Monday, December 31, 2007

Go vote for it...NOW!

This is awesome - vote for this girls' idea on Ideablob and I'll be your best friend. Less importantly, it will fill a huge need that a lot of parents of children with Autism, Aspergers, and SPD have.


Saturday, December 29, 2007


Once again, from Tastemaker and Gatekeeper of Excellence, Bauschy -

He's hot. He's got a deep voice. A sense of humor. And a really, really, really great personality, I bet.

Today's debate on Facebook: "Do you think a woman could be as effective a president as a man?"

Because our male presidents have been so effective. Hope having a vagina isn't a detriment to such an illustrious history of grave and gross errors in judgment, questionable ethics, and moral mismanagement.

I've got a feva! And the only thing that will cure it?! More bacon!

Coutesy of the illustrious Kevin from Minneapolis -

Also, wait for the New Years Resolution announcment of 2008, coming to you when I have decided what it will be.

It's New Year's weekend.

And you know what that means...

Okay, you don't, because I've never really done this before, BUT - this year it means that I am going to spend the next two days cleaning out my file cabinets, my online bookmarks, and so on and so forth. An organizational binge and purge, if you will (and you will).

What does this mean for you, you might ask? Well, Selfish, it means you can look forward to a LOT of misc. links, videos, and other random stuff posted on here in copious amounts over the course of the weekend. Nothing like ending the year on a bang, and that bang means bombarding you with stuff that I might think is funny or entertaining, and which you probably will too because everything I like automatically makes it great.

So basically it will be like every other day of every other year I've had this blog, only it will be more than usual.

Hug yourself with delight. I know you want to.

She looks like the kind of girl you'd want to have at your next party.

I totally stole this from Karah, who posted the link on her site. It's so freaky delicious that I had to post it on here, too, for those of you without a clue who do not read Bauschy every single day like me.

Open yourself up to new experiences. Maybe even think about making it a New Years resolution or something.

Monday, December 24, 2007

All I Want For Christmas Is Some Snow Tires.

Listening To: Christmas Time (Don't Let the Bells End) by The Darkness

In true Amber fashion, I finally made it to my parent's house for Christmas Eve...and it only took me two tanks of gas, one flat tire, one empty windshield washer-fluid dispenser, and three back muscle spasms to get here.
My grandmother is here for Christmas once again this year. You might remember her from the classic quote she was responsible for last year: After I had mock-whined about the presents Kris and Becky had gotten for their dogs and how I should get some extra presents too, Grandma quipped, "But you don't have a dog. Or a cat. You don't even have a boyfriend."
My grandma has been off the farm and living in assisted living - or "The Elderly Fun House" as I like to call it - for three years now. Her social life puts a twenty-something good time girl to shame...she always has some new club or outing that she's become a part of. I imagine her and her crowd of girlfriends taking Detroit Lakes by storm, bursting into Wal-Mart and Michael's Crafts like a senior citizen SWAT team. Last summer she did something she has never done before: She ate in a restaurant all by herself. "Oh, I was in the Wal-Mart the other day and I was getting kind of hungry, so I decided to stop in at this sandwich shop they've got right in the store there. They had all these ingredients for sandwiches, and you could have them put anything you wanted on your sandwich, just like that. I've never seen so many ingredients just for a sandwich, I didn't know how to decide! And boy, were they ever busy."When Daniel was little - about two or three - he had a bit of an issue with our Nativity Scene. It was very difficult for him to comprehend that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Raphael was not a part of the original birth of Jesus. Thus, every once in a while someone would happen upon the plaster manger to find Raphael standing guard in the back, presumably conferring with Joseph and one of the Three Wise Men. Sometimes this person would pluck Raphael out of the manger and put him back in Daniel's room where he belonged, only to find the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle right back in the mix a couple hours later.
Possessing both an insatiable curiosity as well as a need for instant gratification, one year I decided that it would be really fun to find out what all of my Christmas presents were before Christmas. I was actually pretty disappointed with the lack of creativity on my parents' part, as I found all of my presents stacked in their bedroom closet (which was unlocked...hello! Did you suddenly forget who your kids were?!). I don't recommend doing this. Christmas Eve wasn't much fun that year. Already knowing what my presents eroded the magic a little bit. This was also the point in my life when I decided that, if I ever got pregnant, I wouldn't choose to find out the sex of the baby ahead of time.
Two years ago our family decided to trek to The Elderly Fun House for Christmas to visit Grandma. I carpooled with Kris and Becky. It is a big testament of the bond of love and togetherness one has with a member of our family when they agree to hang out with us for Christmas, and it is especially poignant when one decides to take a six-hour car ride with one or more of the Carters. Kris had Roger Whittaker on his iPod. The Roger Whittaker Christmas Album is an acquired taste. Kris and I have been listening to it every Christmas since we were two and so we love it. Becky has not been listening to it every Christmas since she was two and so she did not love it. I think she loved it a little bit more, though, when Kris pantomimed and lip-synced to every song and even mimed the pan-flute for her during Guten Abend Gute Nacht. Because it's all about the giving.This Christmas I get have severe muscle spasms in my lower back. If you've never experienced these, here's what it's like: It's like you've got this internal fist in your back and every so often it will squeeze a bunch of your muscles really hard for about five seconds, causing you to double over and scream in pain. Much like the hip stuff, it would be kind of cool if it didn't hurt so much. My body is a cornucopia of delights...because my hips are janky, so too is my back (from having to compensate and balance out due to my janky hips, etc.) Cross your fingers that this gets me out of after-dinner dish duty...These are our Christmas traditions: Being nagged into frosting sugar cookies, stuffing our faces with fudge and caramels, insulting other peoples' Christmas cards/pictures, making Lefsa (potato wraps that are coated in butter and sugar and then rolled up), helping Mom make the Best Meal of the Year, having a brief 5-minute yelling match over something like which way to pass dishes during dinner after the "Let's Be Nice To Each Other, It's Christmas" dance has worn thin, opening presents Santa-Style on Christmas Eve, everyone ganging up on me and giving me grief about the blog, watching The Family Man, Elf, or The Family Stone after presents, waking up in the morning to open stockings and eat Christmas breakfast, and giving/getting guilt trips on how soon we all have to leave for home on Christmas day.

So Merry Christmas, everyone, so you and yours! Hope you all have a happy holiday full of grace and cheer.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

It's a Christmas Weekend Miracle!

HE-MAN & SHE-RA HOLIDAY SPECIAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Watch it here.

Boo for snow. Again.

I was going to go up to my parent's house this weekend for Christmas. We are celebrating Monday and Tuesday, but I like to spend as much time with my family over the holidays because otherwise I don't get to see them very often. But as it happens, the roads up north are atrocious so I have to wait until tomorrow or Monday to attempt the four hour drive.

So now I'm all sad and stuff, thinking about what a great time my family is having without me. They're probably drinking egg nog right now, and will soon be sitting down to dinner, which of course will consist of the best food ever because my mom is a tremendous cook. Then I bet Daniel will eat all the Monster cookies tonight so I won't even get one, just like he did at Thanksgiving. Then they'll all sit down to watch my favorite Christmas movies, like The Christmas Story, Elf, The Family Man, and The Family Stone.

Then tomorrow they'll all get up and have a great breakfast, which actually is what hurts the most because I love breakfast more than anything in the world, and I'll have to wake up by myself in my basement while my family eats bacon and drinks coffee and reads the paper together. Later on they'll probably decorate cookies to the Christmas tunes of The Oak Ridge Boys and Roger Whittaker. Christmas is not complete for our family without those particular Christmas renditions (I even got yelled at last year because I couldn't stop pantomiming along to "The Governor's Dream" during Christmas Eve dinner. Sorry, Becky, but you married into this family for better or worse). Then cue the egg nog again, rinse and repeat.

I plan on getting drunk tonight on cans of American Grain Belt while I watch the only thing that makes me feel better when I'm really sad and mopey, and that's my South Park seasons 1-5 DVD's. It's gonna get real.

I like it when other people find cool stuff for me to post on my blog.

Brilliantly fake gay junkie Chuck alerted me to this one, proof positive that Twitter does actually do some good:



Friday, December 21, 2007

I think it's a totally great idea, just like our stunningly successful "abstinence-only" programs.

Really?! We're still doing the whole "let's punish her for getting pregnant" type deal? Back in the 50's, girls like Jamie Lynn Spears would have been sent away to go "live with their aunt" (aka, a Home for Wayward Girls, or if you were so unlucky to grow up in Ireland, Magdalene's Asylums). These days, we've resorted to more subversive tactics, such as kicking them out of school or taking their shows off the air. It's weird, one ever really seems to suggest the elimination of a teenage male's education/job/TV show when he gets a girl pregnant...

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Many Detailed Things, 16

16) You are like me, in that you don’t care for the foreplay most people pose before the hard questions. We are back at your place. “Just to talk,” you had said, brushing the long hair back from my face. Walking in, you dumped your coat on the chair of the couch, clicked on a couple of lamps, and held the remote up to the stereo. “Elusive”. Scott Matthews. God damn you, I think, as I recognize the song. I told you about this song that one night before Thanksgiving, the night we had hung out here. You had talked about making an apple pie for the weekend. You weren’t going home for the holiday, citing exhaustion from just having taken the GRE. "I don't have the energy to deal with the fam'," you had said as you sighed. “But pie is important." You had also spent forty minutes copying all of your David Gray CDs for me...not because I liked him, but because you thought I would, because you wanted me to give him a fair shake. “You’re not a music snob,” you had stated. “You’re open to tons of stuff. It’s one of the things I like about you.” I had curled up on your couch and read from your stack of National Geographic magazines, murmuring article anecdotes to you, watching you nod at the computer screen, the clicks of the mouse punctuating the silence. It had been a nice night, the kind that made me wonder if this is what it would be like to exist with you. With this remembrance, I kick off my shoes and take a seat on the bench placed across the room from your brown leather couch. I want to be as far away from you as possible. Save for the music, it’s quiet for what seems a long while. You are watching me. I am staring at my white stockinged feet, flexing and stretching them against your hardwood floor. What you don’t know is that they are knee-high tube socks, and today I am wearing my gold and black ones. I think of my tube socks as secret covert operatives...they look like normal, ordinary white ankle socks to the naked eye, but unclothe me and you will find long and lean tubes of cotton stretching up to my kneecaps. Like a naughty soccer girl. You think you know, but you have no idea, I think, smirking a little at the old line from a show on MTV. I get stupid when I’m nervous.
“What are you like in relationships, Amber?” you ask, breaking the silence. It had just gotten comfortable. “Are you quiet, or do you call a guy a you even want to hang out with them?” I widen my eyes at you when I realize that you’re serious.
“I don’t remember.” This my quiet reply, and I shrug my shoulders a little when you continue to stare. I don’t. Some have called it selective memory, that I do remember but for so long have chosen not to so now it’s too hard for me to even try (say that all in one breath, so that you can get the full gist of how it sounds when others say it to me). I do remember some things. Sometimes a mundane memory will unexpectedly touch off another, a more poignant one: I’ll remember the feel of someone’s hair brushing my lips and chin as he lowered his head and body further down mine, but I can’t quite seem to remember who that must have been. Or I’ll remember this certain smile that I had. I can’t remember using it for a very long time, but it must be a good one, it must be effective, because good things always seemed to come after its utilization...though I can’t exactly recall what those things were or why they were good. A kiss? Maybe dinner at Chipotle. Or, like the last time my memory was jugged, I noticed the way it felt when you rubbed my black-stockinged thigh and knee with the open palm of your hand. It caused me remember when someone did that to my bare leg while we were riding in a car together, how he had just reached over and began stroking my cleanly shaven skin. I realized that I hadn’t had someone touch me like that, not really, not in a really long time. Not without wanting more, not just for the sake of touching or being close, or even absentminded habit. It’s more the lack of what I must have had at one time but do not any longer that I remember. That at one time I must have known what that felt like but I don’t anymore, and so that’s that and I should roll over and go back to sleep.
“I suppose when you don’t remember, you don’t really miss it, huh.”
I shake my head in agreement and look down at my toes again. "3 Libras" by A Perfect Circle is playing now. This whole soundtrack thing could be a ploy, I think. I wouldn’t put it past you.
“How long has it been?” you ask. “You know...since you were in a relationship.”
“Oh, god...” I turn my gaze up and stare at the ceiling as if the answer were scrawled across it in black permanent marker. “Years, maybe?”
“Huh.” You nod thoughtfully. I shrug my shoulders at you again and let my eyes wander around the room. I really do not want to be having this conversation. I know exactly how long it has been since I was last in a relationship. I’m not going to tell you, though. I’d rather you have a vague sense than be able to visualize eight-hundred-and-twenty-odd nights of a single slumbering body in my full-sized bed.
“Do you want to be in a relationship again? I mean, with me.”
This is the point, I think, as I meet your eyes. Every single word and action, every little motion that we’ve built up, here is it, here we are.

Many Detailed Things, 17 ->

Monday, December 17, 2007

I demand it.

Go over to Culture Bully right now and check out the 15 Favorite Mashups of 2007.

Riddle me this -

"...kind of a pretty girl (at least above the waist)."

WTF does that even mean? Some guy wrote this (along with some other choice insults) to a lady acquaintance of mine, and I'm still trying to solve the mystery. They never got it on, so he can't be talking about her ladybits. She's not packing any junk in the trunk and her legs are great, so I doubt he was referring to those. There's got to be some kind of hidden meaning or connotation to this, and dammit - I'M GOING TO FIGURE IT OUT.

And you, my dear readers, can help me.


Proof positive that my heart may not be a frozen ball of coal after all.

I actually really like this commercial. I think I even do that girlie "aww!" sighing thing when it comes on, though no one is ever around when that happens so that can never actually be proven in a court of law. But I will admit to liking it even though, theoretically, I hate diamond commercials. I don't even really like jewelry all that much. Or snow.

Maybe it's because the commercial has old people in it. The song is also fairly lovely. Whatever it is, it adds up to sweet without sap, which is a campaign this girl will aways jump behind.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

For you, Jason.

You're a good dancer.

(don't feel bad. I turned Taylor into an elf.)

FINE! I'm posting it. Now shut the hell up.

So one of my guy friends, who I will never name on this blog because I don't ever want to give him credit for anything, sent me this video and then subsequently harassed me to post it here. "They deserve to know the truth," he said. "Because this is so how you are "the morning after" that IT'S CREEPY."

Someday I'm going to find guy friends who are actually nice to me and make me feel good about myself and stuff.

Fortune paper (there was no cookie. BOO!) from sushi this weekend -

"Make new friends. And, when you do, make them out of playdough...then if they get can just squash them."

A List of Things I Love the Most: Current Edition

1. I didn't mind Rihanna's song "Umbrella" when it came out. In fact, I even kind of liked it (I didn't really like the duet version where the guy calls her his annoyed me so much that I won't even bother to look it up for you, not even so you can agree with me about how it sucks ass). As you may have noticed, I'm somewhat of a trendsetter, and thus a whole crapload of "Umbrella" covers have been popping up: Mandy Moore does an soft, sultry version during her live shows, Scott Simons put out a particularly excellent one, and this week Perez posted a cover that Rihanna has done of her own song. I gotta say it: It's the best one yet.

Lest you think that I've gotten all soft by having affection for this song, let me remind you that I still hate "Bubbly" by Colbie Caillat the mostest.

2. "...then you brand that person as a stink ass..."
I love the Gawker. Even more, I love Tionna. She's pretty much the best advice columnist in the entire world because she answers questions real people want answers to, as opposed to that fraud "Dear Abby" who really only writes PSA's disguised as OPP's . Tionna steers you straight.

3. That my roommate loves me so much she left a half-pound bag of Starbucks coffee in my room last night to surprise me, and that my other roommate loves me so much he spent two hours on the phone with tech support to make sure I didn't have to go without my life support/oxygen/reason for living/the internet today.

4. Renewing an old love affair. With music!
The Sundays and Badly Drawn Boy are two picks from my iTunes library that I dug up today and listened to for the first time in a long while. The Sundays remind me of rainy weekends in the 8th grade when all I ever wanted to do was lie on my bed and stare out my bedroom windows while I listened to their CD. Badly Drawn Boy reminds me of England...or more to the point, the months leading up to England. Also, winter/holiday Gap commercials (if you know why, perhaps we need to be better it is obvious that we are soulfully connected).

5. The fact that the rundown of votes on Street Clash simply reconfirm that I really don't understand others' rationale when it comes to interesting fashion. Take, for example, Day 5: How do skinny jeans and a fur-hooded jacket beat out the brilliant pairing of a red sparkly mini-dress and shiny lavender Leggins?!? I'm not going to lose sleep over this or anything, and after all there really is no accounting for taste, but...come on.

6. How this song just never seems to get old.

7. Videos that tell a story.

8. And ones that don't.

9. Here's another one, just so you know that I'm serious about Air Supply.

Inquiring minds want to know.

What is the/a/some term(s) used to describe a panty smeller?

PS - I expect a rousing discussion on this topic from you people. Sundays can be boring enough, but when people are so boring on Sundays that they fail to entertain me on topics such as smelling knickers, it causes disappointment and doubt in the human soul.

Friday, December 14, 2007

A lady after my own heart...

Our good blog friend Kevin In Minneapolis sent me this link.

And what does it link to, you might ask? Normally I would be a big link tease but today I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, so I'll give you a tiny little preview:

Because it's fun.

I'm home today, so I have a lot of free time on my hands. Subsequently, I decided to jump into the fad and make this.

Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

My other blog is your mom.


Why I Like Having Friends, Reason #347

Taylor sent me this the other night. He even entitled the photo file "Amber Will Probably Print This Out".

He's right. I'm gonna.

And then I'm going to follow the activity SD by drawing a mountain made of bacon, and frame it.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Many Detailed Things, 15

15) I take a drag in and tilt my head up to exhale. The door swooshes open, followed by the crunch of your footsteps on the decaying pavement. I glance at you and then away again, flicking my ash, trying to appear nonchalant. I had only half-expected you to follow me. I don’t care to figure out what percentage was hoping for it. What I do care about, right now, is that you are standing in front of me with your hands shoved into your coat pockets. Your gaze is direct and I suddenly feel very, very uncomfortable.
“Are you avoiding me?"

“No.” My cigarette finished, I take exquisite care in extinguishing it with the toe of my boot, meticulous in making absolutely sure that every last spark is rubbed into the cement. Fire safety first.
“I called you three times? You don’t answer my calls.” I love it when you do that. I love when you make statements into questions, questions into statements. No. I don’t love it. It’s weird. Maybe try talking like a normal person from now on.
“I’ve been busy.”
“I bet,” you say, your eyebrows rising slightly with gentle sarcasm. “Busy not returning my calls.” I bite down onto my lower lip and stare off to the side.
You take a long sigh out. “You know that song by John Butler Trio that you love? That What You Want song?” I nod. “I’ve been listening to that a lot lately. I can tell why you love it.” It’s my all-time favorite song in the world. My whole entire life, I’ve never had an all-time favorite song...always a list of “Top 5" songs that were constantly battling it out with each other. What You Want, though...once I heard that song, it was all over. “It makes me think about you, when I listen to it." You take another step forward, invading my space bubble. Your words get quiet. "And sometimes I hope that, when you listen to it, you think about me.”
You wish,
I think, not ready to admit that I do think of you, sometimes, when I listen to it. Even though I don't love it because of you, and it's not "your"'s just that I think about you all the time, whenever I'm listening to any song, finding to my consternation that all lyrics apply to you. But I'm not going to tell you this. Instead I avoid your staredown by concentrating intently on your scarf: Charcoal gray, with dark-as-blood maroon stripes spreading across the ends. It’s perfect for you, I decide. Preppy but not pretentious, practical but not nerdy. Perfect. Shit.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Amber." I glance back up at you. You shake your head in earnest. "I’m leaving in the fall. I don’t think it’s smart to have a relationship right now. I don’t know if it’s smart for me to have one with you. But it bothers me when you don’t call me back, and it’s disappointing when you stop showing up to things.” I look away again. Please stop, I think to myself. Please just stop talking. “And when you can’t look at me, it hurts my feelings.” You hook your thumb under my chin so I don’t have a choice. I stomp the back of my right heel against the solid ground in distress. You are doing all the right things, and I don’t know how to fight back.

Many Detailed Things, 16 ->

Monday, December 10, 2007

Online Dating Diaries Tip #178

Maybe don't post a profile picture of you standing at the altar, waiting for your now-divorced-from bride.

Watch the news.

WCCO at ten. The only place where you'll find up-to-the-minute, ground-breaking news that's personally relatable to you.

The Poppin' Freshmaker

I love Zach Galifianakis. Today Culture Bully posted their Top Ten Videos of 2007, and the Kanye West video featuring Zach Galifianakis,"Can't Tell Me Nothin'", came in at #1. This video always reminds me of a Fiona Apple video (Not About Love) that Zach was in, both of which I will post for you for your viewing pleasure.

I do so much for you.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

A List of Things I Hate the Most: Current Edition.

1. Bubbly by Colbie Caillat
Please, someone make this song go away. Please find evidence that she's really singing about Nazi worship, or calling for the killing of innocent babies. Anything to make this song be wiped from the face of the earth. I hate this song so much. I also really hate her interview on Vh1 when she talks about where she gets her inspiration. "Um, I get my inspiration from the beautiful scenery, people that I love, and the beautiful weather." Great.

Instead of just linking to an iTunes clip as I usually do, I'm posting a video of her song instead. If I have to continually suffer through this shit, you should, too.

2. Jared Diamond Commercials
I haaaaaate diamond commercials. I hate how cheesy they are, I hate how they try to make it seem as if all any woman wants is a big fat rock on her finger, or that the best way to make your love known is to surprise her with some stupid diamond. But Jared diamond commercials? They are the worst.

I do, however, love these -

3. Dreams about zombies.
I seriously had the scariest dream last night. About zombies. I was a zombie slayer, so I had to hack and cut up all of these zombies that were trying to attack me. I also forgot to hack up a zombie's hand from its arm, so throughout the whole dream this severed arm was just creeping towards me wherever I went. Pretty much just a dream about copious amounts of blood, decaying flesh, appendages that wanted to do me harm, and machetes. Note that some of the posts from today were posted around 5 in the morning. That's because I woke up from the dream and was too freaked out to go back to sleep. I didn't even have anybody around to make me bacon so I would feel better.

I don't think I wanna play the Slayer game on Facebook anymore, Ang.

Submissions from my 6th grade diary.

Listening To: Poison by Bell Biv DeVoe

Jan. 10th, 1993
I don't know what to do. Well, maybe I do. You see, I asked Nate S. out because I liked him. Now I don't. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. I guess it's just convenience. I think I'll call him tomorrow and ask him. If he says yes, I'll dump him in a few days. If no, good. And I'll say, if I have to dump him, that I'm not ready. I wish I never got into this mess. Oh well. Night!
Jan. 12, 1993
Oh god, Diary, I'm shaking, hyperventilating, and freaking out. Nate called. I'm a little calm now, but not much. I did not call him like I told you I would. I do not love him. Should I go with him or not? I'd just be using him if I did, but so what? Besides, it might be nice. And I could get Tanner, too. No wait, that'd be wicked. But who cares? Anyway, let's not worry. He hasn't said anything yet, so I don't have anything to worry about it. I'll call him.
Jan. 13, 1993
Good night.
Jan. 16, 1993
Oh! I hope he goes with me! Kale Koester is sooooooo cute and has the cutest smile! And he looks so manly. I wrote him a Secret Admirer love note. Tomorrow night is the dance and I hope he goes with me to it. I'll tell you all tomorrow.
Jan. 19, 1993
Sorry I didn't write you after the dance. It wasn't anything special. I don't even think Kale got the note. Joy was supposed to give it to him before school. But of course, like always, she doesn't follow through. I hate Liz C. She's such a bitch. I also still hate Nate S. Well, I'll give Liz a second chance, but not a third. I still hope Kale will like me. I can't wait until the 21st. My horoscope says that it's going to be a special love day. I hope Kale's included! Bye!
Jan. 20, 1993
I still can't stand Liz or Nate. I told Joy about him. I just had to tell someone. I still like Kale. Tomorrow is a big day! I can't wait! I have a cold. I need money. I love life!
Jan. 21, 1993
Oh! I hope my parents say yes! I hope I hope I hope! Tonight I asked them about home school. They'll probably say no, but I hope they say yes! I hope! I hope! I'm still waiting for "romance to surge".
Jan. 22, 1993
Liz is nothing but a fair-weather friend. She only likes you when it's convenient. Tiffany's okay, but I wish she'd find out if she can have me over before she asks me. Saturday is the S.A.T.'s. I'm taking them in Rochester. Mom and Dad still haven't said yes to home school. I told them that it would encourage my full academic potential, but they won't listen to me. They're keeping me up in my room because I kept smarting off. I like Patrick S. And I think he likes me. I hope so! I still have a head cold. I hope romance surges with Patrick. I can't wait!
Jan. 30, 1993
I did it. I walked out of school between 4th and 5th period. Liz and Joy probably snitched on me. Later.
Feb. 9, 1993
On the same day I skipped, I made up with Joy. She still snitched on me, but it didn't do any good. I didn't get in an inch of trouble. I'm 13! My birthday was on the 6th. Well, better go.
March 1, 1993
I've given up on boys. I hate the entire male species. Every time I go for a boy, everyone says I have bad taste or the boy doesn't like me. I hate boys and this stupid boy-roller-coaster. I hate boys. Except William McNamara (a movie star).
March 5, 1993
I think I'm in love. Today I got sick and went to the office. One of the kids that works in there for study hall caught my eye. I had seen him and his friend lots of times and thought he was kind of cute. He knew who I was. He is so cute! His name is Jut K. But there's only one catch. He's going with Lisa K. I'm not telling anyone except Tara this. I know this is mean, but I hope they break up! I love him!
March 7, 1993
I've never felt like this before. Yesterday Jon S. came over after school with Kris. I had detention, so I had to walk home. I was only with him for 20 min., but I think I fell in love with him all over again. I keep thinking about him. I don't want to flatter myself, but I think the reason he came over was because of me. I hope so! I doubt if this is love, but if it isn't, I know what it is. I hope he feels the same way. I think about him all the time.

PS - we're not going together.
March 8, 1993
I still can't stop thinking about him. I hope all of this isn't a joke. I keep telling myself; stop it, you're going to get hurt. But I can't help it! I hope he asks me to go with him. I would be so happy if he did! I can't stop thinking about him. I hope he feel the exact same way! And if we did go together, I hope it lasts for a long time. God, I can't stop thinking about him!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PS - I love Jon (I think)
March 15, 1993
I'm too depressed to like or think about boys. Jon is dumb.
March 17, 1993
March 25, 1993
There's only one boy I like and I'm not telling anyone except for you and Sarah L. He's not like the others. He's sweet, romantic, and has a puppy-dog look. His name is Adam B. I will love him for the rest of my life. I'm going to keep my eye on him. He's the only one I want. I think this is the real thing. He's shy, but I'm outgoing enough for both of us. I'm going to wait for him to mature, but I'll still love him. I love him.
March 31, 1993
I am soo sick of this. It seems like every time I have a secret of my own that I really want to keep to myself, it always gets out. Tara found out about Adam. And then I was just recently informed that I'm a Big Mouth. Oh well, who really cares.

It seems like I don't have anybody I can really talk to, whom I can trust or am close to except you and Sarah L. And Sarah's 3,000 miles away and you're not a real person.
April 6, 1993
Adam said no. I thought he liked me, I really did. Now we're probably not friends anymore. I wish I wouldn't have ruined everything by telling everybody and asking him. I loved him, I really did.
April 7, 1993
Adam and I are still friends. I like him, but being friends with him is better. Then I still get to talk to him and stuff. Besides, we can become closer this way. I think being friends is definitely better!
May 1, 1993
Guess what! I'm going with Chris B. Tonight was the dance of the year. I started dancing with Chad and Jenny at the beginning of the dance, then Chris came over and I sort of flirted with him and then danced with him and then I asked him! He said yes! Tonight I danced a slow dance for the first time in my life! I don't remember the song, though. I was too infatuated with Chris.

PS - I just remembered the song. It was "Under the Bridge" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
May 5, 1993
I don't know why, but I'm kind of pissed at Chris. It's like I never see enough of him, but when I do see him, it doesn't matter to him. When we part, he always says, "see ya later". It just makes me mad! It's like he doesn't care whether I see him later or not. I know what I'll do. I'll walk with him and make talk to me. I love him so much.
May 15, 1993
I love Chris! Today people kept telling me all these things about him that were bad, so as a matter of pride, I dumped him. But then he wrote me a note and now we're back together. We might do something on Sunday. My parents are gone and Vera's going to be here. I can't wait!!! I have this fantasy that we go to this hill, maybe at the country club golf course at night, and we kiss. All night. Hey, it could happen. I hope it does!!!! I'm supposed to call him tomorrow.
May 18, 1993
Well today I broke up with Chris for real. He's going with someone. I'm glad, really. I think I like the single life better. I'm not really that interested in anybody that much. I like two guys: Gary D. and this Mark kid (I don't know his last name yet), but it's not anything major. I'm going to get back to the real life. Bye!
May 20, 1993
I don't think I want to go with anybody anymore. It's too much pressure and insecurity. I just wanna be myself.
May 21, 1993
This feels weird, yet great at the same time. It's like boys don't matter anymore. I'm waiting for the right one. I'll see him, he'll see me, and we'll be happy. It sounds naive, but I don't think it is. It's like with Chris (both of them), I saw them, I liked them, and it happened. But I'm going to try and look good, for when it comes, I wanna be ready!
May 22, 1993
I think I know who I like. Robby M. He's cute, rich, and he lives by me. I think I've found the perfect summer romance.
May 23, 1993
I'm forgetting about Robby.

The End.

Just a tip. Just to, you know, see how it feels.

Hint: When I'm on a date with you and it's so awkward that I actually say, "Wow. This is awkward."...I'm not so sure that should be taken as a sign that I want to go on another date. A dinner date, no less. I cannot think of anything quite more awkward than having dinner with someone with whom a half hour conversation over beers was so stilted and painful that I had to actually say out loud, "Wow. This is awkward."

Really? Is this how it's going to be? A date that was horrible in my estimation was "fun and great" in his estimation? That does not bode well for any type of future sexual relationship between us, I might add. One would think, if one were on a date that was so painful that they felt the need to verbally address the state of pain, that there would be no need for a follow-up "You're great, but..." e-mail conversation. Oh no, would be mistaken.

My life is incredible.

Saturday, December 08, 2007

Thoughts that count.

There was a kid from my middle school who committed suicide. One dark and cloudy October afternoon, his parents had come home to find him swinging from a tree in the backyard, the branches bare and high against the gray sky. It was a tree he used to climb when he was small, his mom had said. When he was small and happy.

We had a shop class together. My purest memory of him was the first time I saw him laugh. It was the first time I had noticed him say anything, really. One of our classmates had made a wisecrack about something the teacher said, and the classroom busted into laughter. In the camaraderie, I had twisted back in my seat to acknowledge the scene, and I saw him. His mouth was thrown open wide and his laughing eyes met mine. It was such a small moment, but it became one of those memories that stay, lurking and ready to be called up and examined again. He had always been so of those kids who just fell through the cracks. Not nerdy enough to be ostracized, not freaky enough to be quiet that barely any attention was paid to him at all.

In his note to his parents, he had explained that he told himself that morning that he would wait for someone to say hi to him at school. Just one person to say hello to him in the hall, or in the hustle of class, someone to just acknowledge that he existed...and he would keep living. No one did. Our homeroom teacher shared this with us the morning after, as we all sat in our metal and plastic desks, my classmates stunned with mouths gaping. I remember staring out the window at the cold dark sky and the bare trees as my teacher talked, his voice becoming a low droning amid the roar in my head. No one had said hello, and so he died. And so they found him, dangling from a branch in their backyard when they came home from work.

I had already heard about it at church the previous night. My voice loud as I bounded down the stairs towards our youth group room, I had called out a greeting to my youth group director. I stopped short on the last step when I saw the expression on her face. His family had been members of our church, albeit absent ones, and I had turned away from her as she told the story to me and the others who slowly flocked to the crowd gathering around her. Passing the Coke machine that threw off a constant hum and an occasional rattle, I walked into the girls bathroom and slid the lock on the white, thickly painted door. I felt foolish and stupid for crying - I hadn't really known him, so I had no credit to tears - but the sobs still felt hot and painful against my throat as I slid down to the floor and pulled my knees to my chest. The same scene kept hitting my head: Our eyes meeting as he bit into his sandwich, silent and alone at a table in the crowded and boisterous lunchroom. I had wanted to go and sit with him. I felt my nerves hitting the skin of my arms as I stretched out my hands towards my lunch tray, intending to swoop it up and then walk swiftly and resolutely to his table, smack it down on the spot across from him and sit so he wouldn't have to eat lunch alone. I had hesitated. My friends, elbowing each other and sneaking glances and giggles at the boys sitting behind us, were what stopped me. What would they say. Would they laugh at me, roll their eyes, or worst of all, call me weird and do that little spinning motion with their pointer fingers on the side of their heads that signaled the most dreadful of all traits when you're in middle school. I was weird, I was crazy, I didn't fit in.

So I didn't. I stuffed my hands back into my lap and tried to tell myself that it was the thought that counted. Later, at lunch the day after he committed suicide, I remember regarding those same friends with disgust as they moaned about how sad it all was, how upset they were, how one of them was, right now, this very second, calling her parents and asking them to pick her up because she couldn't stop crying over it. I swooped up my tray, walked swiftly to the garbage cans to dump out its contents, and then walked out of the lunchroom, this time not caring what they said about me, wishing that somehow I would never have to talk to any of them ever again.

Sometimes, when it is late and the night is quiet, I still cry for him. I wanted to save the world, when he died. All of those tender and swollen lives...sometimes it is still hard for me to take.

Friday, December 07, 2007


What is WRONG with you, Red Lobsta?!

Red Lobsta, I love you.

You have been my birthday destination of choice since I was 6.

People laugh when I say that I love going to you on dates, but I'm not joking.

Katy knows that the easiest way to get me to do stuff is to promise me dinna at Red Lobsta (even though she hates you, because Miss Hoity Toity's been to Maine and has tasted real seafood, blah blah blah).

But now you have pissed me off. Plus, your spokesperson is really dumb.

Baby seals, Red Lobsta. Baby seals. Why don't you care about the baby seals?!

Thursday, December 06, 2007

A bag and a half of fun.

Tonight the flooring guys were re-finishing the floors upstairs, sending me out of the house in a quest not to throw up. This is where I ended up.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007


This is a cool idea: On WCCO's "Reality Check" tonight, they created "tag clouds" for the presidential candidates, taken from recent debates. It's a great visual tool to decipher which phrases each candidate uses most often, which can help break down which are the most important issues for each candidate vs. you.

Here's my dads' favorite -

Hillary Clinton Tag Cloud For Nov. 15 CNN Debate:

4) absolutely (4) administration (5) america (4) american (12) believe (6) best (4) bush (9) care (11) children (4) country (7) crisis (4) different (4) enforce (4) fighting (5) figure (4) going (13) government (4) ground (4) health (13) house (5) important (11) issues (7) lot (7) medicare (4) number (5) obama (4) people (14) plan (5) president (15) problems (4) really (6) responsibility (4) rights (4) running (6) security (5) senator (8) social (4) stand (4) states (4) teachers (6) think (21) united (4) universal (5) woman (6) women (4) work (10) world (3) years (5) yes (4)

Many Detailed Things, 14

14) And once more, with feeling, I sigh, as I shove open the door to the pub and walk inside. I have always liked this place: With its historic dark wood and dim light aided by green lampshades, it’s the kind of spot you go to talk, or to drink with a small group of friends. Being here always makes me wonder about all the other people before me who made this their favorite place...vivacious college girls, good and serious young men, older and wiser denizens who would observe and nod, already knowing how all of this will play out. I’m pulled out of my little imagination station by roars coming from the end of the bar. What is it about walking into a bar and having people call out your name...I wonder if I would love it this much even without knowing the theme song to "Cheers". As I break out into a smile and travel closer, there is a shuffle in the cluster, and then there is you. Three friends had called earlier, all laying on thick quilts of guilt for my lack of social participation as of late. Attempting for stealth, I had taken an advance census of who would be appearing tonight. You were not on the docket. The irritating twinge of disappointment I had felt with the mention of your planned absence is now replaced with edgy dismay. I avoid your watchful eyes and pretend not to notice when my ears pick up your salutation, acting instead as if I am too caught up in the hugs and hellos of other more assertive acquaintance. I don’t want to talk to you. This is what I say to myself every time you call, every time someone else mentions your name, every time my mind wanders to you when I am lying in bed, awake and restless. I don’t want to talk to you. This is what I am trying to telepathically tell you from across the small space and bodies between us. I don’t want to talk to you. You hang back, your head half turned to your buddy, half cocked to me. I keep my back taunt as I sit in a stool with my back to the bar, facing you but intent on giving my bar stool neighbor my full attention. Everything everyone else wants to talk about is so uninteresting. It's mundane exhaustion, trying to keep up. Soon, with my apologies, I tell them I'm going out to smoke. Do not follow me, I think, as I pull on my coat. I don't want to talk to you, I remind myself, as I pull my long hair out of my coat collar and swiftly make my way towards to the door.

Many Detailed Things, 15 ->

AND now I'm out of coffee, too. What am I supposed to drink?! Water?!?

This morning I bounded out of bed at 5 a.m. and promptly took my temperature. No fever! Yaaaaay! Even though I was still feeling a mite achy and sluggish, if I don't have a fever and/or I'm not throwing up, I'm going into work. I cannot stand sitting around for three days straight, thinking about all the things I could be accomplishing at work and how I'm missing out on all the fun stuff that we do every day.

I made some coffee, did my little morning routine where I read the New York Times and congratulated myself on being a well-informed and culturally-aware person, and then hopped into the shower. Then a huge wave of nausea* hit while I was drying my hair, and once again I am staying home as throwing up on kids and coworkers might not be a great professional stepping stone.

Sigh. This sucks.

*No. I'm not. Don't even ask.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Brilliance. It's what's for dinna.

This kid is paying people to find him dates.

And he's cute!

Someone is going to make a movie about this - all the romantic high-jinks and hilarious prat-falls that are about to ensue - I swear to god. And when it comes out, I want all of you to come back here and say "You told us so".

Because I did.

EDIT: According to Gawker, his little scheme is paying off...well, if you consider a free account at eHarmony as a "pay-off" (I don't). He is also planning to launch a dating-advice widget on Facebook. Question: If you have to pay people to find you dates, mayhaps you are not the best person to give dating advice, hmm?

He's still cute, though...


Mediation is one of my favorite my blog crack-candies (love the new thumbnail, btw), although I have no idea who writes it, runs it, or is in charge of it, because he is a very mysterious person who does not like to be identified in any way, shape, or form, not even on e-mail forwards between other friends. And yes, I have donated to the site. Last week I gave it a dollar.

I digress. Anyway, today on Mediation there was this. You have to check it out. It 'tis so awesome, it makes me wanna have babies just so I can be the cool mom on the block.

That's right. I said it makes me wanna have babies.

But not your babies. His babies.

I like to make it easy for other people to do things for me.

I am still sick today. Feel free to stop on by and bring me magazines full of salacious gossip (as opposed to the ones that want to tell me how to "Make Him Hot"...those piss me off. Here's my article for those magazines - How to Make Him Hot: Tip #1 Touch It.), gallons of ice cream and/or soup (I prefer chicken wild rice or clam chowder over chicken noodle), a armload of rented RomCom DVD's, and at least three speeches about how I need to stop feeling miserable and guilty about missing work because nobody wants to work with me if I have a fever of 102 degrees and am whiny, exhausted, and emotionally weak (hence the predilection for romantic comedies when I'm sicky).

Also welcome are large Starbucks (any holiday variety), Symphony chocolate bars (with almonds and toffee, please), Snickers bars (because I still love them the mostest), South Park DVD's, and Totino's Party Pizza.

Until I can wrangle a boyfriend and get him to do all of this stuff for me, you guys are just gonna have to pick up the slack.


I hate these kinds of articles. These articles are the reason why psychology is still called a "soft" science.

Also, they're stupid.

Many Detailed Things, 13

13) In the coffee shop, I sit near a man in full camouflage regalia who is staring intently at his laptop. I find this image strange, and I try to take it in as much as I can without drawing his suspicion or ire. I must have failed because he suddenly lifts his head and turns his eyes towards me. I shoot my eyes back down at my laptop. My work day is over, and I have taken to suckering myself into continuing on with the online dating thing by pairing it with lattes: I can’t drink Starbucks unless I’m checking out mens’ online profiles. After I find myself bored and annoyed because none of them happen to be your carbon copy, I begin to stealthily check out the girls’ side of things. Bad call. I had once stumbled upon a picture of your ex-girlfriend while flipping through your old photo album. It was the one of you in Mexico: You lifting her up in the pool, the both of you all tanned skin and white toothy grins. Of course, I thought to myself. That’s exactly what I expected her to look like. I kept up with the small talk floating from the bathroom as you finished up your preparations for our night out, but I continued to stare at her picture as if I were expecting it to come to life and dish out clues on you. I didn’t really need it to, though. I study the scans of hundreds of girls in your metro area, and my stomach drops as I realize that I could pick them out of a crowd, the ones that you would dig. You are attracted to bright and shiny things, girls who throw off sparks. I click on the pictures of a chick who ran away to Hawaii for a few years and whom describes herself as perpetually joyful and excited about life. She’d be perfect for you, I think to myself. You'd probably take one look at her and drop to the floor. As if right on cue, my cell begins to shake and your name pops onto the screen, lit and vibrating. I briefly contemplate flipping it open and telling you that while I was looking for more dates to go on in hopes that I could stop thinking about you, whaddya know...I also found some for you, too! Maybe we could even double date. Maybe that would burn a hole right through this flag I carry for you. Instead I tell my personal masochist to get lost, then press the little button on my phone that will make your name go away. It is the third time this week that you have called. The man in the camouflage has packed up his laptop and left...that leaves me as the only one here who's still hiding.

Many Detailed Things, 14 ->

I try to make scientific discoveries and medical research personally interesting and pertainable to you.

According to a study published online in the British Medical Journal, a new point-of-care test for Chlamydia was evaluated in a U.K. study to favorable findings: results were available within 30 minutes.

Did you hear that, Emily Rossum? Same-day screening and diagnosis! It's a Christmas Day Miracle!

Monday, December 03, 2007

She might look cute, but piss her off and she'll kick you in the face. IN THE FACE!

Listening To: The Taste of Ink by The Used

Today I was home, sick and bored, and so I decided to make a little present for my best friend Autumn. She's getting married, you see. Also, she will soon be done with law school. Since she is a Very Busy and Important Person, I decided that it would be nice of me to make her a photo album on Facebook to remind her of what a great friend I've been, even long before she was a Very Busy and Important Person.

To make sure that everyone else knows what a great friend I am, I decided to post a link to the album on here, too. Also, she's sick today, so I know this will make her feel better...knowing that everyone else in the world is going to get to look at pictures of her when she was young, innocent, and sneaking behind the bar to steal liquor. least it will make me feel better.

I love you, Autumn!

Not so poppin' fresh, but still DELICIOUS.

So I had forgotten about this video until I stumbled upon it again on You Tube today. One of Chasing Windmills' viewers had done a spoof of the episode, "Junked Auditions" and it really is very hilarious. Ch-ch-check it out -

You can also view the original episode here.

EDIT: a dear reader (who asked to remain anonymous) e-mailed and asked me which episode, out of all of them, is my favorite. Hard choice, it would have to be a tie between this one and this one. Revival!

Sunday, December 02, 2007

I have mixed feelings about Twitter.

Listening to: Spitting Venom by Modest Mouse

I do. Sometimes I think it's really a mini-blog, or a message board that I get to share with my elitist friends. Other times I think it's the most annoying thing in the world. Okay, strike that...I think the way some people use it is the most annoying thing in the world. I really enjoy the "exciting" updates...the ones I get on Friday night telling me where everyone is headed or what they're doing. I also really love the Sunday morning updates, when we're all in a state of lazy bliss and posting sweet things about our day and lives. However, sometimes I find myself thinking that I don't really need to know about the breakfast bar vs. muffin dilemma, unless it's actually interesting and perhaps poignant to your life or mine. Maybe once in a while, yes. But when I get fifty Twitter updates about every other step certain people take...that's when I grind my teeth and wonder what kind of self-absorbed, navel-gazing society we've become (so sayeth the blogger).

My favorite Twitterer (Twitterite? Twitterary? Twitteran?), though, is a six-degrees-of separation-acquaintance, Mike. He hasn't Twittered in about three months, but every time I run across his homepage, I giggle. Out loud.

Here is a brief summary of his Twitters (dates and some other shit have been changed) -

Lurking July 20
staring July 28
sitting July 31
ate some really bad pizza, enjoyed it anyway August 4 (apparently that's what us girls are supposed to say about sex, too...that it was like really bad pizza but we enjoyed it anyway. Sorry, I couldn't resist the opportunity to throw that out there again)
eating August 26

I just really love the fact that he Twittered about staring. And sitting. I love the visual picture of the kid slumped down on a couch somewhere, pulling out his phone, and Twittering "sitting". Like he gets it. Like so many other people don't.

Love it.


So I had to Google myself today. I had Googled someone else first, and so, to be fair, I decided to Google myself just to see what would turn up if this person did the same.

The blog is #1. I didn't even have to use a middle initial, or my hometown. I have mixed feelings about this. However -

The real concern is not the blog. The real concern isn't even the pictures of the skanky chick with her creepy-looking boyfriend. The real concern is this page I found - a page of poems.

These are not my poems. I do not want these poems associated with me in any way, shape, or form. They are gross poems (please reference how I feel about this here). As in, I read one of them and said - out loud - "GROSS". I mean, I'm not trying to dog on the chick who wrote them...she obviously has a lot of "feelings" she needs to express...but I just don't really want anyone to think that I wrote them, you know? I have enough crappy poetry that I do have to claim. I don't need crappy poetry that I didn't even write attributed to my bad name!

It did, however, give me an idea: I think I'm going to start a feature on here entitled "Amber's Shitty Poetry Corner". Once a week, I will post a poem...maybe written by me, perhaps submitted by one of you. I might even throw a haiku in there once in a while, just for good measure and to increase cultural awareness. Of course, I cannot make "Amber's Shitty Poetry Corner" the raging success we all know it can be based solely upon just my own angsty-teen poetry collection. I need yours, too.

So send 'em. Send them all! Flood my inbox with your shitty-ass, gross poetry...especially that one you wrote that one night after you saw Jonathon Rickets dancing with Tobi Brandish at the junior high dance to "More Than Words" by Extreme, even though he TOLD you that he would slow dance with YOU to that song, but what does he care...he has no idea the deep, painful gash that his betrayal has left in your heart, rendering you poignantly damaged for the rest of your romantic life...but he will, once he reads the poetry that will one day make you famous as well as heartbreakingly elusive to him.

I welcome it.

Fall into the Rounder

So the Target Rounders, which initially sounds like a genius marketing strategy, is now being continually mocked and chastised for its unethical tactics and just plain lame "We're HIP!" desperation.

I won't go into specifics about how I feel about the Rounders Facebook scandal or other ideas surrounding it. I just have one question:

Who the fuck is the lame-o who was in charge of writing these dumbass newsletters?!

Exhibit A -

"We love your enthusiasm for the Rounders, and I know it can be hard not to want to sing it from the mountaintops [and in the shower, and on the bus]. However, we want to get other members of the Facebook group excited about Target, too! And we don't want the Rounders program to steal the show from the real star here: Target and Target's rockin' Facebook group. So keep it like a secret!"

"Keep it like a secret"?! I'm 28. According to Target, I am not young nor hip enough to be a Rounder. However, I am young and hip enough to know that this newsletter reeks of "Old geriatric trying desperately to sound 'down' with today's youth". Come on. "Excited about Target, too"?! I love Target. Target is one of the few stores that make me happy (I hate shopping for both moral and personal reasons). But it's a store...who's sitting around, thinking or saying, "I am so excited about Target!"?! I understand that there are mindless and shallow souls who are eager to subscribe to the marketing strategies put forth by stores like The Gap or Abercrombie & Fitch because they seem to be selling a lifestyle - one ultimately better than your own - instead of just clothes, but Target? It's Target.

But I said I wasn't going to talk about this, so I'm stopping. All I will say is that if you want to get the coolies on your side, find someone who is actually a coolie to write the newsletters.

Missin' steps, people. Missin' steps.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

I love it.

A mysterious and unknown blogger alerted me to this, and I loved it so much that I had to share it with you.

Because I love you. And it. I'm full of love. You knew it.


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