Random Ridic

Not a lot of time lately to write about the ridiculous crap that happens to me. But, here are a few highlights as of late:


12/19/2009

So excited to wear my brand new dress to a friend's sister's wedding!

Unfortunately, so was this girl:

SIGH. Oh well. At least I wouldn't lose by too much in the "who wore it better game." Right? RIGHT??? Also, it's on good authority (mine, because I saw it), that our picture was snapped by the wedding photographer. Yay, officiality.

1/16/2010:

While watching an awesome 80s-90s cover band, I slip on some spilled beer (probably my own), and fall flat just as I'm exclaiming that The Proclaimers' I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) is the BEST! SONG! EVER! and chastise a co-worker (oh yes, I was with co-workers) about his ignorance of blond twin musical acts. Can you believe he didn't know who Nelson was either?!?

Everything Makes My Clothes Fall Off...

While out with a friend last night, the most distressing thing that could ever happen to a woman happened. Her belt (that upon examination, clearly hailed from 1987) disintegrated before her very eyes while in the restroom. Mortified, she returns to the table to tell the tale. After I advise her to “just get rid of it!” we laugh about how hilarious it would be for the barely legal bus boy to take away my salad plate with the remains of a belt older than him neatly rolled up on top.

To make her feel better, I bravely told several stories of my own wardrobe misfortunes. They are as follows:

1. Dance Off, Pants Off:

I have been begging another friend (who has an amazing voice) to karaoke with me for months. FINALLY, she agrees. Once inside the best karaoke bar ever, I realized I’ve created a karaoke monster. What does this have to do with anything? Kristen is now obsessed with karaoke and wants to hit the high notes practically every time we go out. I’m running out of songs, fast. On one such outing, I decide to pick a fairly easy to sing Madonna dance number, “Express Your Self.” During a particularly enthusiastic dance sequence, I throw in a Beyonce inspired jump squat and completely blow out the back of my jeans. The rip extends from back of knee to waistband. I freeze in place. I can’t keep dancing, everyone will see! I decide to continue facing the crowd, even through the karaoke guys and a GIANT WINDOW facing a busy street and patio full of smokers is behind me. I finish the longest 48 seconds of song ever, hand over the mic, and sprint back to my seat. I have an uncharacteristic bought of bipolarism, as I leapfrog back and forth between laughing and crying, both hysterically.

Once Kristen and the male companions that had taken residence at our table finally get out of me why I am FREAKING OUT, they all join in on the laughter part of my hysteria. The boys demand to see the wreckage. I hold out as long as I can, but can sense this is not something they would be letting go. Wrapping Kristen’s jacket around my waist, I silently plead for her to get me the hell out of there, fast. Thankfully, she picks up on my distress and we book it. But not before the karaoke guy makes a point to say goodbye. I still have trouble looking him in the eye, but at least now he always bumps my song picks to the top of the line. =)

2. Bikini Bomb Shell

The same friend (is she sabotaging me???) and I went to Ft. Myers, Florida this past April to celebrate a job well done. I had completed and awaiting graduation from grad school, hooray! I had been working out like crazy to rid my body of the couple extra LBs I put on during school. Feeling REALLY good about my progress, I purchased a two piece swim suit from Target. All that stood between the warm, salty sea air and my bare bosoms was a strip of black and white fabric held in place by a tiny, plastic hook and eye closure. Can you see where this is going?

Lying on the beach with Kristen and Denise, I decide it’s time to refill my pink lemonade cocktail. Unbeknownst to me, the little hook holding my bust in place decides that this just isn’t satisfying enough work. Clearly, I also need to be attached to the lounge chair to make its little life worth while. As I lean forward, the hook does its best, but my brute force is just too much for it. Death is imminent.

The little hook explodes, as does my top off my body. Thankfully the neck strap prevents it from going to far, but it does force the top to ricochet into my face, temporarily blinding me. Gasps can be heard for miles as beachcombers from eight to eighty come face to nip with all God gave me. A 50 year old woman yells over to me that I’m just like her, and “must like to party!” I cover up as hastily as I can, and turn wide eyed to face my cohorts. Kristen offers help. I catapult myself over to her lounge chair, sitting on her sandwich in the process. I rebuff her cries of protest, wipe the mustard off my legs, and demand she tie my swim suit top back on. She does so tightly, that I can no longer breathe. I’m forced to remove the top and, to the chagrin of everyone else on the beach, wear my sundress commando for the rest of the day.

Bored on a plane

I wrote this in a spiral bound notebook on my flight out to LA last week:

Sitting on the plane. I kind of have to pee, but more so want to hold in until I hit the ground floor. Weird. The pilot just came on and said 30 minutes. SIGH. You can do it, G, have some peanuts.

Crazily, I am sitting next to the cutest couple ever. Married 40 years! Off to Maui “for fun” and to ride four wheelers up a volcano. Not. Fair. Anyway – why I brought them up: Their son works for Oprah (p.s. I’m going to LA to take my Grandma to see Oprah’s after Oscar extravaganza show with my mom and aunt). Irony abounds around me. They’ve been to Chicago for her show several times and gave me a bunch of tips (bright colors, stage makeup, and stilettos) for getting sat up front, as well as their son’s name to drop. Holler!

Otherwise, the flight has been pretty tame. I opted out of the in flight movie to work on thesis, but got bored around the 2.5 hour mark. So, here I am: writing (for reals, with a pen) in notebook (the spiral kind) waiting patiently to land.

Um…I just noticed the grossest couple ever is also in flight. I get that this is a long flight (4 hours and some change) but do you have to pretend this is morning happy hour at the Moose Lodge?? Seriously, you don’t need to stand in the aisle, arms around each other, leaning on getting pissier by the second grandpa dude’s seat, reminiscing about that flight to Cancun when the flight attendant spilled your margarita on that spiky haired kid. Enter ear phones.

Apparently, frequent jet setters love watching episodes of Futurama (yay!) and the New Adventures of Old Christine (Oh…kay…). I’ve been treated too two episodes of each. Seems strange…thought I could be staring at, well, I don’t even want to think about that.

My Fist Hippie Festival

Last month, the day after my 26th birthday, two friends decided it would be a stellar idea to take me to my first hippie festival. Though this wasn’t exactly my normal scene, I can pretty much have fun in a shoe box. Especially if there’s booze. So I happily tagged along. This festival happened to be a two night extravaganza with bands starting around 12 noon both days. Hippie patrons from miles around traveled to camp and jam into the wee hours of the morning. It was glorious…mostly.

As I’m sure most of you are aware, booze makes you pee. A lot. You are probably also aware of the normal facilities offered at camp grounds and concerts. Yep, the dreaded Port-a-John. Unfortunately gross, but severely necessary. These portals into the ninth ring of hell are doable during daylight hours. Yeah, you can see the…stuff…but that’s just it: YOU CAN FREAKING SEE. Women are required – you hear me?? REQUIRED! – to squat. I don’t care how tired, intoxicated, or whatever I am. But I digress…Some ladies find squatting an easier task than say, oh, I don’t know, me. I always have to do that weird pose that requires me to prop myself up with my arm against the back wall of said portal. It’s hardly a flattering stance, and trust me, you wish I have posted a picture of myself reenacting this maneuver because it is hilarious in itself. Maybe someday I’ll post one.

Enter night induced darkness. Things immediately get trickier. Not only do I have the to psych myself up to enter into the abyss o’ crap, I have to hold my breath, check for toilet paper, perfect my stance, juggle my purse, review my pants placement (last thing I want is to pee all over myself, EW) and then relax enough to “let ‘er flow.” You’re probably thinking: “Wow, this girl is a PAJ guru. I should be taking notes.” Don’t go sharpening those pencils just yet. On one particular night time trip to the row of horror, my male friend and I decided to walk down together. I grabbed the closest light source I could find: a green glow stick. Awesome. Luckily, my chivalrous friend insisted I take his flashlight and he would rock out with the glow stick. How sweet!! I enter the PAJ and immediately curse his name. Not only do I have to master the dance described above, but I also have to hold the flashlight. SIGH. I decide that the best course of action is to “hold” the flashlight under my chin. I begin the dance. Door locked? Check. TP? Check. Pants out of harm’s way? Check. I relax. Things are happening when suddenly, there is manic pounding on the door. I panic, but I can see the lock is in place. Nothing bad can happen! Except that the incredible hulk loves hippie festivals and decided he needed to pee in the exact PAJ that was occupied by me. The door flies open! The lock, bursts into a million pieces and flies out into the night! I’m there, pants down staring at the biggest hippie I have ever seen. He screams, I scream, the flashlight plummets to the ground, and the door slams. I’m left alone, in the dark. I hear the hippie scream how sorry he is and that he’s going to guard the door for me. I contemplate my options. I can:

A. Pull up my pants and go home, crying hysterically the whole way. Or,
2. Attempt to relax, and finish what I started.

I opt for 2. After I finish, I have to knock, loudly, to be let out of the PAJ by the incredible hippie. He apologizes profusely and, get this, hugs me like I’m his long lost BFF from that Phish tour in ’99. All I can think is “I haven’t sanitized my hands!! AHHHH!!” My friend, who has been waiting patiently this whole time, looks on in sheer wonderment.

“What the hell…?” he asks as he runs over.

I say, “Oh hi, glad you’re here. I lost your flashlight.”

“WHAT THE HELL, AMANDA!!!?????”

“I know I’m sorry, I’m friend of the year….here’s what happened…”

We break out the green glow stick and start searching, all the while cursing my failure of using the facilities in a timely, discreet, or non-retarded manner. Thankfully, the flashlight is outside the PAJ, though it is halfway underneath. My friend can’t believe how lucky I am that he doesn’t have to kick my ass. I agree. We return to the campsite and hilarity ensues as the story is told, and retold, to everyone who comes within a half mile of our tent. I love making new friends!

The Year of Amanda

I’ve always had big plans for myself. BIG PLANS. But for some reason, my plans always just stayed plans. They never quite made the leap to become realities. When I turned 25 last May, something inside me stood up and screamed “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!”

“Um…?” was my less than brilliant reply.

After thoroughly embarrassing myself in front of… well, I guess just myself; but anyway, I decided that May 23, 2007 – May 22, 2008 would be henceforth known as the Year of Amanda. Mine. Three hundred and sixty six days (score! I picked a leap year!) of full on narcissistic pleasure. I made a list of things that I wanted to accomplish, see, hear, and feel before my 26th birthday. As if the things I came up with weren’t quite enough, I decided that I would keep the list open ended. Who knew? Maybe there was some great stuff out there to experience that I hadn’t seen, heard, or thought of yet. As I am what many would call a “social” personality, I mentioned the idea of the Year of Amanda to several (all) of my closest (anyone that would listen) friends. This began a whole new concept to the Year of Amanda. It turns out others are sometimes lazy when it comes to acting on their hopes and dream as well! My friends and I started discussing what was on my list and what, should they have done a Year of Whoever, would be on their lists. That’s when it hit me. It was a risky move, but I would append the rules and regulations of the Year of Amanda to allow others to add to my list. If there was something a friend was currently dreaming of, funds and commonsense providing, I would pursue said dream with them. I thought to myself, “Did I really just turn the most purely selfish concept that I have ever thought of into one of dare I say, philanthropy?” Well, I probably wouldn’t go that far. But I can honestly say there a few people in this world who have conquered a fear, reached a goal or seen something amazing because of this phenomenon.

The most exhilarating thing so far about the Year of Amanda was quite honestly, the physical act of making the first draft of my list. Simply putting the pen to paper made me feel ten times more likely to make some of this stuff happen, which happens to be moral of this story. My plans never materialized into realities because I never put forth any effort into making them realities. We’ve all heard the saying “life is what happens when you are busy making plans” but I have to disagree. It’s a funny thing, but nothing will ever happen to you if you just sit around and wait for it. So plan! For tomorrow, next week, next year! Plan whatever you can, just be sure to turn these plans into realities so that your list of of plans becomes your life, not the other way around.