A few things about men...

...and the Best Dad Quote of the Week.**


You may remember me writing about B, an ill-fated set-up. While chatting with a mutual acquaintance, she asked if I'd ever met up with B.
"No, I never heard from him," I said in a manner that I hoped was casual. (Survey says: probably not.)
"Oh, that's too bad! You know, he's shy. He was probably waiting for you to contact him."
(No. Invalid. Time to man up.)
This was a delicate situation. I didn't want to get into it. I also didn't want to give the impression that I spent nights crying while I stared at my facebook homepage, willing B to write on my wall.
"Oh, that's too bad," I carefully said. "He seemed like a nice guy." (Read: It's too bad he couldn't step up and act like a man. I figured he'd be past the juvenile bullshit.)

I guess it's time for me to jump on the Super Bowl commercial bandwagon. Underwhelming? Yeah. For sure. I did like the Google ad, though not for the reasons many women seem to be swooning. (Have a look at twitter for further proof.) There are women who would like to live in the first half of a Nicholas Sparks novel, before anyone dies tragically. They seem to have walked away from the Google ad thinking, "If only I lived in Paris, a dreamy man would fall head over heels for me and our babies would be adorable! And have dual citizenship." This sad fantasy...was not what I got from it. (Nor, I'm sure, what Google intended.) I thought it was a fantastic take on story-telling.
Lots of the ads, however...seemed like they were written by angry, scorned women intent on showing men how horrible they are. A mirror into their own stupidity. (No, I promise I did not have a hand in any of the commercials.) Which is surprising, given that a fair few men watch the Super Bowl. And advertising companies know that. Hmm.


Best Dad Quote of the Week**
In the car today with my father: "Who is Bret Michaels?...He's on that Donald Trump show about being a boss."
I cannot make this up. My father is a man in his 70s.
"Well, Dad...he's an aging former rocker from the 80s who now has a tacky dating show where he courts unfortunate women. Also, I'm pretty sure he's bald under that bandana and fake hair."



**I reserve the right to unseat this quote at any time, should something better come along.

It's complicated.

I just had a rather enlightening conversation with Red Curl Girl, who always makes me laugh. I realized that I worry too much about anonymity for those who star in my stories...and really don't deserve anonymity at all. So here. I was holding out on you.

Back in early December, I ran into an acquaintance at a holiday party. During the course of our conversation, she ended up asking if I was seeing anyone. (My favorite thing to discuss, as you may know. I did not growl at her or make any unseemly faces; I was on my best behavior.) She mentioned that her son was also single! She happened to have his picture in her purse! (A happy coincidence.) I was given the pertinent details--not as tall as I might prefer in a perfect world, but 30 years old with a job and a house. These factors seemed to suggest a man who has his shit together--and that's what we should all strive for, ladies. (And gentlemen, too!) It was only a matter of time before this sort of activity attracted the other women in the room--and I soon found myself surrounded by cackling hens with matchmaking in their eyes. (Once again proving to me that women in relationships want everyone else around them to pair up.)
The room seemed to get stuffier as his photo was passed around. My eyes darted around, searching for an exit before things got too awkward.

And then, they did.

This woman pulled out her cell phone. She told me to smile, pointing it at me. I realized what her plan was; a proverbial lightbulb going off over my head. Things moved in slow motion and I was incapable of stopping them. I wished for a power outage or fire alarm. No such luck. The third picture of me was deemed acceptable, and she was gone before I could argue. I tried to be all "glass half full" about it. By my figuring, he'd say one of two things. Either, "Oh, no, Mom. Not so much. Delete that picture ASAP." Or, "Where has this divine creature been all my life? I can't believe you know such a lady and haven't mentioned it to me yet!"** and he'd buy me dinner. Can't really complain about either one, since I don't know the guy. Nothing to lose and all that garbage.

I should mention that this acquaintance is more acquainted with my mother. Because of this, I was not surprised when my mom got an email. "B is willing to meet Amanda." She suggested the Mom Plan of one mother giving the other mother her child's phone number.

I...was not thrilled. He was willing to meet me? I mean, don't do me any favors or anything. Given his lackadaisical attitude and it being late December, I set the email aside. (Does anything sound more sad than a Christmastime blind date? ...Yeah, I didn't think so.)

In early January, I received a facebook friend request from this young man. This worked much better for me, as I could stalk him before committing to a phone call. (I had actually checked facebook for him almost immediately after this ordeal started, but he has a rather common name and my search yielded no helpful results.) Continuing to feign "glass half full," I accepted. And after reading his information and checking out all his pictures, I waited. Admittedly, I wasn't planning on initiating contact. I know that's not very 21st century "We wear pants now, too!" of me, but I don't care. The ball was in his court.

I waited. And waited. And although my interest in this fellow was not high to start with, it was waning. Quickly. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt! (This...was a mistake.) Until my mother called me in the middle of January. She'd received another email. "Is Amanda still interested in meeting B? He asked."

No seriously. In case you lost track, this man asked his mother to ask my mother if I was interested in meeting. I guess maybe he was nervous about asking me to the 8th grade dance? "I kind of know what you're going to say, but how should I handle this?" was my mother's question.
"Tell her he's welcome to contact me on facebook!" I said, exasperated. "After he's located his testicles!"
"...I'll leave out that last part," said my mother primly. "But that's what I figured."

I continued to wait. It was suggested that he might be shy. EVEN SO, facebook makes it So. Freaking. Easy. to make a passive move. You can click "like" on anything a person does. You can "poke" them. You don't even have to be clever, for heaven's sake! And yet, our wall-to-wall remained blank. I wrote him off. Clearly we are not meant to be. Note to self: set-ups are awkward.


You'd like that to be the end of this tale, no? Well, you would be wrong. I was in for another surprise. A friend asked last week if I had heard anything from him. While I was on the phone, I absentmindedly went to check his facebook--I'm a perennial stalker, guys. I can't help it. AND HE WAS GONE. He unfriended me. He not only didn't want to say anything to me, but he didn't want to say anything so badly that he couldn't bear for me to pop up on his news feed.

That is cold.



**And by this I clearly mean, "Well, I don't have any other plans. She seems tolerable." Guys, it was a camera phone. And she had to have someone help her. How good could that picture have been?

I should get a pet or a hobby or something.

On Christmas morning, I found two rather unique gifts with my name on them. The first, in my stocking, was a little joke from my mother. An air freshener. No, I'm not joking. It's a cute little air freshener shaped like a duck, full of innocence and childlike wonder.

The potential ruiner of Christmas.

She's hilarious, no? The best part is the scent. According to his packaging, the little guy smells like "summer linen." As if I haven't already had my fill of "linen" scented things. (I've been fooled by that before!)

I finally worked up the nerve to open my new friend.

1:57pm: Open packaging. Looks harmless enough.

1:58pm: Read directions. "Separate front and rear portions of the character." Ok!

2:04pm: Still struggling to pull apart plastic pieces.

Harder than it looks, ok??

2:05pm: Call in reinforcements. (Read: yell for father.)

2:05pm: Mission accomplished.

2:07pm: Tentatively sniff. Squint and back away quickly, preparing for worst.

2:08pm: Not dead. Positive sign. Breathing normal. Even better.

2:09pm: Still skeptical. Don't let me down, duck.

We'll see about that.

That was a couple days ago. I delayed posting this, in case he came and murdered me in my sleep or something. (I don't trust him being in the same room as My Mortal Enemy. They might talk when I'm not in there. Since I don't exactly hang out in the bathroom for fun, this gives them lots of time to plot my demise.) The good news is that his plastic smile does not seem to be masking any malicious intent. The other good news is that he really doesn't smell like anything unless you hold it up to your face, making it The Best Bathroom Air Freshener Ever. (I really am not a fan of the air being freshened, as it turns out.)



















Note: Not trying to kill me.

Twin Powers Activate!

Kids, The Twin is showing some of her artwork in Livonia for another week or so. For anyone sort of near there, you should definitely go check it out, because she's awesome. Her art is awesome, she's awesome, the end.

Oh, and here are the details: Livonia City Hall, from right this second until January 29th. Go go go!



In other Twin News, we decided the other day that the best twin power to have would be the ability to transfer the need to pee to the other twin. Would come in handy in lots of situations. Not very exciting or glamorous, but a very practical twin power. Just FYI.

Notes from work.

Sometimes I forget how much I love teaching. It's easy to get bogged down by everything happening outside your classroom.
And then I have weeks like this past one. I assure you, I can't make up things like this. Some notes from kindergarten:

Noticed a new bulletin board by the gym. "You're not fully educated until you're physically educated." Not a bad sentiment. Get outside! Move around! Let's battle childhood obesity! But you know what? My first thought when I saw it was "Dirty."

I was teaching a lesson about volcanoes on Tuesday. (A huge hit.) N put her hand up and I called on her. "You talk beautiful." I was expecting a question about volcanoes. Or at the very least, some anecdote about N having seen a volcano in a movie and people were scared. Nope. I was way off. I'm not really sure what N meant, though. Do the dulcet tones of my voice agree with her? Or is it the way I construct sentences that she finds so pleasing? Not a very specific compliment. She's 5, guys, give her a break. Way harsh. You shouldn't be so judgemental. I, on the other hand, am duly flattered. I talk beautiful. That's a new one for me.

As the kindergarten students were lining up after lunch, shouting with the usual enthusiasm reserved for those not yet old enough for long division, our principal walked by. He put out his fist for them to bump as we walked by. He showed them how to do it, following up a fist bump with, "Then we're going to do this, and make fireworks." Yeahhh...the principal taught my class to blow it up.

After lunch, we have a little quiet time, sitting at tables. They have small containers of Play-Doh that we pull out some days to play independently. Thursday was just such a day. Some were making animals, some were making cakes, some were making cartoon characters. It was awesome. But one girl, Z, was making something totally different. She'd made two tiny Play-Doh mountains and was holding them up to her chest. I noticed this as I walked by and heard her say, "These are my boobies," giggling madly. Wow. I can't even comment on this, because what is there to say? It was supremely weird. My jaw dropped. Let's move on.

The bathroom is inside the classroom, with two stalls and a sink. The door stays propped open. I looked over on Wednesday to see S crawling out from under the boys' stall. Um...? I walked over. "Hey, S...what did you just do?" He stared at me. "S, did you lock that?" He stared more. I walked over to the door and checked. For some reason, he locked the stall door and left it that way. How helpful.
"We can unlock it," he told me.
"Yeah." I know he didn't do it with any malicious intent, but I could not keep the sarcasm out of my voice. He continued to stare. "Well, I'm not going to do it," I added. "I'm too tall."
"Oh." S crawled back under (On the kindergarten bathroom floor. Gross.) and emerged the proper way. Sometimes...the ideas are not so hot.

We had a guest come in Wednesday afternoon, and she was running a few minutes later. We had just returned from music, so we were discussing our favorite songs from class. J raised his hand and asked if it could be a favorite song from home. "Sure!" I replied enthusiastically, glad to know my class was unaware that I was killing time.
"Ice Ice Baby," J said proudly. He smiled widely at me. I could only laugh.
"Awesome." I replied. What else does one say to that?

It was a great week at work. With my freakshow class. :)

Delusion.

My friends and I occasionally revel in the glory of a Bad Movie. (My personal favorite was Female Popstar Night—it was the Trinity of Awful. Gigli with Jennifer Lopez, Crossroads with Britney, and something or other with Hilary [and Haylie, but…who cares?] Duff. OH MY GOD the Duff movie JUST CAME ON MTV. It’s fate. Also, it’s Material Girls. I’ll give it a miss this time around.) We gathered last week for just such an evening. Sitting in the basement, we heard sporadic hissing.
Yes. Hissing. Not “some kind of animal is trapped in the basement and getting angry” hissing. (If only...) Oh, no. Something much worse. This kind of hissing made me sit rigidly in alarm. This kind of hissing was awfully similar to a certain “clean linen” air freshener we all know and deplore. I started to panic. Was it following me here? Was that even possible? I asked if anyone else heard that noise. I silently hoped they had. I hoped I was not alone. Was this going to haunt me? Was this to be my own personal case of a heart beating under the floorboards, refusing to be forgotten? Will I guiltily hear hissing everywhere I go until it slowly drives me mad? Does—oh. Ok. Everyone else heard it.
“Oh,” said my host casually. “That’s just the air freshener. It’s supposed to be on a 30 minute timer.” She walked over to the wall plug-in unit as if it were no big deal, as if she were confronting a harmless kitten. Thirty seconds later, she returned to restart the movie.
“Is it very angry?” I whispered, afraid to raise my voice. You can’t let it sense your fear, Amanda, I thought to myself.
“What? Oh, I unplugged it. It’s fine now.”

Yes. Yes it IS fine now. You will not follow me around, awful box. You will stay banished to the cabinet under the sink. (Until I can find a more suitable hiding place. I would bury it, but I worry about those toxins getting into the earth. Even if my mother does not worry about them getting into my lungs. It’s fine, Mom. I have two.)

Once upon a time...

Gather round, children, and I'll tell you a tale of a bitter woman and how she came into existence...

A long time ago, when I was in high school, I studied German. One of our first assignments in the first year was to choose a German name. (Everyone who studied a language in American high school probably did this.) We never thought that maybe some of our real names were German? We kind of liked the idea of picking our own; doing the job our parents did years ago, but...you know...better. I ended up with Anna, which is actually not so different from Amanda. (I guess my parents did alright on that one.)
My German teacher was big on stories and skits. In the beginning, she would dictate a story using us as characters, and we would write each line down. We drew pictures to illustrate each sentence, to help us remember the story later. (We did the same with new vocabulary words. It is a wonder I learned any animals at all, considering that each picture looked the same except the shark. Which was a fin sticking out of waves. Mad drawing skills, right here.) Later, we wrote the stories ourselves or with partners. Some patterns emerged in the class; things that showed up in story after story. (She deeply regretted the day we learned "to throw up.") After writing and illustrating them, actors were selected and these scenes were brought to life.
I got talking with a friend from that class recently at a dinner party. Donning his tux and gesturing with a wine glass, he brought up these fateful stories. And thanks to that conversation and my borderline packrat tendencies, I have unearthed a very important one, featuring a character you might be interested to meet.

Anna Monster.

You may recall that I was Anna. Sometimes...Anna turned into a monster. When she was angry. And what was she usually angry about? Boys. Boys doing stupid things. (Does this sound familiar?)

In an early story our teacher created, a boy in our class under the pseudonym "Axel" received a Jaguar for his birthday and drove from Detroit to San Francisco. There, he met and fell in love with Anna. (Gross.) They drove to Las Vegas and according to my drawing, went for Chinese food. (In a castle? Damn, I cannot draw.) Axel saw Pamela Anderson and fell in love with her. (Jerk.) Anna got so angry that she turned into a monster and ate Axel for dinner instead of Chinese food. Following her meal, regular Anna came back, took Axel's Jag and drove to Detroit to see a Red Wings game. (I'm not sure why she went back to Detroit, considering she used to live in San Francisco. But here it is, in black and white.) That was Anna Monster's first appearance. A jilted lover getting a bit of revenge.

Fig. A: Anna turns into Anna Monster for the very first time.

From then on, anytime people (mainly boys) did stupid things in skits, Anna Monster came in and ate them. She always looked the same--our teacher had drawn her on the board and we stuck with that image. We eventually decided upon the noise she made--that was a heated debate. (See figure B.) She often had no role other than coming in, turning into Anna Monster, eating people, and exiting. She was the deus ex machina for our German class; plot resolution. Sometimes she got a line or two. But she always got angry. And then she got revenge. I delighted in having such an integral role. Sure, I had been typecast, but I had been typecast with such perfection that who cared?? There are many things in my life I'm proud of, but I am not ashamed to admit that Anna Monster is somewhere on that list.

So boys and girls, even though Bitter Amanda would not emerge in her current state for several years, I believe that is when she got her start. Because Axel fell so quickly out of love with her, in favor of Pamela Anderson. And that shit is just not ok.

Fig. B: Anna Monster's appearance was refined over the semesters. Note angry noise.