My Trip To England

It took several days and a hospital visit, but I am now fully recovered from my trip to England.


I was graciously hosted by the comic who has a lovely flat and is a fucking ridiculous cook. RIDICULOUS I tell you. Also he has an absolutely enormous stereo, handy since music is why I know him in the first place. Also he watches Voyager, which is just flat out fucking awesome.

Speaking of Star Trek, I have a new best friend and her name is, for real, Sulu. I would have given her a blog name, but come on, the woman's name is Sulu! I met Sulu and her husband G on the first Wednesday I was there, at The Globe in Letchworth. Together we enjoyed an evening of acoustic music, and by enjoyed I mostly mean tolerated, with one notable exception. A slightly unhinged, attractive blond Iclandic woman took the stage with her band. She was quickly dubbed "Bjork Stefani". We were in awe of her. Not because she was any good, although Sulu did buy her CD, but because she was just so completely insane. She went off talking on these weird tangents about pictures of people holding up a fish in the newspaper vs. the murder rate in England, or her preference of vanilla over honey. She also yelled at one woman in the audience for talking because she couldn't hear her backup singers which was awesome.

The following day, Sulu and I attended a corset party together, thus cementing our bond as best friends as we have now seen each other topless. Trying on corsets is fun. Trying on waspies is funner (as explained by the corseter, a waspy holds in the bits you don't want to see and lets out the bits you do want to see. Or less britishly, it cinches your waist while your boobs hang out). I briefly had the waist of Scarlett O'Hara. This entire exercise led nicely into our Monday evening trip to the sex toy shop together. Sulu couldn't wait to get me there as there were huge walls filled with toys. The collection was indeed extensive, but I was more impressed with two other things: 1. The fact that Sulu is on a first name basis and received a hug from the proprietor of the establishment, and 2. That we were served cappuccino while we shopped. Clearly the best sex shop the entire world over. I bought things. Oh yes.

Apart from my time with Sulu I mostly drank a lot. Now, "a lot" by my usual standards is actually not all that much due to the fact that I am a wuss and apparently that I am an American, or as the comic calls us, "sipping losers" (to be fair, he has never been to Tai's on a Saturday night so he doesn't have all the information). But even by his standards it was excessive. This started with the discovery that Strongbow in England is twice as strong as it is here, but equally as delicious. It continued the next night with the fact that I never do shots being thrown straight out the window for four rounds of sambuca in 15 minutes. (As the fourth round was being poured I stubbornly refused to drink any more. This was shot down by the hairdresser: "You HAVE to drink it. You're in England now.") The next night, away went my habit of going to one bar and planting myself there, as my "official" night out in Hitchin (we'd been there the night before) took us to four or five pubs, including one in which we walked in, ordered a shot of sambuca, drank it, and immediately fucked off. The next night it was back at The Globe because one of my favorite bands from Punky! Radio, the New Town Centres was playing there. The New Town Centres make you dance. Dancing makes you need a drink. It was a vicious cycle that ended in me trying to walk home barefoot. The next night out in Luton where we stayed overnight in a bar was the final nail in the coffin. Operations in my liver came to a screeching halt and a moratorium on alcohol was called for the following day. (This did not work. We found a really cool pub when we were being touristy in London that was across the street from itself. It was obvious we needed a glass of wine.) The last night was the comic's new cabaret show in London so I took it easy with one cider and an amaretto graciously supplied by Nat the Evil Lesbian, who struck me as not evil at all, but then again I haven't known her very long.

The day in London was excellent. Aside from the pub that is across the street from itself, we also saw a man with a bright yellow ass and an assortment of odd street performers near the London Eye. I had started off intending to actually get on the Eye until I saw the line, which was clearly hours long. "Absolutely fuck off no way," I said. This being the first time the comic had heard me over-emphasize something for dramatic effect, he found it hilarious and retold the story a number of times. I also had a Flake 99. A Flake 99 is an ice cream cone with a Flake bar stuck in it. Some of you may be aware of my total obsession with this candy bar. It was like a dream come true.

The absolute top, number one highlight of the entire trip happened on the night out in Luton at The Black Horse and I have yet to shut up about it. The comic had played a few songs on the jukebox and we were sitting and listening to them before heading over to the California Inn (it has shiny, sparkly things, thumpy music and there was someone walking around in a giant bunny head - it is exactly like California). A song started that sounded oddly familiar but that I couldn't place. The comic said, "I played this for you," having no idea that I'd ever heard it before. The second I heard the first line "I've been going out with a gir-rl, her name is Julie" I freaked out. Jilted John is the cornerstone of the soundtrack to my childhood. Kelly and Simmy's dad had brought the single over with him when they moved here from England. The four of us were absolutely OBSESSED with this song. We listened to it constantly. We sang it ourselves when we didn't have the record handy. We included it on our fake radio station Power 8000. I was immediately overwhelmed with an urge to call Kelly, but couldn't because my phone doesn't work in England. I settled for leaving it as a Facebook status the next day and insisting that the three of them leave comments. It was fucking phenomenal.

I spent the flight home wishing I wasn't on it, both because I didn't want to go home and because of this weird back pain I'd started having the day before. As it turned out I came back from England with more than just a new corset, a new glass dildo and a bottle of Abbot Ale. But that's an entirely different story.

Picking on Sick People Makes You An Oily Cat Wank

Friday night, pre-hospital. I am running an approximately 100.1 degree fever.

Fish: Who is winning game 7? I could change over but I never change away from baseball to hockey. Personal rule.

Me: Pittsburgh, 1-nil.

Fish: Just because you went to England doesn't mean you say nil now. Welcome to America....it's called zero.

Me: I also say mental. And knackered. And what's all this then?

Fish: The last is Eddie Izzard. The other two aren't words. It's ok...you're feverish.

Sex Kittens

I just renewed my subscription to Playboy by sending them a check with a picture of kittens on it. It may be the Vicodin, but this strikes me as hilarious.

I'll explain the Vicodin shortly. I'm not typing so well right now.

P.S. Also used a Yoda postage stamp. They may not send me the magazine anymore on principle.

Amberance: Automated Out Of Office Response

I have many funny thing to say. Many. Unfortunately I'm not going to write any of them at this time because I am too busy coming up with more of them while I'm in England. Oh by the way, I'm in England.

Details next week.

In the meantime, please amuse yourself by popping over to Fuck You, Penguin or your favorite (or favourite depending on your location) berating of cute things website.

Vague Descriptions From Amtrak

Mrs. Sizemore: i shall make cake when you visit
you are coming on which day? the 18th?

me: i think so, did i send you the train reservation e-mail?

Mrs. Sizemore: nopes

me: you can has now!

Mrs. Sizemore: yaaaays
INCORRECT
Passenger 1: Amber [redacted] (Adult)

me: hahahahaha awesome

Mrs. Sizemore: amtrak tells lies

me: clearly

Mrs. Sizemore: unless they mean adult like, adult adult
x-rated and whatnot

me: right, i'll have to ask ;)

Mrs. Sizemore: Dear Train People,
Please clarify. Are you miscategorizing me, or do you know me all too well?
Thank you,
Amberance

me: perfect

And Then A Velociraptorbyte.

Me: What's the next biggest unit after a terabyte?
The agent: A pterodactylbyte.

Amber and The Intern: Bad Wedding Guests

The intern: i had to give a speech at a wedding this weekend - terrifying stuff

Me: no doubt. did you mess up like my friend did? she said "Simone's birthday" instead of "Simone's wedding". We started singing "Happy Birthday" because we are assholes

The intern: haha; that's hysterical; luckily i didn't munson it; i figured if I started to freeze i would just start balling - but it went well so i was relieved

Me: balling like crying or balling like having sex with the nearest female? because that would have been hilarious
unless it was the bride, then not so much

The intern: haha, that might have been a bit awkward
in an awesome way

In Which Amberance Briefly Grows A Pair

You know it's going to be just a stellar night when you have to use the phrase "DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME" before 9 p.m.

The whole thing seemed routine enough. It was Thursday night and therefore I was at Tai's having dinner with my roommate watching the Cubs lose and the Penguins win. When a guy came in by himself, shook the bartender's hand and sat down a couple stools away from me I thought nothing of it, because why would I? Apart from the fact that he was wearing his blue tooth earpiece like a fashion accessory he appeared fairly normal. Since this is being posted on Bizzybiz, you already know otherwise.

It became clear pretty quickly that he was completely inebretarded. In the space of twenty minutes he tried to shake the bartender's hand at least a dozen times. He also started in on me, wanting to know if I would play pool with him (no) and if I thought he was attractive (no), and then announcing "Giiiirrrrlll, you are fine!" (I was.) My terse answers, refusal to look at him directly and outright ignoring him did not serve as much of a deterrent.

And then he came over and put his hand on my arm.

Here's the thing with that, and actually there are two: 1) If you don't cut off that behavior immediately in drunks it will escalate until you find yourself being mauled, but more importantly 2) I have a thing about strangers touching me. It is that strangers should not be touching me. At all. Ever. So when this asshat touched my arm I screamed at him. "DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME! I am not kidding you." which was followed somewhat anti-climatically by the bartender repeating more calmly "Don't touch her."* This was effective. Temporarily.

Moments later, in came Gene Honda and his dinner. And so the douchebaggery continued. "Dude!" bellowed the shithead. "Shake my hand bro!" By this time Gene had started eating rib tips. Gene explains that he can't shake his hand right then, and also that he is trying to enjoy his dinner. Cockwad ignored this, and continued to try and shake a hand, get a hug, lean on, breathe on and generally irritate the crap out of Gene. The bartender said, "Leave the man alone, he's trying to eat his dinner." I said, "Get the fuck away from him, he's having his dinner." Gene said, "Listen, I don't know who you are. I am not going to shake your hand. I would like to eat my dinner and if you don't leave me alone I'm going to throw a bone at you."

In the meantime, other people started showing up in the bar. A guy came in with his girlfriend and started to shoot pool and two girls appeared and were talking to the bartender. It is these distractions rather than our words that got him away from Gene so that he could eat. Unfortunately for them. From across the room I heard the girlfriend say, "Please don't touch me," and the guy say, "Are you serious? I'm standing right here!"

Gene finished his dinner and we went outside, him to smoke, me because Gene said he's not leaving me in there defenseless. (I love my friends.) While we were outside a small miracle occurred: One of our friends who happens to be a detective for the Chicago PD showed up with his wife. I was ecstatic and promptly glued myself to them. We went back inside and settled in to watch the show fucknuts was putting on. By this point he could barely stand and was speaking Spanish. Another woman walked in alone and someone immediately grabbed her and sat her down with a group of people, probably saving her life. Or at least her sanity.

Jackoff stood alone and surveyed the room, eyes settling on me. In a moment of clarity he appeared to recognized me as the bitch who yelled at him and started lurching toward us, yelling something at me in Spanish and knocking over other people's drinks all the way. People who know me well know that I rarely confront people and even more rarely raise my voice. I am not yelly, and hearing other people yell normally causes me to panic and try to hide in a corner. I don't know if it was the depth of my anger or the presence of the detective standing beside me, but all that went out the window and I snapped. "You have GOT to be kidding me. Are you fucking serious? STOP fucking talking to me." As he took another step toward me I continued, "And if you get any closer to me I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL FUCKING HIT YOU!" I'm pretty sure the people at the gas station across the street heard me. He stood there, grinning stupidly while I stared him down and waited, fully prepared to punch someone in the face for the first time ever in my life (along with the yelling, I also don't hit people). He stumbled backward and spilled a beer.

The bartender had had enough (right about now, or perhaps earlier, you're saying "Why didn't he just throw the shit eating prick out of the bar?" Because it was too early for the bouncers to be there, and the bartender wouldn't have been able to take him out on his own if he'd started fighting). "That's it," he said. "You're done. Get out of here right now." We all stood at the window and watched him leave, bobbing and weaving across four lanes of traffic, miraculously making it to the other side without collapsing or getting hit by a garbage truck...and getting into a truck. The detective and the bartender bolted out the door and across the street before I could finish saying, "No. Way. He is going to kill someone." Eventually, the detective got his keys, the bartender called him a cab, and we bribed the cab driver (who took one look at him and said "I don't want this guy in my cab") to take him to the address we found on his driver's license since he couldn't remember where he lived.

So, all in all, the night was bizarrely entertaining, the detective bought everyone a round, certain death was prevented and I was a total badass for about 12 seconds. Not a bad night. MrSteve lamented to me that he missed all the good stuff, and Fish wanted to know why I get to have all the fun. The answer comes to us from the detective, who broke the stunned silence by quipping "Only at Tai's." Indeed.

Post script: Several hours later, someone dropped off a woman outside who got in the truck and drove it away. His wife.


*It keeps reminding me of the scene in American Pie, with the lacrosse coach yelling at the team and the assistant coach standing behind him mumbling the last thing he said. "CulmiNAtion."

In America We Celebrate The Failure Of Others. USA! USA! USA!

H-Town: dude - manny ramirez suspended 50 games for testing positive for steroids!

me: BWAHAHAHAHAHA this is the best news I've heard in a week

H-Town: so much for that winning record of the dodgers!

me: this is perfect. he looks even more like a complete douche than his contract holdup bullcrap did

H-Town: 50 games! i just can't believe that

me: i wish it was the whole year.
i am such a horrible person. this makes me so happy

H-Town: that doesn't make you a horrible person

me: no you're right. it makes me a proud american

H-Town: exactly
schaudenfreude may be a german word, but americans can say it
maybe not spell it, but we can say it
speaking of that word, i KNEW that Ms. Calif would have something bad come out about her background
hello naked photos

me: YYYYEEESSSS! What a brilliant day. It makes me want to wrap myself in a flag and hug my freedom

H-Town: hahaha
(think neil diamond) - Nudie pics from far away - they're comin' to America
you think they're gone but they're here to stay....they're comin to America
everyone from 'round the world
they're gonna see your nudie pics
TODAY!
*tempo slows*
My country tis of theee (NUDIES)
sweet land of irony... (NUDIES)
your ass I see (NUDIES)
*rocks out*

me: lolz

Next You'll be Telling Me Sandy Cheeks is a Crack Smoking Pole Dancer.

I like to think that I am not an alarmist, particularly where it comes to kids. I think it must suck for them to not be able to go roller skating without a helmet, elbow and knee pads, I'm not worried that they're all trying to kill themselves by swallowing Duplo blocks and I don't think the world is going to end if they accidentally hear someone say "damn" on tv.

But this?

This is just wrong on so many levels. First of all, The King in and of himself is creepy as all fuck. He is the bizarre love child of Guy Fawkes and a child rapist - he gives ME nightmares and I am (ostensibly) a grown woman. Then there's the dancing hos....are you serious? Stuffing a shoebox down their pants is not fooling anyone, Burger King. We all know you are selling sex to little kids. Congratulations, you have somehow managed to sexualize a beloved, mentally challenged, burger-flipping Porifera. And you, Sir Mix-a-lot. I suppose you really did need the exposure - I actually thought you were dead. It's comforting to know that 17 years after your one hit wonder, you continue to have absolutely no standards*. "Booty is booty"? Yeah right. Crap is crap, but you don't see me running around turning kids meals into disturbing fetish porn, do you?


*It was NOT comforting to look that up and realize that song came out 17 years ago. Thanks for that too, douchebags.

Jenny and Amberance Can't Handle The Hard Stuff (Or Bad Music)

Mrs. Sizemore: vicodin is WEIRD
just a psa

me: um....?
oh, from your tooth

Mrs. Sizemore: yeah
i thought i would be tough and not take it
but that lasted about 4 hours and then i caved

me: yes, my old roommate jim was a big fan of that particular weirdness. mixed with copious amounts of beer and goldschlager

Mrs. Sizemore: oh yikes
i do not want to mix with anything

me: he has a bit of a death wish

Mrs. Sizemore: i keep getting waves of this strange, swimmy feeling
also, i keep crying

me: from the vicodin? i guess that would explain jim's penchant for emo, emo eyeliner

******later******

Mrs. Sizemore: blaaah
i officially do not like vicodin
why anyone would use this recreationally is astounding

me: reality is for people who can't handle drugs

Mrs. Sizemore: side effects?

me: of reality? walls staying still, only seeing one of something, inanimate objects do not talk and/or stare at you, no imaginary limbs growing out of your abdomen or flesh melting off your hands, etc.

Mrs. Sizemore: hmm
those are all correct
the side effects of the vicodin are not as pleasant
i am dizzy and hot
and also i keep wanting to cry

me: i would definitely stay away from the Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance CDs then

Wait, What?

Me: Dean Martin's voice melts my vagina.

The agent: Yeah, mine too.

Disparity

The agent: We could sing "The Luckiest". I'll have to transpose it down so that it's more in your range. We should write some harmonies for it. We'll be like Simon and Garfunkel! You can be Art...

Me: Yeah, I'll be Garfunkel and you'll be talented.

Ready For Prime Time

Last night after several hours of wrestling with my kitten in an attempt to get her to stop sucking on my neck and kneading my trachea so I could sleep (and breathe), I finally fell asleep only to be reawakened 30 minutes later at 2 a.m. The bartender was home 2 hours early and was talking under his breath, at first appearances to himself. Moments later I realized he was actually talking to a second, as yet unidentified person. I would have been touched that they were keeping their voices down to keep from waking me, were it not for the fact that they were simultaneously ripping packaging tape off of what sounded like an enormous cardboard box three feet from my bedroom door. A most hilarious fail.

Anyway, long story even longer, the mystery voice turned out to be the owner, and the mysterious box contained a 42 inch 1080p flat panel television. Inexplicably, this television turned out to be a completely random gift for me from the bartender.* He had apparently decided that I "needed" this to be able to watch football correctly. I am overwhelmed and completely bewildered. I am also certain that my roommate is awesome and possibly quite a bit more crazy than I thought.

*The huge cardboard box and giant Styrofoam blocks became a gift for Angela, who immediately commandeered them and built herself an enormous kitty fort taking up half the usable floor space in my living room.

Wisdom Of The Agent

Me (trying to open the door before it was unlocked): Oops. I was premature.

The agent: You're not mature at all.

Kitty At My Foot And I Want To Touch It

It's been a hectic week, and here is the reason:




The animal you don't see is a tortoiseshell kitten named Angela, who recently moved into the Chateau de Chubs (colloquially known as Amber's apartment). The reason you can't see her is that she is 12 weeks old and therefore not inclined to sit still for photography purposes at any time. I assure you she is cute in the my-eyeballs-are-melting-and-i'm going-to-vomit-pink-flowers-while-having-a-heart-attack sense of the word "cute".

Angie enjoys chasing anything that moves or looks like it could move, any basin meant to contain water (until she gets wet), attempting to suckle from my neck, standing on my face when I'm trying to sleep, trying to jump on the stove, walking on my laptop keyboard and combing my hair with her tiny paws.

The agent and the bartender are completely smitten with her. I have to be vigilant or one of them will certainly catnap her. And as for the rest of you, I'm not telling you where I live.

'Cause Amberance Is Your Lady

H-town: ok, my ipod is calling me super homo gay
it played that lady in red song, and now it's playing air supply

me: I tried to play some Air Supply for [the agent], I think he had to concentrate really hard not to punch me in the face

Smobke Smobke Smobke!

I have startlingly different thresholds for pain depending on where I am and who happens to be standing next to me. I realized this yesterday when I went to the dentist to have a few cavities taken care of.

My dentist, Dr. Joe, deemed me "an exemplary patient". This is because I did not complain, squirm, flinch, attempt to talk, require a break, get my tongue in the way, make horrible pained faces, kick my legs, pee my pants or ask for laughing gas during the entire two hours he was drilling, sucking, chipping at, filling, filing and sealing my teeth. I was a model of stoicism, virtually a practice mannequin (if dentists had any such thing) and I smiled and cheerfully waved goodbye as I left.

In contrast, I was the most high maintenance and annoying roommate in the history of the world once I got home 10 minutes later. I kept up a constant stream of whining from 6 pm until I went to bed at 11: "Wah, I can't feel my face, my lips don't work, I can't drink this milk, I spilled pop all over myself, I can't chew spaghetti, just give me a bowl of sauce, the sauce is spilling out of my face, ow! the numbness is wearing off, my face is throbbing, I want ice cream, I need aspirin, how will I ever get to sleep like this? boo hoo hoo, bitchmoanwhinecomplain......" I was every girl in Lincoln Park at once and a strong reminder to the bartender that having children is not all it's cracked up to be.

The moral of the story is it's better to be my dentist than my friend because you don't have to hear me whine and I'll give you all my money.

Please enjoy this far more amusing account of a trip to the dentist from Bill Cosby.

You Killed My Republic. Prepare To Die.

The bartender and I are pretending to visit our neighbors (we are actually visiting their awesome cats).

Me: I was just watching The Princess Bride. It's on Bravo. [The bartender] has never seen it before. He hates it.

Neighbor girl: Seriously?

The bartender: How is that movie supposed to be funny? It's so stupid.

The ex-marine: WHAT? ARE YOU A COMMUNIST?!?!?!?

Amberance: Always Trying to Help Others

Me: I still think we should have Mystery Girl on the show.

MrSteve: Why are you trying to make my life more difficult?

Me: I'm not! I'm trying to make your life more hilarious.

May The Cake Be With You

My birthday, of course, was fabulous because by default my birthday is simply a fabulous day. But it was also good because I made everyone pay attention to me and wear stupid party hats. Also because I could finally unveil the great cake. Behold, the Death Star Birthday Cake:


That's no moon.

I had originally planned to have a more exacting replica by icing it with fondant, until I realized that fondant sucks, as was perfectly summed up in this conversation with Mrs. Sizemore:

Mrs. Sizemore: hallo miss lady
how was your bday?

me: It was great. Except here's what I learned:
Fondant? I hate fondant.

Mrs. Sizemore: ooo
yeah
fondant is a bitch
and it does not taste good
it's like an ugly chick that doesn't put out

Of course, since I am me, I could not simply settle for one awesome Death Star cake with delicious delicious buttercream frosting. I had to flank it with images of an intergalactic war:


For the non-nerds: TIE fighters, Death Star, x-wing fighter.

Hokey religions and ancient weapons are no match for a good piping bag at your side, kid. The epic battle between good and evil is deliciously sugary and goes great with milk.

KHAAAAAANN! KHAAAAAAAN!!!

Which do you think is the greater tragedy: That we have lost the great Ricardo Montalban, or that this article does not even mention his greatest role ever?

My Birthday

I would be remiss if I didn't remind all my readers that Monday is my birthday. Particularly since I have been reminding all of my friends. Multiple times a day. Sometimes repeatedly in one conversation. My birthday. Monday. I'm still unclear as to why this major event is not a national holiday. My birthday, that is. Which is on Monday.

I have already begun the awesomeness (which will culminate on Monday in the form of my birthday) by:

• Buying myself the most freaking fantastic computer game ever created in the history of mankind (Shiv and Lemon does not qualify as it has never actually been created), which is called Crayon Physics Deluxe. I have been waiting and waiting and waiting for this game to finally come out and suddenly this week there it was. They must have known that my birthday is this coming Monday. Check it out. It is more addictive than Tetris and Sudoku combined, for serious.
• Planning out the most bitchin' birthday cake in the history of mankind. I don't want to ruin the surprise though, so check back some time after my birthday (Monday) for the sure to be stunning photographs of the most awesome cake of all time.

So, to recap: My birthday is Monday, and it will be glorious.

Amberance: Insufferable Know-It-All

Watching the Blackhawks game, in which someone has just been punched in the face

The agent: Oh my god! Look how much he's bleeding!
me: I'm sure it looks worse than it is. The face has a lot of capillaries, so it tends to bl-
The agent: Shut up, nerd.

I Don't Like His Scotch Either

MrSteve: Here, try my Absolut Citron martini with a lemon twist.
me: No way.
MrSteve: Just try it, it's lemony!
me: (sip, pause) This tastes like a Wet Nap.

The Perils of Dating

The agent: What's that Prince song? Little Pink Cadillac?
Me: (silent, horrified stare)
The agent: Wait, no. It's Little Red Corvette, right?
Me: Oh my god.

As You Wish

BrownsFan: Please change your password.

Me: I swear it has been done.

BrownsFan: You are a person of action. Lies do not become you.

Amberance: Bossy

There is a right way and a wrong way to string lights on a Christmas tree, which is why I don't ever let anyone else touch the lights for the trees except for my father, who taught me in the first place*. So, I was very confused on Sunday when putting up the agent's tree. I had four strings of neatly wrapped lights, and one string of inexplicably tangled completely disorganized lights. "I can't figure out how this happened," I told the agent. "Why would I have done this? And with just one string of lights?"

"Maybe I was trying to help you or something," he said, "and you made me stop because you thought I was doing it wrong."

I considered this. "Maybe, but I think even then I would have taken it away from you and bossily redid it the way I wanted it in the first place."

*This came about in high school when I decided that a 10 foot tree in the family room and an 8 foot tree in the living room was not nearly enough trees, and that we clearly needed another 8 foot tree in my bedroom, to which my father responded "Do it yourself. There's no way I'm putting lights on another damn tree."

It's Beginning to Look A Little Like Christmas

"Amber's been decorating," the bartender told our friend the fat mexican over the phone. "It looks like the North Pole in here."


It's my mother's fault, really, that I'm like this. She loved Christmas and she loved decorating, so decorating for Christmas was a big deal at my house when I was growing up. My mother worked from home, so she would decorate in small batches during the day. When Cap and I would get home from school she would tell us how many decorations she had put up and then the two of us would tear off through the house trying to find the things that were new. We had our own assignments as well. We had a huge ceramic Christmas tree that was always on top of the tv (back when televisions were more of a piece of furniture than an appliance) that had little red lights all over it. Cap and I were responsible for sticking all the little plastic lights in and every year we fought over who would get to put the star on top. My mother also collected Santas, several of which I have inherited. She loved her Santa collection so much that they stayed out in a cabinet in the corner all year round. No lie.


At night I would sneak out of my bed and either hide in the living room staring at the tree for hours, or sit on the stairs and watch the snow fall in the little round light up winter scene in the hallway. In retrospect, it may be that Christmas seemed magical to me simply because it was filled with tiny flashing lights. and small shiny objects.


This is why the living room has so many decorations and lights that we don't even need to turn on any lamps (and the tree is not even up yet) and why I have a 4 1/2 foot stocking hanging on my bedroom door.

It's why I have a Santa hat on at work right now.

31 Days and Counting

It is one month until my birthday, the most joyous day of the year. Just ask these happy couples.

Breaking News!

Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich was arrested this morning on charges that he is a complete and utter douchebag. Disturbingly, this is not at all surprising. Hilariously, he was originally elected on a platform of reforming the corruptions of the previous Governor, George Ryan, who is currently serving 6 years after being convicted of being a total douchebag himself. I try very hard to keep politics out of this blog, but really this was too good to pass up. If I didn't laugh, I'd be crying.

This proves what I've been saying all along: Cabbage Patch Kids are evil.

Bedtime Stories from the Lazy and Irritated

The bartender: You're going to bed already?

Me: I'm tired. Tell me a story.

The bartender: (sigh) Once there was a crackhead.

long pause as I wait for him to continue

Me: And then what?

The bartender: He died.

Me: That is the worst bedtime story in all of history.

The bartender: Fine. Once there was a spider.

Me: Ok, ok, I take it back!

NaBloPoMo Wrap Up

Wow, thank heaven that's over. What I learned from NaBloPoMo is that writing something every single day is hard. Or that it's incredibly easy and I simply have very few interesting things going on in my life, I'm not sure. Either way, it ends up being a mixed bag of genuinely good posts, drivel and crappy one sentence fillers. Oh, also crappy NaBloPoMo wrap-up posts. But I also learned that I miss blogging on a frequent basis and so from now on I will try to remember what a fun hobby this is when I'm laying around bored with no books to read. Which is pretty rare actually.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled once a week* blog post.

*approximately

Kitty Report

There were no cats I just HAD to have this morning, which is good because it's not time yet to have a cat (which I discovered by trying to picture the tortie kitten walking through my kitchen and promptly bursting into tears because it's Kristen's kitchen). There was another tortoise shell kitten who had convinced herself that my neck and head were her personal jungle gym, but the cat of the day was a black ca in the adult room. As soon as he saw me sit down, he came running over and aggressively claimed my lap. Which is to say, he slapped the crap out of any other cat who tried to get near me. I tried to pet his head, but as soon as I touched him he turned around and bit me. After that he growled at me every time my hand got near him. Apparently he's not affectionate - he just wants the lap.

Food Hangover

I can't move. Seriously. I blame the stuffing, for being AWESOME.

FOOOOOOD!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Great Minds Think Alike

H-Town: Things that sound dirty, but aren't: "Hey, can I help brine your turkey?"

me: "let me stuff that for you"

H-Town: "Mmm, I love giblets"

me: "Can I have a little more hot gravy?"

H-Town: "I'd like to stick my pen15 into the cranberry sauce."
No wait, that is dirty. Sorry.
*totally went there*

me: *totally beaten to the punch*

Holiday Memory Fun Time

I was reading an article today about a return to "classic" toys this season since there is not a "must have" toy this year (did I drive all around northeast Ohio in 1996 looking for a Tickle Me Elmo for myself? Yes. Yes I did.) and also because no one has any money.

This reminded me of the greatest classic toy of all time which is, of course, Domino Rally. For those who are either to young or too old to have any memory of this masterpiece, Domino Rally was a toy where you would set up a couple hundred dominoes in an elaborate pattern and then knock them all down.

The product itself was a piece of crap. The dominoes were injection molded plastic and hollow on one side. They were also way too thin and it was an enormous chore to get them to stand up and stay up. We eventually took to taking out every 10th domino or so until we were ready to avoid having the whole thing come down before it was finished, usually due to vibrations from someone walking around in another room. It was hours of painstaking and often frustrating work, for about a 20 second payoff, and even that never went according to plan. The knock down always stalled on the included bridge due to it's poor design, and also here and there along the line since we were little kids and sucked at spacing. We loved it. It was the go to holiday game for Cap, Simmy, Kelly, me, and occasionally our two younger cousins when we let them play (we were afraid that since they were younger they would knock stuff down. Because we weren't knocking everything down ourselves already.). It was a mixed blessing for the adults in that while it kept us quiet and occupied for most of the day, the only place we could set it up was on the kitchen floor where people were trying to cook for 20 guests. We played this at just about every holiday until we were old enough for more awesome games like Crack the Case, despite the fact that in all that time we were never once successful.

Who else had a crappy-ass toy they were in love with?

Bryan, is our failure at Domino Rally what led you into engineering? Because that would be awesome.

Bounty

The bartender and I are making a 17 1/2 pound turkey for Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday...for the two of us and one guest. Because, you know, we wouldn't want to run out of food.

In related news, check out Mrs. Sizemore's pumpkin pie recipe, if you're looking for a DIY dessert.

Finally, An Explanation

There may now be a reasonable explanation for my fear of the pizza man and librarians. It is because I am left-handed.

Observations at a Calexico Show

• The opening band had two people on drums. It was still quieter than most bands with one drummer.
• The lead singer of the opening band played bass on one song...with a capo. Bonus points for the agent coincidentally musing only minutes before, "Wouldn't it be hilarious to see someone using a capo on a bass?"
• An Amazon couple. The giant man had an Adam's Apple that was so big it looked like a foot was coming out of his neck. The giant woman had salami scented B.O. We stared at their backs for a good portion of the concert.
• Mutton chops.

This Will Only Take A Second...

Today's pants shitting moment is brought to you by a bum on the train on my way home from work today. He came in through the emergency exit door and proceeded to yell the following statement:

"Attention all the passengers on this train! I hope you can all forgive me for what I'm about to do."

Zzzzziiiiip went the needle on the imaginary record as all conversation in the train stopped immediately, because as everyone who has ever watched a movie or the evening news knows, that kind of statement is always followed by the guy pulling out a gun, dramatically jacking a round into the chamber and firing it at the ceiling as a warning that he WILL kill anyone who does not cooperate before robbing everyone.

What actually happened though was that he got down on his knees and begged for change. He wanted our forgiveness for asking us for change in the first place. Hopefully some day I will be able to forgive him for giving me a heart attack as well.

The Horror, The Horror

This just in: There are spiders in the grapes. (WARNING: Picture of a spider in the article. I had to have BrownsFan read me the first two paragraphs.) Not just any spiders either. BLACK WIDOW SPIDERS, the quintessential ARACHNID OF EVIL. These are spiders that can actually harm or even kill you. Just look at them with their huge round ass presumably filled with poison, shaking their red hourglass at you and saying "This is how long you have to live!" They are hiding in your grapes people. Frequently:

"Some place in the U.S. almost every day of the year somebody finds a black widow in a package of California grapes," said Rod Crawford, curator of arachnids, Burke Museum.

I think we all know what kind of food I will no longer be purchasing, let alone washing.

And the woman in the article that wants to donate the black widow to a zoo? ARE YOU CRAZY? What are you going to do, stand there and calmly ask it to please crawl into your little cup so it can enjoy a life in captivity completely devoid of opportunities for evil doing? Yeah, that'll work. Put that monster in the freezer before it's too late!

Amberance Will Stick With What She Has

I took a career aptitude test online today because I love thinking about myself, and the economy is scary, and I stupidly signed up to blog every day this month, and I'm still not entirely sure what I want to be when I grow up. "Weird" is not technically a career, and is certainly not lucrative. Anywho, according to my own opinion I am very intelligent and completely unfriendly. I am also apparently very nurturing, but only if you like hearing about me since I seem to dislike conversing unless it's about myself.



The test says that in general, I should be in some type of creative field, but then goes on to give the three best career matches for me, none of which are remotely creative:



1. Personal Care and Service Occupations. I find this particularly hilarious seeing as I scored approximately "hermit crab" on my interpersonal skills. Also they make it sound completely unappealing with their description:


"Primary job stresses include working with sometimes unpleasant clients, having to work on your feet for many hours, and working in sometimes smoky environments. Primary job satisfactions include briefly meeting and serving many different people or animals and receiving their brief praise and thanks."



They make janitor sound like more fun than this.



2. Veterinary Technologist, or Technician, or Assistant. This makes at least a little more sense. I do love kitties. I do volunteer at an animal shelter. But the questions, I think, were not specific enough, because this doesn't take into account that

• I hate watching things die.
• I hate dogs.
• I hate not making money.

3. Bindery Worker. "Make books and magazines largely by loading and operating machines that assemble printed pages and covers." Just an all around bad idea. I would spend my time reading the things I was supposed to be assembling. Also I am clumsy. I often break things and/or bodily crash into them. This job seems like a good way to break expensive equipment or lose a limb.

Other things I learned about myself:

• My father was right about genetics, as I scored very highly on "Tax Preparer".
• I should not lay pipe.
• Fast food is not my bag either.
• I might make a good nun (not counting the sex and blasphemy of course).

Cat Shelter Volunteering

You know you're bound to be the crazy cat lady someday when you walk into a room with 20 cats who surround you, meowing for food like something out of The Twilight Zone and you think to yourself, "This. Is. Awesome."

I am in love with a kitten (who has already been adopted) who tried to climb me like a tree, and an orange tabby with a gigantic head.

Football Joke of the Day

Q: Why can't Michigan make it to Columbus?

A: Because they can't get past Toledo.




Ann Arbor's a whore.

It's Here! It's Here!

Happy 40 Days of Christmas everyone!

Backdating Because I Have The Lazy

The agent and I have invented a hypothetical game called "Cannibal Race". It's hypothetical because to play it correctly you would have to actually be a cannibal. The agent and I are not cannibals, so we can only pretend. The rules are pretty simple: two people bite huge chunks out of each others flesh. Last one to die wins. It's a hollow victory though, because the person who lost has eaten huge chunks of your flesh and you're going to die soon yourself, either from the blood loss or an infection. But you still won, so you'll have that going for you.

I told you that disturbing story to tell you this one:

IF you are not an actual cannibal, AND you are only playing Cannibal Race for pretend, DO NOT attempt to start the game by eating each others faces. This can only end in a bloody lip and loose teeth. Per the agent, while holding a tissue against his bleeding mouth, "Let's never play this again."

Spider Politics

Mrs. Sizemore: Hey, do you want to move to Canada and get gay married?

Me: That depends. Do I have to learn French?

Mrs. Sizemore: No, you don't have to learn French. I speak enough for both of us.

Me: Good, because I was planning on learning Portuguese.

Mrs. Sizemore: Ooo, if you learn Portuguese we could move to Brazil!

Me: Nuh uh. They have tarantulas in Brazil, I'm not moving there. It has to be Canada.

MrSteve: Oh what, you think there's no spiders in Canada?

Me: Not big ones.

Mrs. Sizemore: Yeah, the spiders in Canada are small and killed by socialism.

Random Follow Up

H-town: how can i have known you for so long and NOT known you were a tap dancer?

me: i honestly have no idea. i'm pretty awesome at it

H-town: i mean, it kinda sounds vaguely familiar, but i don't know if i'm just making that up
but that is awesome

me: for most of that time i was taking ballet as well

H-town: wow! the things learn about our friends

me: but i don't regret quitting ballet. ballet hurts and it sucks

H-town: yeah, i feel like all i hear about ballet is the bad stuff

me: i only stayed in it 10 years because all my friends from tap did. and they give you a line about it "blah blah blah balance, blah blah blah posture..."

H-town: and then you scissor-kicked those ladies in the head?
does ballet and tap give you the ability to scissor kick someone? because that would be awesome

me: i guess you could, but glitter would get EVERYWHERE

The Force Can Have a Strong Influence on the Weak Minded

MrSteve: Darth Vader Toaster. As the Ronco commercials say - ?The Ideal Christmas Gift!?

The engineer: *waves hand* "This is not the toaster you are looking for."

Mrs. Engineer: Now THAT was geeky.

Me: Geekily AWESOME

R.I.P. Herb Score

Herb Score died this morning. Between getting drilled in the face with a line drive and the huge car accident he survived in 1998, the guy had more lives than a cat. Everyone's got to go sometime.

I once met Herb Score, and it stands as one of the most mortifying moments in my life. I went to see A Christmas Carol with my faunt (fake aunt, thanks for this term Simone) and he was sitting about four rows back from us. My faunt is a huge Indians fan and she spotted him immediately. "Amber look. Look! It's Herb Score. Do you see him? Oh, I can't believe he's here. Oh this is so exciting..." It was almost as if that was what we came to see. It was hilarious.

At intermission we got up to stretch, pee, what have you, and headed back to our seats. He was sitting in his seat near the aisle, so we were going to end up walking right past him. I thought. Until she grabbed my arm to stop me and started talking to him. "Excuse me," she said britishly. "Are you Herb Score?"

"Yes I am!" he replied in the voice of Herb Score.

There was an audible gasp, which was followed by the loudest yell I have heard out of a tiny English person ever. "CAN I SHAKE YOUR HAND?" she screamed, while flapping her hands and bobbing up and down. Everyone in the room turned to look at us, while I quietly cast about for a shovel with which to dig a hole to climb into. Totally worth it though, since I've gotten a dozen years or so of physical comedy joke telling out of it.

Shameless Promotion

If you live in Chicago and you have nothing to do this Sunday night, I'd like to suggest that you head over to The Elbo Room where the agent will be playing. He sings pretty and is very attractive, assuming you like men. If not, he still sings pretty. You can also meet me! I'll be the girl sitting at the merch table handing out CDs and pretending to enjoy socializing with strangers.

The show starts at 8:30 and is $7. Tell them you came to see Aaron Fox (they won't know who you're talking about if you tell them you came to see amberance).

6 Random Things

As you may have noticed in the comments to the previous post, I have been tagged by Monogodo to play 6 random things. There are two things in particular that I am known for: ignoring the rules and talking about myself. SO. I will answer the challenge of my long time internet friend, but I will do my part to save the interwebs by disregarding the instructions and not tagging anyone. You're quite welcome.

1. I love love love sitting by heating vents. When I was a little kid I would get out of my bed and drag my blankets downstairs to the kitchen to lay down next to the heating vent. I still do this. The agent knows where to look for me in his apartment when I disappear in the winter: I am on the bathroom floor looming over my favorite vent, with a towel over me to trap in more heat. I would sleep there if he'd let me.

2. I am a very good tap dancer. I took dance lessons for 14 years, and my troupe won several state competitions and one year went to nationals and took third. Giving up dance is the single biggest regret of my life.

3. I have a love/hate relationship with math. Oddly enough, I didn't get very good grades in math when I was in high school. It wasn't because I couldn't handle the material, it was because I had no interest in applying myself. I HATED math and basically ignored all my homework. But even while I was not paying any attention in class, I was passing the time with some really fun activities such as writing out the Fibonacci sequence as far as I could go, or writing out Pascal's triangle until I ran out of paper. Or my favorite: solving simultaneous algebraic equations for three variables. I am currently obsessing about fractals (thanks a lot, Nova). Even so, I'm still convinced that I hate math.

4. For the most part I hate wine. Unless it is a super sweet wine I won't drink it. In situations where I feel like I have to drink wine (because everyone else has wine and I would look like complete tool ordering a beer) I have learned to ask for "the wine that tastes the most like candy". This seems to work pretty well.

5. I hated baseball until I was 16 years old. In 1994 the Indians were suddenly very good. Everyone was watching them all the time and I couldn't get away from it no matter how hard I tried. I was forced to watch it everywhere I went, and that is how I first saw Omar Vizquel play defense. I have loved baseball ever since.

6. A list of my five favorite instruments in descending order: oboe, harpsichord, calliope, tympani drum, vibraslap.

P.S. Don't feel bad for tagging me Mon, I had no idea how I was going to come up with material for today. NaBloPoMo is hard.

Plus, The Weather Outside Really IS Frightful

I should not be left alone in department stores this time of year.

In all honesty you could shorten that statement to "I should not be left alone in department stores" and it would be just as accurate. But right now especially is a very bad time to turn me loose on retail.

I went to Target this morning for a shower curtain liner. I needed one, and Target carries the ones that I like. I can see now in hindsight that my mistake was to also use the trip to look for movies to use as possible Christmas gifts. If I had skipped that task and gone directly to the bathroom aisle, I would not have been able to see that there, just a few steps away, there were Christmas trees for sale.

I did not buy a Christmas tree. I have nine of them already. But realizing the holiday season crap was out and for sale did me no favors. And while I did remember to buy the shower curtain I came for, I also ended up with four Christmas CDs and a stocking holder in my cart. To be fair to myself, I also refrained from putting a Santa snow globe, a nutcracker, fleece Christmas pajamas, a bunch of wrapping paper, about 5 more CDs, 2 movies, several pairs of holiday socks and a wide assortment of holiday underwear, including but not limited to festive bras. But still, there are 8 more days remaining before the beginning of The 40 Day of Christmas, and there are 22 more days before the start of Irresponsible Spending Month.

A chaperon probably would have been a good idea. It is clear I have a sickness (and the only prescription is more jingle bells).

In Which Amberance Creates Her Own Anachronisms

BrownsFan: Grady Sizemore won his second consecutive Gold Glove.

me: yay!

BrownsFan: I always spell it "yea" Not to be confused with "yeah"

me: yea feels all formal, like it's 1670 and we're in the parlor waiting for the roast boar to be served

BrownsFan: But "yay" is appropriate for more modern times, like sloppy joes on Krispy Kremes.

me: yeah, yay doesn't wear a powdered wig or play the harpsichord

Death Star: Episode Three

BrownsFan was not a fan of my post critiquing her "nice Death Star" comment. She tried to support her comment by telling me that the Death Star didn't HAVE TO blow up planets, and could instead be used for, say, low income housing (suggestion, BrownsFan: giant homeless animal shelter?). I pointed out that while that sounded nice, the Death Star was designed and built for the express purpose of blowing up planets, and re-engineering it after the fact doesn't make the original idea a good thing. She is determined to justify her position, and has been searching the Internet for material to back up her "nice Death Star" idea. She is not having much luck so far. But in her quest she came across something else and sent me an e-mail the other day that contained this link. It is clearly extremely awesome, though not for justifying the Death Star as a cuddly happy space station. In fact the only way I've found to pair "nice" with "Death Star" in a way that makes sense is a conversation like this.

"Check it out, bro, I carved my pumpkin into the Death Star!"

"Nice."


This would be a reasonable and likely conversation, but not for the original argument. Here is the same conversation, but subbing out the word pumpkin:

"Check it out bro, I carved my marriage into the Death Star!"

"Wait, what?"

Several other responses would work here such as "Dude, that sucks" or "Bummer" or "To hell with that bitch, let's get a beer", but "nice"... it just doesn't fit.

Well Now They're Just Messing With Me

The last two nights in a row as I was getting ready for bed, I inadvertently started reflecting on the large lack of spiders in my house this fall. Usually that's when they seem to be lurking in every corner ready to suck my blood and feed me to their young whilst simultaneously escaping from the cold. But so far in the whole of this fall I've seen only one spider in my house, and that one was tiny and crawled out only because I was cleaning and I broke it's house. It was even tiny enough for me to kill it myself* by stepping on it (though I ground my shoe into the carpet for about five minutes as I was sure he was lurking in my shoe treads waiting for me to assume his demise so he could come out and crawl up my pant leg and GET ON ME).

I immediately tried to banish these thoughts from my mind. Spiders have the power of telepathy you see, so thinking about them not being around was just inviting an attack. At the very least it was tempting fate. I got my thoughts under control and went to bed feeling safe.

Well.

Waking up this morning and turning on the light, I immediately noticed a fuzzy looking spot on my ceiling over the bed. That spot was moving. Over the years I have developed the ability to immediately detect the motion of small objects in the vicinity of the ceiling or in corners of rooms. This motion is usually that of a spider and my enhanced abilities serve to give me more time to escape from their onslaught or avoid being ambushed. And without my glasses on the moving spot looked enormous. Certain that I had called this disaster upon myself, I lay there in mild terror waiting for it to move from being directly over the bed and praying it would not fall. I began mentally rearranging my morning schedule: I wouldn't be able to make the bed today, as I'd have to turn my back on it, and I would also have to gather everything I would need from my room before I got into the shower and bring it with me, including my coat, gloves, iPod, cell phone and shoes in addition to my clothes. Thus having finished organizing my crazy, I put on my glasses only to discover...

...one of those annoying fake ladybugs. You know, the beetles that look like a ladybug but are yellow or light orange and they bite and also fly directly at you kamikaze style? One of those. Little douche.

Initially I was relieved, but later two disturbing thoughts came to me.

1) Are the ladybug impersonators in bed with the spiders now? Did they sign a secret treaty? Have they decided "the enemy of my enemy is my friend"?

2) If they have not formed an evil alliance, will the presence of a tasty (less wily/ easier to digest/ etc.) beetle bring the spiders that heretofore haven't come? Am I doomed by association, or perhaps just proximity?

Stay tuned.

*Later that day, when the agent came to pick me up I greeted him with this: "You are going to be so proud of me and disappointed in me at the same time." Because as a boyfriend he finds my terror of spiders quite tedious and annoying, not to mention ridiculous. So handling one myself is a huge step. But as a practitioner of Buddhism, you really ought not to kill things, so celebrating the death of another living creature is generally not typical of him. He was by the way. Proud and disappointed.

But Is It a Brick House?

"Hey, remember Romper Room?"

"Remember what? No," replied the agent. We were having this discussion over a delicious dinner at The Pasta Bowl. The agent had eaten a hole through the middle of his bread and then held it up to his eye and looked at me through it (we're both 5). Clearly (to me anyway) it was exactly like the magic mirror.

"Holy crap, how do you not remember Romper Room?" I asked, grabbing his bread hole to use in my demonstration. "It was this show. It was on when we were little kids, where there was a host lady and a bunch of kids and some puppets and they would do stuff." (I give excellent descriptions.) "Then at the end of the show the lady would hold up the magic mirror and say 'Romper bomper stomper boo. Tell me, tell me, tell me do...Did all my friends have fun at play?' and then the mirror would turn into a hole that she looked through and she would name all the children she saw." Here I used the bread prop and held it up to my own face. "OOO! I see Aaron and cook guy and waiter..."

"O.K., put the bread down," said the agent. (For some reason he finds me embarrassing.) "I don't remember that at all."

"How can you possibly NOT remember that? It was on, like, all the time!"

"Because my brain doesn't work like yours!" he answered. "I don't collect and remember every single thing that has ever happened to me. My brain cleans house. My brain gets rid of stuff it doesn't need. Your brain just keeps filling up with more and more things."

This is entirely true. My head is filled with things that make no difference and that will never be useful or have an effect on my overall life or anyone else's in any way. If you live in Chicago and have ever been in the store Uncle Fun's, that is about the closest experience you will ever have to being on the inside of my head. A random sampling, in no particular order of some of the crap stored up there:

• An Orca Whale's coloring pattern is a form of camouflage. When you are looking down on it, the dark back blends in with the dark water below. When you're looking up at it, the white belly blends in with the lighter water closer to the surface.
• M & Ms candy did not contain red m&ms when I was a kid (another thing the agent doesn't remember). They were eliminated when the FDA began to suspect that Red Dye No. 2 was a carcinogen.
• Ty Cobb's lifetime batting average was .367. (Also he was kind of a dick.)
• The name for the agent's having two colors in each iris (a brown ring inside of a green-grey/hazel ring) is central heterochromia.

I decided to go with the agent's "housekeeping style if a brain was a house" metaphor. "Yeah, you're right. My brain isn't like that at all. My brain is a pack rat. It never throws anything away. My brain is one of those houses where there's so much crap piled up on the floor that you can't even fully open the door. You have to climb in and out through the window."
"Yeah, your brain is much more cluttered than mine."
"My brain is like, 'Oh hey, come on in! Yeah just climb over that pile there. Would you like a cup of tea? I'll make you some if I can find it. And while we're waiting, let me tell you about the whole history of tea and why anti-oxidants are important.'"
Also, it has a lot of cats.

Trent Dilfer Has Giant Balls

I can't stop watching this.

Late Night to Get My Daily Post In

My roommate the bartender just came home with the best present ever:

Candy Cane Pop Rocks.

Go stock up now. The 40 Days of Christmas is only two weeks away!

Everybody Drill/Cut/Diesink Now

MrSteve: Do you know what a C and C milling machine is?
Me: I know what C & C Music Factory is.

88 Miles Per Hour!

It's NaBloPoMo this month, and as much as I am loathe to participate in any "joiner" type of activity on principle, I realize that I am a terrible terrible blogger lo these last few years (which is lame as I've only been doing it about 4 years) and anything that gets me to actually write blog posts is worth a try. Although in keeping with my traditional complete laziness, I am backdating this post and the next one to cover the Saturday and Sunday in which I did not bother to post anything.

Time travel: now available on the Bizzybiz Blog.

Brilliant Ideas That Occurred To Me During the Blackhawks Game

• Ice Crew home driveway shoveling service
• UFC Fight Night on Ice
• Zamboni bumper cars

Mixed Reactions

I've had a number of differing responses to my post about how I fear marriage.



BrownsFan, proponent of marriage and 20 year veteran of same is continually dismayed by my opinion. Upon reading the post, she looked at me sadly and argued, "Yeah, but it's a nice Death Star."



MrSteve was a bit more supportive and also a bit more true to Star Wars canon (because seriously, a nice Death Star?), sending along this lovely motivational poster:



The agent and I discussed the post and the reaction of BrownsFan over coffee. He said something funny which I did not write down and promptly forgot. When I called him this morning to find out what he had said, he didn't even remember having the conversation, thus proving that in fact we are pretty much already married as we clearly do not bother to listen to each other anymore.

Amberance: Good at Star Wars, Bad at Relationships

H-town: how's the agent? is he as dreamy as ever?
me: pretty good. except for that part where he thinks he wants to marry me. yeah
H-town: oooh COMMITMENT!! echo*echo*echo
me: no one can marry me! i am not marriable
H-town: oh, you are certainly long-term relationship/commonlaw marriage/regular marriage/gay marriage - able
me: i am none of those! i am the textbook committment phobe
H-town: aw, man i like the agent!
me: i know, i suck.
H-town: and there's no way you'll ever become into commitment, huh?
me: not that i'm aware of. i think i can and then when the moment comes i panic and run
me: with the words of admiral ackbar running through my head. "It's a trap!"
H-town: haha
me: marriage is a secretly fully armed and operational Death Star

Presenting Dumbassity For Your Listening Pleasure

After much editing, episode 3 of my super awesome podcast Dumbassity is available for download. It is our drunkest podcast yet. So drunk that MrSteve almost couldn't find any useful audio to work with. He managed to make it work though, and everyone but me sounds mostly coherent. This is not due to biased editing, it is due to the fact that I do not make sense when drunk. Less sense than I usually make, and much less sense than your average alcohol impaired individual. Be sure to check out the part where I explain my aversion to the Viagra commercials over and over again. Like FIVE TIMES in two minutes. Oh yeah, I'm awesome.

Our guest was the agent, so if you've ever wondered about what kind of self-loathing masochist would date me, download the show and wonder no more (instead you can wonder why. That's what I do). Besides the agent, the main topics were a debate about who has the worst musical taste and the world of male porn stars.

You can download this timeless masterpiece here. As always, there is absolutely no way that this is safe for work. Which is why I listened to it and wrote the show notes at work (whatever, it was lunch and there's barely anyone here today).

Amberance Gives Questionable Advice

Mrs. Sizemore: i don't want to run the marathon
me: but gene will be there!
Mrs. Sizemore: i know but i didn't train. at all.
me: can you just run part of it?
Mrs. Sizemore: um it doesn't count
me: hmm. can you disguise someone else to look like you and then secretly switch places?
Mrs. Sizemore: i wish i'm just afraid i'm going to hurt myself and for no good reason
me: well obviously if it hurts just stop running and get a taco instead
Mrs. Sizemore: haha not like sore i mean like tearing an ACL because i didn't train
me: oh yeah, that would be bad
Mrs. Sizemore: i do like tacos

Non-Update

There has been a lack of posting for the following reasons:

• My football team stinks
• My baseball teams didn't make the playoffs and got swept in the first round, respectively
• I don't have a cat doing anything funny (unless dead is funny)
• My current job description could effectively be "watching money disappear into thin air"
• I hate and do not blog about politics
• Episode 3 of Dumbassity was so drunken that MrSteve could barely edit it into something useful, and it has not been posted yet

I do have two stories coming up, I just need to find the time to write them down. In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of a murderous jack-o-lantern man:

Conversations

I know what I like.

Mrs. Sizemore: how do you feel about pugs?
Me: The dogs?
I'm not into dogs, in general.
They are too not a cat.

It was fun while it lasted Browns Fans.

H-town: so, have you approached my brother's feelings on football?
per him: "I hate the Browns."
Me: that it is a heartbreaking exercise in futility designed to sap my will to live and leave me a
soulless husk? yes

*****

H-town: so you think romeo's going to get the boot soon?
me: I think he's made poor decisions all year so far. And I think starting Quinn is not the answer
so something else has to be
H-town: how about starting you?
you could do well
me: sure, aside from that can't throw a football to save my life thing
H-town: i'm sure you could take a hit from a 300lb lineman.
you're pretty tough
me: there's a sex joke in there somewhere, but i can't quite grasp it

Oversharing.

The bartender (watching football, needs one more score for the over): If they run this kickoff
back for a touchdown, I will whack off.
Me: Yeah. Wait, what?

No Habla Español

A text message conversation with MrSteve in Spanish. Difficulty: neither of us speak Spanish.

MrSteve: Out tonight?
Me: Si.
MrSteve: Que?
Me: To eres una legumbre. (You are a vegetable)
MrSteve: Que?
Me: I'm running out of Spanish words! Ocho cinco. (I'm running out of Spanish words! Chad Johnson.)
MrSteve: Chili con queso de amore chalupa de puta. (bunch of food. Whore.)
Me: No me gusta! (I don't like it!)
MrSteve: Heuvos y chicharron con patata con salsa. (more food)
MrSteve: Tequila! Bap-bap-ba-de-da-bop-bop-Tequila! (that annoying Pee-Wee song)

(At this point my friend Manny who is from Mexico stepped in to help me. Google stepped in to help Steve.)

Me: Tengo una araña sancona que esta peluda y sedienta. Y te que tienes? (I have a big hairy spider that is hungry and thirsty. What do you have?)
MrSteve: Tengo derecho a su araña. (Right. I'll give you a spider.)
Me: Me gustavia verte pronto pero no hay tiempo. Quizas despues por ahora solo te esenvo recados. (I would like to see you soon, but I don't have time. Perhaps later, but for now I can only send you text messages.)
MrSteve: Que el caballo y su madre viajaban en el. (Your mother and the horse she rode in on.)
Me: Mis manos sucias estan tocando el pollo. Y tus manos estan socias? Y el pollo donde esta? (My hands are dirty from touching the chicken. Where are your hands? Where is your chicken?*)
MrSteve: Pollo? Lo que la cogida? (Chicken? What the fuck?)
Me: La policia busca una persona con apariencia como la tuqa argumentando que anda un violador de gullinas suel to por la ciudad. (The police are looking for someone who looks like you. They say someone is walking around the city raping hens.)
MrSteve: Traductor Google dice que usted no sabe espanol. (Google Translator says that you do not know Spanish.)


*Manny explained this. "English is very straighforward. Mexican Spanish is not. Here, chicken means vagina. So this says that you are playing with your vagina and implying that he is playing with his vagina."

Tis The Season To Be Yelling

At the TV that is. For it is now that greatest of all seasons: the Season of Football. My comments thus far:

• The Browns are going to have to play better than they did this week if the don't want to be embarrassed by the Steelers on Sunday Night Football next week. Still, we've definitely seen worse.
• "Football amberance is scaring me," said the agent as I watched the Browns on Sunday. As a general rule, I simply don't yell. There are precious few things that cause me to feel a need to raise my voice. Actually, only one thing. Football games. As such the agent had never heard me yell before, let alone scream out a string of curses at a bunch of enormous men who couldn't actually hear me. He has no idea how light he got off. Wait until he sees me when my team is winning.
• I just love Dan Patrick and my boyfriend Keith Olbermann together again on NBC doing highlights, but I have to say I'm a little bit concerned about Bob Costas. Have you guys seen his face? He looks like he growing younger. I suspect he's either been having work done or drinking Dick Clark's blood. Seriously, it's disturbing.
• Is it just me, or does Tony Kornheiser get more irritating every year? This weeks "let's suck off Brett Favre fest" was the worst yet. When Mike Tirico has to tell you ON THE AIR to stop saying Favre every six seconds, it's time to shut the eff up. New rule: every time someone says Favre during a Packers broadcast, Aaron Rodgers gets to kick them in the groin.
• Da Bears! Were awesome.
• Buckeye football: I think it's safe to say this team is heaps better with Beanie Wells on the field. Also, Terrell Pryor is going to be awesome. Also, I hope USC doesn't hand them their ass on Saturday.
• Questions for the newly crowned Chad Ocho Cinco: When you retire from football do you change your name back to Johnson? What about if you get traded and the number 85 isn't available?

Amberance: Keeping The World Safe From Douchebag Pickup Artists

Amberance is sitting at the bar conversing with two other girls. Two drunk fans arrive direct from the Cubs game and come sidling up to us.

Drunk #1 (putting his arms around the other two girls and staring at me): Hello, ladies. I see you're having a delicious beer. We were at the game.
Me: I gathered.
Drunk #2: It was an awesome game.
Me: Yeah grand slam, I saw that.
Drunk #2: You were watching it?
Me: We were watching that and the Bears game. Oh and a couple college football games.
Drunk #2: Really? We love girls that can talk about sports, right Aaron?
Drunk #1 (Aaron, apparently): We do. That's super hot.
Me: Wait, your name is Aaron?
Drunk #1: Yeah.
Me (overly excitedly and clapping hands): That's my boyfriends name too!
Drunk #1 and #2 mumble something inaudible and walk away.

Amberance and Jenny: LOLdorks

Mrs. Sizemore: ummmmm genius: http://www.thinkgeek.com/stuff/41/snuznluz.shtml
me: wow
Mrs. Sizemore: O HAI, PETA. u can has dollarz because i sleep too much?
me: kthxsnuz

Squirrelarity Ensued

A while back, I cleaned out some junk from my apartment to make room for new junk that the bartender inherited from his mom. Among the things I discarded were an old beat up TV stand and a penguin cookie jar that was merely taking up space on my kitchen counter. The TV stand went out on the deck to serve as a table we won't use to go with the chairs we don't sit in. The cookie jar got put on the bottom shelf of the TV stand and forgotten about.

This morning the bartender was watching a little TV when he got home from work, but kept getting distracted by a loud ruckus coming from the deck. Eventually he got annoyed and went outside to see if perhaps Crazy Next Door had passed out without bringing her animals again, or possibly a hobo had climbed three flights of stairs to ransack our sparsely furnished deck.

He did not find a dog, a cat or a hobo. What he did find was two squirrels. One squirrel panicked and jumped into a nearby tree. The second squirrel stood on the railing staring defiantly at my roommate - with an enormous cookie in his mouth. Apparently I had baked some cookies, put them in the penguin and immediately forgotten about them, and then never checked inside to see if there were any actual cookies in it before I dumped the cookie jar outside. Where it sat for about four months before the two enterprising squirrels figured out something was inside it, pried the plastic seal from around the mouth of the jar, knocked the penguin's head to the ground and made off with the tasty loot.

I want a squirrel.

Inner City Living Can Be Demanding

One thing you can do that's REALLY douchey is to slam into someone's parked car so hard you leave a dent that I can fit my whole head in, and then just drive off. Fair warning to whoever did exactly that to Alistair: my roommate is livid and a very vindictive person. I would suggest not parking within a half mile radius of the place you hit my car if you plan on being able to drive yours.

Dreams Can Come True With Science

While I am not nearly finished grieving for my kitty angel Kristen, fate has stepped in to unite me with my next pet.



Behold: the minicow. (scroll down a bit for video)



It is too bad that there would be no practical reason to adapt this breeding technology to give us whales that can fit in the palm of your hand. But no matter. I love cows.

Klingon Clock

There is an episode of Star Trek: TNG ("Ethics", season 5) in which Worf undergoes an experimental and dangerous surgery to replace his entire spine, which had been damaged in an accident leaving him paralyzed, with a brand new replica spine created in the lab. Unfortunately, removing a spine and sticking in a new one is no walk in the park and he dies on the table. But shortly thereafter, when the counselor goes to inform his young son of his death, Worf miraculously comes back to life. This is because Worf is a Klingon, and his physiology has built in redundancies that back up all his systems, including neural function. Klingons need this because as warriors and a generally angry race, they have a tendency to get stabbed, shot, bludgeoned, impaled, etc. on a pretty frequent basis. Without it, they would probably all die in their youth and have no ability to propagate the species. But that's not really my point.

My point is that I think my alarm clock may be a Klingon. Now I realize this may seem far fetched. My clock is not prepared for battle, in fact it is quite peace loving. There is also the somewhat minor point that alarm clocks are inanimate which may disqualify them from being considered a part of a humanoid alien species. But Klingons are down with meditation, much like my clock, and it is also capable of spontaneous regeneration.

Much like Worf, my clock was recently faced with a catastrophic injury. While I was away in Baltimore, the storm of the century hit Chicago, sending down as many bolts of lightning in a couple of hours as the area normally receives over 6 months. Seriously. Lance Berkman actually ran off the field in the middle of a play during the Cubs/Astros game amid almost constant lighting. My alarm clock, being plugged into the wall, got hit with a huge power surge and promptly died. Also like Worf, my clock underwent experimental "surgery" when I attempted to get it to run on batteries in the hope that it was just the electrical cord that was damaged. No luck. My dead clock sat on my night table, not chiming and not telling me the time.

For three days.

Until two days ago around midnight when I heard from inside the closed lid the sound of a chime tuned to E. I quickly opened the lid to discover that my alarm clock was on and flashing 12:00, having apparently regenerated itself from its redundant Klingon anatomy. It is obvious that there can be no other logical explanation. From now on I will try to always show honor and courage in front of my clock and try very hard not to piss it off.

QAPLA'!

Perils of the All Ages Show

The bartender: I've got 14 year old boobs in my back.
Me: That's ok, I have 14 year old elbow in my boobs.

Airport Entertainment - Boobs

waiting to board a flight at O'Hare

Me: Want to play "I Spy"?
The agent: Ok.
Me: Can I go first?
The agent: Yes.
Me. Ok. I spy giant cans.
The agent: You can't do that!
Me: What?
The agent: You just told me the answer!
Me: No, you tell me what color they are. I spy giant cans.
The agent: Are they in a green shirt?
Me: Yes!

We Now Return You To Your Regularly Scheduled Programming

Episode 2 of Dumbassity was posted a couple of weeks ago, in which we discuss food, gaming and torturing Barbie.

You can download it here.

R.I.P. Kristen Ann

Sorry about the lack of posting. I spent the last two months or so focusing on Kristen the angel cat. Caring for a kitty in end stage renal failure takes a great deal of time and effort. It is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Posting was not a priority. In the end we couldn't stop her decline, and so my pretty princess died on July 30. I'll get back to regular posting as soon as I can.

Mommy misses you, Kiki. I'll see you at the Rainbow Bridge baby girl.

Levity

Not funny: Learning that your beloved kitty is in kidney failure. Also: stabbing her with a needle every day to administer vital fluids that are keeping her alive.

Funny: The process of explaining this to your boyfriend.

Me: I have to give her subcutaneous injections every day.
The agent: What?
Me: Subcutaneous. It means under the skin.
The agent. Under the what?
Me: Skin.
The agent: Oh! I thought you said "ceiling".
Me: No. Cats don't have ceilings.