drip drip drop, there goes an eargasm

First off, there is no better line in all of music than the above. Sheer brilliance.

Onto the topic at hand: Joshua Radin. Did you hear me?!?! JOSHUA RADIN. Oh dear sweet lord. The man croons some delicious tunes.

Click here to check out a few of his songs. All four tracks are spectacular. I've listened to the demo for a new song approximately 37 times in the past hour.

My thanks to Bo for shining the light on the magnificence that is Mr. Radin.


Oh, and I thought this was funny.

Dear Personalized License Plates,

I hate you.


Sincerely,
Amanda

Just Press "Reset"

I had a phone interview at 7:30 this morning (unfortunately, not for the Chastity Coordinator job I was desperately pining for). I was pumped. I got up early, showered, made coffee and oatmeal in preparation for the event. At 7:25, I'm clean, coffeed and oatmealed, pen and paper in hand, cell phone nicely charged. The call comes and within 3 minutes I realize that the position they are discussing with me is NOTHING like the way it was described online and via email. The level of pissed I became is not measurable by any human parameters. Thank you for wasting thirty minutes of my valuable morning/sleep time. If you knew how much of a morning person I am NOT, you would understand why this is such a catastrophe.

I'm quite aware of the fact that I've put on some weight, ok? But is it really necessary for me to try on every single pair of work pants I own (and a handful belonging to my roommate, thanks, Jen), only to find that none of them are appropriate for public display except for the lone pair of black pants I've worn everyday for the past 2 weeks? I mean, did I balloon out that significantly overnight? Lipo appointment set today, cantaloupe for every meal and chaining myself to the elliptical machine from here on out.

On the way to work, I see a bum digging through a garbage can on Michigan Avenue. Not out of the ordinary, but you might as well punch me right in the gut. It is out of my realm of thought to be at a point where one would be rooting through trash for food. It drags me into a full-blown depressive episode over the injustices in the world that leave me feeling small and hopeless and in a fit of rage and vomit. Ugh. But, on this particular day I got an extra treat. Not only did I get to see him digging, but then watched as he picked out a discarded cup of coffee, popped off the lid and starting drinking the remnants.

Seconds later, waiting for a light to change and trying not to hurl all over the chick next to me, a bike messenger passes by. And I'll be damned if it wasn't Boyd Tinsley's twin; all dreads, sunglasses, giant smile and all. Postively beaming. He's probably a great person, but frankly he freaked me the fuck out.

I stop in Au Bou Pain bakery for some fruit (I'm a hippo, remember?). Of all of the thousands of times I've been to this place, I've never heard music playing overhead. But today, there is music, and of all the songs in the universal jukebox, Pearl Jam's "Wishlist" is pouring from the speakers. What? First off, I've never heard that particular song in public, ever, let alone in an over-priced French cafe in a hospital. Secondly, where's the cheesy easy-listening or elevator music? Mind. Boggled.

I feel like I'm in some warped parallel universe or in the midst of a mild stroke. I demand a do-over for today. Or just some sex, whatever.

Totally Unqualified

I ran across the following job listing on my alma mater's alumni career website:

Chastity Outreach Coordinator

Job Description:

* Coordinate the Chastity outreach program in local high schools and grade schools.
* Contacting schools and arranging visits.
* Preparing presentations and maintaining statistics on these services.
* Recruit volunteer witnesses for the Chastity outreach presentations.
* Assist with the Recruitment and Training of new volunteers for the Center.
* Help with Pregnancy Testing and Material assistance clients when needed.
* Perform additional duties as deemed necessary by the Executive Director. (sex?)

Qualifications:

* Pro-life
* Flexible (in bed?)
* Organized
* Creative
* Self-motivated
* Dedicated to a commitment of abstinence until marriage (ummm...)
* Knowledge of the Catholic faith (riiiiiiiiight)



I sent in my resume. Fingers crossed on this one.

salt-n-pepa

I would like to introduce you to the latest addition to the work breakroom:

So little and so very very cute. What is it with miniatures? Seriously.

(Please take note of the masterful skillwork used to rig up the paperclip. Eat it, MacGyver.)

Like Watching Your Child Take His First Steps

As part of his Christmas present, I gave my dad Martin Sexton's live double CD, "Live Wide Open." An album that is essentially my Bible.

Recent email exchange:

From: Me
To: Dad

Hey Dad! Had a chance to give Martin Sexton a listen??

love you!
amanda


From: Dad
To: Me

Yes, several times. Ever since I put that bad boy in the CD player, I haven't been able to stop. I really like it!

love,
Dad




My work here is done.

When Body Parts Talk

From My Entire Set of Upper Arm Musculature:

"See, bitch, this is what you get for neglecting yoga, or any type of real exercise for that matter, for almost a full year. Feel the burn. And trembling. And overall debilitating fatigue. Dumbass.

P.S. You're fat."

definitely.

kelleymd09: which do you think is worse: warm scum or congealed scum?
Amanda107: congealed
Amanda107: definitely
kelleymd09: right
kelleymd09: definitely

Beer.

Fat Tire is coming to Chicago!! Sweet christ on the cross. This particular beer, one of my absolute favorites, has not seen bars or stores east of the Mississippi River. Ever. Until now!

I first tasted this sweet nectar o' hops whilst skiing in Steamboat Springs, CO, back in the winter of 2001. Since then, if friends come to town from out west, I nicely force them to bring me a couple sixers. Sigh. It's so delicious. And with the cute pic of the bike on the label? Really, what's not to love?

It makes it's debut here next month. Yee haw.

In other beer news, I have something very sad to report. Grab your hanky.

The following picture shows the amount of beer I abandoned Saturday because the bar we were in was so horrifically horrible that we couldn't stay there one.more.second.

So painful. Even as I look at it now, it truly brings a tear and a sinking feeling in my gut of longing and remorse.

We were at Gunther Murphy's for, what will now be known as, my very last time. I've tried to love this place, I really have. It's a laid back Irish pub located frighteningly close to my apartment. Perfect, right? No.

The service blows, the clientele ranges from yuppie to artsy to grungy to shady to homeless peddlers trying to sell you a homemade rap CD and grope your ass. This last time, we were crammed into a table made for midgets (or just very tiny Irish folk) in the front room of the bar listening to sweet sounds from the jukebox featuring music we love. To add insult to injury, coming from the back room (the door to which is about 6 feet from our Hobbit table) was ear-piercing/amp bursting noise from the band that just started up, heavy on the heavy metal. We couldn't even carry on a conversation via screaming. One ear picking up pieces of Lynyrd Skynyrd while the other is molested with screaming and rage and super bass. Grey matter meltdown.

Just when we thought we couldn't take anymore, right behind us, some drunk douchebag starts an argument with the bouncer (who is easily twice his size). They proceed to scream and fight and argue and scream. Enough.

I think we could have held out at the bar a bit longer had we not just come from bowling two games in bright cafeteria lighting, with no music, flanked on one side by a group featuring a couple who hugged and kissed after each bowled and on the other by a horde of asian tourists who, on multiple occasions, jumped in front of our lane, while one of us was mid-approach, to take a picture of the other holding a ball.

Thought of the Morning

I've received three emails today from my employer outlining the events taking place on Monday, January 16th, to honor The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Such events include speeches, presentations, and a luncheon.

Here's an idea: just give us the fucking day off. I'll honor the man by sleeping till noon.

On Online Dating

My dad and I are sitting around watching TV, enveloped in the traditional holiday food coma. A commercial comes on for eHarmony. The current cheesy marketing ploy focuses on finding someone that you have "chemistry" and a "connection" with and this is 100% possible via the internet and eHarmony. Well, shit, sign me up.

My dad and I look at each other, smirking. We know immediately what the other is thinking. He beats me to it:

"Someone who would do eHarmony in the first place would automatically be someone I would NOT have a connection with."

That man, I tell ya.

That one Coldplay video that goes, "You're gonna die, yeah yeah, from ass cancer..."

Just laughed my face off reading this.

Tears, people, tears.

It's rather long on words and long on talk about ass blood. But, for those who can hang, it's well worth the read.

Enjoy.

Hello, I Love You

Current work-snack obsession.

For All of the Non-Blind People Who Didn't Know

Those Google guys. Seriously. I can't get enough of today's name graphic:

It's in Braille, for Louis Braille's birthday. Witty.

Although, I thought the purpose of Braille in it's entirety is the tangible properties. You know, for people who can't see and must use the sense of touch to read.

Oh, the irony.

The Chicken Fetus

Warning: DO NOT VIEW if you are about to eat, have just eaten or possess the gift of sight.

I found the following piece of chicken hiding in my Pad Thai:

I'm still projectile vomiting 2 days later.

The One Where I Do Automotive Work

Holy Holidays.

I would like to give a few shout-outs:

1. To my parents, for getting me the sweetest digital camera. I sleep with this thing, people. I might love the case a bit more than the camera. The fact that it matches a pair of shoes I recently bought makes me a little proud, but mostly nauseous.

2. To my sister, for giving me a Starbucks giftcard as part of my Christmas present. This is essentially the most perfect gift anyone could give me. Hallelujah.

3. To myself, for not touching a credit card in 3 months. Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta watch the balance decreasing for the first time in 2 years. Merry Christmas to me.

My parents got my sister an iPod for Christmas so it was the topic of many a conversation. Most involving my sister and I trying to explain to my dad what the "big deal" is surrounding this item. I felt the best way to explain was to show. As he was sitting at the computer playing online poker (besides email, this is as far as he goes with technology, god bless him), I set him up on my pod. I pointed out the basics of selecting an artist and playing songs and sent him on his way. Twenty minutes later, as I approach the kitchen, I hear him belting, and I mean belting, Cat Stevens' "Moonshadow." Heart. Melted. Apparently the volume was up, because when he saw me he shouted into the silence, "THIS THING IS GREAT! I WANT ONE! HAVE ANY DON HENLEY ON HERE?"

To spice things up a bit, my car decided to partially fall apart while I was home for vacation. On Christmas Eve, while running some last minute errands, I noticed that my muffler was more visible than normal. I convinced myself that I was making it up, so I forged ahead. Five minutes later as I'm trucking along at 45mph, the end of my muffler dropped to the ground, creating the most horrific scraping noise. I immediately pulled over and did the natural thing, called my dad. I explained that it was just the metal strap that holds the end of the muffler under the bumper so he stopped at Auto Zone on his way to pick up a new one. Easy breezy. I turned the car off, put on the emergency flashers and listened to some tunes while I waited. People are flying by when a car pulls over in front of me. A silver Nissan Z. Out of it climbs a tall, dark-haired, very attractive (but not too pretty) guy in his mid-to-late twenties. Um, hello there.

He mouths to me, "are you ok?"

I roll down my window and he says, "I just wanted to make sure you're alright. Do you need any help? Do you have someone on the way?"

As I'm losing myself in the kindest eyes I've ever seen and seeing my life fast-forward with him as the father of my children, I puke out, "yeah, I'm fine, my dad's on his way. Thanks."

"Good. I just wanted to make sure. You have a Merry Christmas."

Idiot. I'm a complete idiot. As he drove away, my heart dropped in my chest. One person pulled over to check on me. One. And it was a kind, attractive, unmarried guy in his twenties. Really, this is the shit that movies are made of. And I just let him drive away.

I mean, I guess he could have been a serial killer, which would be entirely representative of my luck. But I prefer to think of it as more of a "Serendipity" type film, not because I believe in fate and happily ever after, but because I'm deeply in love with John Cusack.

My dad pulls up a few minutes later as I'm trying to figure out how many miles away my Road Warrior would be at this point and just how far I could drive with my muffler dragging before making a giant hole and my car exploding.

So lost in thought, I didn't realize that my radio was flickering in and out and my emergency flasher indicator in the dash was going crazy.

Turns out, while waiting the ten whole minutes, my battery died. Rolla was down for the count. As the dad worked on the muffler issue, I fetched a battery. And put it in myself. My hands were greasy with open wounds and it was beautiful.

No worries, Rolla is fine. Just like new. Thank god all of that happened a mile from my parents' house instead of the middle of nowhere Indiana, late at night, in the freezing cold while making the trek from Chicago to Louisville or vice versa. That's movie material as well, but clearly one that ends with me in pieces under some farmhouse floorboards.

P.S. I can't stop eating these Dove Milk Chocolate Covered Almonds. By the fistful. I've got to get a grip and break away from the holiday feeding frenzy. Seriously. The Goodyear Blimp is on the phone, he wants his t-shirt back.

Arctic Adventure

What started out as a harmless Bears game ended in my own personal hell.

Sunday night. 7 degrees. -10 wind chill. Mike and I are sitting 10 rows up from the south end zone. Amazing seats. The foam atop our beers forming icebergs within seconds. Everyone heartily embracing the comraderie of fools who donned their warmest gear to brave the icy chill.

The game itself wasn't near as cold as I was expecting. The construction of the new stadium seems to cut down on wind gusts. Pair that with a couple beers and some jumping around and screaming with hardcore fans (the guys 2 rows behind us kept their shirts off the entire game), and it was practically a day at the beach. After the game was when the real fun began.

As soon as you walk out of the stadium, the wind hits you like a ton of bricks. Brutal. The line for the shuttle back to the parking garage was 200 drunk-Bears-fans deep. No thanks. We decided to rough it and walk back. Worst. Idea. Ever.

The first 15 blocks weren't so bad. That's right, 15 blocks in negative degree weather, wind howling in our faces. I had plenty of gear on (thanks to my roomie; yay, Boundary Waters!) and wrapped myself in a fleece blanket. Mike offered a cab, but I wanted to be Billy Badass, so I said it was fine. Plus, every cab was full of walkers who gave up the noble fight. Pansy asses.

The last 3 or 4 blocks is when I started to lose it. My eyeballs felt funny, I couldn't feel the fronts of my thighs and the tips of my fingers were tingling in pain. I was getting moody. That's never a good thing, trust me. We finally reach a parking garage and descend. Section 2M; that's where the car containing sweet heat was located. We walk to 2M. No car. No fucking car.

Our frost-bitten brains nearing delusional, we rationalize that maybe it wasn't 2M. Let's try Levels 1 and 3. An HOUR LATER, we have traversed all 3 levels, in a deserted underground parking garage that is NOT HEATED, taking elevator after elevator, stairwell after stairwell, walking through grey doors leading to orange doors, passing people in camo laying on the ground asking if we're lost, giving it a real "Deliverance" feel; it was like Alice in Wonderland on crack in an icy hell. Still no car.

On the verge of cannibalism, we're waiting for an elevator for the 80th time. I look at the diagram of the parking garage, which I have already done a million times and take notice that it says "Millineum Park Garage". A dread fills me, as my brain defrosted just enough to recall that there are multiple parking garages right next to each other. We look at the parking ticket and it says "Monroe Park Garage". I think I threw up at that point, I don't really remember.

We emerge back on street level, take literally 40 steps and walk into the entrance of the correct garage. Walk to 2M and there is the car. Just sitting there. Not one other car around. At this point it's after 1 am, the game ended before 11. We both started laughing hysterically; falling on the ground, can't stop, tears pouring down the face laughing. The best/worst part of the whole ordeal is that we were completely sober. Painfully sober.

I still can't get over the fact that two intelligent human beings went through that. Seriously. It's embarrassing. Which is why I'm placing 100% of the blame on Frozen Brain Delusional Psychosis. It's real, look it up.


Addendum: Just received the following text from my partner in stupidity:

"I went into my garage today and couldn't find my car. I looked for an hour and finally realized I was in my neighbor's garage. Idiot."

The real reason I love this time of year...

Two words: Work. Parties.

- Cardiac Surgery Holiday Party at Lucky Strike's Wine Room. Four hours of free drinks and chicken trio in a dark, gorgeous room with 47 fireplaces.

- Investment Mortgage Group's Christmas party at Grand Central. Three hours of free drinks with single, wealthy young men (not that I scored any, but the potential was thrilling). Spent the evening taking jager bombs and shooting the shit with Jenny's dad who was wearing a "Merry Fucking Christmas" button on his santa hat.

- Thoracic Surgery Holiday Dinner and Cocktails at the Signature Room at the John Hancock Building. Free drinks and dinner at the top of the Hancock. Seriously, come on. Pretty much too good to be true.

- Clinical Trials Unit Holiday Extravaganza Lunch at Grand Luxe Cafe. Free food AND we get the entire afternoon off, people.

Happy Holidays to me.

raging dork

I found this super interesting.

The Douche Fairy

When you walk into a job and realize you are sitting in a piece of shit cubby hole with desk space the size of a post-it, little can cheer you up. Unless of course, there is a particular person sitting down the row. She's just sitting there, pretending like she's not your other half.

Then a few months later she leaves you and runs off to Ann Arbor, MI, to start medical school or something like that. I didn't really hear the rest of the sentence after, "I'm moving to Ann Arbor..." This loss in our lives is only assuaged by frequent visits, so I found myself in The Arbor last weekend.

Kelley + Me + In the Same Town = Mayhem.

First off, this girl has THE coolest cat in the world. Tiko. I think he's actually a dog trapped in a feline's body. He comes when you call him, jumps on your lap and purrs. Just as he is cute and cuddly, he's also fiesty and spunky. And did I mention how cute this guy is? HE'S JUST SO DAMN CUTE THAT YOU WANT TO SQUEEZE HIM UNTIL HIS GUTS COME OUT OF HIS NOSE. seriously.

First order of business was the Sexton signing. Um, downtown Ann Arbor? Only the best little downtown I've ever taken in. Coffee shops, boutiques, theaters, etc. So precious. The whole thing looks like a movie.


Well, folks, as you can see I successfully got within 2 inches of Sexton without imploding. Please note that he looks like he'd rather be skinning his shin than posing in this picture with me. We got to the signing pretty late, so I'm sure he was quite sick of taking photos and smiling and surface-talking with fans. As one woman was talking with him, her cell phone rang. She saw that it was her daughter calling, who was apparently a huge fan, and had Martin talk to her. He was awesome about it, but enough stuff like that would surely be annoying. Then I approach. I was fine until I got right up next to him; then my heart started pounding and my knees got shaky. Hi, I'm super lame. Kelley told me afterwards that she's never seen me so flustered and nervous and all-out mentally retarded over someone. At one point he said that I look like his sister and I said, "oh, maybe I am." Wha? Huh? I mean, really, what the fuck does that even mean? Idiot.

After my debacle, Kelley and I were enjoying chai tea and coffee (respectively) in one of the above mentioned movie-esque coffee shops. She stopped mid-sip and looked at me inquisitively:

"Are you alright? You look all flushed. You've got that afterglow, like you just had sex."

"Oh, maybe I did."

We returned to her humble abode to get ready for the show and stuff our faces. This, only after I purposely did approximately 64 fishtails and doughnuts in an unplowed snowy parking lot; an activity that I find off-the-charts exhilirating. Kelley wasn't amused.

Nearing showtime, we call for a cab and they tell us it will arrive in 18 minutes. Thanks for the specifics. Two more phone calls and 45 minutes later, the cab finally shows up. We were then treated to a dissertation regarding the cab driver's penchant for souping-up his '95 Chevy Beretta with a sweet engine from a Grand Prix. Titillating, really.

Neither of us had cash so we had Monster Garage drop us at an ATM. As I was approaching the machine, I noticed that the guy standing there was this kid, Jacob Sotsky, that I went to middle school with in Louisville, KY. We're talking 10 years ago, people. And he's at the same damn ATM as me in Ann-freaking-Arbor. We recognized each other instantaneously. Fucking crazy. After big hugs and a quick chat, Kell and I head back to pay the cabbie who has no change for a $20. Jesus. He made Kelley run into the Mongolian Barbeque place on the corner and break her $20. Good start.

Then we found ourselves standing out in the freezing cold and snow waiting to get into the Sexton show. The only way that situation could get any worse would be if there were four 18-year-old douchebags behind us in line. Oh wait, there were four 18-year-old douchebags behind us in line. They had just seen Sexton's early show and the dialogue went a little something like this:

Douchebag 1: "Awww, man, dude, that show was so fucking sweet"
Douchebag 2: (pressing Play on a small audio recording device revealing Sexton mid-Hallelujah) "Yeah, man, I can't believe I was 4 for 4. I totally called the opening line-up."
DB 1: "Yeah, man. Awesome. I can't believe he played 'Real Man'. He hasn't played that in 7 shows! Remember the setlist from October 18th? That was the last time."
DB 2: "Oh yeah. Sweet."

The remainder of the conversation was a rundown of every single fucking song he played, in order, and a stunning critique of each containing mostly "awesome" and "sweet". Thanks, guys, for completely ruining the upcoming show for me. Now I know every song he's NOT GOING TO SING.

One good thing did come from this: the realization that I am not, in fact, the lamest Sexton fan on the planet.

Sitting in the venue, one is reminded of a middle school auditorium; Kelley asked if we were there for a talent show. Our seats were about 20 feet from the stage, perfect view. No complaints here.

Pre-show people-watching, I spot this girl with the most gorgeous, long, curly/perfectly wavy strawberry blonde hair. I point out the magnificence to Kell who responds, "Yeah, if you're in a Massengill douche commercial. She's like the Douche Fairy." Throughout the rest of the evening, particularly as we engorged ourselves with 2-for-1 jager bombs, puffed on a lame mango hookah and finished up later on with the real stuff, "The Douche Fairy" was often the topic of conversation. It was the funniest thing we had ever come up with.

Back to the show. As the lights were dimming, Kell turns on her camera and it dies. Right then.

"Oh, yeah, I knew I needed to do something today. Charge the camera. Oops."

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

The show was great, per usual. Not the best Sexton show I've ever seen, but still amazing. Highlights include:

- belting the CRAP out of "Let There Be Peace on Earth" a capella
- playing "My Maria" after I screamed it and ending it with "Stairway to Heaven"
- the dorkiest, off-beat couple in the front row creaming their pants every 5 seconds and acting as if they were at a Southern Baptist tent revival complete with girations, pointing at Sexton, hands in the air in reverence and bowing to the stage. Amazing.

The rest of the night was filled with dancing, libations and whatnot until 5 am (I think). Steve was blessed with, what could arguably be, the most incoherent drunk voicemails of all time. Two of them. Kelley and I were out of our minds, laughing hysterically and telling him about the Douche Fairy, Kelley being a cheap drunk, trying to take a picture of his name on the Hall of Foam plaque at the Full Moon, and other sundry items that we cannot recollect. You bet your ass those will be saved for all of eternity.

The weekend was perfectly wrapped up as we spent all of Sunday (after we moved from the bed to the couch around noon) watching old reruns of The Love Connection, Match Game and Family Feud on the Game Show Network and eating pizza. Straight out of the box. Classy.

Back in 2 and 2.