Sanity Slightly Restored

So tomorrow night is a girls' night out. THANK the LORD. My friend Andie and I usually spend an entire week debating venues, eateries, times, clothes, moon cycles, etc. whenever we plan a night out.

We start with a long list of restaurants, winnow it down, winnow it back up, debate, kvetch and then ultimately change our minds at the last minute. I think our record was something like 26 emails to plan one Wednesday happy hour.

This week, though, I just couldn't get into the whole Amy & Andie Listmania '04 thing. My list of options was feeble and my comments were cranky and distracted.

Then Andie read this morning's crazed entry and sent me the following email:

i'm worried about you.

okay tommorrow... i'll meet you at your place after work.. we'll go to spices and from there find a local establishment that specializes in refreshing beverages. how that's okay.. just thought maybe it might help if i make the decisions... know when i'm stressed am so not good at decisions.

How much do I love her? I love her like Homer loves donuts. Hell, I love her like I love donuts.

Killing Me Loudly

On the very literal verge of an actual nervous breakdown at work. Seriously. Chest thumping, hands shaking, the whole show. Must develop some sort of device to alter the space/time continuum in order to get everything done. Self-medicating with Smarties and pretending they are candy-flavored Xanax.

Got my car back. They fixed the battery cable, but not the fuel pump recall or the squealing rear brakes. Two days, the effers had it. Two. Days. They also left me with a practically flat tire. Went to three gas stations looking for air this morning; found none. Drove to work on the verge of a blowout. Luckily the roads had been salted in preparation for the vicious 10 minutes of flurries we had last night.

Anyway. No time, no time. Why am I talking to you? Or rather, to myself? Wait…why am I reading this out loud as I type?

Uh-oh.

This Just In!

Working from home today (Ford’s still in the shop, grr), and going through my backlog of TiVo’d Simpsons episodes from the past week.

Promo spot for last night’s Fox 5 News broadcast:

“High-speed internet that’s faster than dial-up and it won’t tie up your telephone line! New service that will change the way YOU web!”

Oh damn, why didn’t I watch the news last night? Here I am, “webbing” the same old way, when there’s a new secret cutting-edge service out there!

Also hysterical: the footage teasing this big scoop was of some guy hunting and pecking at a keyboard while the Fox 5 homepage displays a big ole’ picture of Paris Hilton.

And then a close-up of an electrical outlet. Shwaa? Oh my god, do you think it’s something wireless? Wireless and high-speed?? Because that would be so cool. And that would be so what I have already.

Idiots.

Stupid TV Heaven

Oh. Oh yes. They're here. Survivor All-Stars.

Rupert! Rudy! Richard! And a bunch of other people!

I already hate Jerri more than anything, all over again. Die, Bitcherella. Go and drown yourself in an all-new puddle of evil.

Amy vs. the Universe: A Ballet in Three Acts

Mondays are so fanfuckingtastic sometimes.

Scene: I leave my house this morning (which is freezing, because the heat’s not working again. Again.), and get in the car. The Ford Focus ZX3. The lesser car. Not a bad car…just lesser. I wave to Jason as he drives off to work in the better car.

Key in ignition. rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….nothing.

Well, okay. It’s pretty cold out. Let’s try that again. (More pathetic revving commences.)

Oh god, did someone leave the lights on? Negative. Huh. Interior light on? Nope. Is it in neutral? Check.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…shudder, gasp, die. Crap.

Where’s my phone? Not in my purse. Crappity crap!

Back up three flights of stairs. Phone is not in charger. Phone is not in other purse. Find old bottle of Clonazepam. Ahhhh. Nice.

Finally find JASON’s phone in JASON’s jacket. Call him while dashing back downstairs, having a full-on hissyfit about the phones and the car and the Pile o’ Things waiting for me at the office.

No way in HELL I am waiting for Ford Fucking Roadside Assistance this morning. Jason senses this and promises to turn around and come back home. And this is why our marriage works.

Better call work and tell them I’ll be later than usual. And I have a real excuse this time!! Wait. The hell is my work number? Oh yeah, it's on MY phone. Speed dial is a beautiful thing, but it completely removes any and all hope of me remembering phone numbers.

Wait! A business card! I’m sure I have one and maybe I could get to the name directory to get Viper’s extension and…

Oh. All I’ve got are Blogcards. Hee, but they’re funny.

Jason calls and asks if I remembered to check if the car wasn’t in gear. Oh. My. God. Don’t. Even.

Jason arrives and we determine that yes, the battery has indeed inexplicably died. Yes, it’s cold but this car is TWO YEARS OLD.

Pop the hood. The hell is the battery? Oh, underneath a plastic battery cover. That's...odd.

Pop the battery cover. And now I'm glad I had the battery cover because it was so much prettier than the FESTERING MESS of turquoise battery corrosion underneath it. You know, the kind of thing that you or even a Jiffy Lube guy would have spotted in an instant and gone, "Hey, that's not right" HAD YOU SEEN IT. But no, the pretty battery cover saved you from that hideous sight.

(Yes, yes. Should have looked under the cover at some point, but seriously. This is me. Out of sight, out of mind. The last time I looked under my couch for the TV remote I saw dust bunnies bigger than my head. But then I found the remote and never looked under the couch again.)

Anyway.

At this moment Jason remembers that Ford sent us Recall Notice 2383749857034593-493-9 a couple weeks ago, and that it had something to do with a battery cable. And then I notice that a nylon strappy thing, apparently meant to hold the battery in, has shifted over to one side and has been completely cooked away by the corroded cable. Mmmmmmm, tasty.

Miraculously, we do get the car jump-started and I make it to work...praying to all that is holy that I don't do something blonde and stall the car. I hate that car.

Took it over to the dealer tonight. Sweetly explained the above story (without all the cursing) to either a Ford customer care representative or a chain-smoking, semi-sentinent brick. Hard to tell.

I hate that car. I hate the battery and the battery cover and I hate the noise it makes in second gear and the sloppy clutch and I hate that the thingie to adjust the side mirrors is just far enough away from me that I have to lean forward to reach it, but when I lean forward I can't tell if I've adjusted the mirrors right.

Hate!

(Also? Cleaning crew at my office cleaned out the refrigerator on Friday. And they threw out the frozen entree I'd left in the freezer. In the freeeeeeeeeezer. Where it was frozen.)

Skiers on Strike

So moving to Killington may not equal moving to Vermont after all.

If the numbers work out, Killington will petition the New Hampshire Legislature to see if it would be interested in acquiring a ski town in central Vermont.

Shwaa?

I think I'll petition the Killington Select Board to see if they would be interested in acquiring a condo community in NW Washington, DC. And then when I take a bus down to Georgetown I'll say to people, "Wow, the nation's capital! It's amazing! Can you take my picture? I'm from out of state. Yeah. Just visiting from up the street. Vermont. Or New Hampshire. It really depends."

Yes, Exactly

Winter Dreaming

Lordy, what a week. And I'm only up to Love-A-Lot Bear from the Care Bears thong set.

So I'm driving home tonight, tailgated almost the entire time by a Jeep with one semi-out headlight. The driver decided to compensate for this by turning on his brights. Every time I looked in the rearview mirror: Blam! Blinding light! Glance in the side mirror: Blam! My retinas are still aching.

Sigh. It's always about this time of year that Jase and I start fanatasizing about packing up and moving to Vermont. We start browsing the real estate sites for places like this. We start debating whether we have enough pull at our jobs to work remotely. (Yeah, not a chance.) We've never worked it out, obviously. Last year we let the VT thing drop because there aren't any Chipotles up there. Oh, and no jobs. That too.

But a few months ago we found that there are like a hundred bazillion calories in those burritos, so we don't eat there that much anymore. And so the VT longings are back. It's effing freezing here, but no skiing. Everyone drives SUV monstrosities, but no one can drive in flurries. Our super-rewarding careers? Meh. And we paid more for our 2 bedroom, 1 bath condo with no parking space than that 6 bedroom chalet costs.

Jason's brother has a condo up in Killington so we go up a couple times a year. But not yet this year, which y'all can just add to the burgeoning list of things Amy thinks Suck. But I don't want to visit. I want to live there.

My husband would be the happiest little ski bum in the land, and I would let the urban-rock-star-layers grow out of my hair and wear ponytails and big warm sweaters and finish my novel and drink those cider-and-brandy things they serve at the lodge all day and maybe write a folksy little column for one of those free papers at the ski resort. And we'd have a tiny mortgage and two bathrooms and a little baby 'cuz I'd be so relaxed and easygoing up there that *poof* my fertility problems would vanish just like that.

And Max would be happy there too. Though Max is happy in my sock drawer, so whatever.

Do they have Sephoras in Vermont? No? Well, I could catalog-order my facial glitter I think. I'll give up my job and my Chipotle burritos and my hipster urban lifestyle...but I'm NOT giving up the glitter.

Viewer Mail

So I received the following email today:

Dear Amalah,

We are loyal readers of your blog.

We were intrigued by your discussion of your holidays, specifically, your sister, brother-in-law and niece. Who are these people? They appear, from your brief description, to be dynamic, sensitive and absolutely not the types who would ever spill wine all over a holiday celebration.

Please do tell.

Dear Gentle Reader,

I am very sorry if I gave such a dramatically untrue impression of my family. Sometimes, as a responsible online diarist, I try to hide the ugly truths regarding those I know in my offline life -- even if telling the real story would get big laughs. (And maybe some bloody comments, you ingrates. I know you're reading but who leaves comments? My parents.)

My sister Jennie (Or "Jumpin' Jennie Jemima" as she prefers to be called) is a screeching, alcoholic harpy with impeccable fashion sense. She's blonde like I am and skinny like I was in seventh grade. But do I secretly resent her for it? Yes. Yes I do. She enjoys spilling wine at holiday gatherings with her sister and causing International Incidents at Indian restaurants. Is secretly having an affair with Michael Moore. She does the world's best Valley Girl impression and buys totally awesome gifts for people, meaning me. Awesome things she has bought me include: the talking Pets.com sock puppet, Strawberry Shortcake pyjamas, the Elsa Perreti heart pendant and earrings, sparkly make-up, booze, and Care Bears days-of-the-week underwear. Thong underwear, which just makes them awesomer.

Today's bear: Grumpy, because it's Monday! Hee.

My brother-in-law Cary is a patient, patient man. He can restore your hope and faith in mankind. Hard to shop for. Also the lawyer of the family who gets all the freeloading emails from dippy sisters-in-law looking for legal advice.

My niece Allie was the world's most perfect child and is now the world's most perfect teenager. She's Rory from Gilmore Girls without the Princess Complex. If I could clone her, I'd have a baby in a heartbeat. I was 11 when she was born so she's never called me Aunt Amy or anything...though she did call me Mimi for about a year when she was a toddler. I tried to get her to stick with it because it was so gosh-darned frickin' adorable, but she was determined to be Right and Correct so nooooo, I was Amy. We played the "Oops Game" for hours on end, the rules of which consisted of me putting a plastic stacking ring on her head and then saying "Oops!" when it fell off. Hilarity ensued.

These were innocent times, when one could type "Oops!" without the inevitable Britney reference.

Today, Allie is a shockingly gorgeous 15-year-old with her mother's fashion sense, her father's excellent moral character and her aunt's brains, looks, humor, mad tennis skillz, natural born talent for drawing, social graces and gifts of snark, sarcasm and smart-assiness.

Anyhoo, Dear Reader Who is So Totally Not Related to Me, thanks for writing! Feel free to write again and tell me all about yourself. I bet you're pretty.

(Why are we all so blue? Because we descended from Smurfs, that's why. Also: computer that has Photoshop installed is on the fritz.)

Resolutions Shot to Bloody Hell

Day Two of the new year and surprise, surprise, not doing too well on my resolutions.

Woke up at 8:09 a.m., 39 minutes later than I planned. No time to deep-condition hair. Proceeded to stand in the closet and stare at my clothes for approximately 17 minutes before putting something on, changing mind, changing clothes again. Repeat until 8:44 a.m.; finally dressed and out the door at 9:12 a.m.

Two cups of coffee and a soda already. Bit right pinkie nail off. Visited Fark.com twice and checked Survivor spoiler sites for rumored All-Stars line-up.

Lunch? Ramen noodles in a cup from the vending machine.

Blogging at work? Check.

But on the positive side of things, I did something even more important than any of the resolutions on my list. I registered for classes. The last two classes I need for my degree. By May 14, I'll be done.

I started going to school part-time just after my junior year, when the publishing company I was interning for offered me a full-time job. I was very diligent for awhile, but then got laaaaaaaaaazzzzzzzzzzzzyyyyy. Got jobs and promotions despite officially lacking a degree. Started taking semesters off. Like six of 'em. In a row. The last class I took was this weird 1 credit upper-level English class I needed because of the way my transfer credits settled. (I've attended five colleges at a shocking seven different campuses. Flighty much? Nah.) It was a 400-level class on the Harry Potter books. It felt so, so wrong and yet so, so right.

But now! I'm going to do it! I will take that long-reviled upper-level speech class (SPCH 426: Negotiation & Conflict Management) and the very last of my communications core courses (COMM 400: Communication & the Law.)

Boring? Totally. Professionally useless? Probably. Inconvenient formality? Definitely.

Expensive? Oh my god. Yes.

Making my dad really, really happy?

:-)