tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16171518601130957912024-03-05T12:43:34.143-05:00amanda-rantsRants and raves and ramblings about things that coulda, woulda, shoulda.amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.comBlogger223125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-82405587190452227122012-12-09T04:04:00.001-05:002012-12-09T04:04:40.216-05:00Crumbs<div>
Today I was sitting across from a man on the bus who was eating one. He, like most people, first tore the package and proceeded to eat it as though it was a candybar. By the time he was finished he was tongue deep in the wrapper searching for crumbs. </div>
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In high school my friend's brother and his friends used to call me Crumbs due to the fact I always had a crumb collection on my boobs. This contributed to my learning to eat crumbly things in a non-crumbly way. As a result I learned to eat crunchy granola bars the same way I would open a bag of chips -- by opening one of the ends instead of tearing it. Then I break them in pieces while they're still in the package and eat the pieces as finger food. When I'm done I empty the crumbs into my mouth the same way I do Cheetos. </div>
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A couple minutes later he took out a second bar and repeated the heinous process of gobbling it down. I thought about enlightening him as to my less-embarrassing, neater way, but didn't. I figured drawing more attention to how disgusting he was would be mean, especially considering he was a stranger.</div>
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This is a common issue for me. I don't mean to sound like an asshole, but I spend a lot of time thinking about really stupid stuff, like eating granola bars, because I am certain there is usually a better way to do everything. And I'm right about that most of the time.</div>
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amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-88325336331878684682012-11-06T14:48:00.001-05:002012-11-06T14:50:53.807-05:00Less Than Solid<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I spent yesterday morning with a three year old. I didn’t know what I would be doing as usually I
watch her in the evening and feed her dinner, get her ready for bed, read
bedtime stories – all that stuff. I’m better at that. I don’t really know what
to do with kids during the day. Even for a few hours, I have no idea what to do
with them in a city. I mean, museums, sure, but without a car, that goes from
ideal to terrible in three seconds flat. Especially when the three year old doesn’t
want to walk anywhere, even the bus stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We didn’t go
to a museum because after a block she was complaining about her legs hurting.
Her dad said the museum was only a thirty minute walk, so I figured they’d
walked it with her before. And he didn’t give me a stroller or anything, so I
thought she could manage. But between the unnamed chip on my shoulder and her
whining, we only made it to the park, and that was after taking a break to get
her a drink – her dad did give us money for lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She would
usually have gone to school today, but she had diarrhea so she wasn’t allowed
to come today, and her dad was working from home so I was called to entertain
her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">We were
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instead she placed a piece of newspaper over it. This bothered me, but I was
preoccupied with a moody three year old. We continued walking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Another
woman who had been speaking to a man nearby shouted, “Hey, you’re gonna pick
that up aren’t you?” We were on a major street with high foot traffic, and that
was a pretty inconsiderate thing to do, but I understand forgetting the
poo-bags, but placing newspaper over it seemed worse than leaving it uncovered.
“There’s a kid there, she could step in it!” This was true, too, but I was
doing everything I could to avoid this confrontation and get on my way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The dog’s
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not been anywhere near her face, nor had she been particularly rude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The owner
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The fecal matter wasn’t exactly solid. But if she knew this, and she had
newspaper, why not place the paper under her dog’s ass and pick it up after? It
seemed obvious, but I couldn’t say this because being in the company of someone
else’s child made saying anything seem irresponsible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“If you
don’t pick it up, I’m going to call the cops!” the woman shouted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">“Do it, I
don’t care.” The woman did. “Fuck you, cop caller!” The dog owner continued as
she ran away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8MAmToCmzTJhDcYSvOh9LZhkUT035NU5DwDn-VIKIX5lnguklVTOR25VFl0LmGXefLOJh9TM11NmsA9J-JZ0NdhPue3eePoV8oF4fEXRAB8zvBiE_s8j9x7VvaXG8gA-XvTSupPt94U/s1600/NC+House.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU8MAmToCmzTJhDcYSvOh9LZhkUT035NU5DwDn-VIKIX5lnguklVTOR25VFl0LmGXefLOJh9TM11NmsA9J-JZ0NdhPue3eePoV8oF4fEXRAB8zvBiE_s8j9x7VvaXG8gA-XvTSupPt94U/s320/NC+House.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
About a year ago a friend and I were fantasizing about moving to a beach house or buying a vacation home together when we're not poor, so hopefully in about a decade. At the time I found a house that's about an hour away from the beach in my mom's home town. It's pretty centrally located between several larger towns in Eastern North Carolina.<br />
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Recently I was looking at houses in that area again, and found that the same one was still for sale. It's been for sale for about two years, and I doubt anyone will scoop it up anytime soon. My mom's hometown is pretty decrepit. It had a textile mill and a Pepsi plant in the 50s and 60s, but once those moved the only industry left was tabacco, and that's not even as prominent anymore.<br />
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The median age in the town is 44 and about 50% of the population lives below the poverty line. The crime rate is close to twice the national average, though most of those crimes aren't violent.<br />
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My mom has told me that this is a terrible idea and that I don't have money anyway, though, "If you really want it I suppose you could buy out the owners."<br />
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About two years ago I interviewed several of my mom's relatives. I have a bunch of letters and copies of deeds and other similar documents, and have this outrageous idea to write a book based on my mom's dysfunctional family -- she's not exactly stoked about the idea, there were a lot of alcoholics, lots of infidelity, and a few of them dabbled in the Ku Klux Klan. Ideally, I'd like to do this in the house I'll buy there.<br />
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I'm going home next month for a visit and have plans to road-trip down to see the house with a friend. I figure if it's awful in person, then I can forget about the idea for awhile. But even if the house is terrible, I'll find another, and moving there will still be part of my plan. After school and after I pay off my loans, hopefully I'll have a solid portfolio and will be able to freelance and can live wherever, including The Middle of Nowhere, North Carolina.<br />
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The more I think about my imaginary house, I think of who I'd like to be there. I've always been somewhat environmentally conscious, but I've become more-so and I'd like to have a home that's completely self-sustained. I want to make everything I eat, and put on my body, and use in my home. I want to bike the flat land around it, and I want to teach kids to read, and I want to be a girl scout leader, and to have strangers over for dinner.<br />
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The person who would live in that house is much better than I am now. She's more compassionate and less selfish, and patient. I know I don't have to live there to accomplish these things, but I suppose in my head once I've achieved all those things, I'll be able to make there happen, and maybe start something to lift up that wretched little town.<br />
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When I walked into the unoccupied stall I found the remnants of a turd on the seat. If it had been Number 1, I wouldn't have had a problem taking some toilet paper and wiping the seat. But Number 2 isn't something I'm so comfortable with. </div>
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I began to wait, but could feel the tension in the bathroom, so I decided to give the other woman her privacy and take a lap around the floor.</div>
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I work in what is referred to as a "startup incubator." We're located on one floor together in what would otherwise be a relatively swanky office building. People who don't work on my floor wear suits to work, the people on my floor frequently look as though they came to work in last night's clothes. We don't interact much with the other companies, but we're familiar enough that I can look at someone and tell you which overflowing office (singular) they work in with a dozen other people. <script type="text/javascript">
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Space is tight, to say the least. This doesn't matter for the most part, except where the bathrooms are concerned. There is a single bathroom for close to fifty women to share. Two stalls. That's all we've got to work with and when that's narrowed to one stall due to one unpleasant person's error, frequent pee-ers are screwed. </div>
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I drink a least two liters of water in the time I spend at work -- it's my solution for not being able to afford my Red Bull addiction. It's hard to be anything but alert when you have to pee <i>all the time.</i></div>
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By the time I was finishing my lap around the floor The Hot Chick from down the hall beat me to the bathroom by about ten feet. Determined to not repeat the previous routine, I decided to wait patiently in the bathroom. </div>
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After about five minutes of waiting, I realized it was going to be longer, and again I opted to give her privacy and take a lap. Upon my return, she was still there, so I took another lap. This went on for about twenty minutes and I went from checking after each lap to about every third. After the third lap or so people working from couches in the halls and common areas began to take notice and shoot me quizzical looks.</div>
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At this point I probably would have been better off leaving my building and making my way to one of the dozen coffee shops scattered around my building, BUT I didn't know The Hot Chick was going to take a deuce for twenty minutes. I mean, ten minutes -- sure, but twenty seems excessive for a work environment. </div>
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The Hot Chick finally came out of the stall, just as I came in to check once more. We avoided eye contact and I was finally able to (ahem) relieve myself. I finished in the time it took for her to wash her hands. (I'm a fast pee-er, guys! Hire me!) She didn't leave though, she stayed and looked at herself in the mirror while I washed my hands. We left at the same time and exchanged looks that said <i>I know that you know that I know that you just took a massive shit. </i></div>
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amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-70797987251519563142012-07-29T14:04:00.002-04:002012-07-29T14:04:26.275-04:00Emmy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxskkGU5JnhbqamOuzQXFNuRTrqHO6MEeoSyw1bG05eHTRIchl9ay5xxThR9Rq_UcfdK2Myu0_tGwQXXfBQeV3dID7POsWxxIP7_zPIecezUZ1oMfGlw_8MTG0cDiTiJ5ll0xMlatoNdE/s1600/emmy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxskkGU5JnhbqamOuzQXFNuRTrqHO6MEeoSyw1bG05eHTRIchl9ay5xxThR9Rq_UcfdK2Myu0_tGwQXXfBQeV3dID7POsWxxIP7_zPIecezUZ1oMfGlw_8MTG0cDiTiJ5ll0xMlatoNdE/s400/emmy.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I spend a lot of time with other people's dogs. A lot of teachers and students bring theirs to school and supposedly there are more located in San Francisco than children (anyone under eighteen). The dogs here are all friendly, they sit patiently tied to parking meters and watch their owners eat inside adjacent restaurants. <script type="text/javascript">
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I approach others' dogs with enthusiasm. I can have entire conversations with dogs without acknowledging their owners. It's weird perhaps, but I really miss having a dog.</div>
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Growing up, I had two dogs; Bruno and Emmy. </div>
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Bruno was a German Shepard mix who had previously been owned by an elderly couple. He was an outside dog, though we would bring him in at nighttime. He was docile and quiet, and a comforter. Though, now, I realize how absent he is from a lot of childhood memories. I remember him escaping the backyard a few times, but for the most part he was a distant part of our family, busy digging holes in the backyard. We had to have him put down when I was eleven because his hips and bowels had given out. I had taken him on walks, and he once dragged me down the street for several yards when he decided to chase a squirrel. That had been my first time being allowed to hold him on his leash by myself, but aside from that time I don't recall very many Bruno-specific memories. However, I was crushed when we had to have him put down, we weren't close, but he was my dog.</div>
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Emmy was brought home about eight months after Bruno had died. I had convinced my Dad that if we got another dog, I would be responsible for it. My mom was not so convinced, but my dad would drive me around to different shelters after my softball games anyway. We had driven around to many of them to the point that we recognized staff. I had thought about the name Emmy for a while, Rookie if it had been a boy -- I was twelve, these seem to me acceptable dog names. </div>
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Emmy was in a pen with one other dog -- a significantly younger pitbull mix. The pitbull mix looked to be hovering above the ground she was chasing her tail so furiously. Emmy sat in the furthest corner and was not amused with the puppy's behavior. We knew she was the one. </div>
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When the volunteer brought her to us, she was timid, but warmed up to me pretty quickly. She was about four years old and had definitely been treated badly by her former owners. It took her awhile to become comfortable with my dad and any other men.</div>
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My mom was not pleased when we brought Emmy home. She had said that she would end up taking care of Emmy more than anyone else and that she was done with pets. We kept Emmy anyway.</div>
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Emmy slept on a rug in my room and stayed close on walks, to the point that she didn't need to be leashed. She was never really interested in other dogs, or really being a dog. She didn't chase moving objects, and she wasn't interested in eating by herself. She would eat when we did and bring individual mouthfuls of food into the dining room, spit them out, and proceed to eat each piece individually before repeating the process. If left outside too long she would take herself for a walk. If she was mad at us she would look at us square in the eye and pee on the carpet. She had an attitude, but was harmless and served as my closest friend for the duration of middle school. </div>
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Once I was in high school I became busier and took her on shorter walks. After I could drive those walks were reduced to a lap around the court most days, where they had been miles a few years before. Though, she still spent each night by my side.</div>
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During thunderstorms she would wake me up by placing her paws on my bed and shaking. I would sometimes lift her up into bed with me, or pet her until she fell asleep, and occasionally I'd sing to her changing the name Lucy to Emmy in the I Love Lucy theme song (I had to learn the song for eighth grade chorus, I also had to dress up as Lucy for the performance). </div>
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When I left for college she sat next to me in a car full of half my things while my parents drove behind us. At that point I thought of her as a younger sibling, someone that I would miss and see whenever I went home. And I did, and she still was excited to see me when I visited, but as I settled into Richmond and came home less, she grew less enthusiastic. </div>
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When I moved home for two months prior to moving to San Francisco last fall, she became my responsibility once again. She slept on a rug by my bed in my old room. While there I took her on more walks, which she enjoyed, but not as much as she had. </div>
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I woke up one morning and she had wet herself. She had never done this before and seemed out of sorts. I went to take her outside, but she couldn't move her back legs. We called the veterinarian and took her in. By the time we arrived, she could use her legs, but seemed to be walking differently than before. After the vet ran some tests he explained that she was on her way to kidney failure. She was about fourteen, and I had known as I'd learned with Bruno to expect this. </div>
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I got all the pills the doctor recommended and special food and took her home. After trying to get her to swallow her pills several times on her own, I dipped them in peanut butter with success. We went through this ritual a couple times a day for about a week, and she was back to herself.</div>
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Exactly a week before Christmas she was feeling better and took off when my dad left her in the backyard too long. We spent that night frantically walking and driving around and putting up signs after calling animal control to see in anything had been reported about a dog similar to her. </div>
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It was late that night that I pulled off the road after driving by what appeared to be a dead animal in the road. My parents had seen it too and were parked a few yards in front of me. They had gotten a better look than I had, and told me it wasn't her. <span style="background-color: white;">After we all got home I went out some more to no avail. </span></div>
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My dad and I got into some kind of disagreement about what to watch on TV and I went upstairs to get a snack. I couldn't find a utensil I needed and became angry that my parents let the dishes pile up the way that they had -- I had been doing them every day at that point. I started to empty the dishwasher and ended up hyperventilating and threw several bowls on the floor. I sat in an area free of shattered glass and cried for awhile. My dad came upstairs and swept up the glass around me and asked if I was alright yet. "You lost my dog. I'm not ready to babysit you yet," was all I said. I recognize that may have been harsh, but he lost my dog. </div>
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About four days later a nice couple found Emmy in the parking lot of a Lowe's about four miles from my parents' house. She was incredibly unscathed. She left with us two days later to spend Christmas with my sister and nephew in North Carolina. <span style="background-color: white;">She did well over the trip and was comfortable in the car. </span></div>
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I had two more days with her before I set out across the country. We made the drive in five days and the morning before we arrived to San Francisco, my dad told me she wasn't eating. About a week later my mom told me that had put her down, but my dad didn't want to upset me while I got settled here. I was walking around Chinatown, and sat on a nearby wall to process it. </div>
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I had the opportunity to brace myself for it, and I was fortunate to spend those last couple months with her, but even now seven months later, I start to miss her more when I realize she won't be there when I visit.</div>
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<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-25279655006320320382012-07-07T18:12:00.000-04:002012-07-07T18:20:55.319-04:00Childhood Ambition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj59jkgBN0yogmHCZqKG-O0Vw1HVdJG3MIKaQP26zmcbc7VvOiZhHBJyjOYEhkT76AD0feEzLhBbzadwrr8lQtLpz2clG7lu4M27pd2yKenliOOoiIuhiAoUxm907KpvNFh1dfHIyTWS1U/s1600/sierra+house.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj59jkgBN0yogmHCZqKG-O0Vw1HVdJG3MIKaQP26zmcbc7VvOiZhHBJyjOYEhkT76AD0feEzLhBbzadwrr8lQtLpz2clG7lu4M27pd2yKenliOOoiIuhiAoUxm907KpvNFh1dfHIyTWS1U/s400/sierra+house.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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When I was a kid my mom and I used to drive around after church each Sunday and go to model homes. My mom would see what was trendy and try to find something similar at yard-sales or discount stores. I would make notes, in my planner (because I had one of those, I bought it with birthday money), about what details I liked and what I thought was tacky. I never really liked the decor in model homes, but I did love bay windows and sunken living rooms and arched doorways.<br />
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My mom has always wanted a large house, one of those McMansions that she has spent so many years cleaning. But the realtors who were always present at model homes didn't know what my mom did. To them we were just some lady and her odd daughter taking notes. Between these homes and the ones I saw in coffee table books, I was set on being an Architect for a very long time.<br />
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My mom was raised really poor, and I think she's always been fascinated by what people with money look like and buy. It was important to her when I was coming up that I looked a certain way, not just because she didn't like my torn up jeans and band-tees or ragged hoodie, but because in her day I would have looked poor. It didn't matter that I fit in with most kids my age, it wasn't "nice." This was with all things. My brother once told me it bothered him that people assumed our family had more than we did because of the way my sisters and I were dressed. I felt similarly, our duplex seemed inadequate compared to all my friends' homes.</div>
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I kept my notes and would go home and draw a blueprint. The concept of designing an entire house didn't really hit until I was older, so I had all these drawings of my ideal room. When I was around ten my dad bought me Sierra Home Architect, a computer program that allowed you to design buildings. I didn't have video games, but I had that and I would spend hours designing my dream house (it would have an octagon foyer based my earliest designs). </div>
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My parents encouraged this as much as they could, which included taking me to several of Frank Lloyd Wright's homes. I wrote my fifth grade <a href="http://www.doe.virginia.gov/testing/">SOL</a> essay about Taliesin West -- I got a perfect 600. Three years later I was accepted into an engineering program at my high school and did that for two years before I realized how much I hated drafting in CAD and Visio. But I would still sketch things in my notebooks next to terrible poetry. </div>
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I spent last year living by myself in a studio and didn't realize it for some time, but that was the first childhood ambition that came true. All those sketches of my ideal room were finally brought to life. A single room, arranged precisely how I had envisioned it. Split up into a bedroom area, a dining area, a living room area -- there was a system and it felt like more than just a large blank room. I think Frank Lloyd Wright would have approved. </div>
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It seems so silly, but I spent the first two decades of my life just wanting a giant room to call my own. Then I had it, and wanted it somewhere else. </div>
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</div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-26477178687733625602012-06-24T22:44:00.003-04:002012-07-07T18:26:10.399-04:00Your Hair is Stupid<span style="background-color: white;">My mom is not good at hair, and was terrible at doing others' hair, specifically mine. She would either put my hair in hot rollers and then brush the curl out until it was a massive, wavy ball of static, or she would brush it while I cried. I had very fine, tangly hair and brushing it was never an enjoyable experience -- this was probably why I became interested in hair in the first place, to avoid tears. </span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGM3yPJvCwPUbWpSXQxIBqoY5HN75Kdi10aWFGDUNJbSpQEdQkXoDzv5mSat6SnszgxrbGb_Kk9-P_VnS8DN1KVgbUgHPQKxVNQ1OG1XeWvOrO7LdhrGRWbF-CqEHCIB0JcTbDzfPF7c/s1600/hair+claws.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGM3yPJvCwPUbWpSXQxIBqoY5HN75Kdi10aWFGDUNJbSpQEdQkXoDzv5mSat6SnszgxrbGb_Kk9-P_VnS8DN1KVgbUgHPQKxVNQ1OG1XeWvOrO7LdhrGRWbF-CqEHCIB0JcTbDzfPF7c/s320/hair+claws.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are fucking terrible. All of them. Anytime.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My mom did know how to use hair-pins and bobby-pins though. I'll give her that. But I figured everything else out on my own. <span style="background-color: white;">This isn't to say that my mom isn't feminine and all that, she is. She could do her hair just fine (though in limited variety), she just couldn't do others'. My sisters weren't much use either. They can both work it out when they want to, but I am better. They earned their varsity letters, I got my cosmetology license.</span></div>
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I understand that most people, did not spend their Saturday mornings as a child sitting on their beds with two mirrors and several combs teaching themselves how to French braid. I get that. However, I also am saddened by women everywhere who have never taken the time to learn how to do their hair in any way. <span style="background-color: white;">It's as though they have never taken a single Saturday morning in their lives to figure out what to do with everything growing out of their heads. So they put it in claw. Then to make up for their complete ineptitude they spend time picking out "cute" hair clips. </span><span style="background-color: white;">These clips continue to be popular because people continue to think hair is hard to do.</span><br />
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This isn't 1998, pulling your hair back with glittery butterfly clips isn't going to cut it if you want anyone, anywhere to respect you as an adult. You look like a child whose parents have unfortunately also not figured it out. It takes every fiber of my being to not pluck out hair clips when I see them on adult women. I just figure whatever they've go going on is definitely not being helped by that wretched clip. I do do this sometimes to friends and acquaintances, the recipients aren't ever welcoming, but it makes me feel like I've made the world a slightly more aesthetically pleasing place.<br />
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PROTIPS:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Ponytails should not require combing, nor should one have a multitude of clips to "smooth out the bumps" all over their head. Flip your head over, pull your hair back. Voila. It might not be perfect at first, but a ponytail should never take more than thirty seconds to do, if that. (Don't feed me any of that bullshit about having a different hair type, either.)</span></div>
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Braids are simple, unless you have absolutely no dexterity in your fingers. Three sections. Right over center. Left over (the new) center. Until it's done. BOOM.</div>
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<div>
Buns, of all varieties, no matter the hair type, are simple if you know the difference between hair-pins and bobby-pins. Just twist your hair around and pin it until it doesn't move, and you like it. If you do this enough, you'll figure what you're naturally inclined to do, and it will get easier. I promise.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNwCOvPyHfXWFM1VnNz9xne-QSc_hMDP7mtEotFOgaEBpjlD074XAQJN1JDMsPxMjTqm8BICqPbGLSZ-UVA44k3l1J34s7hWg_11f2ftZeRo030BnSpC3wus2vUHtfJR-3lsghRm2MCQ/s1600/hairpin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNwCOvPyHfXWFM1VnNz9xne-QSc_hMDP7mtEotFOgaEBpjlD074XAQJN1JDMsPxMjTqm8BICqPbGLSZ-UVA44k3l1J34s7hWg_11f2ftZeRo030BnSpC3wus2vUHtfJR-3lsghRm2MCQ/s200/hairpin.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a hair-pin - use this to hold hair to other hair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPg-G0IK2z1rTf5OMENerAScv0nkT58HeAy6_0Rlzcb5Gj8Fbbk533W_rFjkDgtXNXy0SBw9Pk3jRU8IgypBq8NWSrCxvgoJcSk3So9k4jCgfX4h7zKxcsQnKto66v0ReWtCOUhr5mW0/s1600/bobby+pin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="64" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTPg-G0IK2z1rTf5OMENerAScv0nkT58HeAy6_0Rlzcb5Gj8Fbbk533W_rFjkDgtXNXy0SBw9Pk3jRU8IgypBq8NWSrCxvgoJcSk3So9k4jCgfX4h7zKxcsQnKto66v0ReWtCOUhr5mW0/s200/bobby+pin.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a bobby-pin - use this to hold hair to your head.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
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<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-65112941010535299192012-06-13T02:12:00.003-04:002012-07-07T18:27:39.251-04:00Bum-fightToday, as I was waiting for my lunch order to come up, I saw a man walk into the cafe. He was tall with long, dirty, blond hair. He filled two cups at the soda fountain, under the suspicion of the buss boy, and returned to his table outside. My order came up and I found a table over from him.<script type="text/javascript">
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<div>
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<div>
I had just started to eat my grilled cheese when I heard someone shouting in Chinese. It was a small man shouting at the first man's dog. </div>
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I'm not really sure exactly how things went about, but the dog started barking at the Chinese man, which led him to kick at the dog. In turn, the first man pushed him a way, and they ended up in an all-out brawl. Security cards came to break it up, the cops followed, and a handful of people were recording the whole thing on their phones.</div>
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I felt like an jerk just sitting there, eating my sandwich, but I didn't know what to do. I thought about calling the cops, but they'd already been called several times (people kept announcing that they had or were going to call). I thought about moving, but it seemed like a bad idea at the time. So I sat, and ate my sourdough grilled cheese sandwich as each suspect and and excited witnesses were questioned.</div>
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People are such assholes. </div>
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</div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-89378157582856313192012-06-02T21:04:00.001-04:002012-06-02T21:04:32.941-04:00Written with Writer's Block<div>
My school is on a quarter system, so we have classes for ten weeks followed by a three week break. It's a portfolio program and hopefully by the end of it I'll be a decent copywriter. I'm closing in on the end of my second quarter and all my final projects are due this week. I'm busy and totally blocked.</div>
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<div>
I keep beginning things, deleting them, starting again, and making lists. Nothing is getting done. I keep hoping that maybe if I can get some time by myself that I'll be more relaxed and will be able to organize my thoughts. That hasn't happened. </div>
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I think I started this post about six times. </div>
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<div>
Everyone this quarter seems to be on the fritz. I felt that way last quarter. No one is sure if our program will be worth it, or if moving here was the right thing to do, or if they should be closer to their families, and a million other things. I do miss my family, and going out and knowing people already, and living by myself, but overall my anxiety levels are down - I haven't had a single panic attack since I moved here, and I'm finally somewhat content, approaching happy, with most of my life. </div>
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I go out more now than I did when I first moved here, but significantly less than I did in Richmond. I was really concerned about meeting people when I got here, and getting along with the people who are also in my quarter. They have degrees, some multiple degrees, speak other languages, have travelled, some are married, some have worked in ad agencies before, and overall I felt like a fish out of water. I don't feel that way anymore. </div>
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<div>
I'm starting to feel more confident, though more critical of my work. I'm finding it easier to manage my feelings, and I know that to manage my sanity I can't stay home all day just because I don't have class. This was hard at first, but has become easier. When I start to feel overwhelmed I go for a walk, or to a park (luckily I live really close to two). Despite not being able to write in this moment, I feel more focused about my life. </div>
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Focus is a strange thing to have. I've never really had this kind of direction before, or drive - I've always wanted to succeed, and I think of life as some absurd competition, but being around other people who were cut from that cloth is new for me. I like it. </div>
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<div>
For the first time in my life things seem to be happening. </div>
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<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-76252967932023924152012-05-04T18:35:00.000-04:002012-05-04T18:35:06.271-04:00OCD: Part 2I'm pretty good at falling asleep, anywhere. I take a nap at school at least once a week and have no problem sleeping in moving vehicles. Lately though, I've had difficulty due to OCD's white noise machine. He gets up about 239847 times between 11 pm and 2 am.<div>
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I start to doze off. (whirrrrr) OCD goes to the bathroom and leaves his door open. Then I have to go to the bathroom. And then the cycle repeats itself about four more times. </div>
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My body has started associating that fucking noise with bathroom usage. </div>
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And it is constant. </div>
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In addition to being able to sleep anywhere, can hold it for hours. I drove across the country and would only stop if we reached out destination for the day - I am excellent on road trips. So this needing to go four times before I finally fall asleep is new. I try talking myself out of it, and then I go anyway, just because. </div>
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The other night, I kept waiting for the noise to stop when he closed his door, but it didn't. So I got up and closed his door, because only God knows how long he was going to be in the bathroom this time. I think he got the hint, because it hasn't happened since that night. </div>
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But the incessant whirr is grating. It's not just when he's sleeping, it's all the time. It's how I know he's home - that and all the locks I have to unlock when I get home. I don't see the point in locking doors when everyone is home during the day. (Nevermind the fact that we live in kind of a weird spot and I'm pretty sure there isn't another soul who is aware of these apartments who hasn't lived here.) </div>
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The whirr swallows all other noise. If I'm listening to a record, and he opens his door, WHIRRRRRRRR. If I'm doing dishes, WHIRRRRRRR. If I'm watching Hulu, in my room with my door closed WHIRRRRRR. </div>
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WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR</div>
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IT DOES NOT STOP. </div>
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We've discussed this briefly, it's relaxing, to him and no one else who spends time here. People always ask what that noise is. <i>It's this machine that my roommate finds calming...</i> Yeah, okay. </div>
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I used to have an issue with silence, but I find any sort of constant noise to be more irritating that helpful. Everyone hates that person who taps their pen in an otherwise silent room. It's like that. Except Darth Vader is breathing behind you, and you can't kill him because that dude you live with likes to cuddle with him until he falls asleep.</div>
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<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-21480354365102228432012-04-13T20:22:00.000-04:002012-04-13T20:22:00.316-04:00Roommate1: OCD, part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1JFDBZkTE-7Ps5aqbC1sbpKd3WpzfKzkagksdigNL3Wb6MzDFu7qpSXw8RE43GAUqhraGKvuV3UaVn7AD53SrL3SfPj3g8oYein8cBaD0V5XULZ08ItF8Gx6TfCELptbsJKPv6VMiMo/s1600/white+noise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1JFDBZkTE-7Ps5aqbC1sbpKd3WpzfKzkagksdigNL3Wb6MzDFu7qpSXw8RE43GAUqhraGKvuV3UaVn7AD53SrL3SfPj3g8oYein8cBaD0V5XULZ08ItF8Gx6TfCELptbsJKPv6VMiMo/s320/white+noise.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Darth-Vadar-is-breathing-behind-you machine.</td></tr>
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When choosing a roommate, I'm not super picky. I don't want to be your best friend, I just want you to pick up your shit. To me, picking up one's own shit includes taking the trash out when you notice it's full, dusting when you can write things on the TV screen, sweeping when walking around barefoot becomes unpleasant, and doing your own dishes within twenty four hours, etc. Essentially, I just like clean people who don't spread out their things into common surfaces. <div>
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This being said, I love everyone I've lived with, we just can't live together (like your parents). They aren't perfectionists like I am, and admittedly, I was a total bitch about some things to all of the people I lived with in Richmond, Virginia. It took living alone and in an apartment (mostly) free of vermin for me to chill the fuck out. I've been accused of being Obsessive Compulsive, but really I just hate having roaches and mice and fruit flies hanging out on a regular basis - take those things away and we're cool. </div>
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When I moved into my current apartment, it was just me and an exceptionally clean dude. From henceforth I will refer to him as OCD, because that is what he is. I chose to live here based on the potential I saw in the apartment to be cuter by rearranging a few things and how clean it was. It was by far the cleanest apartment I saw that wasn't empty. After I moved in I reorganized the kitchen and bathroom cabinets, he was a bit thrown off by this, but quickly came around. As long as he has "his space" for things he's fine. Though I threw a lot out. I don't think anyone had cleaned the refrigerator in the last year, and no one took their food with them when they moved out - there was lots of stale and moldy things around. </div>
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Of all the things he was OCD about, this was surprisingly not one of them. For him it's about germs and smells.</div>
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Each Saturday he "cleans" the bathroom. I say "cleans" because it's just surface cleaning. If I can scratch soap scum off the shower wall, it isn't clean, so I showed OCD how to clean it more effectively. He also has a habit of taking the trash out before he cleans things, which is bizarre because he uses so many paper towels to clean and by the time he's done the trash can is halfway full again. He also wears disposable latex gloves to clean, uses paper towels to life the trash can's lid and to dry his hands. </div>
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It didn't take me long after moving in to notice how frequently OCD is in the bathroom. It's all the time. It's a couple times an hour at least, and he always keeps the door closed - whether anyone is in their or not. This is a problem because 1) I don't always know when someone is in there and OCD doesn't always lock the door, and 2) our apartment isn't ventilated well and keeping the door closed contributes to that gross "moist" feeling that lingers after people take showers - gross.</div>
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His case is that because of the bathroom's location directly off the kitchen he doesn't want germs getting from the bathroom into the kitchen. I don't understand this logic, I acknowledge that germs are everywhere, and may have told him that "once you put a dick in your mouth, you don't really worry about germs anymore." Crude? Sure. True? Definitely. Being that he has never had a dick in his mouth, he can't relate. </div>
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But COME ON, keeping a door closed isn't going to keep those germs isolated. They're microscopic organisms. They do and go wherever the fuck they want, without your permission.</div>
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<div>
We've also had issues regarding cooking smells. He claims that my use of garlic and onions, and our other roommate's use of curry and cumin in everything is "suffocating." I think that's an exaggerating, but I've taken to keeping the stove fans on while I cook and he in turn has significantly reduced the amount of aerosol air freshener he sprays. He was doing it a lot. Like, a lot, a lot. Our other roommate and I both get migraines pretty regularly, so the use of chemicals to cover up natural smells wasn't working out, nor was it an effective way to solve the problem. </div>
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OCD also has a white noise machine. I've heard about people using these to sleep, but he has one in his room on ALL THE TIME. If his bedroom door is even cracked that incessant noise swallows everything else, which I guess is the point, but I like music and movies, and the constant whirr of it drives me batty. I've taken to closing his door without asking. </div>
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We get along alright and can talk about things, but where I can let things go, and relax, he is incapable. I've known a lot of awkward people, a lot of anxious/depressed people who are socially inept, but this is a whole new level. Friends have asked me why I don't move, but despite all his quirks, he's clean, so I deal. </div>
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<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-1929540878035348402012-03-30T21:08:00.002-04:002012-03-30T21:10:47.478-04:00CHIN UP!Anyone who know me can attest to the fact that when my home is organized, I am a much happier person. Though, since moving to San Francisco, I've been poorer than ever. But as I've told my friends (and continue to tell myself), I'd rather be poor in an awesome city than go out every night (like I was in Richmond, VA) in a mediocre one.<br />
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Shortly after moving into my apartment, I was lucky enough to find the exact shel I wanted from IKEA for free (FREE!) on Craigslist. Fortunately for me, I have an overly polite and considerate roommate with a station wagon who drove me across town to pick it up. The stupid thing fit perfectly into the back of his wagon. Since then I've been keeping my eye on Craigslist for the same shelf, though not necessarily for free - just you know, cheapish.<br />
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That hasn't happened and I haven't bought a second one because for the first time in my life I'm only spending money on food and transportation. I don't go out much, except recently on OkCupid dates where I silently pray to myself that he will pick up the check because I really need to buy bread tomorrow. (<i>Aside: I don't agree to go on dates if I can't afford them. I always offer to pay for myself.</i>)<br />
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I've been on break for about three weeks and classes start next week and I've had this pile of stuff on the floor in my room for three months. I hate it. But I haven't known what to do with it because I haven't had anywhere to put it. I've just kept it all in old department store bags the former tenant left behind.<br />
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But last night after my attempt to get all the girls in my quarter together fell through, I decided to treat myself to a movie. I only did this because I knew that if a certain dude was working he would give me a discount. AMC doesn't offer student or military discounts here, but if you ask him, and show him your ID, he'll let you in at the children's rate. Four bucks a pop adds up. Yay! Bread!<br />
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On my walk home I found a shelf in the middle of my block. It wasn't next to any trash bins, and it kind of looked like it might have been meant for someone else to pick up, or like someone may have been in the process of taking things inside and that was the last one. I loitered for a bit to see, but no one was around, so I took it home. It's also from IKEA and in the same veneer as my other shelf.<br />
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It may seem silly, but I haven't been so grateful, or happy about anything in awhile. These little things are so huge to me. And, I mean, it was so random, and it matched.<br />
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The previous night I was crying to my friend on the phone and he told me, "Chin up, kid." And then the Universe did something nice and was all, "CHIN UP. CHIN UP. CHIN UP."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoxoAmgoSLQ-AAUozyg21_e4BSfgtSZ94XqlUBFORC1NRZA44b4Zxh6BLZZP_v7UnFJWCQppvUQhvimY3q0_ToaryF1Wtge1HC8ajLi5v9nr9cso-tk2ckdNzScAUhNz0JJv4Szny5B6HV/s1600/Washington+DC+temple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoxoAmgoSLQ-AAUozyg21_e4BSfgtSZ94XqlUBFORC1NRZA44b4Zxh6BLZZP_v7UnFJWCQppvUQhvimY3q0_ToaryF1Wtge1HC8ajLi5v9nr9cso-tk2ckdNzScAUhNz0JJv4Szny5B6HV/s400/Washington+DC+temple.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Washington DC Temple - Mormons get married here.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When I was a child, like all
children, I believed everything my parents and most other adults told me. But,
unlike most of my friends, I was being raised by Mormon converts. My father
converted to Mormonism in the late 1960s after his commanding officer in
Viet-Nam noticed that he wasn’t attending church services on Sundays and
invited my father to join him – he was baptized there. My mother converted in
1972 after her brother and sister-in-law joined and encouraged her to do the
same. My parents met at a church dance when my dad was stationed at Camp
Lejeune in North Carolina, they got married seven months later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I remember getting into arguments
with my non-Mormon friends about religion. I was convinced that I was right and
they were wrong, and this spilled over into most aspects of my life. I wasn’t
taught to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">believe</i> the church was
true, I was taught that it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> true –
to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> the truth. Therein lies the
difference. I believe that I’m going to live to see tomorrow, but I know it. As
with anything I’ve since learned that I can’t really know anything. Everything
changes, and what was true yesterday may not be true tomorrow. Perhaps I’m
being cynical, but I’m rarely disappointed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
With all the hubbub surrounding
Mitt Romney and Jon Huntsman’s presidential bids, it’s shed an interesting
light on the Mormon experience. I personally don’t concern myself with the
religious affiliation of those running for any office, because it doesn’t
matter to me. However, I do see this as an opportunity for the Mormon church to
do more than the “I’m a Mormon” campaign. Being Mormon means more than
believing that a prophet is currently alive and can literally speak for God,
more than the beliefs is the culture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Mormons go to church each Sunday
and refer to one another as “brother” and “sister.” They are taught that the
second coming of Christ cannot happen until all the spirits waiting in heaven
have received bodies here on Earth, hence their large families and the church’s
former policies against contraception (they now leave family planning to
couples to decide over prayer as large families began to drain the church
welfare system). They believe that men and women have equal, but different
roles, and those “different” roles are what lead outsiders (and insiders) to
think that the role of the woman is to remain supplicant to the man. If you
have questions, it’s best not to ask them because only those who aren’t devoted
to the Church, and to God could question it, and you don’t want other members
to talk about your wavering faith. Though, if you do ask a question that
doesn’t have an answer you’ll probably be told that the answer has yet to be
revealed to a modern day prophet and that God will reveal that knowledge when
the time is right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In yesterday’s <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/a-mormon-church-in-need-of-reform/2012/01/27/gIQA3s44aQ_story_1.html">Washington Post Carrie Sheffield wrote about</a> her experience within the church and out of it.
And I can agree with everything she has to say. Though, unlike her I started
questioning the church in middle school. When boys and girls turn 12, they
graduate from Primary – essentially a time each Sunday for children to sing fun
songs about god – to the Young Men or young Women’s organizations. There we’re
taught about our roles within the church and society and how we can be good
members of the church within those roles. This is to say, I was told that women
should go to college, to get an education “just in case” anything should happen
to my future husband that would require me to work outside the home. And that
my first responsibility was to my husband and then my children, and that I should
only grow up to work outside the home if absolutely necessary. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
That wasn’t the life I had
envisioned for my future. My parents allowed me to develop a slight obsession
with Frank Lloyd Wright, and I wanted to be an Architect. If my mom could do it
all, why couldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I? I’ve never been very receptive to being
told what to do if I can’t see it directly benefiting me. I like making my own
decision and not having ridiculous rules set in place for me to follow. In the
summertime I liked wearing shorts, but once I hit puberty suddenly everything
was too short. “Modesty” is defined as wearing clothing that isn’t “revealing”
– shirts must completely cover your back and stomach no matter how you move,
skirts and pants must cover the knee, and shirts must cover the shoulder – all
of this is to prepare you for temple marriage and the “special underwear” you
will one day wear. That’s fine, but it’s presented as a choice, but nothing in
Mormonism is really a choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Your choice is to do what you’re
“supposed to do” or not be a member in good standing, which goes on your church
record and will affect what callings (job) you may have at church and
ultimately if you’ll get into Heaven. It is often said that you should “be in
the world, but not of the world.” Though many have taken that to an extreme as
to ostracize those who do not believe, and do not act the same way you do.
Members of the church are more than happy to welcome you into the fold, but as
soon as you question something, or express a difference in opinion, those
friends you’ve made can be gone. Because if you’re choice to live life in such
a way that makes you happy, is not the prescribed method for happiness as
proclaimed by the church – it is wrong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
If you leave, or “fall away,” you
have to be prepared to not have those friends anymore. The beliefs of the
church aren’t so different from other Christian faiths, but the culture is
among the most uniform and extreme. It’s not enough to share the same basic
beliefs if you don’t practice them in the same way. And if you come to the
realization that it’s all bull pucky, well, they will mourn your loss and
discuss it in the hallway as though you took up heroin and need to go to rehab.
Because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how could anyone not be happy
living the way that they do?</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It does seem appealing, and I
understand that living that way works for a lot of people. But it didn’t make
me happy. Leaving the Church was like having a boulder lifted off my back. The
anxiety, the depression, the consistency of never being good enough – that was
gone. I still feel these things from time to time, but not because I feel
inadequate trying to reach some ideal that’s been decided for me, I feel that
way because I know who I want to be and I haven’t reached become her yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
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</script>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-74355653619458042342012-01-27T17:13:00.000-05:002012-01-27T17:14:51.410-05:00For The Love of Music<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There is a moment that any fan can
recall when they fell in love with a band.
While parts of my record collection I have been given for free – and I
mean in a physical way (my iTunes account is made up completely of music that
I’ve personally downloaded from CDs and vinyl). But each record that I’ve
bought, and some that I’ve been given have a very specific purpose. They remind
me of someone, or some particular life event, or resonate with a part of me
that I can’t quite explain, but somehow that album can make whatever I’m
feeling make sense. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I am not the only person who feels
this way, and I think most of my friends would agree – I can say that because
most of my friends and I are friends because of a common love for a certain
band. It’s kind of a litmus test when I meet people, not because I’m trying to
be a dick, but because an interest in music and a love for it is often a
quality people that are curious and observant and well, interesting, have. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
They get it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/sPGepgWupTw?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I don’t remember the first time I
heard Pulp, but I do remember when I realized that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those songs</i> that I had been dancing to were by them. Spinning to
the chorus of “Do You Remember The First
Time” – there aren’t words for that.
That probably seems silly to a lot of you, and that’s okay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Today tickets to see Pulp at The
Warfield here in San Francisco went on sale at 10 am. I set three alarms, just
in case I slept through the first two (I didn’t) so that I would be up and have
my information plugged in as their website allows. This was followed by an
invitation to the “waiting room” – a virtual line of some kind before tickets
went on sale. I did this on two computers – not because I had an interest in
buying 293487 tickets, but because I wanted to make sure I had a decent chance
of getting tickets at all, and I called their ticket provider AXS, and stayed
on hold for a solid 20 minutes before I was told that they had sold out in five
minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Five. Minutes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I looked around the internet
yesterday to see if any tickets were for sale elsewhere, maybe leftover from a
presale and there were. They were. I posted on The Warfield’s Facebook page
asking when the presale had occurred. They said there wasn’t one, unless there
had been one on Pulp’s page without their knowledge. I couldn’t find anything
that would lead me to believe there was one of any kind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I digress. The scalping. The
website allowed for you to buy eight tickets at a time. I know it’s up to the venue, but to allow the
sale of such a high quantity plays right into the scalpers grubby little hands.
I have been to a lot of concerts, with and without other people, and I’ve never
known of anyone to need that many, let alone be able to afford it off that bat,
and let their friends pay them back later. Maybe I just have poor friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
One would think that if you own a
venue, you do it because you love music, because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you’re a fan. </i>And The Warfield isn’t an arena, it is a dedicated
music venue, with a capacity of about 2000. If you’re really a fan of music,
and enjoy sharing that experience with others than why would you allow policies
that fuck over the fans? With big names, you won’t lose money by restricting
the quantity – people will still buy their tickets, though probably not quite
as fast. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Which brings me to scalpers.
Whether you’re charging ten or a hundred dollars more, you’re still making it
that much more difficult for fans, presumably poor bastards like me who spend
all our money on rent and going to shows, from seeing a band we love. You can’t
love music, or really anything and willfully fuck over other people. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I thought spending two months living with my parents was bad, and then I came here. I've been sharing a room with five other people here, five. FIVE. And at least two of them change every other day. I think I've shared my room with at least thirteen different people in the past twelve days. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
People are terrible. They are the worst. They are loud, and they don't flush toilets, or wash their hands, and they take up so much space and don't seem to understand that by, "excuse me," I mean, "get the fuck out of the way." Isn't "excuse me" one of the first phrases everyone learns whenever they learn a new language? Perhaps I should try "excusez-moi" or "entschuldigung" instead. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then there are the people that live and work here. I know one of them as she and I shared a room when I was here before. And I don't mind them, it's just that I like having my shared room to myself when everyone else is out being a tourist, so I stay in it in the mornings only to be interrupted by the person who cleans the mirrors, and then the person who vacuums, and the person who cleans the sinks and then the person who comes round to check that those things have been done. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is no way to live. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm amazed at my tolerance so far. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy being around people, when I have my own place to go home to. I'll talk to anyone, and I like most people when given the opportunity to talk to them individually. I hate having to introduce myself to someone new all the time. The other day someone called me "Judith" and I knew they were talking to me, but I didn't bother correcting them because why does is matter? I figured I'd never see them again. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wait, I take that back. I don't mind introducing myself to new people that are potential new friends - people who actually live here, too. That is something that I do like about San Francisco overall, the people are friendly and most aren't from here either. In that way it reminds me a lot of DC - but I won't go on about how much I miss DC. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A friend reminded me this week that you suffer for the things you want. That's true, this is what I've wanted for the past two years, and I have it now. I may be living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and oranges, but it'll be worth it, right? Right?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-52284931879564032912012-01-09T18:45:00.000-05:002012-01-09T18:45:16.163-05:00"There" is now "Here"I haven't stopped moving since my last post two months ago. My brother and his family flew in from Basque for a couple weeks. I got my official acceptance letter to advertising school, and had to scurry to find loans to get me to San Francisco. I called my friend with whom I had thrown around the idea of a cross-country road trip together with, he was available, and bought a trailer. Christmas happened. I left, and now I'm writing this from a hostel in the "Tendernob" - the area on the border between the Tenderloin and Nob Hill districts of San Francisco.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Whew!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I live here now. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In San Francisco. On the other side of the country, and basically the other side of the world. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The first day here I had orientation, followed by moving my life out of a trailer and into a storage unit, followed by an interview, followed by class. I slept better that night than I had in weeks. Since then I've sent out numerous emails of desperation in response to Craigslist ads looking for roommates. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've done this before, I've lived with strangers, and it's turned out alright. But that was in a city that I was familiar with. Though, I did start getting responses, probably one for every four I wrote, and finally saw several places this weekend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before I arrived here, I had done some research as to where I figured I would end up living, based on cost and proximity to my school. One area, Ingleside, proved to be much farther, and depressing than I thought it would be. There really isn't anything there, save for the occasional corner store and BART station. I saw two rooms there. The first was in a house that was shared with three gay men - all of my dreams about living with gay men were crushed upon seeing this house. It was messy, and dirty, and there was a craft project taking over the kitchen table, and while the room I would have been living in was okay, I wouldn't have been able to deal with the rest. The second house was shared with two chicks of ambiguous sexual orientation. This house, like the first was also messy and cluttered, and the girls were far too laid back.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am not laid back. I like things to be done, and in an orderly fashion. Thing have places, and they should be in their places. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Another room was in an apartment in The Mission, a neighborhood I like, a lot, and have stayed in on a previous trip. I saw this room with two other people, one of which left at the same time I did. As we were walking down the stairs he turned to me and said, "that place was a shithole. I can't live somewhere like that!" Indeed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are a few other students in my very situation. All of us are new in town and many are new to this country. One had mentioned that he and a friend of his were looking and invited me to potentially live with them. The apartment they had chosen was in The Haight, right on Haight Street across from a park. It was a corner unit, and all the windows had decorative stained glass along the top. It was small, but sunny, and so beautiful, and so expensive. Part of me wishes I hadn't looked at it at all, just because now I know exactly what I'm missing. But I'm sure they'll find someone to rent it with them.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The room I've settled for isn't in a beautiful art-deco building, but it is quaint, and clean, and tidy. AND it's not full of clutter. I may collect books and records, but do you know how easy it is to dust around those things compared to nicknacks? And do you know how much I hate dust? I hate it, a lot. This apartment will be easy clean! Above all else though is the location, it's in the Inner-Richmond (of course I'll be living in Richmond, I just can't escape it) and close to the Presidio and Golden Gate parks, and just a short bus ride from downtown. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm so excited. I'll have a real place to live in a week!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-54196228074336368612011-11-23T11:00:00.000-05:002011-11-23T11:00:06.106-05:00Going Home<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I have moved...back in with my parents...</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">That is how much I wanted to get out of Richmond. That, and I'm planning on moving to San Francisco to finish school, and because it's awesome. Have you ever met someone from San Francisco who you didn't like? I haven't. No one ever says, "Ugh, San Francisco, I never want to go back there."It's not Mississippi. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It's certainly been a transition, one that I've been avoiding by not being home as much as possible. I moved Halloween weekend, in the sleet, with a migraine, so it more terrible than moving usually is -- never mind all the little things, the miscommunications, the lack of communication. It got done, and we all sat down for beef stew my mother made for everyone else because I don't eat beef, she had prepared the freezer and packed it with vegetarian lasagna.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The next 48 hours were spent mostly moping and reconsidering all of my life choices. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Fortunately I had made plans to be in San Francisco the first week of November, my birthday is the 3rd and I really needed to be relax. Though my idea of relaxing usually just means avoiding people I don't want to talk to and keeping myself busy elsewhere, which is exactly what I did. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'd arranged to meet with the admissions advisor at the school I will hopefully be attending, and let the few people I know there know I would be in town, but mostly I just wanted to explore. I had visited in the Spring of last year as well and I wanted to do the things I didn't get to do last time on this trip.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifA1jbV9qNRc0TD_-ngjy-x-2QfWTcg25fRxSp5Q2wdclTwyEftCDzTMUHJSiIdhovYn0mfxggxbWCaQxasp-2x5g-tSEA7fhYM-ea36m45giFSMU_H32J4PloFK6Olr_Zesa4AOuQFGs/s1600/amanda+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifA1jbV9qNRc0TD_-ngjy-x-2QfWTcg25fRxSp5Q2wdclTwyEftCDzTMUHJSiIdhovYn0mfxggxbWCaQxasp-2x5g-tSEA7fhYM-ea36m45giFSMU_H32J4PloFK6Olr_Zesa4AOuQFGs/s400/amanda+group.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anton, Karin, Me and Timon after lunch in Golden Gate Park.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">After a very long and unnerving taxi ride into the city with a dead cell phone and a cabbie who didn't know how to use his GPS or speak English, I finally got to my hostel, cried, and fell asleep. The morning was much happier and after meeting a couple of my roommates and a couple of dudes at breakfast, four of us decided to rent bikes and make our way across the Golden Gate Bridge. I had not packed anything for this type of activity, and biking 22 miles in skinny black cotton pants was not my favorite thing, but it was well worth while. Now, the city is famously seven miles by seven miles, we had figured we had gone maybe 15 miles, and then we pulled up Google Maps and marked the multiple circles we had made on accident.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRyibMKDsMSp64wKUgYRWy7C7nG8dbnfvSgXo_ncJJKIG8eDU-oJSGYBgOhODxt5YEyd9EszkHoapv-E0Sva-6Xyez3DCUr7je9mY3aGehF163Eet8FZQWLDN_hdHcsh7VgkM2rPgqVUk/s1600/amanda+sf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRyibMKDsMSp64wKUgYRWy7C7nG8dbnfvSgXo_ncJJKIG8eDU-oJSGYBgOhODxt5YEyd9EszkHoapv-E0Sva-6Xyez3DCUr7je9mY3aGehF163Eet8FZQWLDN_hdHcsh7VgkM2rPgqVUk/s400/amanda+sf.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I had set up an appointment with the Admissions Advisor (AA) for the next morning and managed to find it without getting lost and made decent time walking. AA and I talked for almost two hours. TWO HOURS. I like to think that this is a good thing, though perhaps I totally blew it. She invited me to sit in on a class the next day, so I'm guessing I didn't blow it. The class was small maybe ten students, and everyone was actively engaged and supportive in offering constructive criticism of each others' work. I fell in love, as I knew I would, with everything -- the students, the teachers, the smallness of it all within such a large city -- it was perfect. The community created there was shat I should have looked for when applying to schools four years ago. If only I had been somewhere, or been exposed to anything. My parents wanted me close, and I have found close to be a miserable place. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It was my birthday and I had spent most of it wandering around Chinatown after the class. I don't particularly like Chinatown, most of the things there creep me out, but some of the things are also entertaining. My favorite was definitely the "erotic art" that had been etched into various surfaces and shapes and molded into what I can only guess were bookmarks and paperweights. Though, I am no scholar of erotic artwork, so I'm probably wrong. However, shop keepers do not enjoy loiterers snapping photos of their wares to tweet. Erotic art is serious business. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">That evening I had dinner by myself at a tiny, dirty burger place that offered veggie options (I may not eat meat, but I eat veggie burgers all the time) before heading to The Mission to meet my one friend that was in town. He was out with two of his coworkers, and between the three of them my glass didn't get empty. We ended up hopping around until we went to a particularly terrible bar that was having some sort of electronic dance night, I think, I'm not completely sure, BUT there was dancing and I got to dance and my friend is an excellent dancer, and I could not have asked for a better birthday. (Thanks, guys!)</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">My last day was spent between bed and getting lost on the Embarcadero followed by wandering around downtown in a haze in an effort to make myself do anything aside from sleep. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">The idea that I will be living there is one that I still haven't quite wrapped my head around. It's beautiful, and the urgency and support shared by everyone there is unlike anywhere I've been. I keep waking up and missing my studio in Richmond, and then I remind myself that I gave it up because I want so much more, and I'm going to have it, soon(ish).</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">"I haven't posted anything in two months."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I know."</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I write, and then I delete it, and then I start over and then I end up crying and falling asleep. I'd like to post more, I would, but I really hate crying, and writing anything worthwhile, usually results in tears and me making really terrible faces. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I'm not ready to not be part of my family yet, and I can't do that to them."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"But that's what art is."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"You don't understand, I can't stand my family, but they're not bad people and there are things that all of them don't know and I don't want to say anything yet."</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://samwolfeconnelly.com/">Sam</a> is an only child, but has a lot of cousins on both sides of his family. I am the youngest of five and have two cousins on each side, I don't really know any of them. But as my siblings have all spawned the feelings at family gatherings have certainly shifted. It's more hectic, but generally we, the adults are better behaved than we were a few years ago. Perhaps though this is just a phase my family is going through. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But they really don't like me writing about them. That's really hard for me. Because it's my nature to share, and overshare. Last Christmas things got crazy and my sister *August requested that I change her name. I get that, I do, and she and I didn't talk for a few months after that, but part of me really wants to not care. That part of me wants to say, "if you really loved me, you'd recognize that this is something I have to do" - and eventually I will, but I haven't yet. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I went to New York this week and when I got back I noticed that my dad had made some changes to the computer (he's anti-wifi, long story) and I went downstairs to get him. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"You changed the password? I can't update anything. I'm so pissed."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"That's it! I don't have to help you. Not if you're going to use that kind of language."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Pissed. That was the word that he was upset over, this, the man who routinely went on angry tirades while I was growing up. The man who used many a name, including a variety of fun four letter words in my direction growing up. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> I pulled him back and he told me to not use that kind of language, again, and I told him to come back upstairs.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I didn't hear you say 'Please.'"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"Please."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">He put in the password and then told me the password.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I didn't do anything bad to you."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"What?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"When you were growing up. You act like I did all these things to you."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"What are you going on about, you did do lots of awful things to all of us."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I don't remember them."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"You called me a 'fucking ungrateful twit' when I was sixteen because I had forgotten where the remote was."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I don't remember that."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"You threw a tea set at me because I forgot to put it away and it broke as it his the wall behind me. I was five."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I guess I've blocked all that out, I try to remember the good things."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I do, too. It's just hard sometimes. And you're not like that now."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I hope you've written this down."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"Not all of it. And I haven't published it because you're not the asshole you were then. I haven't wanted to hurt anyone."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"You need to write it all down."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And I will, but I'll include the good parts, too. Those existed, but it's hard growing up and going to the park and having a great time and not knowing what will set anyone off. Or going to the zoo, or bowling or piano lessons. There were so many rules, some I didn't even know about until I had broken them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"You should probably be in therapy."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"I was for years, and things are a lot better when I'm not around you and mom."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">"Maybe you should go back."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">He's probably right, but more than anything I feel like I don't have to hold on to things anymore. Part of that is really scary, but everything feels so much better when it's shared. </span></span><br />
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</script>amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-71296701086749692242011-09-09T17:31:00.000-04:002011-09-09T17:31:05.001-04:00September 11: Ten Years Later<script type="text/javascript">
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I was still getting to know the girls at my lunch table, we were all beginning sixth grade together in a new school. An eighth grade teacher on lunch duty escorted my friend, Elizabeth, to the front office. Her mom had called and wanted to let her know that her dad was alright. Elizabeth's dad was in the Marine Corps and had been in New York that day. </div>
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We hadn't heard anything from teachers or other students. I had noticed a few students leave school early, but nothing out of the ordinary, though as the day progressed and class sizes shrunk it became more apparent. </div>
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When Elizabeth got back from the office she told us that a plane had hit some skyscrapers in New York. None of us knew what the World Trade Center was, none of us had been there, I had never been to New York City. It was completely foreign to me. It wasn't until I got home from school that I found out about the plane that had hit the Pentagon, just twenty-five miles away from my house.</div>
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Volleyball tryouts and all other after school activities had been canceled. My mom wasn't home, but she didn't want me to be by myself and had asked her friend to meet me. It wasn't that I wasn't allowed to be home alone, it was that she was nervous. I don't remember the woman's name, but we sat on the couch and watched the footage together. I don't really remember talking to my parents about it. I knew what happened, I had let it set in, but I wasn't scared.</div>
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That night everyone in my neighborhood had flags and candles set out on their porches. School had been canceled for the next two days and everyone on my street was outside. While the adults talked amongst themselves, me and a couple of other kids noticed the helicopters flying overhead in regular intervals. We were used to seeing them, it's fairly normal to see one any day anywhere in the DC suburbs, but not as frequently as they were that evening, and for the following months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day's paper included a printed flag for readers to tape in their windows and doors. The candles continued to be lit each evening. The eerie sense of unity persisted well after the paper flags had faded and been thrown away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understood what terrorism was, but it wasn't a word that I had heard much before September 11th, I wasn't aware of The Middle East, or what countries it was made up of - I could hardly pass my states quiz in History class. September 11th very abruptly made me aware of a much larger world, one in which one's nationality and religion mattered. I had Muslim friends and classmates from everywhere, and that day didn't make me reconsider their friendship, it wasn't something that anyone cared about at lunch, not at school. They were Americans too, and just as affected as I was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of everything everyone seemed to be feeling, the only emotion that had really set in for me was sadness. I was confused. We hadn't done anything, at least nothing twelve year olds are aware of, and the idea that people existed whose intentions were to interrupt my life, who set out each day to conceive new ideas for inflicting fear upon anyone vulnerable enough to accept it, <i>that</i>, that was what I didn't understand. Ten years later there is still no understanding to be had. As long as people remain scared of the unfamiliar, of the foreign, of people in clothing different than our own, with customs traditional to a culture we ignore and bigot, the hatred and fear and terror will persist.<br />
<br /></div>
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<br />
I spent the first eighteen years of my life learning about marriage and what a woman's role within those sacred confines means. My brother served a mission for the Mormon church and got married less than a year after he returned, as the Church encourages all Return Missionaries (RMs) to do. This was, and to my parents still very much is the ideal.<br />
<br />
Recently I was discussing sleeping-bags with my dad, and he offered to buy me a new one. But I am very picky about these things and told him that I wanted a specific one, one that cost about three hundred dollars. His response was, "well I want you go marry a Return Missionary." This has become his response to my expressing most any desire. As the cliche goes, "it's nice to want things," and he and I want very different things for me.<br />
<br />
My mother is more passive about it. She will call me and tell me about a former friend or acquaintance who is getting married, AND they're getting married in the temple, or they're having a baby with the person they married <i>in the temple</i>, or even "so-and-so has started dating someone, they are Mormon." That is great for them. I am so happy that someone else has found something that makes them happy, and that they found someone else who is also made happy by that same thing, but I'm not interested in being sent pictures from their weddings, or of their babies. <br />
<br />
One of my best friends from childhood got married almost two years ago. A girl I grew up with had her first kid about a month ago, with her RM husband. Another former friend got married last month and my ex-best friend is getting married next week. This means that they will all be procreating the entire time I'm busy avoiding responsibility, so for at least the next decade of our lives. Don't get me wrong, I like babies, but few that aren't related to me, and I imagine, if I'm not keen on their parents, their chances dwindle significantly. <br />
<br />
<br />
Mom: "You know So-and-so's baby is due..." <br />
<br />
Me: "That's great, but I really don't care."<br />
<br />
Mom: "Well, I just thought you'd want to know."<br />
<br />
Me: "Nope!"<br />
<br />
Mom: "But you were close growing up."<br />
<br />
Me: "No. We weren't. Mom, I am not interested in hearing about her or anyone else' wedding plans, dating lives, or pregnancies. They aren't a part of my life anymore for a reason."<br />
<br />
Mom: "I can see now is not a good time, I'll let you go."<br />
<br />
Me: "Thank God." <br />
<br />
This did not stop my mom from sending me a picture message from a reception a week later.amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-43198243439182368552011-05-20T16:12:00.000-04:002011-05-20T16:12:11.821-04:00End Times: The Rapture<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OXDhoDfQ6K1nTpxh3yvut1anyWdW5XX6Q-t1s6alklR8r1iTiMaQ9MoQzFGVEhNB4UAwpvAM1CTr3-xDI6WEU_oUOqdD4LozmFj0LEl45GNimZrcWzTApA7DNwGsuUmK0HuwjPFiqI8/s1600/rapture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2OXDhoDfQ6K1nTpxh3yvut1anyWdW5XX6Q-t1s6alklR8r1iTiMaQ9MoQzFGVEhNB4UAwpvAM1CTr3-xDI6WEU_oUOqdD4LozmFj0LEl45GNimZrcWzTApA7DNwGsuUmK0HuwjPFiqI8/s400/rapture.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FUN!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Tomorrow, or today depending on where you are in the world, bodys and/or spirits are supposedly ascending up to heaven to hang out with Jesus for The Rapture. I'm pretty stoked about this. I mean, I spent the first eightteen years of my life going to church every week, my summers going to multiple Mormon camps, high school getting up early to attend a religious class before school every day and youth events multiple evenings each week. All of this is to say, that when I let <em>that one dude put his hand up my shirt that one time when I was fifteen</em>, started drinking alcoholic beverages and dancing around naked on friends' roofs, I'm pretty sure that I gave up, what obviously would have been a free pass to heaven. Though, I do <a href="http://amanda-rants.blogspot.com/2010/09/baking-slut.html">bake people things</a> and I think that should count for something. <br />
<br />
Though, since I'm not going to be ascending to heaven anytime in the next thirty-six hours, I am really looking forward to several things, but mostly the end of people screaming at me in public places or passing out propaganda. Guys, Mormons train their youth to be missionaries from a very young age, and I have had to knock on strangers doors bringing them the good news under the umbrella of a "Youth Activity." Why anyone willingly does this is beyond me. <br />
<br />
When we're left behind, there won't be anyone to tell us to turn our music down, or that out outfit shows too much skin, however, there will be pundits and politicians. I know Glenn Beck thinks he's getting into heaven, but I'm pretty sure he'll still be here, so will Palin, and O'Reilly, I'm pretty bummed out about it. In fact, just thinking about it makes me wish that I had not had any fun ever, but then I also never watch Fox news so I think I'm good. And by good, I mean, I don't watch Fox news, so I'm totally getting into Heaven.amanda-rantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11877576551701716683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617151860113095791.post-66079243181677647072011-05-13T18:58:00.001-04:002011-05-20T16:16:23.225-04:00Belated Mother's Day <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih8qBAD6ArbEVf-K9svRS_jClwbp4y3-8ET5CmNLjDXpnU8fW3ZDviikkONq3RYqWYs7vLPp2dyRqM8ggzR5p-OFhfi2dILh56OLAqkkLnIVchqVbFYdk7YXjKlSUvyvWMKFBXwDHdl0k/s1600/amanda%2527s+mom.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih8qBAD6ArbEVf-K9svRS_jClwbp4y3-8ET5CmNLjDXpnU8fW3ZDviikkONq3RYqWYs7vLPp2dyRqM8ggzR5p-OFhfi2dILh56OLAqkkLnIVchqVbFYdk7YXjKlSUvyvWMKFBXwDHdl0k/s400/amanda%2527s+mom.bmp" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My mom about my age.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
For Mother's Day I went to church with my parents. It's simple and free and my parents take way too much pride in showcasing their spawn at church, it's not just them, it's a Mormon thing. Church, for me is like a role in a play that you were in in high school that you still remember all the lines to - it's just like that. I wear a sleeved dress with a relatively modest neckline, that goes down to at least my knees with modest heels. And lipstick, red lipstick (because other colors are useless) that my mother has implied is "inappropriate." It sends the wrong message to young return missionaries. <br />
<br />
I went for all three hours. It's very strange going now, the congregation is mostly young couples not much older than me that already have multiple babies. It freaks me out, not because I don't like babies, they're fine, but because that could have been me. I could be the young mom taking a toddler to the bathroom while prgnant with another. I could be a stay at home mom, already, at 21. <br />
<br />
My mom stayed at home until my dad retired from the Marines and my family moved from North Carolina to Northern Virginia. She got a job at the local hospital doing administrative stuff and started cleaning on the side, as the hours at the hospital became more restrictive, she quit and expanded her cleaning business. She taught us to clean, all of us know how to clean a bathtub and a kitchen sink, and that all you really need is warm sudsy water and elbow grease. As a result I have little patience for people who have ever paid anyone to clean up after them.<br />
<br />
My mom is the hardest worker I know. She's scrapy. She grew up with nothing, in a podunk town in Eastern North Carolina. She put herself through community college where she got a degree in court reporting, did that for a bit, worked at a hospital for a bit, worked in social services for a bit, and eventually married my dad, had five kids and started her own company. . She moved around a lot, all my mom ever wanted was her own a house. Her house, that she could fashion in any way she wanted. And she does. <br />
<br />
My mom is familiar with others' good will, and as a result she exhibits that gratuitous excess. There is not a person who's situation she is not familiar with or unwilling to help. She's opened our house to those who need a place to crash, provided clothes, a shower, food, whatever is needed to those who need a helping hand. And she taught all of us what it was to work and to be compassionate, and to be nice - though, I am not always very nice, I'm working on it. And when I'm being a bitch she won't say the word, she'll fidget and warble unintelligibly, because she is a lady and ladies don't use that kind of language. <br />
<br />
She doesn't <em>get</em> me. And most of the time I don't <em>get </em>her either, and sometimes that makes communicating with one another difficult, but this is something we both recognize. She didn't go out much at my age, and she certainly didn't kiss strangers and she lived close to her entire extended family until she got married to my dad who scooped her up and took her to California. She doesn't understand my restless nature, but she listens. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I don't like sleeping (and I do mean sleeping) with people that I'm not into, I don't like cuddling. Your body's warmth is making me hot, and I'm totally fine <em>over here</em>. <br />
<br />
Remember, I like <a href="http://amanda-rants.blogspot.com/2011/03/making-out-with-strangers.html">making out with strangers</a> and then never talking to them again. The whole relationship thing leads to<a href="http://amanda-rants.blogspot.com/2009/02/im-not-blogging-about-you.html"> The Crazy</a> (also found <a href="http://amanda-rants.blogspot.com/2008/10/forgive-me-while-i-go-blow-my-nose.html">here</a> and <a href="http://amanda-rants.blogspot.com/2010/12/faking-it-pt-2-wherein-i-overshare.html">here</a>) and finding someone worth risking that for is uncommon. I have an alternative to all of this I like to refer to as Playing House.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_ni1w4txqP7XnVCxro0ygHkuvxiqOHI8NJg8myVyNfTq-b5Vtb5OIl6e773FV30GPgJjdSdEUZmODQlRdDyzFL_rAlkGV0viN8nPk703xzPwU1rmahpHsBb4uk34H31Q3LhaMpiQPd8/s1600/schlitz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9_ni1w4txqP7XnVCxro0ygHkuvxiqOHI8NJg8myVyNfTq-b5Vtb5OIl6e773FV30GPgJjdSdEUZmODQlRdDyzFL_rAlkGV0viN8nPk703xzPwU1rmahpHsBb4uk34H31Q3LhaMpiQPd8/s400/schlitz.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
It includes all the benefits of a relationship,without any of the consequences because you don't spend enough time together to actually develop real feelings. It only lasts a couple days, or a long weekend, sporadically throughout the year. These "relationships" can be wherever with whomever, but they cannot happen with someone that lives in your city. My favorites of these have includes, The Annapolis Lover, The Russian and West Coast Paul. <br />
<br />
You go out as though you are a couple, you might even hold hands. You have breakfast, you go shopping, you discuss things as though you are in a committed relationship, but you're not. You or him, get to go home, back to your single life where you can have the whole bed to yourself and not be irritated by anyone's inability to squeeze toothpaste from the bottom of the tube or leave dirty dishes on the counter (really dudes, why are these things so hard?).<br />
<br />
This may sound slightly screwy to some of you, but you probably haven't tried it, or are one of those really obnoxious people that are always in relationships. I would like to spend this decade of my life moving frequently and without reason to stay in any one place, for me, this works.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I also think that there were far too many categories, so I've made my own list based on me spending way too much money and going out way too much. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Venue: <a href="http://www.alleykatzrva.com/">Alley Katz</a></strong><br />
This is based solely on the space and not on the names the venue attracts. It's big enough, but maintains an intimate feel. The staff is friendly, the drinks are cheap and the soundsystem is great. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Sushi: <a href="http://richmond.citysearch.com/profile/10551184/richmond_va/akida_japanese.html">Akida</a></strong><br />
Sure, they don't have tater tots, but those aren't Japanese, so why would they? For someone looking for authentic sushi and sashimi, this is the place to go. The space is small, rarely loud and great for a first date or taking a friend from out of town. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Cafe/Coffeeshop/Place to use the internet for free: <a href="http://www.richmondcoffee.net/">Lamplighter</a></strong><br />
It's not just for hipsters, it's become the neighborhood hangout. I cannot go there without running into at least three people I know, and like. They have never once messed up my order, and everything I've tried on the menu is delicious and reasonably priced. The vegan and vegetarian options make this place great for everyone. The staff is friendly and patient, even during their busiest hours. Though, I recommend ordering ahead if you want a TLT&A during their lunch rush. They cook in order the orders are placed, and it'll be ready when you get there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Museum: <a href="http://www.c-mor.org/">The Children's Museum</a></strong><br />
Sure, the <a href="http://www.vmfa.state.va.us/Default.aspx">VMFA</a> has the <a href="https://tickets.vmfa.museum/public/show_events_list.asp">Picasso</a> exhibit, but have you ever taken your small relative to the Children's Museum? I have just as much fun as they do pretending to drive the ambulance, digging for dinosaur bones and making crafts. (Related: I am a huge dork.) I've never tried to go without a small relative, that probably wouldn't be welcomed by museum staff or parents, but it would still be fun. My nephew's favorite exhibit is the Newsroom. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Place for Karaoke: <a href="http://www.ny-d.com/">New York Deli</a></strong><br />
The crowd is different every week, and spands well beyond the regulars. The talent is unexpected and those performing are unassuming. I don't love the DJ, I think he talks too much and has terrible hair, but that's neither here nor there. (But seriously, dude, you should cut that ponytail off.)<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Brunch: <a href="http://www.lulusrichmond.com/">Lulu's</a></strong><br />
Have you had the Red Velvet Waffle? No? You are missing out. Though, perhaps you prefer a savory brunch over a sweet one, in which case their menu is perfect for you. Omlettes, fritattas, meat, it's all there. I like to go with a friend and split the RVW and the Greek fritatta. Though, it fills up fast, so go with a small group or with a couple people and sit at the bar. <br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Restaurant: <a href="http://www.thewatergrill.com/">Water Grill</a></strong><br />
I like seafood and I like patios and I reallyreally like seafood. Nevermind the great service or ambiance or it being conveniently located down the street from <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/bevs-homemade-ice-cream-richmond">Bev's</a> and <a href="http://www.byrdtheatre.com/">The Byrd</a>, get me some scallops!<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Best Bar</strong>: Ehhh, this is a toss up. I can't decide between Bamboo or The Whisky.<br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://www.bamboo-cafe.us/">Bamboo</a>:</strong> It's always full of townies and the food is fairly high-end for a bar. For late night snacking I like to get the fried eggplant appetizer. I also like that all the staff has a constant smirk on their faces. <br />
<br />
<strong><a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/mccormacks-whisky-grill-and-smokehouse-richmond-2">The Whisky</a>:</strong> They serve their entire menu until last call. All of it. And from open to 3 pm, they offer a 25% discount to anyone who lives or works in The Fan and on rainy days ask for the "rainy day discount." They offer plenty of vegetarian and gluten free options. Don't ask for your regular drink, tell the bartender what you like and have them recommend something new - you will like it, promise. Try the green bean fries. <br />
<br />
<strong>Best Place for Finding single men with jobs and cars for your friends who don't go out much: <a href="http://www.therepublicrva.com/">The Rebublic</a></strong><br />
Seriously, it works. Every single time. <br />
<br />
<br />
Sure, there are other places to go, but most other categories seem irrelevant as Richmond isn't large enough to really support multiples of things. And besides all be do is go to shows, karaoke and drink anyway.<br />
<br />
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<br />
So, I mentioned it to my sister this morning and then she looked at it. Freaked out and told me to go see a doctor, just to make sure it wasn't a staph infection. I spent the following twenty minutes looking at <a href="http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=staph+infections&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.&wrapid=tlif130402684865210&um=1&ie=UTF-8&tbm=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&biw=1579&bih=668">pictures of staph infections </a>(you're welcome!). <br />
<br />
"Are you sure you're going to be okay at the doctor's alone?" My sister has no faith in me. "Because you know, they lance it and then they squeeze it and rub a cotton swab in there..."<br />
<br />
"Amanda, I'm happy to go with you... you really don't handle these things very well." My mom doesn't have any faith in me either. <br />
<br />
I didn't have an appointment and they weren't able to see me, so I went to the emergency room at Fort Belvoir (because my dad's a retired Marine and I'm still on their insurance). There, a doctor did exactly what my mom did, but with needles. And I didn't scream. Or cry. <br />
<br />
"I don't think it's staph, yet, it's probably just a boil, but we're gonna treat it for MRSA anyway." That's cool, I guess. "It still might get worse, but just see your primary physician if it does, but it's probably not a big deal."<br />
<br />
Yep. Totally not a big deal. Or it could be. I'm not gonna worry about it.<br />
<br />
<br />
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