Baby, it's cold outside.

Dear Mother Nature,

Maps and geographers refer to Virginia as "Mid-Atlantic"; newscasters use the generic terms "East Coast" or "Eastern Seaboard" and then lump in the Old Dominion with all the states that border the Atlantic Ocean.

We, the residents of this great Commonwealth, prefer to refer to our region as "The South" and ourselves as "Southerners". We take great pride in our cultural, if not geographic, affinity to the once and future area of these United States known as "Dixie".

While we may not have the constant sultry climes of Mississippi, Florida, or Louisiana, we do enjoy those hazy, hot, and humid months between June and late September. We are not the weather-hardened citizens of New England or the Midwestern states.

I beseech you, on behalf of my fellow Virginians, no more snow please. Richmonders in particular don't handle driving in any conditions where moisture falls from the sky. When said moisture is of a white and fluffy consistency, they become particularly erratic and unsafe behind the wheel. The accumulation can be a much as a foot or as little as an inch; the city responds with the same level of panic.

May I also request an end to those temperatures below 40 degrees Fahrenheit until October? My daffodils have now all pitifully wilted. I'd also like to be able to wear my new spring dress for Easter, and well, it's strapless.


Your Humble Servant,

Amanda

The good times are killing me.

This week’s shaping up nicely. Not only is this a four-day week, but three of those four days will be sans my co-worker, The Bobbleheaded Wolfman. Oh joy. I might actually be able to tolerate the sheer insanity of my daily workload.

Dog bite is clearing up nicely if not slowly. The swelling has diminished. My bruises are lovely little watercolor rainbows of purple, blue, yellow and green. Never having had puncture wounds before, I was a little dismayed when after three days the bite marks were not scabbing over. Attacking them with peroxide twice a day seems to have worked because the band-aids aren’t as juicy (Yum! Yum!) when removed.

I’ve been enjoying the shocked reactions I get upon telling people (and subsequently showing them my wound) I got bit by a dog. Suggestions for protection from future attacks when I run included carrying a stick, a collapsible baton, a taser, or my gun. It’s more likely that I would injure myself with said forms of protection while running than actually defend myself from any impending attack. For now, I’m taking my chances. Plus I’m skipping Dog Attack Street on my runs.

Sunday night, I engaged in an interesting discussion with my in-laws. As with most discussions we have, I learn that they have wildly different viewpoints on life and such from my own. They are definitely members of the Assign Blame Tribe. For example, my father-in-law decided that after watching a television program that his youngest brother, otherwise know as The Family Fuckup, is in fact a “high functioning autistic”. Apparently, according to my father-in-law his brother hadsall these symptoms and characteristics of a “high functioning autistic”, and therefore that must be why his life’s screwed up, his kid’s all screwed up, and why he sported a scary Hilter-esque mustache for a brief period of time.

Well, for one I’m always suspect of opinions formed after watching something on TV. It’s a highly deceitful and manipulative medium. Secondly, while I recognize that autism is a real and highly complex disease, I am beginning to think that it’s becoming the next ADHD. Any time someone, particularly a child, is behaving outside of the socially accepted norm or interacting in a manner different than the average person, the word “autism” is bandied about.

From what little I’ve read about autism, the talking heads who advocate its frequent diagnosis are now saying that such great minds like Einstein and Mozart were probably autistic. Man, that’s like the freaking Mormons trying to retro-baptize people like Anne Frank and Albert Schweitzer. Thank God Mozart or Einstein weren’t born in this day and age where at the first sign of an autistic-like mannerism in childhood and they would have been shipped off to some school or medicated or just flat out regarded as having some mental handicap. Would they have created such great works or developed their theories had they been treated as autistic by educators and family?

Anyway, what I found interesting about my father-in-law’s comment about his brother was the fact that he was looking for someone or something to blame for everything about his brother that doesn’t fit. As if attaching a disease to whatever his brother does wrong somehow magically excuses him of any wrongdoing. Instead of just saying that he’s a fuck up, by now saying he’s a “high functioning autistic” he’s somehow okay. He’s got a disease, he can’t help it, and it’s not his fault, whatever. My father-in-law can’t accept the fact that maybe his brother’s just not responsible or mature, but can accept that he has some mental handicap. That makes it okay for him to fuck up because he can’t help it. He’s autistic.

While I found my father-in-law’s revelation intriguing and mildly disturbing, his desire to assign to every anomaly in life a guilty party does not surprise me. His wife wanted me to admit that my perfectionism is attributed my being an only child. As if somehow I should blame my parents for making me a perfectionist because they didn’t have any more children. No, I am a perfectionist because that’s what I am. It’s my personality. Plus, why is perfectionism a negative attribute? I happen to like being a perfectionist. It’s maddening at times, but it’s who I am.

My mom and I have already decided that had my dad (and possibly myself) been a child in this modern age he would have been deemed ADHD and hopped up on pills. I am waiting for the near future when we are all attempting to eradicate the “weird” or “unacceptable” facets of our personalities with diagnoses of mental illness and the properly assigned drugs. What then will become “normal”? Will a constant state of mental numbness be preferred over learning to live with our quirks and tics?

Brave New World indeed. Let's all rush out for our prescription of Gleaminex.

I got bit by a dog

There really isn't any cutsy title I can give my entry because in fact I did get bit by a fucking dog.

Thursday I was fretting about having a good day. My day turned out just fine for the most part. Adrian was out doing car stuff at our friend's house, so when I got home I decided to go for a run. Weather was mild and very fun friendly. I was trucking my butt at a nice pace until I got to this one particular street.

There was the dog, a barrel-chested black lab mix, sitting in his front yard. Apparently his numb-nuts owners can't seem to keep the gate to their backyard shut. On more than one occaision, I had seen him sitting in the front yard while I jogged by and the worst he'd ever done was bark at me and run around like a 'tard.

Instead of being menacing from the yard as he had in the past, the dog decided to come after me from behind and bite the crap out of my calf. I was stunned more than frightened, and I wheeled around and started shouting for the dog to get back in his yard. He scurried back, and I went on my merry way.

It wasn't for another few blocks that I discovered that the dog had really taken a serious chunk out of me, even though I was wearing running tights.

Fuck if I was going to let some dog ruin my run. I've got four pounds to lose.

I finished my run, got home, called animal protection (Which is a whole other rant in and of itself. Do you know I can find women and minority owned businesses in the yellow pages faster than I could the non-emergency police number?), and had visit from a friendly, slightly odd police officer.

Practicing restraint, I will not share with you the pictures of that fresh wound that I took that night. In fact, it looks worse now all bruised and swollen.

So, dog's up to date on his rabies. I got a tetnus shot anyway and became my doctor's first dog bite patient ever. Now I have these horrendous bruises and puncture wounds on my leg, and I feel like someone's punched me in the arm with an ice pick.

File this one under "Shit that happens only to Amanda" along with the time I tore up my leg running and passed out in someone's front lawn or when I fell down a flight of stairs in our house right before a dinner party.

For the next week I'm going to be milking this for all it's worth. I'm blaming everything on the fact that I got bit by a dog.

When I weigh myself tomorrow and find that not only have I not lost the four extra pounds but gained more, I will repeat my new mantra, "I got bit by a dog."

This whole victim thing might just work out for me.

Life handed us a paycheck..

...and we said, "We worked harder than this!"

I am going to have a good day today. The morning clouds were blushing pink and my commute was painless (except for the twat in the truck who couldn't fathom the concept of accelerating onto the highway).

Despite the fact that my annoying, fingernail-clipping (again on Monday),bobbled-headed co-worker's very presence turns me into a ball of tense, my day will be okay. I will not allow the fact that I spent the better part of an hour sorting out Outlook issues to ruin my day. So what if my calendar is crammed with useless meetings? Who cares that I am carrying four excess pounds somewhere on my midsection?

I will have a good day.

I'm looking forward to a three-and-a-half day weekend (albeit busy with social shit). Manicure on Friday. A trip to Williamsburg with the beloved is on President's Day. I've got Ice Bat on my desktop. My feet are clad in shoe happiness. Rectifying the lack of promised vampire action on last week's Alias, I found a new Sonja Blue book at Borders. I'm planning a great anniversary trip. While months away, April's shaping up to be a pretty damn fine month. My birthday aside, Tori is playing D.C. on 4/6, and the Blade Trinity DVD is released on 4/26. Boyfriend goodness! Yum.

I've consumed 4 pieces of gum already this morning. But today will be a good day. I will make it so. French Market coffee will help me get there.

Shoe Happiness

My quest for Doc's has finally ended! Since last winter when my then eight-year-old John Fluevog Angel shoes bit the dust, I've been searching for a replacement pair of plain black Doc Marten 5-holes. Nothing fancy, just a non-athletic shoe I can wear with jeans and pants alike. No shoe store round these parts carried the plain 5-hole; they were either all tricked out with trendiness or the shape of the shoe had been altered slightly from the classic look. I didn't feel like shelling out $100 from the Doc Marten website either. I can be cheap when I want to be.

Enter my savior, Zappos. I'm telling everyone that they need to purchase their next pair of shoes from these people. Not only did they have flat black 5-holes (albeit with the lug sole but beggars can't be choosers) in my size, but they were on SALE. For $42.70. No shipping charges. AND they upgraded my shipping (for FREE) to two-day delivery. I ordered my shoes on Tuesday; got them in my hot little hands Thursday evening. Total shoe happiness. Shoe bliss. Shoe nirvana.

I don't care if you don't need a new pair of shoes (Yeah, right.); buy something from this website.

Bloody obvious world news: North Korea announced they have been lying, and that indeed, they have a nuclear weapons program. And who was surprised by this? The fact that their esteemed leader he favors a gas station attendant's jumpsuit for his daily wear wasn't a big enough clue that maybe he's not on the up and up? That he was a little out in the left field? What about how he's pilfered his spectacles from Estelle Getty's Golden Girls wardrobe? What is it with dictators and their eccentric costumes? Are they overly image conscious? You'd think that oppressing a nation of millions was enough to worry about.

Happy Hearts and Flowers and Candy Day! Try not to buy too much into the fabricated nonsense that is Valentine's Day. Share your love with your beloved every day, not just on the Hallmark-sanctioned day.

Now that V-Day is here, I'm just glad I will no longer be subjected to a barage of commercials for jewelry stores telling me my husband doesn't love me unless he buys me some piece of shit ring or hideous pendant. These poor women who cling some concept that diamonds equal love. Sad, sad.

In my marriage, Ice Bat and playlist equals love. Talk about soulmate. There ain't nobody like him and he's mine.

We Won't Get Fooled Again

Admittedly, Adrian and I are not huge television watchers. In fact by not having cable, I think we are able to qualify for Junior Amish status. Next Adrian will grow a beard, and I’ll start wearing pilgrim dresses. The transformation will never be complete, however, unless Adrian’s allowed to keep the Mini in lieu of the horse and buggy.

So anyway, we were watching one of the handful of shows we regularly watch (the very excellent Lost) when we saw a promo for the next episode of Alias. Alias is one of those shows like CSI that everyone gets all hot and heavy about, and we just don’t. All it took was one episode of CSI for us to determine that it was tripe, just a formulaic, fictionalized version of all those true crime shows on the Discovery Channel.

I tried to like Alias; really, I did. Especially when Quentin Taratino was a guest star on a few episodes. The fact that Jennifer Garner dressed up in fun costumes on every show (sometimes more than one) also appealed to me. But it’s just cheese. It’s like Mission Impossible with a chick star who is kind of invincible. Plus some of the plot lines are bordering on Passions-like hokey implausibility. I’m waiting for Jennifer Garner and Michael Vortan to get sent to Hell to battle demons by the short guy with stubble who used to be bad but now works with the good guys but may be really still be bad all along.

Pardon the digression.

This ad for the episode which was to follow Lost, promised an intriguing plotline involving vampires. Now, I am a sucker for vampires. Since I was already parked on the couch in front of the idiot box, I thought, “What the hell. I might as well watch it if there’s going to be some exciting vampire action.” This is how TV sucks you in with that “I’m already here. Might as well watch some more.” mentality. Then next thing you know you’ve watched like four hours of back to back Law and Order.

Adrian knew better; he watched maybe 10 minutes of Alias (long enough for us to get a few jabs in at the goofy dialogue) and went upstairs. But I sat it out, hoping for some exciting vampiric goodness.

I should have known. For 40 minutes of my life, I got one Jennifer Garner costume change and plot involving deadly pharmaceutical hallucinogens. The “vampire” was a man hopped up on these drugs. Dammit. I want those 40 minutes back.

Now, I am debating whether or not tonight’s ER episode revolving around Carrie Weaver, a character I dislike more and more with every passing season, is worth an hour of my time. I think I’d rather be making Valentines with the goodies I received from Paper Source yesterday via post.

Life is full of choices.

do I look Fat in these Tuesday

Monday morning, as is my custom, I stepped on the scale and discovered that over the course of the week I had gained four pounds. Yeah, fuck that. It’s the most weight I’ve gained since starting “Operation Skinny Bitch” a year ago.

Not that I am consumed by monitoring my weight… Well, yeah actually I am. But I think anyone who’s lost a significant amount (I include myself here) has to be vigilant in order to maintain the weight loss. I don’t want to be one of those women who have sets of clothing in multiple sizes to accommodate their various fluctuations. I’ve listened to middle-aged women in my church who now wear clothing sizes well into the double digits (and some with a “W”) talk about how they wore size four or six when they got married. What the hell? How in the world can you let yourself go like that?

Perhaps because I was never a skinny kid/teenager/young woman that I was never allowed to take my metabolism for granted. I’ve been to that place where stylish clothes don’t look great on you, where you’re uncomfortable on the beach, where you can’t buy button-up shirts because they pooch open at the chest. I don’t want to go back. Is it easier to grow up skinny and fall into becoming fat? I wonder what those people think when they look back at photos or find old clothes. Have they just resigned themselves to being overweight?

Last week was a bit of a food orgy: ate out three times, a lambic and a giant piece of chocolate cake Friday night, a bridal shower. I’m sure these all contributed to my poundage. Now I am attempting to be more vigilant about what I put in my mouth. I don’t want to go back to measuring out my food portions and being super-anal. I did that for six months, and it was exhausting. If I could just control my horrid snacking impulses…

Of course, it doesn’t help that Adrian and I celebrated Shrove Tuesday with pancakes for dinner last night. Plus my run might get rained out this afternoon. Piss on this.

Happier times: I am finally getting my hair cut into some form of a style. It will be the first time shears have touched my locks since July. Hair’s pretty gnarly right now. Such is the harsh reality of “Operation Long Haired Hippie”.

Happy Year of the Rooster everyone!

Dude, some lady just told me the government put NASA in her brain.

The above bit of dialogue was overheard Friday night coming from a dreadlocked gal outside of a gallery on Broad St. The aforementioned gal had just finished a conversation with a sketchy woman who shared that NASA had implanted something in her brain, most likely while she served her 60-year sentence in a Texas penitentiary.

Gosh darn it, when it comes to crazies, Richmond can run with the big cities.

Friday, Adrian and I were invited to join two friends at First Friday. Several blocks of art galleries on Broad Street stay open later in the night. There’s lots of art (good, bad, and overpriced), munchies, booze, music, and interesting characters.

Being a suburbanite, I don’t get a chance to hob-knob with the city hipsters often. I’ve decided I’m not missing anything. Dude, people, drinking Natty Lite or Pabst Blue Ribbon does not make you funky white trash. You’re still just dressed down bourgeois. Oh, on the subject of dressing… We looked like turds when we wore those outfits in 1983; you don’t look any better.

One of the galleries featured the work of a guy I went to high school with. Kicking myself now, but I didn’t speak to him. Seriously, I would have felt like such a twerp saying, “Hi, I’m sure you don’t remember me, but we went to high school together. You sat next to me in Government class and drew in my journal.” I liked his work though. Funky stuff, like I remember from school.

The evening was entertaining and fruitful as well. Above our large red sofa now hangs a rather large and gorgeous original painting. Our first piece of “for real” art. Gives me chills.

We’re so fucking cultured.

In other news, my beloved co-worker started clipping his nails at 8:30 yesterday morning. I have decided to keep track of how many times he clips his nails at his desk. Other than the fact that I find it disgusting, I think he clips his nails compulsively and more than once a week. Or he’s a werewolf and his nails grow incredibly fast.

Happy Fat Tuesday! Have a beignet, a po’boy, and a really strong drink. Run around your house draped in cheap beads.

Hello, I'm sorry. I know you. I knew you. I think I can remember your name.

Manda had the idea first, but Husband actually set his blog up before her. Grrrr. I feel like such a follower.

Since I was nine, I've kept some form of a journal in an irregular fashion. Being sibling-less I had plenty of time to fester in my own twisted thoughts and dreams. Now, I am finally putting the inner workings of my weird little mind in the public domain.

Actually, I'm not as weird as I'd like to think I am. Pretty fucking conventional actually. Married, homeowner, cube dweller, mommy to two kitties, movie freak, avid reader. There's just more than a few bizarre threads woven through my personality. I'm sure over time these will become evident. Hee.

It's 8:00 a.m., and I'm on my second piece of gum for the day.