Confessions.

Admittedly, I enjoy the holiday season. Well, a lot of the holiday season. (You may remember the Mistletoe Rant of '06...) And I have had a really great month, from Thanksgiving until now. Ridiculously busy, but fantastic.

Those two things right there, busy and fantastic, are why I haven't posted lately. Because I was settling into a new job, so yay! And then I have been in a particularly good mood...which is freaking weird. I had to shake it off before I could return to you my bitter self. So if you can stick with me for a couple more days, all holiday cheer will vanish and I will post as much as possible.
Thanks, kids.

Proof positive that I am old.

I was sitting in on an English discussion in a 4th grade class today. The teacher reviewed antonyms, then asked students to suggest antonyms for various words. Things were going quite nicely until she threw out the word "sweet." Responses were immediate--"horrible" and "lame" were common. Puzzled, I looked at the teacher in charge...at the same moment, we realized what was happening.

For today's savvy 4th grader, lame IS the opposite of sweet.

We burst out laughing, because they weren't wrong...just too cool for us. I love my job. (Oh, and for the record, one student finally suggested something more along the lines we were thinking--sour.)

OMG.

Dear Private Practice,
EPISODES LIKE TONIGHT'S OUGHT TO HAVE A WARNING LABEL. I mean, come on. My mother would like grandchildren, and showing multiple women in labor DID NOT HELP HER AT ALL. It did not look like a warm and fuzzy event. It looked deeply unpleasant. And now everybody's having sex, as if the process leading up to it is supposed to make me forget how upsetting it looked while the women were SCREAMING and in pain. Thanks anyway.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

PS- GIVING BIRTH IN A TUB IS GROSS. *ba

Some tips, 1940s style.

Ladies, I have all the answers you need. I found a hilarious book this past weekend that I just had to have...How to Get Along with Boys. It's a reprint of a book from 1945. And it is FULL of solid advice. (Maybe later we can talk about how at the ripe old age of 23 I have already broken 7, possibly 8, of the 10 rules in Chapter XI: How Not to Offend Him.)
I do find myself confused, though, as I read the section on writing love letters. It is suggested that one should edit letters before sending them off into the world. Sure, not a bad plan. But the reasoning? That loved ones have a habit of reading into things, and you wouldn't want to unnecessarily trouble them. Now...this is a manual for ladies. Who are trying to pin down a man. Um...preeeeeeety sure that women are the only ones reading between the lines. Right? Are we not constantly berated by men for trying to figure out "what he really means"? Do they not repeatedly tell us they mean what they said? So...doesn't it seem highly unlikely that a man would sit there, rereading a letter in order to search for hidden meanings and subtext? Am I crazy?

DAMMIT.

Alright, I have had enough. This writers strike is something I understand and the reruns of Letterman are certainly something I can live with. But now? Now I am pissed. Because the new season of 24 is being delayed. It's time to reach a damn agreement. I love 24 in a way that is unparalleled. My schedule stops when 24 comes on. I do not take phone calls, unless it is my brother calling at a commercial break. I will not go out or make plans. And now I have been waiting months for the return of Jack Bauer, and THIS happens. Give the writers what they want, dammit!

Surprise!

I almost exposed myself to Philadelphia this weekend.

Or rather, the women of Philadelphia. I was in the airport there, flying home. (I spent the weekend with amazing friends, surprising one for her birthday. I didn't know what to get her, so decided that I would do as a gift.) I generally enjoy airports, unlike 98.3% of the population. You're never far from some type of coffee, and the people watching is second only to amusement parks.
Anyway, I stopped in the restroom. (As another sidenote, there is such a difference in airport bathrooms. Some cities have great stalls with room for your luggage and a shelf so nothing goes on the floor. And some look like everyday bathroom stalls, without even a hook for your bag. Ew. Philly has nice ones, I am pleased to announce. One important detail, though, is that the stalls open outward, towards the sinks.) As I was...ok, not important. You do not need details. I was doing what one does in the restroom, I noticed that my lock was undone. Somehow, my backpack had knocked the lock out of place when I hung it up. By the grace of God, the weight on the door stopped it from swinging freely. Which I dearly appreciated once I realized that the doors do in fact open OUT. Had it done so while I was indisposed, I would not have been able to lean over and lock myself back in. It would have been out of reach, and then, my friends, I would have had a VERY AWKWARD encounter with the woman at the sink directly in front of me.

Awesome.

One Stop Shopping

The Kodak photo gallery emails me occasionally, with deals on prints and whatnot. Handy if you print as many digital photos as I do. But never before did I realize that it truly is a utopia for my inbox.

I got an email just now about doing my holiday shopping. I had a look around.


Oh. My. God. I had not realized that I could buy photo gifts. Each and every one on my holiday gift list could receive something with my face printed on it! Merry Christmas Dad, MY FACE ON A NECKTIE.

......It's the most brilliant plan ever. Imagine the ease with which I could complete my shopping!
Grandma? Amanda ornament. Check.
Mom? Amanda coffee mug. Check.
Brother? Amanda baseball cap. Check.
Sister? Amanda t-shirt. Check.
Niece? Teddy bear wearing an Amanda t-shirt. Check!

This is either the best or the worst idea ever. Which is it? I guess we'll have to wait until the holiday gift season!

First name basis?

I'm spending this week subbing in a 5th grade classroom...in my former elementary school. And it is FREAKING ME OUT. The secretary recognized me. I realized that the teacher next door taught me 2nd grade. This morning she came to introduce herself. So I shook her hand and told her my name, waiting to tell her about our history. And that there is no way I will feel comfortable calling her anything but Mrs. Second Grade Teacher. Sorry, but the first name will just feel wrong. Kind of like putting your shirt on backwards in the morning...sure, it'll WORK, but it won't sit right. Before I could figure out how to break the news, though, she recognized me. "Oh my God, Bitter Amanda??" It was a funny, surreal moment. And while I know that I'm an adult now, I think that going into the teacher's lounge unaccompanied is about as far as I'm willing to go--I'll pass on first names! (PS: yes the teacher's lounge is as amazing as it always seemed. A magical land, I tell you.) I'm used to going in them, but there is something so bizarre and satisfying to go in the lounge of your own school. Ladies and gentlemen, I have tasted freedom. And it is delicious.


FOR THE RECORD, if anyone is still questioning my general disdain for men, I'll only point you toward the fellow on that Shot of Love dating show...wearing the very tasteful "vagitarian" shirt. There are hardly words.

Not helpful.

Last week was the triumphant return to my alma mater--to visit the women who helped me become who I am today. (Good thing? Bad thing? Jury still out.) Additionally, I was there to celebrate a 21st birthday (I love you, Stabby) and prevent any work from getting done. (For the record, I excelled in all three endeavors.)
One of the highlights was a trip to the bar. (New since my graduation--which is probably ok.) I sat there with five friends, having a pint and a chat. Out of nowhere, a guy from the bar and his ladyfriend come to sit with us. Um, okay? She is quiet and friendly. He is in a band, just blowing through town. Which meant one thing: Philosopher Musician Guy. Sigh. After a few minutes of preliminary conversation bullshit, I strike up a side conversation with the other girl farthest from him. (We lucked out by choosing those seats at the start of the evening.) Talk turns to a certain boy. As I start an unprovoked rant about Boy, PMG hears and stops the other conversation.
"What's the story?" PMG thinks he can help, I suppose. It won't be anything new, though--I have heard it all regarding Boy. I tell him the Reader's Digest version, emphasizing my most recent headache.

"See," he starts. I know instantly that he will philosophize, as PMGs are known to do. "See, the important thing is that you were ready to open up your soul and be vulnerable." Oh God. "And blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah," he went on. Then, he reached his bottom line.
"The important thing is that you not become jaded."
My friends? Could not stop laughing. Dude, you're just a little too late.

Damn, it was a good trip home.

Alive? Yes.

I know, I know, I know...I have been seriously MIA lately. Which I will attribute to two things, and one of them is a SERIOUSLY good excuse. First is work. School started again, so = busier. Lame excuse. Yes.
Second. A lovely friend sent an old copy of The Rules in the mail, for my amusement. She had a suspicion that I might get a laugh out of it. And Miss L, you were dead on. I've been reading it since the minute I got it, alternating between shocked laughter because seriously people believe this garbage? and throwing the book across the room. Literally. I was so enraged at one point that the book flew and we took a break from each other before continuing.
It's research, darlings. Research. When I return from a short holiday, I will be sharing some thoughts on the book with you.

Speaking of research, I have a bit of a confession for you. The Hills. I watch The Hills. It's a problem and I've admitted it so there you have it. I can't tear myself away! I mean...can any of those kids maintain a semi-healthy relationship? I find that watching the bloodbath that is Heidi and Spencer helps me keep up a steady stream of bitter, even when my friends aren't grossing me out. So really, it's love/hate between myself and The Hills. But I feel better having admitted it to you.

You know you watch it too. Shut up.


ALSO: IMPORTANT.
The reason I am coming home when I am is The KDB Melanoma Walk. A year ago, we lost a beautiful friend to melanoma. This is our second year walking, organized by my kickass neighbor. It's a great cause, and a lot of fun. The walk is on Saturday, October 13--if you're in the metro Detroit area, you should check out their website and come join us at the walk! I just might bring back the squirrel hat for the occasion--if you don't know what I mean, then you are missing out. Feel free to email me (dear.bitter.amanda [at] gmail [dot] com) if you have any questions or want more information. Because I? Am a veritable fountain of information.

New show!

Who else is excited for the new CBS show Kid Nation? (Premieres on Wednesday at 8--be there!) I, for one, cannot WAIT. In case you haven't heard about it, it's 40 kids taking over a ghost town and living without adults. They're supposed to create their own community and everything.
How can it be bad? There won't be any adults, which significantly cuts down on the potential annoyances. AND kids love to gossip, so we're bound to see good stuff! This summer, I learned that camps are a breeding ground for gossip--and a town composed entirely of children is BOUND to be something similar to a summer camp!
During my camp, I saw what my kids were capable of...they never ceased to impress me. I was constantly blown away by them. So who knows--maybe these kids will figure out what adults have been working on for so long.

Unsolicited advice.

Ladies, when a boy hangs up on you, it's time to move on. You can do better. I don't care how cute he is--you can do better. UNLESS, of course, he happens to be one of your BFFs.
Which is exactly what happened to me today, while talking to some of my favorite kids on the planet. Three of Colorado's finest (Scott, Libby, and Maddie you are too much) called me up. And apparently I didn't share enough gossip to satisfy a certain someone so he who shall remain unnamed (SCOTT) hung up on me. And being the benevolent lady that I am, I have decided that I will still take his calls...but only on the third ring and only if it won't use up my daytime minutes. (I know, I really am too kind.)

However, advice still stands. If a boy hangs up on you...move on.

Man-child.

Hey Kanye West...can I talk to you for a second? Great.

You're what, 30 years old? Even by our most liberal definitions of the word, that makes you an adult. As far as I know you're not even living with Mom anymore! So what's up with the damn hissy fit?
You're hugely famous and people adore you. Your life basically rocks. And you're going to go all over the popular media and whine about MTV not inviting you to open the VMAs this year? Really? Are you kidding me?
I mean, first of all...I'm not even sure your new song is as great as you like to think. You took an awesome Daft Punk song (possibly my favorite) and bastardized it! I thought I liked it...but then I realized that every single time it comes on, I tune your voice out and focus on Daft Punk. So I guess I don't really like it, other than the side effect of getting to hear it on the radio pretty frequently. I wouldn't invite you to perform on the main stage either.
But rest easy, I'm sure MTV considered it. Which brings me to my second point. BRITNEY. Unlike every other person on the planet right now, I won't waste our time sharing my opinion of her performance. (But I would like to say that anyone calling her fat ought to be beaten. That, boys and girls, is not fat.) But I suspect that when MTV execs were flipping a coin over you or Justin Timberlake and Britney called them up and said she wanted to do it, all debate stopped. And I don't blame them. Look at the options--either Britney was going to kick some ass and stage a comeback to beat all comebacks and everyone would thank MTV for bringing her back...or she was going to get on stage and we'd see a 5 minute trainwreck and everyone would still be talking about MTV. (Will not share which option I think Brit chose.) Do you see what I'm getting at here? IT WAS WIN-WIN FOR MTV!
Can you really blame them? Once Britney entered the mix, you didn't stand a chance.

Also, grow the hell up.

Vengeance.

Remember that time I said I almost got into a fight with a 92 year old woman? Yeah. I'm totally serious.

My grandmother, the sassy one, lives in a nursing home. (Where she has turned into a bit of a tart, always sitting next to the men.) We got a phone call from them the other day, saying she was being taken to the emergency room because another resident bit her. No lie.

I'm sorry, but what?? Biting? Really?

Mom and I took off to meet Gram at the ER, and by some stroke of luck, I went to high school with one of the ambulance drivers. As they checked her out, he and I waited in the hall and chatted. I was slightly confused by the whole biting thing, and asked if he knew what happened. Now, as a family member you're not supposed to know the details--like, say, who the biter is. But...well...let's just say I stumbled onto some information. And for the sake of my blog, let's say that I discovered that I have psychic abilities. Amazing! And then let's pretend that the biter is named Ethel. (Name has been changed to protect my grandmother, in case Ethel is still out for blood.)
I finally saw my grandma, and you could tell by looking at her bandaged finger that Ethel did some serious damage. There was a lot of blood, for someone with 92 year old teeth. (Or likely, fake teeth.) So I was pretty upset...my grandma is 91 and not exactly the picture of health. This is not the kind of thing you like to see happen. After the hospital gave her a tetanus shot, in case Ethel is diseased, they left us until they could put her in a room in the ER to stitch up her hand. So we waited. And waited. And waited.
Then our ambulance drivers were back, with another old lady! We greeted each other in the weary way of people who are spending their evening in an emergency room. Outside our curtained area, we heard them shout (for she was old), "ETHEL, ARE YOU FEELING OK?"

ETHEL??

I stared at my mother. "Is that her?" I whispered. Mom poked her head into the hall and caught the eye of our ambulance friend.
"Is that the biter?" It was confirmed. She was in because of something completely different--a bladder infection or something.
I could see Ethel from my seat, who kept looking at me. That did not sit well, let me tell you. I had a lot to say to Ethel, all of which I kept hissing in her direction.
"God works in mysterious way, Ethel!"
"DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME!"
"Karma is a bitch, Ethel!"

It was that last one, along with my gesturing frequently that I was watching her, that prompted my mother to tell me it would be embarrassing to be removed by security from the emergency room because I threatened an old lady. Well, she had a point. But the hag mangled my grandparent! That is not something I take lightly!

Eventually we got a room and the nurse came to sew her up--and needed to put ELEVEN stitches on the knuckle of one finger. That is what kind of damage Ethel did. Did you know there was room for 11 stitches on your knuckle? Because I surely didn't. She bit down to the tendon. Also, they x-rayed her hand just in case Ethel broke her.

In the end, I haven't seen Ethel around the nursing home--but trust and believe, lady, that I will keep my eyes open for your bloodied face.

Classic Night Out

Last night I went out to celebrate the birthday of one of my MOST FAVE COUSINS EVER. I don't think I've ever been out with her and not witnessed all the crazy this city has to offer. Well, we were not disappointed.
Jillian, the drunkest bachelorette that bar has seen in a long time, sat down at our table all decked out in her veil and "LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM" shot glass necklace and various other accessories. From her opening line, ("My fiancé has the biggest penis!!") I knew we were in for some entertainment. After telling us a little bit about her betrothed (ok, just his genitalia) she set us down for a lecture.

On the perils of butt sex.

For maybe 10 minutes, I assured Jillian that I would just say no, and pass that along to any current or future boyfriends. But our time was limited, as she had more drinks to consume and more people to educate. It was for the greater good, really.

And now, a letter.

Dear Friends of the Poorly Dressed Lady,
You are without a doubt the most awful friends--and I use that term very loosely here--one could have the misfortune to find. How do you sleep at night, knowing you let her leave the house (AND GO OUT IN PUBLIC!) looking like that?? Everything about her was just so unfortunate. And watching her, she had no idea! She thought she was hot stuff! Probably because as you all primped before leaving, you said to her, "You are so hot!" and she replied, "No, YOU are so hot!" and you agreed that you ALL looked SO HOT! I bet you were even there when she bought that ill-fitting white see-through top. You assured her that no, she didn't need to wear something under it! And ohmigod those jeans are just falling off of you! Get a size smaller--super tight jeans are SO IN right now.
And THAT HAIR. You did it, yeah? She was looking in the mirror, all, "I don't know, up or down tonight?" You just stepped up to the plate on that one, didn't you, princess? GREAT IDEA! We'll put half up in a little bun and gel the hell out of it, and then leave the other half down, except we'll curl it! AND ADD MORE GEL!
You honestly are the worst friends. You just loooooooove being the "pretty friend," don't you? Bitches.
And the worst part? Some poor guy who is playing the part of wingman is going to have to hit that. I hope you're happy now.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

I love this city.

Love.

Please enjoy the following limerick, written by someone who kicks ass.

Bitter Amanda’s advice is the best!
To hear it, I certainly am blessed.
Her message is clear,
Which she’ll shout in your ear:
“PDA couples: Give it a rest!”

Genetics...

I hope everyone [in the US, anyway] enjoys their day off tomorrow! Do something fun and helpful...like stopping any PDA you see. That kind of thing.
I spent today with a bunch of cousins, telling inappropriate stories and realizing just what kind of stock I come from. During dinner many anecdotes were traded, and topics included: a monkey, castration, a fossilized penis, dead squirrels, and no less than three stories about testicles. And let's not forget the one about me almost getting into a fight with a 92 year old woman. (For another day, kids. Fear not.) Can I also point out that several of the dirty jokes were relayed by my 80 year old cousin?
This is my gene pool, and I say that with a broad smile on my face.

Children in the Workplace

I had dinner at Panera today...I LOVE Panera. If you don't have one near you, well then you have my sympathies. And if you DO, but have not gone, then shame on you. Get thee to a Panera!
Sadly, my dining experience was soured. By the girl helping me. (And I use the term loosely.) Let me give you a little recap...

Wait FAR too long, considering I am the only customer in line. Make my infamous "You can't REALLY be this stupid, can you??" face. (She was standing there, with two other employees and a manager, taking the order of yet another employee. Why, you ask, did it take a total of five Panera Bread employees to do the job of one? I have no earthly idea.) Am finally noticed and asked if I am ready to order. Uh, yeah. Get the distinct impression that she is there for Panera's "Bring Your Child to Work" Day or some such nonsense. Accidentally order the wrong item--the names are really similar, give me a break--which requires her to void first item. Void does not work. Watch as she presses the button 47 or 48 times--Most Effective Method Ever! What, that didn't do the trick? You're kidding! Toddler mumbles in the general direction of other employees that she needs help, and surprisingly nobody hears her. Sigh. Pull the face. Realize I pulled face. Remember that new readers can easily get confused by unfamiliar words. Put on happy face. Am accused of being fickle, as help arrives. Restrain self from jumping over counter, getting own food, and putting employee in a time-out. Pull face again.

I won't even discuss the incident not two minutes later, when I was getting a drink and she had to refill the straws--right in front of me, opening a cabinet door on my legs and being in my way, all without saying a single word. You know, like, "excuse me" or any of those Polite Words your parents should have taught you. I guess she'll learn them when third grade starts next week.

Blackhole?

Dear Bloomington Indiana,
You're a fairly large city. 70,000 people. Well done. You've got yourself a nice university, with 40,000 students, I hear? 7th largest city in Indiana. That's right, I googled your ass. With good reason. My BFF is a grad student at your university. And I'd like to visit her. She's pretty bitter right now, and there is no way I can pass up the opportunity to share in this time. She has started swearing, even! It took me 5 years to corrupt her this much, and I would like to witness the fruits of my labor. So I figured it'd be easy enough, being a large city AND home to a college campus--and therefore home to college students wanting to get home. I've done the college town thing; I know how it is. I was 2 minutes from a bus station, 20 from a train station, and 45 from an airport. Dammit, getting to a boat wouldn't have been this hard!
So please help me out: why is it that it's PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE to get myself to Bloomington unless I drive, which I won't?
Just curious.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

I'm baaaaaaack..........

Hey kids...I'm finally back! I know what you must be thinking--I was away for so long; I never wrote, I never called; you felt abandoned. But that's because you're needy. Sorry, baby, but the truth hurts. Anyway, I have returned from summer camp and then some unexpected family things.
Summer camp was incredible. Almost too much fun for this bitter lady. But the good news is that some of the campers were in relationships, and I did get to break up my fair share of PDAs. And you know there are few things I enjoy more. I mean, how great is that--I was shining flashlights on kids, or starting a loud song right next to them, or giving them a big awkward hug--and it was ENCOURAGED! If you can think of a more perfect summer, I invite you to try.
After my scheduled return, I had some bad and good family stuff going on. Brother came home for a visit--I'll let you decide which category that falls under.
Fortunately, grandma is back from her hospital stay, with her usual feisty attitude. Nice to have her back, even if that does mean she asks me when I'm going to get married and offers me some of her coffee because, "with something in your mouth, maybe you'll stop talking." She's a sassy lady, and I've always liked that about her. Can't imagine why...

For the record, if you wear silly sunglasses, you have a greater chance of getting put on television when you're at a baseball game. How I know this is not important. Keep it in mind, though.

Once again.

I'm leaving you. But after reading your questions to me, you're pretty used to hearing that particular sentiment. You'll get over it, after a good cry and a pint of Ben and Jerry's.
I know you'd love nothing more than to read more letters, but I'm afraid your pitiful problems will have to wait a month, cats and kittens. I am going to summer camp!


No, I mean that. I'm staffing a summer camp for international teenagers, and if you tell anyone I have a friendly, enthusiastic side... I will cut you. So here you have it, another disappointment for your diary. I'm leaving for a month--starting today. So soon? Yes. After than, though, I am jumping back into the mail bag and telling you what to do. So if you have a question, send it on and I'll get to it.

Question.

Recently CVS mailed my mother a bonus for using her ExtraCare card. It was a men's Schick Quattro Titanium razor. Logically I should have let my father have it, but I don't particularly care if my razor is pink. A man razor is fine by me. I was even more intrigued by the packaging. Along with the claims of having "4 titanium coated blades" and "less irritation than the leading brand," there was the following:

More strut in my giddy-up? I don't even know what that means! But I figured it MUST be a good thing, if Schick is bragging about it. I mean, it led to some concerns. What is [a] giddy-up? Do I have that? Or is it a man thing? And if I do, is more strut a good thing? What if I don't, in fact, have [a] giddy-up? What then, Quattro Titanium? What good are you to me?
Plagued by these concerns, I used the razor. I had to!! I have to tell you that it was a very pleasant shaving experience. I can't be sure about my level of strut, what with all my previous quandaries. But it was a nice razor. Of that I am sure.

Guys, can you help me with my questions? Are there answers out there?

Also: Schick, that website is trying a little too hard to be cool. Is that some sort of video game I see? But I guess the effort is nice. Thanks for the razor. Which, apparently, you now make for women. Too bad I already got my men's version for free!

An open letter.

Dear American Men,
It is widely known that I have little to no faith in your gender. But I guess you thought it was just men in general. It's a common misconception. Having just returned from 10 days in Ireland, I have something to say.
Wow. It is strictly the ones from this country that consistently disappoint. Sure, men the world over have a lot to learn, but WOW. America, you are way behind. When I spent a year in Ireland, I figured that the men there looked good because I wasn't used to coed college. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. But now I have been back in the real, coed world again for a year. And never did I suspect that 10 days back in Europe would make you look so bad. Oh, but it did. You look totally unappealing. You're completely underwhelming. The level of effort here is just sickening. I'm not saying that every man in Ireland is a winner. I AM saying that at least you feel like they're trying. Even the complete assfaces are a little bit charming, so you don't mind as much. And it's not just the accent, although admittedly that's a part of it. I know that's not your fault. I won't hold it against you.
Let me try to put this in terms you'll understand. Sports! You get sports, right? Let me see...

Ok, guys. It's Ireland v. You. This is the big game. Ireland has already got an edge on you, because they got all the hot cheerleaders. They got them because when the ladies showed up to audition, they were nice. Ireland was polite and gentlemanly and charming and they TRIED. They wore the nice uniforms. Your girls showed up and you grunted at them and they didn't feel any more charmed than the guy who sold you your beer. In fact, they couldn't tell who you cared about more. So Ireland got the good ones, and yours settled.
I am not a sports girl, so I can't give you a lot of metaphors regarding the actual game. But let me put it this way: they are kicking your ass. You are LOSING. I know how much you hate that! But maybe if you step it up you can still do well in this last portion of the game.

I'm not saying that you should walk around trying to impress all the ladies all the time. I know that there are some of us you're just not that into. But what I am saying is that a girl should be able to distinguish when you ARE trying. Make her feel more charmed than the beer guy! I really don't think this is asking too much on behalf of all the ladies out there.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

Yeah, I'm back.

Hello again, kids. I'm back from my European Adventure, as well as the bonus Chicago Airport Adventure that was thrown in on my way home. I got to spend eight hours there, due to cancelled flights, delayed flights, changed gates, and flying standby. However, I must say that it was a decent eight hours, all things considered. O'Hare is a fairly pleasant airport. Except for the high volume of kissing people. (Wtf?)
The trip itself was fantastic. Saw old friends, met some new ones, gave a little advice, ate chocolate, drank various things, and gave out my fair share of awkward hugs. Ok, fine--more than my fair share.
Anyway, this was just a quick post to let you know that I'll be back to giving advice and complaining about your problems. Until then, enjoy this photo of "Why Ireland is a Silly Place."

Additionally...

So the match.com ads are creepy. Period. BUT I have a website that is just as tacky, but not sketchy and pretty funny. Check out this site. I laughed out loud. Make sure you check out all the different options, too--he does different stuff!

Creep-tastic.com

Did you know that it's possible to feel violated by a pop-up ad? Because I didn't think so, but it totally is. Lately, I've been getting ads for match.com all over the place.
[Sidenote: It's not funny, match.com. I don't appreciate the gesture. I'm fine being single. Dammit.]
Their ads are just upsetting! Some of them are these little videos, and you think you're looking at a webcam. This (attractive?) guy (who you know is not the kind of guy trolling match.com) is "reading" the screen that is supposed to be your imagined profile and laughing at all the appropriate spots. (You know, that spot where you make it obvious that you're serious without being too serious; funny in the witty, smart kind of way.) Then he looks impressed at the appropriate spot. (When you tell potential suitors what you do for a living and what you're looking to do in the future.) Then he laughs some more, and starts to type a message. (Presumably, he's telling you he finds you just the right amount of serious, the best kind of humorous, very intelligent, and by the way sexy pic.)
I guess this ad isn't awful. It's tacky, sure, but it's not disturbing. THAT is another ad entirely. Which popped up the other day, as a matter of fact!
The text says you can use match.com to find local doctors. ('Oh, a doctor!,' you think to yourself. 'How lovely!') This guy (decidedly NOT a real doctor) is dressed in scrubs and a lab coat, holding a stethoscope and clipboard. He looks you up and down--no joke--appraisingly. He likes what he sees and listens to you talk about yourself. He laughs and smiles at you--Doctor Creepy McStalker likes you! Then he approaches. He checks your heart and your reflexes and writes some things on his chart. I'm sure it's something cheesy. Then he stares some more at your chest, before giving you another once-over.
I guess this is supposed to make me want a doctor boyfriend? And it'll lead me to believe I'll find him on their website? In theory, your idea works for me, match.com. But in reality, I just felt dirty, as if I was on the wrong side of internet porn.

Bonus: They have others, too! I was just assaulted by the musician/cowboy ad. I couldn't tell. He had a guitar and cowboy hat--it could've gone either way.



EDIT: I just got a NEW one! This guy was a rock star...and you know what? It was the same guy who was in the doctor ad! He stared me up and down (sketch...) before pulling out a guitar pick and playing me what, I'm sure, was a rockin' song. Just for me.
You know what? I don't think that guy is a doctor OR a musician.

Trash Picking

I know, I know...that sounds really gross. But I was. There. Get over it!
After the Relay for Life, I was helping pick up some of the trash that blew all over the place during our very windy 24 hours. It was, however, fruitful. Because I found a real gem, kids.


[Click on it to see a larger version...because this one really merits a close look.]
Some student at Edsel Ford High School drew this, and I must commend him or her. Well done! But the tale is a sad one, because somehow, illustrator and illustration were separated! The drawing was left to blow around and get caught against the fence, vulnerable to the elements. This is its own happy ending, though. Fear not, readers. It provided me some amusement while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on. So, if this picture was done by you, please step forward to receive all the appropriate accolades. Of which, I can assure you, there will be many.

The Ultimate.

I would like to state that despite the best efforts of my opposition, I basically rocked their faces off with my latest snowman endeavor. They left for a short holiday and returned to find THIS:

Yes, that'd be their upstairs bathroom window.

I need to find a different hobby...hiding stuff everywhere is becoming very time- (/life-) consuming. Although, I must say this is pretty enjoyable. I know, I promised you more posts, but I taught preschool all last week, which was fairly exhausting. However, the greatest thing ever did happen on Thursday. One of my students (who, it should be noted, is four years old) was working on a puzzle. He started singing his ABCs quietly to himself. Then he made a seamless transition into a chorus of "Smack That." I'm not terribly familiar with this song, so in case you're in the same boat, it IS as tacky as it sounds! Definitely not the kind of song you want your preschooler singing. But he's cute and little and not at a point in his comprehension of the English language (it's not his first) where he gets it, really. So I just kind of swallowed my laugh and asked how he was doing with the puzzle. He noticed my smile and asked if I liked that song. "Why YES, I love the Alphabet Song!" I exclaimed, hoping that distraction would work. He smiled and then started singing himself a little "Jack and Jill went up the hill..." Perfect. What an amazing job. :)

Fact.

It's well known that I don't like people. But I really, really HATE cancer. We're talking loathe, people. That's why I'm participating in my local American Cancer Society Relay for Life on May 5-6. I'm chaperoning a team of middle and high school girls during the 24 hour event.
If you want any information about it, please let me know. AND if you're in the Dearborn area on the 5th or 6th, you should definitely stop by--everyone is welcome! It'll be a great time--it sounds like even I'll have fun.

And now back to our regularly scheduled bitching.

It's just ridiculous.

I arrived at work the other morning to THIS.

I was subbing in the building my mom works in, and walked into my room. To see this. Standing in the doorway, I thought..."Well that's an odd coincidence.........."

Then I marched into Mom's room to unleash my wrath upon her. APPARENTLY this was a whole-family operation. [Except my sister, god love her.]

You try explaining a new snowman in the classroom to a bunch of 4 year olds in April!

In other news, I'm taking a vacation this week. I'm visiting the college friends on Tuesday, so this will probably be on hold until I return on Sunday. This means that if you need some advice ASAP, you can email. I won't be posting until I return, though!

Hope you had an enjoyable Easter, if that's your kind of thing. I ate a lot of chocolate, so you know it's my kind of thing.

Later kids!

Gold Stars!

During work today, I experienced another episode of Excellent Substitute Teaching Adventures!, which happens every single time I sub. I was with a third grade class. Right around the time I wrote my name on the board, I noticed a girl at the front looking at me deep in thought. I gave her The Look (that I really should stop using at work in front of children...) that says, "you are doing something particularly strange...care to explain it?"
"You look familiar." I told her it was my first time in this particular building. And since I don't generally hang out with 8 year olds, I'm sure we don't run in the same social circles.
"I think I saw you in a movie." Ohhhhhh, I get it. A first class suck-up! There's always one. I like these kids, but that's probably because I was always the big dork in school that was left in charge when the teacher had to run to the office, and I'm sorry to tell you but I was the kid who reminded teachers about homework. I'm sorry, but I loved school. So these kids don't bother me.
This one was very good. I told her that I haven't been in any movies, but she assured me that she'd seen me in one! I dared not ask what movie, because...well...that's not really information you want, you know? In my mind, I'll imagine it's a regular movie with regular actresses...and not some old class video they watched about the food groups or anything.
Anyway, she stuck to her guns, and insisted that I have, in fact, been in a movie. And I am so ok with that.

Speaking of guns, after recess I noticed a small convention in the back of the room. Three of the boys were flexing and comparing their biceps. (Whatever kind of muscle third graders have, anyway.) After one of them kissed his arm, I couldn't keep the laughter in and therefore had to break it up.
"Alright, gentlemen, I know this is more fun than reading about the moon, but let's keep the gun show at home." [Am I allowed to say "gun show"? I know we don't let them make play guns or use blocks as guns or pretty much anything involving guns...but does that count? Dilemma.]
I swear to you, the proudest of the bunch said ok and WINKED AT ME. At least, I think he was trying to wink. Either that or he was having some sort of facial seizure. It was maybe the best moment of my afternoon.

Another Round.

Found this when I woke up. Under my bed--where I store, as you can see, many books. She must have done this while I slept.

This isn't over.

Dedicated Note-taking.

One of the books I read recently was purchased at the used book sale at the local public library. I love the used book sale…the most I ever paid for a book was $2, and it was a new hardcover book. Once, I got a like-new copy of The Lovely Bones for a dollar. One dollar!! It’s phenomenal. Not to mention that the money you spend goes toward the library. I mark the sale dates on my calendar. (Seriously, I love the used book sale. And I am a huge nerd.)

The book I just finished was one I picked up on a whim, since it had a really good title and cover. Hating Valentine’s Day by Allison Rushby has a pink cover where a woman is stepping on Valentine candy. And since it cost a quarter, I was willing to give it a shot. The reason I mention this book is because of a curious incident that occurred while I read. For the first 115 pages, it was a standard library book—clean pages that have definitely been turned many times. Then, I hit page 116 and that all changed. It’s the end of a chapter, and Random Bitter Library Patron (not me, in case you figured this was one of those, “I have this *big air quotes and wink* friend…”stories) decided to start taking notes. She (I can only assume it’s a woman…) drew boxes around a few things. See Exhibit A:

The blank space when the chapter ended also provided some room for her thoughts. See Exhibit B:

After this, a few [completely random] words are underlined on the next two pages, and then it stops. That’s it! That was the end of the urge to take notes. I tried to make sense of it. There is no pattern at all! A couple of words like ‘theirs’ are underlined, but there isn’t a spelling or grammar issue. A few slang terms are used, but they make sense and aren’t offensive. The author used some words that aren’t necessarily real, such as ‘de-flabbing’…but the note-taker was hit or miss underlining them. There is no way of figuring out what this person was doing!

So, if you happened to be the one taking these notes, please write and let me know what the hell was going on in your head when you read this book. Thank you.

Let's talk for a second...

...about my family. People sometimes wonder why I turned out the way I did, and I can only think to point them in the direction of my family. (They're fantastic, don't get me wrong. But come on, love doesn't mean someone isn't crazy.) I can only assume that some of my...finer? qualities are a direct result of my parents.

Apparently when I get involved in a prank of some kind, I get a little...overzealous. Let me direct your attention to The Spongebob Incident of '06.
(And possibly '07, since I'm not necessarily aware of the the location of Spongebob at the moment.)



Then we have the Great Fannypack War of '03-'06. (Which also, it needs to be pointed out, involved my mother. AND sister.)



The Time I Had Senior Portraits Taken was quite a battle, fought in 2005. ALSO MY MOTHER.



So you see, I have a bit of a track record. And those are just a couple particular favorites of mine. But right now I am dealing once again with my mother, who is turning out to be one of those evil geniuses that seem quite benign; the ones you don't worry about until it's too late. And because of this, I'm going to go ahead and blame her for whatever genetic mess caused all the above incidents to go on for...ok, maybe too long.

It started when my mother had put away all the holiday decorations, sometime in early January. Or rather, she handed them all to me so I could pack them away. I thought I had done a rather nice job, considering the amount of crap to be put away kind of exceeded the amount of space we had. I was triumphant as I finished. Until she noticed It. On our front porch, a wooden snowman, purchased in northern Michigan several summers ago at a craft fair. He'd have to be put away.

I put my foot down. There was absolutely no room left! I was not going to repack everything for a third time! No way.

"Alright, then," my mother said casually, "I can leave him outside a while longer, since it's still snowy. But you will have to deal with him later."

I dismissed her remarks.

On Monday morning, I woke up and noticed something unusual. HIM. Standing at the foot of my bed was my good friend The Porch Snowman. I cursed my mother and we spent a few days placing him in various parts of the house for each other.

But she had to make it personal. Arriving home the other night, I found THIS.

The stupid skanky-ass lawn ornament that has been on our front porch since mid-December, collecting rain, snow, dirt, and I don't even want to know what else. Tucked into my bed. Where I sleep. She even thought to blame my father when I saw it. With a straight face, she allowed me to eye my father suspiciously before deciding he was, in fact, as clueless as he seemed regarding the incident.

Well played, Mom. Well played indeed. But it is not over yet.

BEST. EVER.

Oh my god, I freaking love YouTube.

You must must must watch this.

That is all.

Don't Blink or You'll Miss It...

Hey Electro...
Happy Birthday!
Have a kickass [cookie-filled] day!

Retraction?

Dear Electro,
I don't really do retractions if they're demanded of me. And I certainly don't respond well to threats. Happy early birthday, though.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

No, I do not wish anything of the sort.

Have I told you about my loathe for the Pussycat Dolls yet? No? Well, it's there. And I just read that they're starting their own reality show! And do you know what the point is? To add another member. As if they don't already have more than I care to keep track of. As far as I know, they have the one talented girl (who really should go solo) and then any number of others who dance around behind her, wearing tiny clothes and having no talent whatsoever. They could change the members for every performance and I assure you hardly anyone would notice the difference. Their mothers might, I suppose. But that's about it. And now they're trying to add more! Come on now, ladies, isn't +/- 37 members enough for you? How many backup dancers does one group need?!

Ugh. (Also: when you go away, please for the love of everything holy take Fergie with you.)


By the way, yeah, I did take an unnecessarily long break from writing. Sorry, things got a little crazy! I'm back now, I assure you. Plus, big things to come from my other project, Manifesto Destiny. Have a look!

Wake Up Call!

Ask how long I've been awake. Go on, ask.

Nineteen hours. Now, if you're Jack Bauer, that is not a long time at all. But I am not Jack Bauer. I do not work for some high profile employer who requires me to put in long-ass days. It is only half past eleven and I have been up since FOUR THIRTY. AM.

Why, you ask? Why on earth would one get up so early unless it was necessary? Oh, maybe it was necessary, you're thinking. Nope! I was going to wake up around four hours later and do work and other things. But that last four hours did not happen. Because at 4:25am, my cell phone rang. I was compelled to answer. Because that is the emergency phone call only time frame. It is too late for a drunk phone call from a friend who wants to tell you how much they love you/need your help. And it is too early for a phone call regarding work or other early morning activity. It is strictly emergency time at 4:25am. So I answered. I muttered my hello, half asleep and half wondering what this unrecognized number was.

"Oh, wrong number."

That was all I heard of the unknown gentleman. He did not apologize, or even sound apologetic! He said, "oh, wrong number" and hung up! I felt jilted; as if I'd been waiting on a date and he called to cancel. Who decides that being pretty sure you know a phone number is acceptable at such an hour?! I should like to think that, unless it was an emergency situation, I would be very careful about not making erroneous phone calls at half past four in the morning.

Stupid stupid moron.

Goodnight, kids.

DAMN IT!

Open letter to whoever it is that created the Jack Bauer Damn It! reel :

Thank you thank you thank you. Anyone who has watched 24 with me knows that I wait for the damn it. I anticipate them and shout it whenever I think a damn it might be coming. I LOVE the Jack Bauer damn it. This is perhaps the greatest thing ever.

Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda

I Am...Ridiculous?

Have you seen this Burger King commercial? They’ve taken the classic female-empowerment anthem “I Am Woman” by Helen Reddy and transformed it into an anthem about…burgers.
Actually, it’s about rejecting anything that isn’t inherently manly. Like quiche. This has been seen before in ad campaigns, like the Miller Lite “Man Law” ads. I think those are some of the funniest ads on tv—they support the same cause as Burger King, only, you know…they’re more clever.
Now, I am totally on board with this whole “reclaiming masculinity” crusade. I’m not looking for a man who wants to go shopping with me. I’m looking for a man who goes shopping with me because he feels obligated to go! Who fears my nagging if he says no! Who goes with the hope of me sleeping with him because of it! You know, the old-fashioned way.
My real issue with this Burger King ad is that they seem to have compared equality for women with driving mini-vans. I didn’t realize that men were feeling unheard and unseen. Imagine my surprise when a man burned his underwear in this ad. I guess…I guess that’s kind of like women burning their bras? What exactly is he protesting with this move? I just don’t get it.
Burger King, you may be hungry, incorrigible, and man, but I think you’re putting your issues too high on a pedestal. Come on, just eat the quiche and know that it earns points with your lady. Just like generations of men before you.

Correction. Dammit.

I hate having to correct myself--nobody likes saying, "Hey everyone! I was WRONG." But here I am.
I once said that I'd be flattered by any song that was written for me, regardless of quality and sentiment. I appreciate effort.
But WOW do I ever stand corrected. Have you heard the song "Lips of an Angel" by Hinder?? I would be so pissed if that was for me! I would not be having that, thank you very much. Poor girl. Lips of an angel? Really? Was that the best you could come up with? Hey Hinder, shut up. Shut your whiney mouths and come up with a more creative compliment. Oh, and next time please write a song that will not drive me crazy if it's stuck in my head for more than 38 seconds. Thanks.