Belated Mother's Day



My mom about my age.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She doesn't get me. And most of the time I don't get 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.

Getting Excited About Christmas?

Christmas is in five days and I still have the majority of my Christmas shopping to do. I'm poor, so I'm only buying my immediate family presents this year, and I'm getting them from thrift stores. My sisters and I all have an appreciation for the odd, unique, generally old things you can find, but the rest of my family won't be so easy. My mom prefers gaudy, new things a la model homes - that kind of gaudy. Everyone else isn't as picky and may not love what I get them, but will deal.

As picky as my mother is about what she wants, she's just as picky about giving us what she thinks we should want. For example, I need new clothes. The last time I went shopping was in September, I bought a (third) pair of black skinny pants, two plaid shirts and a red dress. With the exception of that dress (that I've only worn once) that became my fall uniform. Since winter has arrived I've modified it slightly by wearing tights under my pants and t-shirts under my button-downs. I keep it basic because I can't afford to dress better. My mother hates this, she's always telling me that I need to get some nice "slacks" and to let her know if I'd like anything from Talbot's, Chadwick's, Bowden, etc.

This summer she told me to email her some dresses I'd like, and she'd get me a couple. I sent the email, everything was around $50. She didn't like any of them and in return sent me links to dresses she thought I would like. They were terrible. And I didn't end up with any new dresses. THANKS, MOM!

So, the other day she and my dad were in Richmond and we were all at my sister's house, and when my mom goes to hug me, she very conspicuously looks at my shirt tag, and then makes this face. The corners of her mouth curve up and inward and she squints her eyes, it's terrible, but it's her "I'm up to something face"- because she hadn't already given herself away. I had been warned that my mom was planning on buying me a coral sweater set, so I told her very plainly not to. I would not wear it.

Last year I asked for an oversized, black, merino wool sweater. I got a black Merona (the Target brand) sweater instead. Not the same thing, but at least she tried.

I don't ask for a lot, but I am very specific about what I want. And as my mother has learned, and demonstrated this summer with the dresses, if it's not what I asked for, I would rather go without.

My sister April is smarter about her responses to "What do you want for Christmas?" She asks for practical gifts with very little specifications. This year she told me mom that she wanted a toaster, no particular brand, no specific color or size, just a toaster. Well my mom decided to get an expensive one, since it was all April had asked for. Then this conversation happened:

Mom: What else do you want? Something big? (Big, i.e. more valuable than a toaster)
April: Something that I can use the internet on...
Mom: ...
April: Like a netbook?
Mom: I was thinking a gym membership...

1. April has a gym membership.
2. My mom can be such a bitch.
3. April can fit into her pre-pregnancy clothes.
4. Could my mom be any more passive aggressive?

My mom thinks April is fat, and that I dress terribly. Ohdeargod, Christmas is going to be so much fun.

The presents that I have bought so far aren't great, I've definitely done better (with more money) in the past, but I'm doing my best to be inspired. And as cheesy as that may be I think I'm doing alright so far.

Birds have it made.

Last night I had dinner with a friend. We had Thai. I never get Thai food. It was delicious. So, I'm having it again tomorrow for a different friend's birthday - her choice. He was telling me all about all the things in his life that are currently bothersome, and I of course did the same.

He told me that I had to stop feeling guilty about things, which is true. For example, right now, I could be writing for school or a publication, but I'm not because right now I need to do this. And later I'll probably write some really terrible poetry and attempt to play the piano and become frustrated because I'm not nearly as good as I used to be.

I saw my parents this past weekend. It was only for an hour or so, and I needed my dad to sign some stuff so that I can hopefully move into my own place. So, my mother was sitting there with us and started going on about how her children don't like her. This isn't true. We do like her, but as with my father, we prefer small doses. I suppose this may seem mean or ungrateful. I can only be around them for so long before I start feel like a terrible person. My mother will first ask me about school and why I'm not done yet. Then she will tell me about some people at church that I don't know or care about and how they're getting married or having children, two things I am in now rush to do. And then she'll ask me about my job and tell me about how another person is making so much money doing something different. This will all lead to politics, something that we will never agree on.

I finally told my mother that it's not her that I don't like, it's the fact that she constantly puts herself down and then blames her children and compares us to everyone else. Life is hard. We're just trying to make it. I'm young, I have the rest of my life ahead of me and who knows what that means. I can only listen to what a disappointment I am so many times.

Going to a community college and getting an associates degree in court reporting in the sixties is hardly comparable to going to the largest university in the state and then flunking out. I feel terrible about all that wasted money and time, but at the end of the day I know that I'm much better on in Richmond than I would have been had I stayed in Lake Ridge. Anyway, I get like this after having those kinds of conversations with my parents.

I'm trying to get myself situated enough so that I can save up and after I finish my own associates degree in Liberal Arts, I can go somewhere for a year. And between now and then I'll hopefully find a way to get over all my qualms regarding writing. I mean, I just wrote all of this. I'm sure that were my parents to see it they wouldn't exactly be happy, though it's not my job to make them happy. I have the beginnings of things written that ideally one day will be published that I would like to spend more time on. And I'd like to spend more time writing music, and maybe attempt to get over my stage fright; grow up. Growing up seems an impossible thing to do.

boobs aren't cheap

Today at work my co-worker, Abigail, and a client and I were discussing our lingerie. It started with shoes. Abigail was wear a cute pair of Asics Tiger sneakers and I have a pair too, but she paid $30 for her's and mine were $85. She got her's on sale, because she unlike myself, goes shopping to go shopping and only buys things on sale or clearance or at one of the Ross/Marshall's/TJ Maxx type of stores.

I have tried this type of shopping, but it doesn't work. My mother turned me off to it by taking me TJ Maxx far too often growing up. This isn't to say that I don't occasionally go to this type of store, I do, but find that they are only good for kitchen items and shoes and occasionally pre-screened DVDs.

Abigail went on to say that she had just bought a bra for fifteen dollars. I do not think I have ever paid less than thirty dollars for a bra, ever. I mean, I wore training bras for far too long (this is relative, people) because I had an aversion to "triangle bras." Why? I don't know, I suppose it was before I realized what support was and how important it is and that the uni-boob look is never good, though excusable while exercising.

Seriously, the last bras that I bought were all $50+ on sale! But then, I was also the only eighth grader with a C-cup. And it wasn't a "C-cup" it was an almost D-cup.

I have tried to find bras at these clearance stores; they carry decent brands, but they never fit me right or have my size. My mother, like Abigail, does not have this problem. She also would prefer to get a "good deal" and then complain about a top shrinking. Very rarely do I have this problem and most of what I have I wear for awhile. I have pretty much been the same size since I was fifteen and can still wear those clothes, though I have recently been getting rid of them because I never wear them. My taste has changed.

My mother grew up being poor. She literally lived next to the train tracks, I have seen the house, and it is only a couple of yards away from the tracks. She went to Rose's and always had a job. She is the hardest working person I know. And she is fairly frugal, but is willing to spend money on things that she deems "classy." She considers J. Jill to be classy, but still thinks that she's getting a good deal when she guys a shirt that shrinks after the first wash.

My mother's day post is coming soon, probably tomorrow. But I cannot not think of her whenever the subject of bras or boobs come up, as she has never had a problem with either and in turn teases me about my problems and frequently suggests breast reduction as a viable option, followed by "get those things out of my way." Thanks, Mom!

The Undeserving

I drive around in the car that my parents bought me with the insurance money they were given after I got into an accident in the car that they had previously given me. While I drive, I put the windows down and turn the music up as loud as it will go. The music comes from a black ipod that was bought for me by a friend for my birthday after I stupidly left my old one, that I saved up for an entire summer to buy, in my car - that was when I found out that the locks didn't work all the time.

Sometimes when I'm driving around in the bubble that I've created, I come to stop lights and intersections. At these places are men and women two, three times my age with signs. Written on those signs are questions, thoughts, sometimes the single word "help."

I'm not a religious person, and I wasn't even raised Catholic, but I've adopted that cross thing that they do. And while I'm avoiding eye contact, I look up to the God that may or may not exist, but I believe in, and I do that cross thing and think to myself how good I've got it.

Those men and women have lived longer than I, and they've probably worked harder and experienced things that I may never experience, both good and bad. When the light turns green I think of the granola bar that I keep in my glove compartment and how I should have given it to them, but it's too late. Then I show up late to wherever I'm going, somewhere that requires me to have money, gas money, ticket money, food money - money. Disposable income. Money that I can spend freely on whatever I choose, because I earned it, because I'm fortunate enough in my twenty years to have both a job and parents who make up the difference.

Today I looked at studio apartment in a clean building that didn't have roaches or mice, and there was a diverse population in both age and ethnicity that lived in the building. I looked at this building because I like nice things, and while I don't consider my upbringing to be particularly luxurious, I wasn't poor and I've never known real hunger. I have gone to the dentist every six months my entire life, and when I get sick I don't have to worry about absurd premiums. And when the crazies start to creep in, I can pay someone to listen to my demons. And when something doesn't go my way, I can make a fuss until it does, because I wasn't told no very often.

And it's because I am not familiar with the word no that I am able to fumble my way around and maintain the level of comfort that I feel I deserve. But I don't, at all. And that is really scary.

I'm trying to earn it.

Sorry, Dad, but umm...What?

I find cussing to be funny in certain (most) contexts. My father does not. Recently my father has joined Facebook. And because I am a relatively nice daughter, he and I are friends, according to Facebook.

Now, I love my dad. He loves me, he worries about my well being, and because I have not turned out at all to be the person that he had hoped I would turn into when I was born, we don't always get along. And sometimes, a lot of the time, he does embarrassing things.

(This is a picture of my dad from this past Christmas. He bleached his hair and beard to look more like Santa.)


For example, when I started writing for a certain Web site two years ago, and I was going to help out at their relaunch party, he emailed them and accused them of "exploiting" his then eighteen year old daughter because I was writing for them and helping out at this party without pay. I was at a National's game with a twenty-five year old when I got a call from one of the editors at the Web site. It went something like this (and please keep in mind I had not yet met these people, all of our communication had been via email):

Dude: So, we just got an email from your dad...
Me: um...
Dude: Are you sure you can help on Saturday?
Me: Yes.
Dude: We don't want to be responsible for you getting into trouble or anything...
Me: I'm really sorry, my dad is kind of um...crazy, um...sometimes. And I'm sorry that you had to experience it before i got a chance to warn you.
Dude: Um...right. So, Saturday is still going to work?
Me: Yes.

This was also at a point in my life when my dad went through the phone bill and put the numbers of the people I had called into his phone. So, that twenty-five year old I was with got a call from my dad while we were at that game. I can't relay that conversation to you as I was not part of it, but this guy was not very happy about it. Apparently my dad offered him steak and was not happy to hear that he was vegetarian. Real men eat meat, or something.

After that call, I got a call from my dad asking when I would be home. I had made plans to go to said dude's house and cut his hair after the game, and my dad wanted me to bring this guy by the house...I went to this guy's house, cut his hair. He cried. And then at some point we ended up making out.

This was probably the most absurd day of my life.

Until about six weeks later, after my graduation when a 37 year old friend came by my house for the open house. We thought that it might be a good idea for my parents to meet someone that I spent time with when I went to DC, we were wrong.

So, my dad and this guy had this conversation:

Dad: So, how old are you?
Dude: 37.
Dad: Do you have any kids?
Dude: No.
Dad: Well, if you did, maybe they could hang out with Amanda.

Yeah, later that dude and I agreed that that was probably the stupidest idea either of us had ever had.

Two years prior to both of these events:

My friend, a guy-friend, who could drive, and I used to hang out quite a bit. I'm not really sure how we became friends, except that it was through a mutual friend. And before we met this group referred to me as "The Chunk" because when asked if I was skinny, my friend told them no. Which was true, and still is true, but I'm not chunky either. I have an upper and lower half that fit quite well together, in my opinion. Anyway, I embraced the nickname, and it became a joke thereafter.

This guy, he and I bonded over our atypically dysfunctional families and our nonconstructive ways of dealing with it. This was my sophomore year of high school and this was the year that I started having panic attacks regularly and seeing a "crazy doctor" for them.

One day he and I had made plans to get lunch and play pool at the local Hard Times Cafe. He picked me up, and my dad answered the door - with a knife. This wasn't the first time he had done this, he had pulled out a knife to scare one of my sisters' guy-friends (who is now gay) years before. My friend handled himself fairly well, and acted obliged to see the rest of my dad's collection. And when we finally left he went off about how crazy my dad is, and how the knives weren't even cool, all looked the same, and what kind of person does that? My dad, that's who.

This friend was also the person who, when in the middle of a panic attack gave me a cigarette to calm me down. It kind of worked. And we spent that afternoon smoking and sitting on an old sofa on some dead end in Manassas.

Well, this friend and I still have some undefinable relationship. He calls me a bitch and I tell him that I miss him. He points out something stupid that I said, and I tell him how happy I am to hear from him. It's just how we work.

Well, he commented on my Facebook profile picture a couple days ago and called me a "crazy bitch" to which I agreed. And left a comment saying so. My dad also saw this comment and was not happy about it, and left another comment about how he "would love to get his hands around (my friend's) throat." and how "please (his) family must be that he is so respectful of women." Then my friend retorted and mentioned the knife collection, and how "your daughter isn't ever going to bring anyone home..." Um...

Facebook notified me about these comments at the same time. So, like four hours too late. Luckily my dad did not see the retort. I can only imagine what sort of reply that would have induced.

I called my dad last night to attempt some level of understanding. It didn't work. He doesn't understand why or when it would be funny or appropriate to call someone a bitch, dick, prick, asshole, slut, whore, pussy, etc. My relating a story about me and my sister April and how we call each other those names all the time didn't help. Now he thinks that I don't have any self-respect.

So, umm...all those times growing when I've tried to explain to people about my dad, they always think that I'm exaggerating. I'm not.

blubbering

I went to a show a last night and knew(ish) the drummer of one of the bands playing. We chatted for awhile before he asked me if I had seen the movie 'And Education' - random. Of Course I had. He went on to specify where and when I saw the movie. Apparently he was working the projector for that particular showing. And he saw me, bawling my eyes out and waiting for the rest of theater to empty. I was aware of someone looking at me at the time, but wouldn't dare look at that person while my face was decorated in hives and wet with tears. Embarrassing.

We didn't discuss why I cried. Thankgod.

I had dinner with some friends that night, and came down with an awful migraine. I spent about half of dinner in the bathroom where the window was open and the cool air was the only thing helping. After dinner I gave on of my friends a ride and started crying in the car, and then made my way to the movie where, with napkins in hand, I cried some more. This isn't anything particularly special, but I am the ugliest crier in the world. It's a family trait. All the women in my family become covered in hideous red spots and get all snotty. What's worse is that I can drop at the drop of a hat, though not on purpose, it's just that everything makes me cry. And this combined with the migraine and then I mild, but long panic attack - it wasn't good.

I called my mommy. And she and I drove for a few hours with her asking to drive every five minutes or explaining that maybe I should just stay the night. I always drive when I feel shitty, there's just something about it that's calming and unlike anything else. I've gotten to know 64 quite well since moving to Richmond as a result. This particular night though, my mom, she never quite knows what to do in situations like this. It took awhile to explain to her what my panic attacks are, she doesn't recognize them and instead thinks that I'm just being unreasonable. But that night, she got it. And I calmed down and dropped her off and continued driving back to Richmond.

So, this dude, whom I barely know, saw me in the middle of this ordeal. And brought it up four months later. Strange.

Phone People

Today both of my parents called me. I love them, but really, they call me all the time, and I don't like to answer because 1) my mother likes to tell me stories about people that I don't know or care about, 2) my father pretends that I am five years old, and 3) they both like to express their disappointment in my life.

My mother called me today to talk about the bill she got from my school and somehow that led to her and I arguing about my happiness? It was so bizarre? Who argues about that? Apparently we do, because as Pittmans, we are capable about arguing about anything whenever. It does not matter how trivial. We will argue about it. And nothing wakes you up on a rainy afternoon like an argument between you and your mother about your happiness.

She and I recently went on a drive while I was having a panic attack and during that time we discussed my depression. When I lived at home I saw a therapist regularly, and when I moved to Richmond we still had sessions over the phone regularly and then they became less frequent, and now I haven't spoken to her in about four months. My mom didn't like her because she felt that my therapist wasn't "doing her job" which, in my mother's point of view, was to use the Gospel (Mormon Doctrine) to help me cope. My therapist was Mormon, but very progressive and had she been what my mother wanted, I would not have gone. And manohman, high school would have been a lot worse.

My mother has failed to understand, for years, the importance of self-discovery. She never put much effort into and I as previously expressed, have put a lot of effort into it. And my mom decided that it was this mentality that causes my supposed unhappiness. I'm not going to go into the difference between being unhappy and general depression, but I am not the former. I do what I can to keep myself happy, and it involves being social, at places my parents do not approve of.

This combined with the monotony of money talk escalated into her accusing me of wanting all the wrong things, but an eventual agreement that we are different.

I know. Crazy.

But what she views as my being materialistic, I view as being stressed out about money, because all I want out of life at this point is to be financially stable. I understand that being a twenty year old, I am exactly where I'm supposed to me - still mostly dependent on my parents, in school, working part time - but it feels so far away, and it's so discouraging.

Amongst all the craziness I mentioned that I think it would be good if I took a semester off or went to the community college for a semester, because it might be less stressful.

My dad called me later and told me, "Amanda, you are staying in school, because if you don't you're moving back home and won't be on our insurance anymore." Thanks, Dad!

"Don't do drugs."

What?

"Don't do drugs."

My dad told me not to do drugs. He has never told me not to do drugs. Drugs have never been an issue. Because I don't do them.

"Stay in school and don't do drugs."

How bizarre. My parents are so strange. For anyone who was wondering, this is where I get it from.

But thank God, a boy called. A non-crazy (this is very important as I have history of attracting the crazies) boy, who is my age (well, 21), a journalism major, works on his school radio station and student publications, has an internship at NPR, and was even the ed-in-chief of his high school litmag. I am pretty certain that we are the same person, he just happens to have a penis. But he lives in DC. DC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why can't I find one of these in Richmond? Nevermind that, he has called me three times this week. THREE TIMES! and. AND! He has said at the end of each call, "I'll call you later." And then, he does. I swear, he has got to be some sort of anomaly. I didn't know that they still made males in this form. I'll be he's even the flower-buying type, and not to prove that he has money to burn (as a certain someone expressed to me earlier this week) but because it's a kind gesture. And he has major word vomit, much like my own. I can totally look past the fact that he just discovered Lykke Li because his favorite song from her album is my favorite song. Not the happiest of songs, but it's beautiful nonetheless.



And another one just because I love her and this video.

All Grown Up

Dear Internet,

I would like to start by apologizing for not being around for the last month, not that anyone reads this, but let's pretend. I have been exceptionally busy having a life which unfortunately doesn't leave much time for blogging. And I'm sorry to those that took offense at the above comment, but let's be real, non-bloggers constantly ridicule bloggers for not having lives, though, in out defense if we didn't have lives we wouldn't have anything to blog about in the first place. Now, if I had any sort of time management skills I would have a time each day or week set aside for blogging, but again, my life is insane.

I work. A lot. Like a ton. Like all the time. And when I'm not working I am typically driving or in transition to someplace else. Travel time takes up a good portion of my life also. My week, starting Mondays looks something like this:

Monday and Tuesday - Wake up and go to work at the Going Out Guide 7 am-5ish pm, from here I find someone in DC to put up with me for a few hours so that I can avoid my parents and all the uncomfortable questions my mother likes to ask me.

Wednesday - This is the craziest day of my week. It starts like Monday and Tuesday, but I leave at 1 pm so that I can be at work in Richmond at Images by 4 pm. Then I work until 8 pm. Then I have sister bonding time, otherwise known as being overly critical of the contestants of So You Think You Can Dance. Brownies are usually a part of this. I get home around eleven and pass out, hopefully after I've brushed my teeth.

Thursday and Friday - I get up sometime between nine and ten. Eat, obsessively clean my apartment and kill all bugs I see, tell someone about the bugs I just killed, put something presentable on and bike to work at noon where I stay again until eight. Thursdays I watch SYTYCD results.

Saturday - I work from 9 am-5 pm. This sucks, mostly because of the 9 am part. It often prevents me from doing all that I want to on Friday nights, or I just don't sleep.

Sundays are a toss up depending on whether I chose to dance in DC the night before, stay with my parents, or crash in the city.

So I work about fifty hours a week and drive at least ten and am on the metro for another five each week, and as you can seeI am going, going, going, all the time. Though, this is preferable to having too much spare time. I don't deal well with having to occupy myself and when I have free time it's usually spent nit-picking over stupid things.

The Going Out Guide, or for those of you that don't know what that is, I am an intern for Washington Post-Digital, or the website. I enjoy it. It gives me an excuse to look cute most days. Their dress code only states that employees can't wear sweatpants and shorts, so most people keep it fairly casual, but I like wearing skirts and heels and being dressed better than most of the people in the office. It's comparable to going to church with my parents in that I can usually count on being the best dressed one there. I won't even get into makeup, or the lack thereof and the ill applied makeup , that's a rant for another day.

I spend my time there fact checking and calling people and getting transferred to different people and after I've done this and eventually found someone to email me a press release with all of an events information, I put it into the calendar. Then I write a sentence describing the event, these are supposed to funny, but I'm not funny so I've given up trying to be. Sometimes I write a paragraph of two in addition to the "teaser" sentence. So, if you check out the Guide, and want to know about all the county fairs in the DC Metro area I will have put that information up. And let me tell you what, people that run county fairs do not have their shit together.

Throughout the day I spend a good portion on Gchat figuring out what I'm going to do that evening. It usually involves dinner and watching a movie/tv at someone else's house. I don't know why, but I just don't do well in the suburbs. I mean, I have to be doing something and if I'm not doing something I like to know that I could be doing something that is only happening a few blocks away.

I love my parents, but they don't do anything except watch criminal investigation shows. And it's difficult to have a conversation with them without them saying something like, "If you went to church...wouldn't happen." Boys for example, I can count on my friends telling me that their a waste of time, or agreeing with me that certain ones are assholes, etc, but my mother is quick to point out that I'm too abrassive, aggressive, intimidating, not sensitive enough, not soft enough, too confident, etc. And I'm always like what? Did you just suggest that I need to be meek and vulnerable and passive? Because I can't stand those type of people. Well maybe you should try being nice. Mother, nice? Nice is a word we've been over. It's a word that is used when you don't have anything better or worse to say about someone. I hope that people have a stronger opinion of me either way... Our conversations go on like that, unless she complains about me not liking her. She says that. And I have finally started aggreeing. Yes, Mom, I can't stand being around you. But really, it's because she says stuff like that. I mean, really? It's so depressing.

My dad is a little bit better. He isn't as intrusive. And we've gotten to the point where we can talk more openly about what I do, even if he doesn't approve, I think he's finally realized that it's helathier for us to talk to each other than constantly argue about who or what is right.

When I'm in D.C., as previously stated, I'm out most of the time. But, when I'm in Richmond I stay in most of the time. My apartment is really starting to feel like home. I have finally hung things on the walls. It's nothing fabulous, but it certainly makes a difference. I still have tons of things that I want to do.

I spent last Friday cleaning and de-bugging. I cleaned every surface in the house except for those in my roommate's room. I made a special trip to the hardware store and bought boric acid and fly tape, for our roach and fruitfly problems. The fruitflys were a gift from my mother that accompanied a pineapple. The roaches came with the apartment. You may be asking yourself why my landlord hasn't done anything about this, let me explain, roaches own Richmond. They are everywhere. And because I live on a ground level apartment, they're probably worse.

After I cleaned out all of the kitchen cabinets, I mixed cocoa with the boric acid and spooned thin lines of it around the edges of all the cabinets, into any and all cracks, holes and spaces between the wall and floorboards. Then I shot Combat into many of the same cracks and sprinkled more of the boric acid mixture under the stove and refrigerator. The fly tape was hung and has mostly solved that problem, and while fly tape is gross it's also satisfying to see all the flies that are not interrupting my breakfast anymore. The roaches and other brown bugs are becoming fewer and I am feeling better about living here.

Of course keeping the floors swept and the dishes clean also helps. We do not leave dirty dishes in the sink ever. It's awesome. We eat our meal and then wash our dishes as soon as we are done eating. I had heard of this before and seen it take place growing up when I would have dinner at friend's houses, but never have I experienced it until now. Mind you, it is largely due to the bugs. They keep us motivated.

I could go on, but I feel that most of you probably stopped reading about three paragraphs ago.

-ap

the most important thing besides breakfast

I used to not understand why all my friends were down with hanging out with their families for long periods of time. I do now. I may still be the youngest and the butt of most jokes, but they really are all we've got. And it was wonderful seeing them yesterday. Ella's so tall, and loud and rambuncious. Archer is so quiet and timid, they are complete foils of each other.

Yesterday we all went to church, all of us. And because I forgot the dress I was going to wear I wore a hot pink Calvin Klein number that my mom "thought (I'd) like, but if you don't I can wear it" - it was a size too big and I looked like a giant Easter egg. I like hot pink, but not that much hot pink in one place, on one person.

Being at church is strange, there are so man new people and the old ones always ask about things they shouldn't. I just don't get it. I got asked if I was still going to church, and I'm not even going to walk around it, I'm not, but why would someone ask that when they know what the answer is and ruin a completely good conversation? The siblings, spouses and I left after the first hour to "help the Easter Bunny."

We played scrabble, team scrabble, except I'm not married nor do I have a boyfriend, so I was by myself. And I lost horribly, thank you Z, Q and J.

My parents came home with the grandkids about half an hour after we hid the eggs. Ella is very competitive and Archer isn't usually, but with some encouragement he caught up and even did the bragging song and dance when he found eggs that Ella had missed.

Dinner was relatively short, but fantastic. My mom told us how grateful she was to have all of us home and it was. It was really great. I see April and her husband Steven fairly often because they live in Richmond, too. But my brothers, hardly ever. Steven (my brother) is a pilot and he and his wife Lessa and their daughter Ella live in Arizona. I see Lessa and Ella more often than I see him because of his crazy work schedule. My other brother Joseph and his wife Laiene live in San Sebastain, Spain. I probably see them both twice a year, but hardly ever are they here together.

After dinner we sang April 'Happy Birthday' (her birthday was this past week) and played Loaded Questions. Have I mentioned that my family is big on board games? Because we are. I don't understand why people don't play them more often. When I get my apartment the eight-year-old in me is going to beg everyone that walks through my door to play Sorry!

My Parents are Cute.

While watching French Kiss with my dad:

"Amanda?"

"Yeah?"

"If any boy ever does that to you, you let me know..."

"Okay, Dad."

"No, really, if any boy does that to you, you know what I'll do?"

"Comfort me?"

"Well, yeah, but I'll say 'Hey, Jerk!' and I'll punch him in the nose and kick him when he's down."

"Okay, thanks."



Today my mom called:

"Amanda, you know you're dad and I worry about you."

"Why?"

"Because, Amanda, you're crazy!"

Dance Dance Dance

On Friday I had made plans to meet some friends in The City (DC, never Richmond) for lunch. Well that didn't happen. Instead I got stuck in Richmond for and extra hour because my dad sent tickets to my sister's priority mail - meaning because they weren't there when the "package" came and my sister and her husband both work, and I got out of class at eleven, I had to go pick up the "package."

I'm calling it a "package" because really it was a series of envelopes. Five to be exact. Five freaking envelopes for three measly tickets to Celtic Thunder, a show that my dad has supposedly picked out for my birthday.

My dad is incapable of making things convenient. He had sealed the ticketmaster envelope, put it inside a white letter envelope and put tape over all the seals, put that inside an orange padded (???) envelope and again put tape over all the seals and edges and corners but this time it was that horrible tape with the strings in it that makes anything impossible to open, then all of that into a cardboard envelope, and then into a large bag-like envelope. It took me about ten minutes to get through it all with the help of my keys. Then I had to drop two of them off at my sister's house.

I could go on about all the different ways my dad could have distributed the tickets to us in a more convenient way (a single envelope, for example, willcall...).

Then I texted my friends and told them I would be late, at which point they had to cancel because they were using their lunch breaks and had to be back at work. So I was pissed. And I got lost. Somehow, upon leaving April's house I got onto 295 South instead of North. So I took an hour long detour around Richmond. And on my way back through RIchmond a huge rock hit my windshield. It came from a bulldozer that was on a flatbed in the next lane about three cars in front of me.

This was not what I had planned for an enjoyable weekend.

I finally made it to DC around four. Ridiculous. And since everyone was at work, I went shopping. At Coup de Foudre, a lingerie shop across from E Street Cinema. I've known about this place for awhile and thought about going there before, but hadn't, mostly because it is very expensive. But, since I was feeling somewhat irrational, I figured why not. A good bra is an investment, right?

I spent approximately three hundred dollars in an hour. I bought two sets. And got refitted. And for someone who has sworn by Victoria's Secret since the seventh grade, I have changed my mind completely. Apparently lace can be supportive. AND! And they had pretty bras in my size (enormous). After wearing one for the past two days, I can tell you that it's already made a huge difference. They just feel better and if you're currently wearing a shitty, stretched out elastic band of a bra, reconsider.

Afterwards I decided that I needed something cute to wear to Sorted that night after Celtic Thunder, so I went to H&M. And surprisingly didn't find nearly as many things as I usually do. I only tried on three things. I ended up buying shiney, blue, shirt-dress. I'll admit, it came up kind of high on the sides, and I probably should have worn it with leggings (real leggings) or my black skinny pants, but instead I wore it with black hose and heels. I'm not really sure if I was wearing hose as pants, or a shirt as a dress, probably both, but whatever, I looked fabulous.

At this point I had not had anthing solid to eat all day, so I grabbed a smoothie from Maggie Moo's and headed to Baltimore. I got there at about a quarter to eight. I was feeling very irritable from having driven for about five hours that day and not having eaten anything. And I snapped ay my parents, mostly my dad for picking the most horrible birthday present earlier. I mean my parents have always been bad at birthdays. And every year, if I wanted anything to happen I had to plan it, except last year, when my mom decided to have a failed surprise party that turned into a roast. Anyway, no one has ever thrown me a birthday party and I resent that because I'm pretty good about birthdays. Anyone that knows me knows what a huge fucking deal they are.

I've digressed. When I told my dad all this, he said that it wasn't even for my birthday, which would mean that my parents didn't do shit for my big day. I didn't even get a fucking card. Or a cake, or candles. And aside from the movies that my roommate got me and the most beautiful roses you've ever seen from another friend, I didn't get any presents. My mom tried to say that the car was my present, but I reminded her that I would have gotten that anyway. My dad agreed and asked what I wanted. I had told them that I wanted accupuncture over a month ago, several times and each time I brought it up my mom said that our insurance wouldn't cover it. DUH! That's why it's a gift.

So after crying and being a total brat, April and Steven arrived and we took in the audience, a sea of sixty-five to seventy year olds, and waited for the show to start.

Celtic Thunder is like Disney on Ice for the elderly, but without the ice. The stage was set up to look like a rocky shore in a storm. The preformers were five men, and all the songs were chauvenist and trite. "...life is an ocean, love is a boat...I'm the captain, you're my first mate...we have our own crew..." Really, those were lyrics in one of the songs.

One of the guys was like fourteen and sang a song about pupply love, during which he waved around a shirt. Some girl, who was probably like twelve ran up to try and catch it when he threw it and completely missed. So sad, she's lucky no one knows who she is.

April, Steven and I spent the entire show laughing. It was so ridiculous. My mom kept nudging us to be quiet because we were "making a scene." I almost feel bad for possibly ruining the show for the people around us, but it was just so bad, so I don't. There wasn't anything "celtic" about it except for the fact that the guys were Irish and they sang Danny Boy, but that was it.

I left for DC as soon as soon as it was over. And after parking I changed into the aforementioned dress and hose in my car and was ready to dancedancedance. And I did, for at least three hours.

For those that aren't aware of my awful stage fright, dancing on the stage at a backstage dance night at The Cat is about as close to preforming as I will ever get. And I don't grind, I simply dance the way I would in my room, and since most of the people there don't know me and those that do, think I'm adorable (because I am), I am somehow able to completely let go. And that for me is very difficult. So I danced and danced. And at one point was offered a double shot of bourbon which I had to decline because you know, I was at the Cat and I'm underage (but bourbon is so good). Later when I was in towards the back of the stage, some girl grabbed my hand pulled me to the front of the stage. I had seen her grinding with another girl earlier and told her I didn't do that, she laughed and told me to "give them what they want." At this point I was very confused. She made me look out at the room. People were watching me. I mean, people that I didn't know. And for probably the first time in my life, I didn't care.

So I danced and danced and danced. And David wanted to dance with me. He was a very awkward twenty-eight year old who had no rythm. I danced with him, I danced with a lot of people. But Idanced with him for three songs. He was drunk and told me that I beautiful and that he wanted to kiss me. I explained to him that that would be inappropriate and that we could just dance. By the third song I was sick of him and told him that that was the last dance. He didn't like that and tried to continue dancing with me, so I pushed him away and explained that this was my song* and I didn't want to dance with anyone else.

Eventually it was over. I got asked for drugs, also a first. Apparently is was difficult for people to believe that I was sober.

What a crazy day.


* I am a much better dancer than that girl in the video, and I wish there was a better video for that song. This and this are both equally dancable and all are sad.

favors

i'm a fan of charity; giving my leftovers to that lady that hangs out around the fountain in old town; donating to the salvation army; those sorts of things. but favors, favors do not sit well with amanda. unless she asks, don't do it. DO NOT DO IT! SHE WILL NOT APPRECIATE IT! (unless it's in the form of flowers, brownies, or a victoria secret gift card, but let's be honest those aren't favors they're presents and amanda loves presents)

the perks of still living at home are fabulous, free food, a car that is accessible on the weekends (unfortuneately not all the time), occasionally money (when my parents get tired of seeing my we are scientists shirt everyday), those sorts of things. but my paretns, they are capbale of irritating me like no other. like last night, my dad decided to clean all the windows, great i dea dad, but my desk is in front of my window, and dad, you didn't put anything back. this morning my mom felt the need to fold, and start putting away my laundry; dealing with my clothes is a HUGE no-no. i hate the thought of anyone washing, drying, and touching my clothes. this isn't because i'm afraid they'll get dirty, but because i'm OCD about things being done my way. if it's not my way, and it's dealing with my things, it's definately the wrong way. and of course my dad felt the need to laugh at how funny it is when amanda's irriated by coming in and nonchalantly saying, "i think i'll go mess around in amanda's closet." he is so sweet.

my room may not be the cleanest, but all my stuff is in it, and they can certainly find something else to do that doesn't concern me. like shopping, or dancing, or walking... anything so long as they're not in my room, or trying to read over my shoulder.

now, i get this from my mom. but she asks for things to be done, and expects them to be done her way and when they're not she gets mad. especially when we have people over. i hate having people over simply because my mom feels the need to act as though brad pitt and jennifer aniston are breaking up all over again. it usually involves her asking me to help with dinner, getting mad because i didn't make the potatoes correctly, asking me to vaccuum, getting upset because i did it too early so it's not perfect when the guests arrive, or something similar.

this is why my family visits in short spurts. very rarely longer than three days. after that time, we're done, we've seen you, you're alive, that's great, but i'm going nuts having you rearrange the stuff on the counter in the bathroom, in my desk drawer, moving the location of the silverware, etc. i'll see you later.