trying to convey to you:<br />
<br />
Poor Undeserving Friend: "I will agree with anything you say if it means an end to this conversation and your senseless whining. I don't understand your problem, I don't see your point of view, and I don't want to."<br />
<br />
Ouch. Think twice before counseling that biotch next time she's freaking out about her latest pregnancy scare. Because now you get to be the bad guy.<br />
<br />
Slutty Careless Acquaintance: There's probably a 98% chance I'm going to have a baby. I just don't know what to do. Life is so unfair, I've done nothing to deserve this. Except for all that unprotected sex. Will you be the baby's godmother?<br />
<br />
Vengeful You: Yea.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-879224473081678682012-01-18T22:02:00.000-05:002012-01-18T22:02:55.334-05:00Is "uvula" a dirty word?I have strep throat. Again. It's approximately the 19th time I've had it in the past two years, so it's lost most of its sympathy points and moved on to just plain annoying.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LfZxxw8yNKXddmxE-7SX0WDg3eFqepbRU1ngr7YRGKCHdUkNTszg6w1gkqd0L0_C3FknJYCYTvGV-uI36PN8AiVnvNILJiDRTXpTj1iyMyZYsm4ofqSeCL-hDQqDpP02-FW9zNdBd3Y/s1600/DSCF1063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2LfZxxw8yNKXddmxE-7SX0WDg3eFqepbRU1ngr7YRGKCHdUkNTszg6w1gkqd0L0_C3FknJYCYTvGV-uI36PN8AiVnvNILJiDRTXpTj1iyMyZYsm4ofqSeCL-hDQqDpP02-FW9zNdBd3Y/s320/DSCF1063.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Those are my tonsils, not a dirty picture.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Instead of people being like, "Oh I'm so sorry! I'll buy you some ice cream and massage your head!" they're all like, "Again, Amanda? What do you keep doing to infect yourself?" As if I keep getting genital warts instead of spotty swollen tonsils inflamed with Hell's own special brand of white-hot volcano fire.<br />
<br />
I took my doctor's note to my manager, who gave me one of those "how dare you!" looks and walked away. I was like, "Thanks, I will get better soon!" It's not like I wanted to miss 14 hours of work; that's at least $100 even if I was still making minimum wage, and I enjoy being able to keep my car, home, insurance, and electricity. But that's not what this post is about; it's about how pitiful I am, and in need of some nice chicken broth.<br />
<br />
After I shelled out $20 (of my mom's money) for the antibiotic that would put out the fire in my throat, I drove home sleepily and laid down with Luke. Luke is my dog, for all you morons who didn't read my last post. He was very understanding of how bad I felt, so he did his best to comfort me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGLI_B4u7lsHZ2_PQXXR4pio-7v6SuAoXrQn3vp3hgnF6fN9kZrN42FkVk6J2gqbq193XoQYCGPjm0Q5oGEk460168b7ZO2RV3d5kmVMKCzTpCm7z6SGdeK_hvhipshB-1KySLKN3RKg/s1600/DSCF1057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJGLI_B4u7lsHZ2_PQXXR4pio-7v6SuAoXrQn3vp3hgnF6fN9kZrN42FkVk6J2gqbq193XoQYCGPjm0Q5oGEk460168b7ZO2RV3d5kmVMKCzTpCm7z6SGdeK_hvhipshB-1KySLKN3RKg/s320/DSCF1057.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Also he ate some of my sour cream & onion chips while I was in the bathroom. Jerk.<br />
<br />
Kacy left for work a few minutes after I got home because she didn't care how I felt. Such a cold-hearted bitch. Actually she left her ibuprofen with and told Luke to behave for me. He stared solemnly into her soul, then licked her face. We translated that as, "yeah right, loser!" What he was actually saying was more like, "I'll behave if behaving means walking across Other Mommy's ribs repeatedly, crinkling the pages of the book she's reading, and barking at phantom rabid spiders while she sleeps to mess with her dreams." It was a very relaxing afternoon.<br />
<br />
My belly is not pleased with my throat for the roadblock. All I've eaten is ice cream because it doesn't scratch, burn, or make me want to stab a rusty fork into my jugular. Last time I had strep, all I wanted to eat were bacon-chili-cheese-dogs. I don't recommend that practice.<br />
<br />
To supplement my restless fever-induced dreams, I read a little of Stephen King's "Under the Dome" before napping. In case you aren't familiar with the story, I'll fill you in a bit. An invisible undetectable impenetrable dome spontaneously arises around this small town in Maine. Everyone goes crazy, riots break out, the military tries to intervene but can't help, and nobody knows how it happened or how to get rid of it. When people go too close to the wall of the Dome they have seizures and prophesy about what will happen to their town. Super-creepy. I haven't finished it yet so I can't spoil the end for you. In my delirious sleep I became certain my bed was in an unbreakable bubble and if I sat up my head would hit it and be electrocuted.<br />
<br />
Tossing and turning, suffocating from the hallucination of decreased oxygen, was how I spent most of my afternoon.<br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnvIuYRpqxtzFgLRft5RyJKOMbMSPONr-3R8uiTwj582IKAp7BViCP0mqBsg8-RPtXYgLM68Ehy2jfgLezagOKLZLwhismLRMKGDd-B9OVwBRS07zbZ2umPtG4_3Vx_tsLji39p2mCa8/s1600/DSCF1038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnvIuYRpqxtzFgLRft5RyJKOMbMSPONr-3R8uiTwj582IKAp7BViCP0mqBsg8-RPtXYgLM68Ehy2jfgLezagOKLZLwhismLRMKGDd-B9OVwBRS07zbZ2umPtG4_3Vx_tsLji39p2mCa8/s320/DSCF1038.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In other news, here's Luke's drivers license picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-62166040035007539202012-01-10T17:45:00.001-05:002012-03-19T17:48:50.151-04:00Floppy CheeksI hate dogs. I hate most animals, but dogs have filled me with inexplicable terror ever since I can remember, as if even the mildest of Dachshunds were actually a rabid blood-spattered Saint Bernard raving to tear my throat out. When they're not causing me to experience anxiety and sometimes bladder issues, they discover plenty of other ways to ruin my day. If I'm trying to sleep late, nap, watch TV, read, or any of my other thrilling hobbies, the last thing I want is a stupid slobbery beast hopping around, bow-wowing and scratching everything in sight.<br />
<br />
But now I have one of those beasts.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdm4hxoqSgrqaKoQ7bsz8cAduDYQP2bT4JnmhKVTLM5KkNBmMGk-VBTONQYGA1m2r-bfdlau1Wk4SksnaZd3JciOXX4ZEDr5be01LgvAh7fpsywecl__s_iSqGIHFy9rBLLVhvBvHK1gc/s1600/luke1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdm4hxoqSgrqaKoQ7bsz8cAduDYQP2bT4JnmhKVTLM5KkNBmMGk-VBTONQYGA1m2r-bfdlau1Wk4SksnaZd3JciOXX4ZEDr5be01LgvAh7fpsywecl__s_iSqGIHFy9rBLLVhvBvHK1gc/s320/luke1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Kacy decided my company wasn't enough for her anymore, so she made a deal with the devil and brought his firstborn child home. She let her dad do the honors of bringing the Antichrist home for the first time because she was a-scared and she knew I would refrain from cussing him out and throwing dirty socks at him.<br />
<br />
He thrust the Boxer puppy into my face to greet me when I let them in to our pristine, poop-free, cinnamon-scented home. I was like, seriously? But I cradled the dumb little monster motherly against my bosom anyway because Kacy's dad looked so enthusiastic about the magnificent event of bringing a child into our lives.<br />
<br />
My plot to murder Kacy was well into Stage 3 already as I sat down on the couch with the creature, but just as I was calculating roughly the amount of rat poison needed to do the job, the wrinkly little gremlin yawned hugely and snuggled against me.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fL76p-X3nO6NFh62mcwn5T9-xqmMOIu8wIME7ZNQ9hckpQHTH9jsMPXPC64KzYy67LSYfYfUbaXIwFCcyN4_agnx75uh72Gx79AwTealz9E1B2c6HlkG-YduRmyUzOKl5GCLsqWIVWM/s1600/luke3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fL76p-X3nO6NFh62mcwn5T9-xqmMOIu8wIME7ZNQ9hckpQHTH9jsMPXPC64KzYy67LSYfYfUbaXIwFCcyN4_agnx75uh72Gx79AwTealz9E1B2c6HlkG-YduRmyUzOKl5GCLsqWIVWM/s320/luke3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
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Damn it.<br />
<br />
I called off the animal sacrifice and laid down with the puppy snoring contentedly, garlic mysteriously oozing from his pores directly into my nostrils. Kacy came home after she was sure I wouldn't grenade her car and told me she'd named him Luke, after Luke Perry because of all his wrinkles.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDnmz47iG_MgCmqljGv7shWsUznJdPKHqWzLwExX1N_ww7GK_MANCR-vgNtBxs6yGgmTtu-_0cJ93bZlCs6YJs0q1rONHrOVuimLDt7AxvDuHXbPzgXZ276pAQbgl-3fyG0JEsM8JnF4/s1600/luke4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDnmz47iG_MgCmqljGv7shWsUznJdPKHqWzLwExX1N_ww7GK_MANCR-vgNtBxs6yGgmTtu-_0cJ93bZlCs6YJs0q1rONHrOVuimLDt7AxvDuHXbPzgXZ276pAQbgl-3fyG0JEsM8JnF4/s320/luke4.jpg" width="216" /></a></div><br />
She also named herself Mommy and me Other Mommy. Someday when he's old enough, we'll have to explain our confusing family to him and hope he can understand .<br />
<br />
Luke eats our socks, gets into the trash, hides under my bed, barks at nothing, chews on poo, and tries to play with the horses next door, so we were forced to take disciplinary action. Spanking and "no"ing seemed to challenge him to behave worse, so as a last resort we got a shock collar. We've only actually used it a few times, so don't judge us. As soon as he sees us pick up the shock remote, he stops behaving like Satan and watches us sideways to make sure we're noticing how angelic he's being all of a sudden with no fear-induced motive at all.<br />
<br />
Since Kacy and I are lame and don't have anything better to do, one of our favorite forms of entertainment is doing things to make Luke turn his head sideways. Unfamiliar sounds and abnormal events are the best ways to cause his delightful expression of confusion and curiosity. Once he becomes accustomed to something, he no longer has to turn his brain perpendicular to his neck to comprehend it, so the challenge is coming up with things he's never experienced. Sirens, saxophones, and baby laughter all did the trick for a while until he grew bored with them and matured into the need for more complex, sophisticated ideas. Like the blow dryer when it's sitting quietly on the couch, not attacking his moms' heads or roaring its battle cry.<br />
<br />
Random spirits and auras also seem to fascinate Luke enough to flop his head over while staring upstairs in wide-eyed horror. But we pretend that's caused by flies and specks of dust.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF52iqqoFaDeXWm6lLlWu0xFi1D5sFaDs1NjH-qpfAm6sHu9p4bvwdXsMdKLKrBaHttGPSrr8U-Rf6N5g42QSvFHNE6U8nx0Ilidd0ZAA1TGoBI9sOnKSEZpjN7gPiT5O5CDv4-op_RjI/s1600/luke2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF52iqqoFaDeXWm6lLlWu0xFi1D5sFaDs1NjH-qpfAm6sHu9p4bvwdXsMdKLKrBaHttGPSrr8U-Rf6N5g42QSvFHNE6U8nx0Ilidd0ZAA1TGoBI9sOnKSEZpjN7gPiT5O5CDv4-op_RjI/s320/luke2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I guess we'll keep him after all.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-61627499468171981602011-12-15T19:00:00.001-05:002012-03-19T17:49:57.314-04:00Destination vacation: Azerbaijan!I logged on to Blogger today to discover I had 53 pageviews for the day even though I haven't posted in like a week and a half. Apparently people in countries I've never even heard of and could never hope to pronounce correctly (Azerbaijan? You rock, whoever/wherever you are!) randomly found my blog on stumbleupon.com. Which is freakin' awesome.<br />
<br />
So that gloating was just to let anyone who cares know that my ambitions have been restored and I'm back on track to becoming a famous writer who makes millions of people all over the world laugh. I've been feeling blah and uninspired because it feels pointless to write sometimes and I'd rather wallow in self-pity and calories than sit down with a pen and paper. But hopefully I'll stay optimistic and post more than once a month like I've been doing... and screw anyone who doesn't like my blog or thinks I should quit altogether. You suck and you don't have to read it.<br />
<br />
................Yeah. That's all.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-1546748125006322182011-12-02T22:11:00.001-05:002012-03-19T17:53:06.031-04:00You lucky gal!<div style="text-align: left;"></div>Ever wonder how to make all your friends and acquaintances cry and curse your name? Or how to increase your feeling of self-worth while decreasing that of others? Well, I'm here to help.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">How to be "The Bitchy Friend"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>1) Constantly remind your friend of all her boyfriend's most negative traits. When her happiness with her relationship seems to be teetering on the edge of smugness, it's best to cut her down a little with a quick jab about her beloved fellow's age/job/car/clothes/house/body.<br />
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2) Make plans to spend time with your friends. Act all excited about it. Don't show up. Don't call. Don't answer your phone. Post on Facebook other stuff you're doing instead. When your friends corner you about your shenanigans, respond with this airtight excuse I've supplied for you: "All my clothes were dirty so I had to wash them before I could leave the house. While I was hanging out in my kitchen in the nude, the washer exploded and got soapwater all up in my phone's battery. So my clothes couldn't finish washing and I couldn't call to tell you I had to cancel. But my phone still lets me get on Facebook even when the battery has been soap-bombed so that's why I posted a status about my naked nacho party. Wanna hang out next weekend instead?"<br />
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3) When your friend asks for you opinion about her fashion choices, always tell her the tackiest things are flattering so you'll look more attractive by comparison. You'll head out to slut it up on Saturday and be rewarded for your efforts with a deep sense of satisfaction as everyone snickers behind your friend's back and mocks her trashbag-dress. As long as you allow her to suffer from the delusion that bedazzled overall-shorts are "cute," you'll always be the lucky gal to snag all the boys at the club.<br />
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4) Play down your friend's accomplishments or turn the situation around to make it about you instead. Make sure to mention how much better you are/were at whatever she's achieved in life. This is easy to do with comments like, "When <i>I</i> graduated -- well, I was 14th in my class so it's probably not the same as your graduation," or "<i>My</i> first apartment was a 3-bedroom 2-bath split-level with a 4-car garage, front and back porch, and walk-in closets. But your trailer is okay too."<br />
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It's ridiculously simple to make your friends feel inferior and envy your life... it's also the most effective way to boost your self-esteem and ensure that you'll die alone.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-1389480429036938362011-11-16T22:01:00.000-05:002011-11-16T22:01:33.995-05:00Like, Love, and Lust. But mostly Lust.This cozy Autumn weather makes everyone all cuddly and lovey-dovey. And if you don't have a "special" friend to share that with, it sucks. Seeing all these precious couples parading through the leaves in their boots and toboggans gives me hateful hopes that they step in hidden dog poo. Because I don't get to be in love, or anything close it. Like lust. I've always wondered how people know that what they have is really love, and this is what I've come up with in my two decades of observation.<br />
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Clearly the best way to determine a couple's true relationship status is through the extent of their inappropriately sexual behavior in public. The more you kiss, hold hands, dry-hump, and go oral on your partner in front of an audience, the stronger your love is bound to be. Everyone knows that love can't be 100% true unless all your friends, family, and unassuming strangers are forced to be exposed to your embarrassing show of moaning PG-13 near-nudity. If you're comfortable enough together to play twister in the school hallway without a mat, or practice naked yoga on top of each other with your living room curtains open, then the only logical conclusion is that you must have a strong and lasting love.<br />
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If you still can't be sure that you and your significant other will one day sit on the front porch with 37 cats and matching rocking chairs, then take a look at your communication skills. By that, I don't mean how you work out your problems or if you listen to each other. What's really important are your random phone calls, texts, and mushy Facebook comments. Couples who call to "check in" every time their location changes must share a much deeper connection than I could ever dream of. Knowing that miles away, a person I care about moved from kitchen to living room is something I've never been lucky enough to experience. If you truly love someone, however, you won't stop there; you'll extend this over-communication to the public forum of Facebook. The cyberspace form of the high school makeout hallway, Facebook allows you to send one another intimate expressions of affection for all to see. A fun side effect: your territory gets marked.<br />
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It's inevitable that if you have found your special someone in life, you will gladly waste 85% of your paycheck on random gifts... whether SOS deserves it or not. Birthdays, Christmas, 3 1/2-month anniversaries, and Valentine's Day will be the most ridiculously excessive events since Kim Kardashian's wedding. Sweet and simple? Thoughtful and homemade? Forget it if you want your relationship to survive long enough to celebrate your 7-month-1-week anniversary, Arbor Day, and National Pancake Day. What you need are fireworks, sky-writing, matching new cars, and treasure chests of rubies. So save the acoustic strumming of your sappy love sonnet for your debut in a 1986 teen romance movie, you cheapskate. When people really love one another, the most exact way to express that is with a monetary value.<br />
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If a girl introduces herself with your last name, it obviously means you belong together... and that she wants you realize it. The sooner into your relationship this name-change occurs, the longer you are bound to be together. Prematurely acting like the two of you are married seems to be the healthiest way to progress with your relationship; to hell with slowly getting to know each other over time.<br />
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So I'm pretty sure I'll never be in love.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-71158982712794557212011-11-10T11:27:00.001-05:002011-11-10T11:29:34.189-05:00Bitch or Buddha?Sometimes I think cutting my bangs or painting my nails will define my personality a little better or affect my attitude is some supernatural way. This always leads me to the disappointing realization that no matter how kickass my bangs look, and no matter how expertly I've applied 17 coats of hooker-red nail polish, I'm still a sarcastic, impatient, insecure, absent-minded mess with an affinity for commas and superfluous adjectives.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAx7Coah7NJxStMJLC_cp6FXcOCcAUC_DGFFvjISRB9yfOmn0elqtlt_-Y5GnilQl0KhlBsIJj86f8T7T559mqCOda8BtyYZIkIHd3GwzYEOEFsCNLw9jQr5WMx75O4bkBe_ecTdxcpc/s1600/nails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJAx7Coah7NJxStMJLC_cp6FXcOCcAUC_DGFFvjISRB9yfOmn0elqtlt_-Y5GnilQl0KhlBsIJj86f8T7T559mqCOda8BtyYZIkIHd3GwzYEOEFsCNLw9jQr5WMx75O4bkBe_ecTdxcpc/s320/nails.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready for a night of walking the streets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I've tried not to be those things, because those are terrible attributes to credit to yourself, but to no avail. When I abstain from sarcasm it's the worst, because I become overly polite to the point of robotic insincerity. There's very little for me to say if I've taken the vow of nonbitchyness, except things like "22 and a half" and "Dr. Pepper please."<br />
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During these spells of personality renovation, people sense my Buddha-like state of peace and strive to shatter it. Last week I had a complete stranger come into my work, and while I rang him up he lectured me about my dangerous decision to drop out of college. He told me I was making a foolish mistake and asked me if I wanted to continue to work there the rest of my life. So I ignored his words, nodded, and exclaimed, "Here's your receipt! Stay warm!"<br />
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It was the perfect balance between Bitch and Buddha. Because I got to say nice words with the clear subtext: "It doesn't matter what you're saying because I don't even know your name, you're wearing a Hawaiian shirt, and you just purchased drugstore-brand sex jelly."<br />
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That explanation was in case you thought I legitimately wanted that man to stay warm.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-34400670948955547762011-11-01T20:47:00.000-04:002011-11-01T20:47:59.278-04:00Short for Mohammad.I used to go clubbing. And by "used to go," I mean that I went exactly three times. The first time, Kacy talked me into going to Greensboro with her to a mostly-black club because she was frustrated with her man-friend and needed some inappropriate dance therapy to recover. We didn't know prior to paying our way in that we were basically the only whit people there, and it wouldn't have mattered except our complete lack of rhythm felt like the focus of the entire building. But we decided that we were going to have fun, act like we didn't care about our macarena-style dancing, spend $4 for drinks, and dance with strange guys who were interested in us for our personality-enhancing cleavage.<br />
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They had a disco ball and played terrible music I didn't know, but it was okay because of the noisy friendly atmosphere and because I was hip-to-vagina with seventeen people at all times. Nobody noticed or cared that I couldn't dance, and I somehow wasn't claustrophobic even though I wasn't medicated. The last 2/5 of the light were spent dancing with one guy, who was inevitably enchanted by my tangled sweaty hair and smeared eyeliner.<br />
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When Kacy and I decided that our toes were too blistered to keep dancing, our eyes were too bloodshot to keep them open, and our throats had grown too raw to keep laughing and singing, we had to call it a night and head home. I bad farewell to my dance partner, who asked me for my number. Delighted and flattered, I gave it to him and floated home, thrilled with my exciting evening and new "romance." Because I'm only happy when I have a guy in my life.<br />
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In the following weeks, this fellow and I texted each other a lot. I found out his name was Mo (short for Mohammad. Don't judge him.) and he was from Africa. He found out I was from here and have a really boring life. I have no idea what we talked about, but he enjoyed telling me how pretty I was and discussing our different cultures. I enjoyed one of those topics.<br />
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Mo: It is so different here. In Africa, everyone is poor and works just to survive, not to go out to eat and dance and <i>watch the movies</i>.*<br />
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*That's not a typo. He really said things that way.<br />
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Me: Really? Gosh, that's interesting. I have boobies. And long hair. And sometimes, I wear bracelets.<br />
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Mo: Yes. I do like it in America, but some things confuse me still. What are the boobies?<br />
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Me: I haven't had sex in a year.<br />
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After a few of these in-depth conversations, we became so close that it seemed like a brilliant idea to go out on a date. And possibly get married. It sounded good to me because I get great pleasure from expensive Mexican food that other people pay for, so I let him talk me into it. We met at the mall so he wouldn't know where my house was, and rode to the restaurant awkwardly making small talk about the weather and how attractive I was. Out from under the disco lights, and through my well-rested non-bloodshot eyes, I realized not only was Mo wildly unattractive, he was <i>old.</i> Not creepy Hugh Hefner old, but nine years older than me. Which is 10-16 years older than most guys I get involved with.<br />
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He gazed at me in fascination as I gobbled down my cheesy chickeny rice at Mi Pueblo. Mesmerized by my chomping abilities and intriguing conversation, it was all he could to keep his hands off me. So he didn't. His greasy finger slithered down my arms, snaked around my wrist, and, my personal favorite, smeared across my face. It was like he was Helen Keller, if Helen Keller were a 29-year-old horny African man.<br />
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I was close to danger-texting Kacy so she could call me with a fake emergency and rescue me. But I really wanted to make the best of my evening out, so I stuck through the groping dinner fiasco in the teetering belief that attitude is 90% of the outcome. Bitchy Skeptical Cynic wasn't working out, so I tried on Bubbly Confident PartyGirl to see how that worked out for me. Turns out, Bubbly Confident PartyGirl makes rash decisions like agreeing to return to the nightclub where we met, driving 30 minutes out of our way, in my car, with a creepy greasy horny stranger-man driving. I don't allow BCPG to mingle anymore.<br />
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The ride tot he club was excruciating. I would've enjoyed it more if I'd been with Cujo and we both had explosive diarrhea. We nothing to talk about, but he didn't seem to realize that flaw in our chemistry. Mo, not Cujo. Cujo and I would have plenty to talk about.<br />
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Me: The speed limit is 35.<br />
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Mo: Yes, I am going to go 20 though, it is safer this way. I love to drive.<br />
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Me: Seriously? I hate driving. It's all frustrating and junk, and I get lost all the time.<br />
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Bitchy Skeptical Cynic was trying to come back a little bit.<br />
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Mo: I can drive and eat at the same time.<br />
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Me: That's... useful.<br />
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Mo: *Turns radio up* Oh this song could be about us. This is my favorite.<br />
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It was Kidd Rock's "All Summer Long." I still don't get it.<br />
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The club was jammin'. I paid $1 to keep my 6-inch stripper shoes safe in the lobby so I could get my toes flattened by pointy-heeled strangers. Mo kept my keys in his pocket for safekeeping, and tried to do the same with my phone. I wisely refused the latter so I could still danger-text if needed. It crossed my mind later that it would've been even wiser to just stay at home, eat froot loops, and fall asleep watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer.<br />
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Mo guided me to a booth so he could continue rubbing my face and trying to kiss me. I ducked his enormous hungry lips for a while under the pretense of turning my head to enjoy the sights of drunken skanks dancing on poles and swinging. This went on so long that dancing actually seemed like a better option.<br />
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Moo seemed to have dancing confused with standing-up full-body massages. I was like, excuse me sir but can you please stop molesting me on the dance floor. And he was all, no, I'm going to put my hands in your pockets.<br />
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There aren't many tactful ways to tell a guy that you don't enjoy his slimy hands clogging up your pores when he has your car keys and you want to continue having a car. I liked having a car more than I liked having self-respect so I let him dance with me long enough to keep his feelings from being hurt. Then I exaggerated the pain in my feet so he'd pity me and drive me back to safe territory. Luckily Mo wasn't a bad guy, just a ridiculous, old, greasy guy. He drove me back to the lot where he'd left his car and told me how much fun he'd had.<br />
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Mo: I enjoyed being with you tonight and dancing with you. You dance very good.<br />
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Me: ...Right on. *Crosses arms and steps towards car, glancing around nervously*<br />
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Mo: I hope I will see you soon. You make me very happy. You will text me?<br />
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Me: I will, uh, probably text you. Yeah... oh man it's cold out here. Oh my gosh,, did you see that fire truck?! I wonder what's going on over there.<br />
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Mo: A fire probably. Like the fire burning in my heart for you.<br />
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Me: Oh God.<br />
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My dating life is pathetic.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-72698661187719437092011-10-02T17:31:00.000-04:002011-10-02T17:31:00.116-04:00I could claw a bitch.My friend Marie used to date this complete douchebag named Lenny. She was really into him because he has this charming way of clearing his throat and snorting at the same time, and he had eleven different pairs of carpenter jeans. What a catch! He was almost as excellent as my boyfriend at the time, who mooched money off me after buying $70 video games and didn't believe in brushing his teeth. But this particular blog is about <i>her</i> bad choices, not mind. You can judge my relationship history later, when I can do it justice by using an abundance of offensive adjectives and embarrassing anecdotes.<br />
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Marie put up with a lot of crap from Lenny in the time that they dated, and wasted her hottest teenage years on him. She could definitely have done better, but she was determined to make it work with this moron because of how bright their future seemed to be together or something senseless like that. They broke up at least 17 times, but they got back together 16 times because he was so irresistible. The 17th time, she found out he was sexting a 12-year-old slut while on Christmas vacation with Marie's family. Did I mention he was a dumbass? He was a dumbass.<br />
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So while they were sitting right next to each other, enjoying Christmasy family time and being above the legal age of adulthood, Marie glanced at Lenny's phone and voiced her curiosity about the child pornography presented on the screen. He had his phone stealthily tilted slightly away from her, overlooking her secret ability to lean forward.<br />
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Marie: Excuse me, but who the hell are you getting boob pictures from on Christmas?<br />
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Lenny: Nobody! That was a dog my friend is trying to sell me, you silly.<br />
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Marie: ....................<br />
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Lenny: Okay. It was some girl who's obsessed with me; I met her when I was hanging around the middle school in my trenchcoat. I'm not sure how she got my number, I sure wish she'd leave me alone.<br />
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Marie: ...................<br />
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Lenny: She's always harassing me with pictures of her naked body. Like I want to see that! I'd rather see my cousin naked. But really.<br />
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Marie: ...........<br />
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Lenny: ...What?! I almost never send her pictures back!<br />
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So she left him alone with his prepubescent nudie pictures to call me and ridicule him for an hour and a half. We picked apart every obnoxious or stupid thing he had done in the past four years of their relationship and blew them all out proportion to vent our rage at him. I was merciless in my critique of his personality, hoping that the 17th time of breaking up would be the charm. I know that wasn't the best way to handle it, but he was always killing our fun with his moody presence and his bowl cut.<br />
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A few weeks after The Christmas Boob Incident of 2009, they arranged to meet at his house and give each other their stuff back so they could move on with their lives and forget about each other's existence. Her sister Kelly and I went along with Marie for moral support and because we both wanted to kick Lenny in the nads.<br />
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He had been going on about how he still loved Marie and would do anything to get her back, and we all knew it because he would say so on Facebook at least three times a week. Incessant calls, texts, and Facebook posts might scream "I'm sorry" in some people's books, but in the case of Lenny it was just another example of his scary obsessiveness.<br />
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We showed up at his house that evening to find a strange car parked in the driveway. A girl's car, judging by the Playboy Bunny bumper sticker and flip-flop shaped air freshener. Marie went and knocked on the door while Kelly and I waited apprehensively outside. We saw Lenny and some ugly girl we'll call Trashley look out the window, spot Marie's car, and pull down the blinds. Lenny answered the door about ten minutes later, exclaiming through the dip in his lip, "Oh! I didn't know anybody was here!" Kelly and I rolled our eyes at each other, leaning against the car and waiting, trying to look nonchalant so none of the ghetto people would want to mess with us. A truck pulled up with two girls and two guys in it, and Trashley lumbered out of the house to greet them and fill them in on what was goin' awn over yonder. These hicks really fit in with their troubled-inner-city-youth surroundings.<br />
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They bumbled loudly about Lenny's bitch of an ex-girlfriend, how they could take Kelly and me in a fight, and how Trashley shouldn't leave "her man" alone with his ex. Kelly glowered and cracked her knuckles menacingly. I glanced nervously from her, to them, to the door where I wished Marie would hurry up and appear. After listening to the constant haze of hillbilly-style ridicule for so long that I couldn't take it anymore, we thought we should go inside and at least check on the situation. Because we didn't want to get in a fight in the street of the ghetto at night for some reason.<br />
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The scene in the kitchen was one of recently resolved tension. Marie assured us that Trashley wasn't a girl he was seeing, just a friend of his cousin. Lenny nodded vigorously, eager to convince everyone of his innocence and uninterrupted devotion to Marie. Since the story on the streets was quite different, I raised my eyebrows skeptically at poor, hopeful, optimistic, gullible Marie and hated Lenny for deceiving her like that. I decided to call him out on being the worst person ever created; it was a long time coming, I wanted it to be dramatic, and I might not get another chance, so as I stood up from my bar stool with murder in my eyes, I collected my thoughts to counteract his story as eloquently and maturely as I could.<br />
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Me: What the FUCK, Lenny?!<br />
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Kelly: Seriously dude, we just heard --<br />
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Me: Your cousin's <i>friend? </i>Oh that's about as likely as--<br />
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Kelly: --called you her "MAN," what's <i>that </i>about if--<br />
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Me: --don't know <i>what's</i> wrong with, are you HIGH or just --<br />
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Kelly: --ought to kick your--<br />
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These broken accusations went on for a while as Lenny stared, mouth agape, into his defeat. He slumped further and further down with each damning piece of evidence he was forced to face. Marie looked at him in disgust so great that we all threw up in our mouths a little. She told him he deserved less than that whale girl, that he was a lying sack of shit, and that she was glad to be rid of him. Then we stood in silence, gathering spit to sling in his face then deciding not to, listening to the two couples and Trashley continue to laugh and joyful badmouth us in the living room.<br />
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We drove home, screaming our hearts out to angsty teenage songs to express our bitter rage towards all lying cheating men-scum. It was the end of an era... we weren't getting pushed around by men anymore, because Alanis Morissette and Pink told us so.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-53699968852767434922011-09-24T12:47:00.000-04:002011-09-24T12:47:20.525-04:00Welcome HomeHoly Toledo, I am terrible at updating my blog when I don't have Internet access. Luckily for you guys, I am hijacking my mom's computer long enough to type up this blog that I've had written down in my notebook for 3 1/2 weeks. <br />
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My best friend/assumed lesbian lover and I moved out of our parents' houses (finally) into the most beautiful old house Davidson County has to offer. That doesn't sound very impressive, but it is.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSQvu3gnlDB02CdIzbPvmpq6DoyUEmQT3stKe58WY_GphO01siINMvWesMiFRvZ8L5OAYEgr3iZgILXi-5FytLmPcGaMbE0ZhPP-kqTXdlnExI2BmdUX64Pvc2n7hPG2KDi9vuK67aPS4/s1600/house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSQvu3gnlDB02CdIzbPvmpq6DoyUEmQT3stKe58WY_GphO01siINMvWesMiFRvZ8L5OAYEgr3iZgILXi-5FytLmPcGaMbE0ZhPP-kqTXdlnExI2BmdUX64Pvc2n7hPG2KDi9vuK67aPS4/s320/house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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It came complete with washer and dryer, refrigerator, attic full of dead bodies and shattered dreams, and stove. We moved our endless boxes of picture frames and squiggly candle holders joyfully over the course of five days, letting everyone else haul things like our beds and granite furniture.<br />
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The basement is a cross between Buffalo Bill's lair and the end scene of the Blair Witch Project. We avoid it and pretend the doors leading to it are just weird portions of the wall with locks on it. A common, uncreepy architectural error.<br />
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There is one miniscule bedroom and one large bedroom, so we decided it would be fairest to share the giant room and have a slumber party every night. This will also help keep up our lesbian appearance, which endears us to our lesbian landladies. Kacy's boyfriend doesn't help with this facade, so we say he's her brother to stay on their good side.<br />
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Our perfect decorating skills enabled us to mix and match everything we've gotten for the house since we first started this plan two years ago. Not everybody can rock a green stove and yellow and brown linoleum, but not everybody is as clever and sexy as us.<br />
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Every single person who's seen the house has exclaimed, "Wow, that's pretty, can I come sit on your porch?! Ha, ha." and I'm getting pretty tired of pretending that it's a cute thing to say. I'm going to start training everyone not to say it by kicking them in the shins each time until they learn how unhilarious and unoriginal they are. Also it's totally not okay to not even like me or be nice to me but expect me to laugh at your stupid "jokes" and allow you to make use of my porch swing.<br />
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We've been having the most fun of our lives washing dishes, doing laundry, sweeping, sitting on the porch, and organizing things. I announced our first piece of trash in our kitchen trash can, my first dirty laundry, our first load of laundry, my first shower, the first movie we watched (<i>Hitch</i>), first booger picked (Kevin), first poop (Brooke), and first (and last) trip to the basement, until everyone has started to ignore the things that I say even more than usual.<br />
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Moving all of our clothes has been the most challenging part, because we own approximately the entire mall's worth of clothes. It was torture folding, hanging up, seeing if things fit me... it was like trying on clothes at the store except without the claustrophobia and when something's too small I die a little bit on the inside instead of trade it out for a larger size.<br />
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I moved all of my movies into the TVcabinet, giving prominent placing to such classics as <i>Night at the Roxbury</i> and <i>Mighty Morphin Power Rangers: The Movie</i>. When we're not busy swinging on the porch, rearranging decorations, and telling people to admire our house, we rot our brains out with ridiculous movies and marathons of <i>America's Next Top Model.</i><br />
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This is my blog and I have a right to gloat on it if I want to, because I so rarely have things to gloat about. So I would like to tell everyone that my house is the most rockinest home I've ever seen, and that includes the Biltmore House. No exaggeration. Come see it if you don't believe me, and bring presents.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-76875993195979207042011-08-27T17:52:00.000-04:002011-08-27T17:52:18.636-04:00A Continuation of Awkward MomentsAwkward: Not knowing someone you live with has people over. People who get to see you belting out a love song into your hairbrush while wearing Care Bear pajamas, having a bedhead mullet, and not sounding like Shania Twain.<br />
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Awkward: Someone grazing your breast by accident and everyone trying to act like it never happened, but then the conversation dies out after several minutes of not mentioning the accident and trying to act like you don't have breasts.<br />
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Awkward: Knowing you smell bad but you can't do anything about it yet so you try to stay six feet away from everyone while inhaling way too often to check on the status of your stinkyness.<br />
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Awkward: Someone asking you to do something right after you put a blob of lotion on your hands.<br />
<br />
Awkward: The waiter bringing your food when you're in the middle of a conversation, causing you to forget what you were about to say but the other person is so delighted by their food that they don't care about you and what kind of stupid new car you're getting anymore.<br />
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Awkward: This picture:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-lrEgIEQcSpZwNQl2iZGZyIjTEmNmiNqkSoKvXvQMptMvzzCd1CeeHsXlRO7HiKQfxfOlsu6Y2fMejm0a4NJQm3EIJK7VOqH8sa5RacHqsOtENpgeAhjCh-pTT3YqsNUprIeD_Z4AG0/s1600/awkward.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo-lrEgIEQcSpZwNQl2iZGZyIjTEmNmiNqkSoKvXvQMptMvzzCd1CeeHsXlRO7HiKQfxfOlsu6Y2fMejm0a4NJQm3EIJK7VOqH8sa5RacHqsOtENpgeAhjCh-pTT3YqsNUprIeD_Z4AG0/s640/awkward.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>...Or am I the only one who thinks that guy has issues and ridiculously impressive wrinkles?Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-56359192255409624832011-08-26T00:33:00.001-04:002011-08-26T00:39:00.686-04:005 Lies Girls Tell Guys1. "You'll never have to worry about hearing me whine."<br />
<br />
This is a filthy lie, told because she knows how obnoxious whining is and how much guys hate it. She knows this because of years of being told to please shut the hell up with her incessant impressions of Fran Drescher. Guys won't like her if they know the truth, so she hides it for a while until she manages to trap them in her evil web, also known as a "relationship". Her cool laid-back facade melts away to reveal a red-faced shrieking banshee intent on causing death by irrational complaints.<br />
<br />
2. "I won't tell anybody."<br />
<br />
...Except her mom, sister, best friend, best friend's family, co-workers, boss, pastor, pastor's family, cousins, doctor, little nieces and nephews, book club, aunts, hair stylist, dentist, pharmacist, brother, brother's basketball team, brother's basketball coach... The point is that girls gossip, especially to each other, and especially about embarrassing secrets.<br />
<br />
3. "I don't have very expensive taste."<br />
<br />
She just hasn't told you about her addiction to gourmet dining, Internet gambling, designer shoes/clothes/purses, antique furniture, or male strippers yet. There's always something she'll throw down wads of cash for. And if she doesn't have her own wads of cash, watch out.<br />
<br />
4. "I'm not a bossy person."<br />
<br />
This means that you need to be prepared to be two steps ahead of her, foreseeing things she would want you to do and doing them before she spends all afternoon pouting over your inattentiveness. Because she still <i>wants </i>you to do everything a bossy person would want, she simply doesn't believe she should have to vocalize it. Either way, you're expected to do crap you probably don't want to do, so it doesn't matter how she considers herself because she's lying to your and her own foolish self.<br />
<br />
5. "It doesn't bother me that your friends with your ex-girlfriends."<br />
<br />
WTF? Yes it does. She fears that you'll lock eyes with her over the beer pong table and realize it really was meant to be after all and then you'll go have a naked party with her and all your other exes and girls you're friends with but secretly in love with in your crazy girlfriend's imagination. If you laugh with your ex-girlfriend, talk to her, talk <i>about </i>her, look at her, pay attention to her in any way, then your girlfriend is thinking double homicide.<br />
<br />
Girls are crazy lying manipulative bitches... consider yourself warned.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-10442435628282490092011-08-25T00:09:00.000-04:002011-08-25T00:09:06.333-04:005 Lies Guys Tell GirlsEveryone wants to put forth the best possible image of themselves when they first meet someone. Unfortunately, if you don't have that many good attributes, it becomes necessary to lie if you want to seem like a decent person. If your relationship with that person becomes long-term, you're expected to uphold that lie and live it on a day-to-day basis. This is a bitch so you should just tell the truth up front, even if you're a horrible person whose kisses remind your partner of Oscar the Grouch. Here are five of my favorite lies guys tell girls, both in the "getting to know you" phase and in relationships:<br />
<br />
1. "Let's put it this way, my number is in a lot of little black books."<br />
<br />
Whatever they say they have or haven't done, and who they have or haven't done it with, it will be a lie. He is trying to impress you with his image as a ladies' man or as a man of virtue. 92% of the time he is a mediocre lover with an average amount of experience.<br />
<br />
2."I only play video games if I'm <i>really</i> bored."<br />
<br />
When you first start talking to a guy, he is likely so enamored by your beauty and phenomenal personality that his game addiction may legitimately back off a bit. Beware, however, the guy who claims he has self-control when it comes to gaming, because he is kidding you and himself if he says you won't join the millions of women pushed to the side to make room for Call of Duty once your "new-love" phase fizzles out and you start to let yourself go.<br />
<br />
2. "Football is okay, but I'd rather watch <i>Phantom of the Opera</i> with you."<br />
<br />
Few guys are "casually entertained" by sports. If he watches sports at all, no matter how mild-mannered he appears, that means that he screams, curses, pumps his fists, cheers, jumps out of his seat, and paints his chest, so never believe that he simply "sometimes catches the end of the game."<br />
<br />
3. "Eh, she's all right."<br />
<br />
You should have no problem with a guy who recognizes the attractiveness of Taylor Swift and Amanda Bynes. However, he will say they're "okay" or "not his type" to seem like he doesn't have an eye for other girls. Really all these comments do is make you feel ugly because you're obviously not as good looking as Taylor Swift or Amanda Bynes, otherwise you'd be on TV or a date instead of sitting around reading my blog. You should never fall for these ridiculous claims because they're stupid and besides, if you find these girls more attractive than your boyfriend does, one or both of you is probably gay, and that tends to complicate heterosexual relationships.<br />
<br />
4. "I love you."<br />
<br />
This happens <i>all</i> the time. He is trying to get you in bed, he is confusing infatuation with love, or you said "I love you" first and he panicked and said it back so you wouldn't break up with him. If he says he loves you, wants to be with you forever, etc., and doesn't then try to get something out of you (or in to you, ha ha ha.) he may actually mean it. Look for "I love you but not really" warning signs: a) he says it only during intimate lovey-dovey time, b) he says it automatically with no emotion ("Loveya." "Luvyou2."), c) he posts glittery teddy bears with hearts for eyes on your Facebook wall.<br />
<br />
5."You're perfect just the way you are."<br />
<br />
Girls like to trap their boyfriends with questions like, "Do I look better with makeup on, or without?", "Should I keep my hair long or cut it shorter?", and "Would my boobs look better if they were bigger?" There are no satisfactory truthful answers to these questions, so guys are forced to give bullcrap answers like, "your natural beauty eliminates the need for makeup," "the magnificent structure of your cheekbones would suit long or short hair equally wonderfully," and "your breasts are in perfect proportion to your body." None of this means anything because you're probably a pock-marked, flat-chested mullet-haver with no idea how you look thanks to your sweet-hearted liar of a boyfriend.<br />
<br />
If you find a guy who doesn't lie about any of these five things, please propose to him.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-76896916314055558392011-08-19T18:10:00.000-04:002011-08-19T18:10:08.381-04:00Awwwwwkwaaaaard... :/Awkward: Miming to your mom how to use a Shake Weight.<br />
<br />
Awkward: Selling a woman her husband's Viagra prescription, only to get accused of selling her the wrong medicine and interrogated about it because she wants to know what it's for and if her husband's keeping secrets from her.<br />
<br />
Awkward: Shouting to your friend over loud music, "I JUST STARTED MY PERIOD!" or, "THAT UGLY GUY JUST GRABBED MY BUTT!" or, "CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW SKANKY KATIE LOOKS TONIGHT?!" right when the music stops.<br />
<br />
Awkward: Someone walking into a public bathroom as you're using the mirror for picking your teeth, readjusting your pushup bra, or checking out your butt.<br />
<br />
Awkward: Texting your friend obscene insults as a joke and not getting a response.<br />
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Awkward: Walking with someone you want to hold hands with but you can't tell if they do or not, so you swing your arms way too much in an effort to appear "natural" and "cool."<br />
<br />
Awkward: Riding with someone you don't know very well and having nothing to talk about so you try to look preoccupied with your phone and looking out the window.<br />
<br />
Awkward: This conversation:<br />
Amanda: Hey! You doin' ok?"<br />
Innocent Victim of Awkward Conversation: "Yeah, how are you?"<br />
Amanda: "Good, how 'bout you?!"<br />
IVOAC: "......."<br />
<br />
Awkward: Ordering food with fatass-sounding names like "The Big Bubba Double Bacon Triple Cheese Crispy Chicken Ranch Meltdown Sandwich." Especially if the person you're with gets a salad and water.<br />
<br />
Awkward: Slapping your friend's butt in an effort to be hilarious and spontaneous, only to immediately spot her all the way across the room, her behind nowhere near your offending hand.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-66438377098554900742011-08-18T19:08:00.001-04:002011-08-18T22:48:22.220-04:00A Day In The LifeI live a life full of things that are not interesting to anybody else because stories about reading and filing paperwork don't captivate many audiences for some reason. So I'm going to highlight the events of a typical day in my life anyway because self-ridicule is fun.<br />
<br />
<br />
6:30 -- I wake up, grease my hair back into a messy ponytail and drive, bleary-eyed, to my old high school to walk the track. Trying my hardest to push McGriddles from my mind, I alternately walk and jog laps while listening to energetic music on my MP3 player. I always skip all the first songs to get to the Savage Garden songs because I'm awesome. Any time some stranger (usually accompanied by a dog) walks by me, I try to distract them from the unshaven legs I have sticking out of my basketball shorts by making small talk about their stupid dog or how early it is. I continue doing laps until I feel that I've done sufficient exercise to not feel guilty the rest of the day.<br />
<br />
7:30 -- I go home and read about what everyone from my past is doing on Facebook and consider doing something productive with my life after being painfully reminded of how most of my Facebook friends are married, engaged, have children, pregnant, graduating college, buying houses, and moving away. Shortly afterwards I forget all about it because there's a cartoon marathon on Nickelodeon and I want a bowl of generic store brand Cinnamon-Flavored Toasters.<br />
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8:00 -- I fall asleep on the couch despite my desire to watch The Fairly Oddparents all morning. My kitten Lucifer wakes me up at least ten times by attacking various body parts that I twitch unconsciously.<br />
<br />
11:00 -- I wake up from my restless nap and read Harry Potter while considering how unhealthily I should eat for lunch. Knowing that I should keep my money-spending and calorie-consuming low, I go to McDonald's and get an Angus bacon cheeseburger combo. I wipe the cheese off my face and do thirteen sit-ups to smother my shame a little bit. My stomach is tricked into thinking it didn't just consume 4,500 calories in one sitting, so I continue on living my life with the guilt successfully shoved to the dark recesses of my mind where it can fester and be the death of me in a few years.<br />
<br />
12:00 -- I start getting ready for work reluctantly, going through my routine of anti-aging processes and beautifying treatments. They don't work. I put on my most stylish dress-code-compliant outfit and drag my lazy butt to work.<br />
<br />
1:00 -- I paste a sweet smile on my face and exhibit my legendary customer service skills anytime I'm forced to interact with customers. The rest of the time I try really hard to get stuff done but the problem is, I'm very easily confused. And forgetful. And prone to shutting my fingers in filing cabinets. Once I manage to overcome all those challenges and bandage my finger, working gives me a perfect opportunity to contemplate the meanings of my dreams, what I'll eat for dinner, how much money I need to survive this month, and what dramatic events will occur on the next episode of Degrassi.<br />
<br />
7:00 -- I take a "lunch break" to rest my feet and eat barbeque Pringles in the break room. This time is usually spent opening my phone every twenty-five seconds in the vain hope that someone has texted me, and thinking about people I could text to pass the time. In between shoving chips in my mouth, I compose ludicrous messages that I never send because I have too much self-respect and cowardice.<br />
<br />
7:30 -- It's almost time to close, so I start getting lazy. The store is actually open for an hour and a half after this time, but I've given up on accomplishing all my goals for the day so instead I opt to lean on the counter and gossip with co-workers who feel the same way.<br />
<br />
9:00 -- We finally lock the doors and get ready to leave. This is my favorite part of the day.<br />
<br />
9:20 -- I head home, wash the three inches of makeup off my face, and change into my shlubbiest lounge clothes. I spend at least twenty minutes plucking my eyebrows because people always say things to me like, "have you ever tweezed your eyebrows?", "I can tell you do your own eyebrows", "you'd be pretty if you didn't have those enormous brows", etc. and for some reason that's made me self-conscious about it. If you don't understand, check out the next-to-last picture in <a href="http://manda-banana.blogspot.com/2011/07/youre-gonna-wear-that.html">this blog.</a><br />
<br />
9:45 -- I check Facebook again to see what people are up to without having to talk to them. Because I don't really like any of them, I'm just nosy. Pictures of girls in bikinis on beaches remind me that I should do my Shake Weight workout, so I interrupt my mom watching "The Deadliest Catch" to put in my workout video.<br />
<br />
10:30 -- I wander into my brother's room and he keeps me there for an hour talking about movies and movie ratings. Then we remember that we have DDR and so we have to break it down, Thiel Posse style. We don't stop until we're unbearably sweaty and "Bad Romance" is permanently stuck in our heads for the next 63 hours.<br />
<br />
12:30 -- I have every intention of going to sleep, but my brain won't calm down so I read Harry Potter to relax it a little.<br />
<br />
2:00 -- I'm cross-eyed from reading in poor lighting. I remember I have to be at work at 7:30 and curse myself for irresponsibly staying up so late. Closing my eyes determinedly, I lie down and wait for sleep, which doesn't come for two more hours because my brain wants to keep rocking out to Lady Gaga and replaying events of the day, edited with things I should have said if I wasn't such a scaredy-cat. When I fall asleep this late at night/early in the morning, my dreams are always of being late for work, oversleeping, and being fired for missing my shift. I wake up ready to cuss someone out for looking at me wrong. People look at me wrong all day because I didn't have time to wash my hair and I have a permanent scowl on my face.<br />
<br />
And then the whole thing repeats perpetually, with slight variances in times due to my work schedule. Having a lame life is awesomely fun!Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-31634333080644822052011-08-13T01:06:00.002-04:002011-08-17T01:45:54.945-04:00Happy birthday to me!<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My birthday was awesome. I got to sleep until 1 p.m. with nobody harassing me to wake up and do something productive with my life. Amazing dreams based on Harry Potter flitted through my head, interrupted constantly by text messages of people telling me how spectacular of a person I was for surviving until the 22nd anniversary of the day I was born. I was oustandingly popular for this one day and everyone I'd ever met or added on Facebook expressed hope that I have the best day of my life. I could tell they meant it by their copious use of exclamation points and smiley faces.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My best friend Kacy loves me and wants me to be a fatass alcoholic so she told me she'd be taking me out for dessert and drinks that night. She would <i>not</i> take no for an answer (thank God). Her boyfriend was given strict orders not to call or text her while we were having our drunken girl-time, so he texted me instead to tell me how beautiful she was. Clearly his birthday gift to me was to remind me how alone and un-beautiful I was, and to make me throw up at their stupid love, which I greatly appreciated because it made me skinnier.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We went to Chili's where I ate everything I could think of as long as it was deep-fried in batter. In my defense, I'd worked up a massive appetite while waiting thirty minutes for our table and sitting awkwardly across from some attractive teenagers whom I resented for wearing denim shorts and having boyfriends.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I got a free brownie with ice cream and some shame as everyone at Chili's watched me be 22 and get sang to about it. Kacy's presents to me were a shake weight, vitamins to keep me young forever, lots of flattery, and a Rue 21 coupon so I could buy sexy new clothes that I'll never get an opportunity to wear since the only place I ever go is work. She even told me my butt wasn't flat anymore when I was trying on skinny jeans, so I immediately bought them without even looking at the price tag. Her other presents to me seemed to be backwards compliments and making me bankrupt.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I wasn't quite fat enough to suit Kacy's idea of how my birthday should be, so we went to Applebee's for strawberry daiquiris and bad entertainment in the form of karaoke. I showed the waitress my ID without being asked because I'm afraid of looking old, then later asked her if she thought I looked 21 or not. She had just turned 21 so I cursed her silently for being so young. 22 had hit my ego pretty hard by then.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My manager had given me the entire weekend off because he seemed to think I'd need both Saturday and Sunday to recover from my wild birthday. Thankfully one strawberry daiquiri didn't have that sort of effect (or any sort of effect, really) so after leaving Applebee's we tried to come up with something else we could do for my birthday that wouldn't end in regret and vomit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There's an arcade a few minutes away from there that has Dance Dance Revolution, which is basically the most fun thing of all time and I felt like embarrassing myself. Not enough to sing karaoke, but just a tiny bit enough to play DDR in a public place while wearing heels. We danced to several songs and discovered we were good at "Toxic" so we did that one about 17 times and got pretty good at it, even on difficult. We were pretty much the coolest people at the entire arcade, which is typically a fairly easy thing to accomplish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Once we got red-faced and sweaty, we realized there was a photo booth that would sketch your portrait for $2, which is a terrible deal but it was cute and it was my birthday so we did it anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My dad is the world's worst gift-giver, so he came by my house when I wasn't there and left me two books, one I've never heard of and one I didn't care about, and a CD I've never heard of. One year he gave my mom a bathroom scale for Christmas, so nobody in our family holds very high hopes for his presents. He's kind of like Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia from the Harry Potter books, who send Harry things like a tissue or a used pair of socks for Christmas.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My mom made Boston Creme Pie and got DDR for the PS3 as a joint gift for me and Thomas, so that we can lose the weight we gain from eating Boston Creme Pie. I intend to play it every day and lose 60 pounds while continuing to eat bacon cheeseburgers twice a day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Also Kacy is taking me to Carowinds next weekend and it will be way more amazing than last time we went because our stupid lame fun-sucking now-ex-boyfriends won't be there this time to make my special day all about how whiny and loser-ish they are instead of how fantastic I am.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Oh and the entire remainder of August is devoted to making me feel as happy and pretty as possible, so you can all get started on that as soon as you finish reading this.</span>Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-80222080378448335272011-08-12T13:06:00.000-04:002011-08-12T13:06:12.393-04:00A letter to my pimples<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Dear Acne,</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I am 22 years old now. This is no longer considered "on the brink of teenagerdom." It's quite beyond teenagerdom, in fact, and so you need to stop harassing me. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You need to accept that what we had is in the past and move on. You'll find someone new, someone young and naive enough to put up with your abuse, but as for me, I've outgrown you. I used to simply cover everything up so nobody would suspect that there was something between us. Should I really have to stoop that low? No, I shouldn't, and I can see that now in my advanced years. Covering it up just makes everything worse in the long run, which leads to more and more that I have to desperately try to hide.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I have new worries now, like Wrinkles and Fine Lines and Signs Of Aging, and I can't deal with all of you at the same time. You were never good for my self-esteem anyway; you constantly broke my heart and made me feel like the ugliest girl in school. I don't need that kind of unhealthy relationship, so I beg you, leave, and never show your ugly, scarred, red, scaly, flaky, oozing, bumpy, pus-filled face around here again.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Sincerely,</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Amanda</div>Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-28863489065525141502011-08-08T17:43:00.000-04:002011-08-08T17:43:38.987-04:00We're all a little bizz-nitchy sometimes.<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There are certain things that we all say so frequently yet we almost always mean something completely different. At least I do, so I'm going to lump all of you into a stereotype of judgment and bitchiness with me because it makes me feel better about myself.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "Can I help you?"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "Go away so I can lean on the counter while texting and eating quesadillas."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "Hot enough for ya?"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I sort of know you and therefore feel obligated to make some sort of BS conversation when I see you."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "I'm happy for you!"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I deserve that way more than you do but I don't want to seem bitter!"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "I just have a quick question."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I'm going to keep you on the phone for an hour and a half with tales of my great-niece and the shapes her poo makes."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "Have you lost weight?"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "You look less like Jabba the Hutt than last time I saw you."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "I'm starving!"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I haven't tasted deep-fried breading covering some sort of animal fat in at least twenty minutes!"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "Workin' hard, or hardly workin'?"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b> Translation</b>: "You're working and I'm not so I want to rub it casually in your face under the pretense of a 'clever' play on words."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "What have you been up to?"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I don't remember who you are, please give me clues so I can fake it."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "This song is so totally about my life."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I'm starved for attention and want to make people connect this song with me when they hear it later, and also think that my life is way different from how it actually is."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "You still working at _____?/going to _______?"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "I remember one random thing about you that separates you from everyone else I know and I will repeatedly ask you about it even if you no longer have any connection to that thing because without it you have no identity to me."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Typical conversational statement</b>: "You look nice <i>today!</i>"</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Translation</b>: "What happened to the tentacles growing out of your nose?!"</div>Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-42829526664728117172011-08-01T05:16:00.001-04:002011-08-01T05:17:10.892-04:00Pants on FireKacy requested that I post a picture of <a href="http://manda-banana.blogspot.com/2011/06/charming-adam.html">Charming Adam</a>'s best assets so everyone can swoon over him. I cropped his face out of it so that you won't recognize him and be tempted to stalk him if you should meet him in the future.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbzGfQqziOlXAOBt1xJWl1lrhAtwTaYsi9_DABMB5d3nH0mLTcyaShSk-z_B6eEma0EzCxSPNpoRco-sVdOpDGQgfR2gRVVmsjzKag2hG78dMUoKomOEVCzBJMRL2hVqWwgJxEdM4koA/s1600/adam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimbzGfQqziOlXAOBt1xJWl1lrhAtwTaYsi9_DABMB5d3nH0mLTcyaShSk-z_B6eEma0EzCxSPNpoRco-sVdOpDGQgfR2gRVVmsjzKag2hG78dMUoKomOEVCzBJMRL2hVqWwgJxEdM4koA/s320/adam.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
I believe the flame design is supposed to indicate his smokingness.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8689049922363540529.post-22357414523310082552011-07-29T06:39:00.001-04:002011-07-29T06:44:59.567-04:00Library DayMy brothers and I were homeschooled. To some people this seems to mean that we were raised by wolves, but to us it just meant that when we finished our schoolwork we could go outside and have big-wheel races instead of waiting on 29 other kids to figure out what an adjective was and give three examples.<br />
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It's not as lonesome as you would think. Our mom would meet up with other "homeschool moms" (their phrase, not mine. I'm not that lame.) to form clubs and other things to trick us into thinking we were normal kids. We had a bowling league, a 4-H club, a special day reserved at Roll-A-Bout, Quiz Bowl, Battle of the Books, science club, plays, and Food Fairs, but my absolute favorite day of all was Library Day (known elsewhere as "Thursday").<br />
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At the risk of sounding like a complete nerd, my library was. The. Shit. All other libraries can suck it. If I could still go their storytime hour without being the creepiest person there, I so totally would. I've considered renting a kid so I could pretend to just be a loving parent who's really into kids' books. What's abnormal about that?<br />
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In the enormous children's section, there was a tub of weirdly-shaped plastic block things. These were perfect for weapons because Dray and I always had to play Power Rangers with our friends, embarrass our moms, and disturb the peace as much as possible. We used the slanted display shelf of books as the Command Center and from there went on our missions, which consisted of screaming "Hiii-ya! UNH!" and kicking as high as we could at the guy playing the monster,. We were always highly successful, especially me because I was the fabled Pink Ranger and the only girl, which obviously equals badassness. Not every girl raised in the '90s could say she rescued a fake Angel Grove from a fake Lord Zed without even wrinkling her floral overall-shorts, ya know.<br />
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The library computers only had one game, and it was a Magic School Bus game that loaded as fast as a top-of-the-line computer from 1994 would let it. Meaning, I slammed the mouse in frustration and banged all the buttons on the keyboard at least every three minutes. I've never been very patient. I desperately wanted to help the bespectacled ginger kid leap his way further into space one platform at a time while collecting coins, but I failed him repeatedly until I was forced to leave him and stop harming the computers with my uncontrollable brat-rage.<br />
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Every year the library had a summer reading contest for kids to promote staying literary even when school was out, or something. They had a different theme each year and all the kids were given construction paper cutouts of symbols that went with that theme. These had their names written on them and were tacked to the humongous floor-to-ceiling bulletin board in the children's room, and for every 100 pages each kid read they'd get a sticker on it. Well, I thought this was an incredible idea because I liked reading, winning, and everyone knowing that I'm winning at reading. I devoted every hour of my waking life to reading and getting so many precious stickers that I had to get multiple paper baseballs or whatever to hold all my shining tokens of accomplishment and awesomeness. I was so amazingly literary, all the other kids wished they could be homeschooled too instead of being stuck in their classrooms, not being best friends with their brothers or covered in stickers and chrome nail polish.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2B_3Da7wfAJvtFOtemvofcMy9yKlJfRlnFxR-bjYjXd5NSJEGirc8HCSPdzqEobgwQiq7YfnaMe4VRPp6WZ4TuOZG8BcmkPBAjorpHzEQbv5O8DjQ3lb7S3YVOO8NM_ABKLNXa2yz5Vs/s1600/bones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2B_3Da7wfAJvtFOtemvofcMy9yKlJfRlnFxR-bjYjXd5NSJEGirc8HCSPdzqEobgwQiq7YfnaMe4VRPp6WZ4TuOZG8BcmkPBAjorpHzEQbv5O8DjQ3lb7S3YVOO8NM_ABKLNXa2yz5Vs/s320/bones.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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Once I reached a certain age, damaged all the computers, read all the books I cared about, won the summer reading contest so many times I grew bored with it, and saved Angel Grove from as many attacks as my high-kicks were able to, it was time for me to graduate from my beloved children's room and move to the small alcove for "young adults." Here I spent hours puzzling over the twins of Sweet Valley High, wondering what sex was and if I'd ever have boobs. I had never known there was more to teenagerness than what was illustrated in The Babysitters Club books, and all the new information was pretty frightening to a girl who still wore braided pigtails with dragonfly barrettes.<br />
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I was delighted, however, that some of the books in this section couldn't be finished before I left, even when my mom's gossipiest friends were sitting with her. I started taking home huge stacks of random books, unsure of what genre I would like now that I was part of this mysterious club, "young adults." I adored murder mysteries immediately, except when I couldn't sleep because a masked man with a rusty screwdriver was lurking in my closet behind my velour highwater bellbottoms. Time travel, space travel, reincarnation, telekinesis, aliens, demons, ghosts, magic, secret worlds -- anything that seemed impossible enchanted my young adult mind because I wanted there to be more to life than Asheboro, <i>Family Matters,</i> and wanting pizza for dinner.<br />
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I never completely grew out of that phase.<br />
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Because I wasn't quite enough of a nerd as my dad would have liked, he taught me how to play chess, and once I mastered it I would challenge kids at the library. Sitting at a table with the board set up in front of me, my feet dangling above the ground, I would grin evilly through my straight-across-the-forehead bangs at passing children. Most of them would walk away from my glare quaking in intimidation, or perhaps hurtful laughter. After each game, I would shake my opponent's hand, nod wisely, and solemnly declare, "good game" just like my dad taught me. Because nobody likes a sore winner. Then whoever I had crushed would stumble away crying and never show their face at the Asheboro Public Library again.<br />
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Nobody ever would have guessed I'd be a college dropout. Kids with a sick amount of stickers and chess victories like I had almost always end up graduating from Harvard, not dropping out of the community college.<br />
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Without all the library time I was exposed to in addition to being homeschooled, I doubt I would have become so delightful, classy, charming, well-educated, accomplished, competitive, literary, and respectful. There's eight adjectives that describe a noun (me), and I'm not waiting on you to catch up.Mandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04906337322665890076noreply@blogger.com0