IF YOU ARE THE BITCHY RECEPTIONIST LADY I'M TALKING ABOUT, THEN PLEASE REFER TO THE LAST 3 LINES

Just got back from one of those instances in life where I am damn thankful I have a blog - DAMN THANKFUL, I SAY, BITCHY RECEPTIONIST LADY.

Setting: First speech pathology appointment at Conner's New Speech Place. We are in a classroom-turned-office-space in the middle of a typical brick building for communications courses and whatnot.  This same building has a "child development"center down the hall - so it's easy to say this place sees it's fair share of children.

There are about 7 chairs in the waiting room, so it's small.

ANYWAYS.

As many know, university parking is a STEW POT OF SUCK, and on the first day, I did not have University Level Access For Vehicle Stability Placement (read: parking pass). So, I parked where I could, hauled butt in the FREEZING COLD and 15-20 MPG WINDS, unloaded two icicle children and hiked 7.89 trillion miles to the speech center.

Bitchy Lady: Where are you parked?
Me: In the parking lot with the other cars (lol)
Bitchy Lady: Well, here's the pass. Put it in your window so you don't get a Fake Ticket.
Me: ....
Me: Um. IT'S COLD AS YOUR CROTCH OUTSIDE AND YOU WANT ME TO HIKE BACK OUT WITH BOTH CHILDREN, YOU WHORE. (read: "ok. thanks")

I exited with said children, hiked backwards uphill through the snow, placed my Special Permit in the windshield and returned to fill out 15,000 sheets of the same 6 questions, only reworded.

That day, the same lady managed to tell me that I couldn't USE MY PORTABLE DVD PLAYER TO ENTERTAIN MY 2-YEAR-OLD IN THE OFFICE ON A MORE THAN REASONABLE VOLUME LEVEL. I hate her whole life.

Additionally:
Bitchy Whore Lady With Way Too Many Thorns In Her Vag tells me:

• To keep my 2-year-old "more quiet" because "this is an office" 
• That she doesn't "do" insurance paperwork and I should ask again... "later". SERIOUSLY, MIGHT I SUGGEST YOU THINK OF A BETTER ANSWER TO MY INSURANCE-RELATED QUESTIONS THAN "MAYBE LATER.

But... the speech doctor lady was nice and I liked the program, so we stayed with this place. 

Then today, I bring Conner in for his weekly lesson. Chase is being EXCEPTIONALLY UNRULY, more than normal because I have to wake him from his afternoon nap 20 minutes early to make these appointments.

To calm him, I bring his typical 3:30 treat - some fruit snacks.

Bitchy Vamp Of Doom: *manages to pry lard butt from swivel chair* Excuse, ma'am. You can't have food in here. 

Me: *evil "eff off" face* Um. Where am I supposed to feed him his snack?

Bitchy Vamp Of Doom: Well. There's a courtyard outside with some seating.

Yeah.

I grab up: my phone, Chase's snack, my keys, Chase's shoes that he managed to remove (because he always does), Conner's work folder (read: a billion items) AND MY WIGGLY 27 LB. CHILD and "help" myself to this "courtyard o' snack paradise".

It's next to a parking lot. With a 2-year-old. Boy. WHO NEEDS HIS SNACK.

F**king prick.

EXPLAIN TO ME, POINTLESS RULE NAZI, WHY MY TODDLER CAN'T HAVE A NOT-MESSY-IN-THE-LEAST FRUIT CHEW THAT I WAS ADMINISTERING TO HIM IN A NOT-AT-ALL-MESSY MANNER THAT WOULD NORMALLY TAKE AN ENTIRE 2 MINUTES IN YOUR PRECIOUS PRETEND DOCTOR'S OFFICE, BUT INSTEAD HAD TO MORPH INTO A WRESTLING MATCH IN THE COURTYARD (IN 45 DEGREE WEATHER AND 20 MPH WINDS) FOR A HALF HOUR.

I'm not opposed to rules (only allergic), so I will admit this: as with many buildings, there was a sign that read "no food or drink". Perhaps, here are a few instances where said rule should be adhered to:

not:

AND MAYBE, I'd understand your Nazi ways a little better if you worked in say....

or

(Lions LOVE fruit snacks. Trust me)

BUT NO, Slutty McWhoreFace, it's a office in which you've:

• Banned my portable DVD player
• Asked me to keep my child silent
• And are likely to enforce the "NO CELL PHONES, PLEASE" sign I noticed in the hallway.

Basically, in summary -

Dear Receptionist,

EAT ME.

- Amanda

Fail-Safe Aging Secrets

There you go. Fill that with money... because I am about to share an amazing trick that will make you all go "I wonder how much money I should send Amanda for this amazing piece of knowledge. Is a box full enough?"


Answer: No, but because I love all of you a box will do just fine.
(I'd recommend getting that Box O'Money weighed for proper shipping fees)


How To Feel Younger Overnight:


Step 1 - Go through a really stressful situation. The more stressful, the better. (this isn't called How To Feel BETTER Overnight, just 'younger') (stop complaining) ($5.95 for shipping and handling for excessive bitching) (it's in the fine print).


Step 2 - Forget your 'actual' age. This works best if you genuinely forget it. None of that fake "oh damn! I forgot to thaw out the meat! Guess it's pizza tonight" crap. I am talking about "wow. I have no clue what happened last night but I know vodka and the Cotton Eyed Joe were involved" forgetting. THAT kind of forget.


Step 3 - Tell everyone your 'new' age. (higher than your actual age or this doesn't work) By 'everyone' I clearly mean 'the internet'.


Step 4 - Correct your husband in public when he mentions your 'real' age. Insist he is being an asshole for getting it wrong.


Step 5 - Do this enough that eventually your husband gets annoyed and corrects YOU for being so wrong.


Step 6 - Remember that you are *supposed* to be forgetting your 'actual' age and act confused because you sincerely believe that you are your 'new' age.


Step 7 - Have husband rolling on the floor laughing because he thinks you have for reals forgotten how old you are.


Step 8 - Frantically google "age if birthday is xx-xx-1984". Come up with nothing. Try about 4 different versions of this sentence praying for an "age calculator".


Step 9 - Fail at finding an app for that.


Step 10 - Have a complete stranger point out that he was born a month after you and is currently your 'real' age.


Step 11 - Congratulations. Instead of thinking you are 26, and have been for the last 2+ months, you realize you are in REAL LIFE 25.


Yeah. I gained a year.


Thank me later.


Or just go ahead and send in that box of money.

You Don't Want to be My Neighbor

SO.

I'm still stalking my neighbor.

Except, I'm stalking without peeking in windows, or even leaving my house...

Maybe I should have worded that "i'm still TALKING about my neighbor"

and it should be "neighborS" because NOW, finally... they've all shown up. (Except, I still haven't seen her. OH! and I think she might be Asian ... which would make for the third Asian wifey married to an AF Officer on this street ALONE - and it's a weird conspiracy that I'm totally interested in figuring out... What's with the Very White AF Officer and the Amanda-is-too-stupid-to-know-what-ethnicity-but-it's-something-Asian wifey??)

Last week, I hypothesized that they were possibly into some really freaky stuff because why on EARTH would you have a semi-truck come back (WITH! WORKERS! EACH! DAY!) every day, for 4 days straight? That's a LOT of stuff, peoples. Like, 4 trucks worth.

Yes, they are a large family (4 kids) (I still haven't seen anyone other than him), but this house is maybe? 2,500-2,600 square feet. How much stuff could you have without a basement?

No attic either.

And they relocated from Who Knows Where But Really Far Away, so all those things MUST be valuable - to them...

AND - they bought new furniture when they got here - two truckloads of Rooms To Go and Haverty's came and went bringing living room and dining room furniture and new bedroom suits. WHAT ELSE CAN YOU FILL FOUR TRUCKS WITH IF YOU AREN'T BRINGING FURNITURE?????

I thought "Ok... what could all that stuff be"... and then that made me remember that one episode of Secret Lives of Women on Lifetime (maybe? Lifetime? Or something... Oxygen?). Yeah... Oxygen I think... anyways.. It's the episode where the woman is a hoarder and she collects/stashes-in-her-lair tons and tons of Halloween masks (like... Hollywood rate masks). She totally freaked me out. All that clutter AND it's all creepy masks?

HELLO, CHILDHOOD ISSUES - WHAT ARE YOU HIDING FROM McCREEPSTER?

I went there. With my neighbors.

What totally off-the-wall thing were they unloading into that house that required 4 semi-trucks?

A. Lot.

My current theory (via twitter):

Oh! Since they *do* have 4 kids, maybe they are into some really freaky s.ex toys & gadgets (etc) & THAT is what all these semis are for?

Yeah. That's GOT TO BE RIGHT, right?

Because I am a reponsible neighbor, I followed it with this:

That's it! It's semi-truck after semi-truck of se.x toys! OMG! TELL THE NEIGHBORS! HIDE THE CHILDREN!

Then yesterday, I think I saw Mr. New Next Door Neighbor with the Nice Church People Welcome Wagon... I'm guessing they don't know about the sex toy habit. Which is why you should always spy on your neighbors, so you don't go barging into a 2-story home full of dildos.

File this under: Things To Delete Before Telling New Neighbor About My Blog.

I am SO Not Cranky: Not Me! Monday

This week for Not Me! Monday: Amanda is NOT a total Grumpy McGrumpster.

It was not me who spent the weekend wondering "when the BANANAS am I going to get a WEEKEND!" - I did NOT get up at the same, crappy time and make two breakfasts for two kids, and then get their hair combed and teeth brushed and medicine administered - All while my husband DID NOT watch tv while lounging on the bed.

It was also SO NOT ME that practically steamed from my little brains when aforementioned wedded partner spent at least 6-10 cumulative hours playing some VERY INAPPROPRIATE game in the main living space ALL WEEKEND.

I did not take a nap after turning down a solicited offer for a "marital conversation" only to awake to the husband ORDERING OLIVE GARDEN - Praise Jesus - but that WASN'T ME!

It wasn't Amanda who killed a wasp on the ceiling directly above table full of freshly washed laundry using a long, soaking stream of (surely) very potent poisons - only to then scrape the dead wasp off the kitchen floor, gather the top layer of clothes and throw them in the wash. Oops! Not me!

It's also not me that has spent the last week getting myself and the children dressed off of that table as opposed to actually PUTTING AWAY THE LAUNDRY. Ha! NOT ME!

I am not using this Not Me! Monday to vent about my weekend - and it's sooooo not helping :)

.....

I was not an hour late in posting the winner of my giveaway on Friday due to an odd combination of working out too late, dealing with a 4-year-old that is now available on eBay and a 19-month-old who seems to have that rash, AGAIN!

I didn't enjoy it IN THE LEAST picking a winner that I found through Not Me! Monday!

.....

Who has 2 product reviews to write up, 1 endorsement and 1 set of interview questions from a bloggy network to finish all while attempting to maintain The Funny? Oh, well... NOT ME!

Who is not spending another part of her Not Me! Monday complaining? NOT I!!

....

It's not me that was awoken to earthy-shattering thunder at 5 AM after planning to take the boys swimming today... sigh

It wasn't me that took Conner to Burger King just to get a ridiculously overpriced and equally as anti-climatic Transformer toy on Sunday. It was not Conner who asked me after we received our order "will you peez check da bag, momma?" I didn't almost die of laughter.

I am so not going to go sulk in a freshly brewed cauldron of Monday Blues b/c the kids are SO NOT CRANKY and I'm SO NOT AS CRANKY.

Enjoy your Monday! (or don't ... ;-) )

Amanda Talks About Why She is Still Talking About Painting

(no quick takes today, I felt like posting this instead.... such the rule breaker am I)

I've spent an insane amount of time obsessing over paint colors. I've consulted, FB chatted and twittered about it with more people than I can to honestly admit. I skipped nap last Saturday because I purchased one of those decorator magazines from Publix, skimmed through it briefly, salivated on all pages between 12 and 46, and then entered a short panic which caused me to pace my house, pointing out the things I wish I could change.

Then, I called my mom, who is good at this stuff. During our conversation, she managed to find a paint color that I do love (but haven't tried it on my walls, yet), how to make sure I am decorating correctly AND pointed out that some HOW, some WAY I did not, indeed, inherit this Interior Design Gene that every OTHER person in my family seems to possess.

It took all weekend to figure out two things wrong with this whole Amanda Picks A Paint Color Dilemma.

One: I can't determine my order in a Sonic drive-in. I have difficulties with which socks I should wear, even when it is very obvious that no one will see them. I'd rather write you a NOVEL than take a multiple choice test - I am being dead serious. In short - I'm very indecisive.

In school, I'd fail miserably (ok, not FAIL fail, but "not do so hot" fail) at multiple choice tests. There's just so many ..... choices! I could get to the "best two" thing, and in higher level courses "best 3", but when it came to penciling in that lettered bubble, I would choke. What if I chose the wrong one? I'd strike the two non-answers and then freeze.

Completely freeze.

I just couldn't make a decision. What if one looks so right, but the other is MORE right, and I didn't choose it because it's all a big trick? What if BOTH were right, and I could only choose one... so which one was MORE right? Is MORE right even possible?

Unfortunately, my life and my house are not and can not be an essay answer. I can't just churn out a paper about which color I like and how I think I'd love a custom-made toile print headboard for the master bed. I can't write 2,500 words on "what art needs to be purchased or made and hung in the kitchen/dining room/playroom". No novella will make me finally edit my pictures in photoshop, put them in their respective frames and hang them because a novella would not CHOOSE the pictures that NEED to be editing, printed and hung. I will never get those drapes for the dining room.

Then, there's this other problem.

It doesn't bother me, but it hinders me.

Problem number two: I have never lived in any place longer than close to 5 years - my ENTIRE life (and only ONE of those houses, I believe, I actually lived in for 5 years). It's no big deal to me, really, my parents were just moving into bigger houses every few years. The house they had when I was born soon became a house in an area that didn't have a good school system. So, they built a new home in a growing community and soon realized that a community right down the road was better, and we moved, again..... and then we moved once more just to upgrade.

Then, my parents divorced, and we moved twice. It took a couple of years of my mother working her hiney off before we moved (again) into a house behind the high school. It was like being back in a comfortable place with that house, but sadly, I was due for a "life change" and 2 years later, moved out to begin college.

Throughout the last 7 years, I moved an additional 8 times. EIGHT. You read that right. For a grand total of moving somewhere in the 20+ range.

So, I've always lived like a hobo. I have a million packing secrets, and difficulties getting rid of boxes. My brain can't process hanging lots of pictures, or customizing my space because until now, no space has been permanent enough to do so.

In this house, with my young children, I know this is currently home. Painting a house, decorating it to be home, and giving it all the little touches that make 4-sides brick a place for a child to grow up in is simply not a concept I have come to terms with.

Painting this house makes it more solidified - I live here, but also, my children live here. We are not leaving for now (sigh). My house is telling me, screaming for me to put my print on this space and make it a home.

I am not good at decorating and hanging curtains and picking out furniture because until now, it's not something I've ever needed to do - not something I could do.

That's not to say I lack a creative gene, because my passion for editing written (typed) word could fill an ocean (or maybe a large lake...). I can tell you when a spread needs more white space. It's a no brainer for me to dictate how a font is incorrect and the third column needs to be moved 30 picas to the left. Those pictures need to bleed off the page, just so you know. But this other stuff? This stuff you live in - this stuff blows my mind.

Needless to say, that magazine was very overwhelming. Every page said "yummy" and "welcome home". My house, currently, says "HI! We LOVE chaos and Amanda can't match a print to a paint sample, and doesn't have a clue where this picture should really be". I unpacked my last box a few months back. I didn't hang curtains in the living room till I was 8 months pregnant with Chase. As of this Christmas, we will have lived here for 3 years.

And I know .... it's going to take time (and therapy) (and a personal decorator) (and some chocolate) (please send me wine)....

Hi, my name is Amanda (Hi, Amanda) .....and I'm a move-a-holic.

"Shush Girl, Shut Your Lips..."

So, there I am.

.... heading to Haverty's to replace aforementioned couch with enough credit to buy more than a couch. 

Like maybe, this couch:

(which I am NOT in love with, but I only have 13 more days to pick one and I walked around this store for 2 hours, had a tiny panic attack and finally said "well, the heck with this". Mike and I had two prerequisites: dark and "nap" worthy)

But with these pillows:

(I did not miss my calling as an interior designer. Hats off to those people, but this stuff is so not me.) (and I also got a side table, a recliner, a vase and some really heavy bookends that are likely to end up as weapons for the boys... anyhooters...)

I'm listening to my new best friend - let's call her "Sarius" satellite radio (in my new car!)(squeel!). And let's also not call it a her, seeing I am totally in love. So, we will call him Saritri and he's Greek and has a boat. He also plays all the music I love, which makes him extra hot. 

So, yes.. there I am listening to the 90s on Channel 9, the 20s on 20 (which is the "20" in 2000... I know... just nod and keep reading) or the BPM (those might be the correct letters) which is basically "today's top music mixed with some ultra gnarly beats" (club music). Yeah, ok. It sucks. But really, it gets me moving, so sue me.

Anyways, I am singing along. Loudly. Hand gestures, a little window crackage and some wickedly pathetic dances moves from the waist up (remember: driving). 

It is worth noting here that I am obviously without the offspring and am totally rocking out with my music way up. I am singing at the top of my lungs to a song I am not prepared to disclose to Teh Internets for fear of tar and feathering and lots of laughter and maybe a "Wow, Amanda... you are such a dork". I will disclose this though: I can NOT sing. Like, for reals. CAN NOT SING.

It's then that I look up in my shiny new car over the top of my sunglasses and notice the OnStar microphone.

Hum. 

That little microphone-y thingy. Yup.

Music goes down a few hundred numbers and I stop my singing.

What if, on the reallllllly slow days, the nice people at OnStar do random car checks. Which, I hope all their days are slow because a busy day at OnStar means bad things, so if they are doing random car checks because the "crashing business" is slow, then by all means - eavesdrop on the stay-at-home 20-something mom who is rocking out to If You Seek Amy, Dance Remix a totally awesome song that makes me look hot.

But, seriously.

I stopped singing.

Then that song that goes "Shush girl, shut your lips... do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips" (google says: "Don't Trust Me" by 3Oh!3) and I could not resist. I mean, how many times have I rocked out at red lights without a care, fully aware that the people around me are considering calling 911 for what they believe to be a Grand Mal Seizure? 

A million would be a good guess.

OnStar still kinda freaks me out though.... but I'll never stop rocking out in my car. I'm also taking requests from OnStar employees. It'll be like a bad karaoke bar! On demand!

Alright, Who Let My Uterus Blog?

(dually titled: Wifi in my Uteri - harhar)

In case you couldn't see me blushing for the last 48 hours, just know I've been beet red (well, virtually beet red - this is The Internets).

It's not that my last post wasn't completely and exactly 100% what I am thinking and feeling, it's just that I'm either A) going balls out (excuse the term) B) really hormonal or C) absolutely bonkers. It's equally as plausible that I am all of the above or a whacked out combination of some of those letters and any of the 23 letters that follow.

I'm also very confident that shortly post post, my mother freaked out and called my grandmother, who then proceeded in phone-a-friend fashion to alert my aunt and by tomorrow (Sunday), my ovaries and I will probably be on some church bulletin in Pleasant Grove, Alabama as well as the conversation topic at Tuesday's Pot Luck Bingo Night.

Actually, none of that's probably true - my mom is good at staying mum (see what I did there? I slay me).

But the truth of it all, is that there's this kid. And, I've never ever been a "kid person". 

Feel free to do one of two things: 1) Gasp and have a "Oh dear, bless her sweet heart" moment and wonder how ANYONE could not like these blessed angels that walk amongst us AND think to yourself "well, if she's not a kid-person, then why the chicken is she having BABIES and BLOGGING ABOUT it!" or 2) Nod in agreement because at some point in your life, you've had the misfortune pleasure of knowing me pre-crazy monster/child hybridsbaby and were FLOORED when you discovered (stalked?) that I settled down with a wonderful Hubster and 2 amazing wee-ones.

So, this kid. He's just so amazing. Always active, constantly learning, growing daily - and get this: he's MINE:

But the absolutely BONKERS part of this, is that he's not an infant or a baby, not even a toddler anymore. I keep finding him in certain situations in which he looks LIKE A PERSON. And he can do all these... big people things....

...like catching his first fish by himself...

And the next part that makes my entire reproductive system twinge is that I know what happens next! It doesn't STOP! THEY GET BIGGER!

Maybe it's the extra sleep that finally sent a memo from my uterus to my blog (apparently, I'm no longer needed, they've memorized my login information). The memo must have read:

Alert: All necessary reproductive organs. Eyes have observed eldest offspring appears less childlike and more school-ageish. Second offspring now sleeping through night and has rid himself of morning nap. Gear up for Operation: Make Amanda Fat Again, that is all. This message will self-destruct or become blog-worthy in the next 30 seconds....

Yeah, my insides talk just like that.

And they have a point! Or do they... could this be that Baby Clock most mid-twenty-somethings get? But see... I've already DONE this. Got the t-shirt and ultra-cool take home mug with hospital logo and EVERYTHING. I even got the honor of both a "normal" birth and one that ends in tears of delirium followed by 4 months of hell (woot.).

A lot of you said (wonderful) things like: you've got time, and it's ok, I feel your pain, and if you have another, it's fine to want a boy but you'd survive if you had a girl. Several of you went on with your bad selves and wished another baby on me, Donya... that FedEx package is my patented Fertile Juju Pregnancy Sauce, it also comes with a home pregnancy test, enjoy. 

Many of you pointed out that Someone Bigger Than Me (ok, I'm 4'10", almost ALL of you are bigger than me...) (I meant GOD) has His plan, and I should keep my so fresh and so clean clean (thanks swine flu) paws out of the Worry Department and more in the Raise The Kids You Have and See What Happens Department. As always, all of you made excellent points (and as always, I heart all of your faces...).

I can do that? Right? Let Go and Let God? But what about all that baby stuff? For now, let it sit and multiply. 

Oh Amanda, Hush.

What's wrong with instant communication?

In my case (as we all know that this blog should really be called "Amanda Likes Amanda and Talks About Amanda") it's that blogging is often a bit disconnect. I can type out, edit, miss my typos and then publish entire thoughts and THEN a select BEAUTIFUL few of you comment back with cackles of glee, wags of the finger or pats on the back.

...And I love it. It's like I get to have ENTIRE conversations and get in EVERYTHING I want to say without interruption.

I am a conversation dominator. It's fault of mine that I am both aware of and apparently steadfast in - part of my wiring one might say. 

Just today, our room mom for Conner's PreK class was holding a conversation with 4 other moms ... and by "holding" the conversation, I mean she's like a moderator. It's truly amazing to watch her do this - in the most delicate of ways she directs conversations and reflects them back to you in open-ended questions and "and how do you feel about that"s. It's a talent and she's one of the best I've seen. 

She's a listener.

I know. Right. 

When you talk to her, she engages you and talks about what YOU want to talk about, with 100% devotion even if you are discussing your preferred method of butt wiping (ok, mom's don't only talk about poop, i think...). She always asks about your experiences, your feelings, your situation with the occasional and perfectly timed tid-bits of her.

I want to be a listener. But, I'm not. I'm robotic in my conversation missions. If I don't get what I want said, I dwell on it. I ponder it for hours. I'll think about it till it rots my brain. 

You know who probably comes away with more from a conversation though? The listener. Although she's probably not gotten a single "AND THIS ONE TIME... GEEZ..." story off her chest, she's probably accumulated a million personal accounts of a billion different topics. She could probably write a book. 

Those few timed responses where she shoves a nugget of her best knowledge into your brain are so thought provoking, too. She has 3 children, all close together and her youngest is just a few months old. We were talking about how hard it was to get to and from school and accomplish daily chores and then I asked how hard it was for her to transition from 2 to 3. Her response was something like "The hardest wasn't from 1 to 2, or 2 to 3, but from none to one". I had NEVER thought about that. She's totally right. Going from NO babies to any amount of babies is most definitely the most challenging. This girl is full of the good stuff. Instead of just blabbing (like me) about how difficult this is or that is, she actually THINKS BEFORE SHE TALKS. 

Huh. 

There's a thought...

I'm not going to end this entry with a "so... I'm going to try to listen more and shut up", because that would be a lie. It's not that I don't hear what any of you have to say now, as a matter of fact, I hold many of you very close to my heart and enjoy our conversations more than you'll ever know. And I'm not going to stop talking/typing so much either, because it's these instant communications that are so incredibly gratifying to me.

Let's just say this: I'm hear to talk OR listen - if you ever need me.