Tuesday, November 20, 2007

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.)

Wednesday, November 14, 2007


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


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?

Thursday, November 08, 2007


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!


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.