Ohhh, the Regatta...

The time of all-aged drunken tomfoolery is afoot every year around this time in my hometown. Sure, there's sailboat races all day, or something, but what really matters is the kick-ass parties on Friday and Saturday nights. It was a good time as always, but here are some things I'd like to discuss:

Hey, 35-year-old man, we don't want to dance with you: Jesus Christ, why can't you boneheads figure it out? Just because a group of girls are dancing with each other, it doesn't mean that we're biding our time until our Prince Charming will come in and swoop us away with his very cool line of, "So, what, are you guys in love? Are you gay or something?" And then the Supa-Dyke in me has to come out (haha get it? COME OUT) and politely tell him to get the eff away from us. GODDDDDDDD.

Just because I'm drunk, it doesn't mean I'm an idiot: Okay, okay, sometimes it does mean I'm an idiot. But come on, lady, no matter how much I love polo shirts, I'm not going to buy an XXL men's polo shirt for $50. I'm not going camping any time soon- I don't need a tent. I was buying it with the intention of wearing it. Thanks, but no thanks.

FINALLY- Pictures of us: I am a camera whore. Everyone knows that. I'm that annoying drunk at the party that wants to capture every moment. However, the sad truth is that while Meg, Liz, and I have been friends for 15 years, we have a handful of pictures of each other. Pictures from pool parties and birthday parties at the bowling alley when we were 7 and 1 picture from my grad party from 2 years ago are the only evidence that we're actually friends. The main reason why we never take pictures is the fact that we're usually in our pajamas, stuffing our faces, and watching bad TV- not prime photo opportunities. But man oh man, did Regatta change that.

The Wonders of WNY

Two friends of mine from college, Tim Hecht (hailing from Albany, New York) and Jill Price (hailing from Fairfield, Connecticut) made the long, arduous trek to my home to visit me for the weekend. I was touched. Choosing to trap yourself in a car for five hours with the infamous Jillian Price is quite the sacrifice, let me tell you. When I arrived home from work on Friday night, I received a voicemail from Jill that said the following: "AMANDA, I'M TIRED, CRANKY, AND IRATE. SEE YOU IN FIVE HOURS." Love it.

We did all of the touristy things in the rain (of course, the sun is shining and the birds are chirping while I sit in my office at work)- the Maid of the Mist, the Cave of the Winds. Three cynical people wearing ugly ponchos is definitely a Kodak moment, and of course we took advantage of that. In the visitor's center, we contemplated whether or not to get the Day Pass or just pay for the individual attractions. With the Day Pass, you got access to the theatre. So we asked the old lady working the information booth what the theatre included. I'm not sure what we thought would be in the theatre, a Broadway show perhaps, but after hearing her response, "it's a 22 minute film on the history of Niagara Falls," we rudely laughed in her face and we were on our way. That night, we headed over to Clifton Hill for some glow in the dark mini golf and some drinks at my favorite bar, The Wild Mushroom.

The next day, we went to Crystal Beach, where we marveled at how shallow the lake was and I read the current issue of Details Magazine. Sure, Details is a GQ-esque magazine geared toward gay men, but hey, it's still my favorite. Their witty articles and irreverent perspectives on life are unparalleled in any other magazines I've read. For example, in one article, I was surprised to learn that top D.C. lobbyist Jarvis C. Stewart has a personal assistant named Pizza. It was then that I decided Jill's new nickname should be "Pizza Price." Classic.

Only hours after they left did the daily grind begin once again, as I went into work and told my boss that I "hate this place." Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever grow out of my teenage defiance. Because if I'm this much of a bitch at my inconsequential summer job, imagine how awful I'll be when I actually have an important job. Then some young assistant that I abused will write a tell-all book about me titled, "The Devil Wears Old Navy Jeans and Adidas Sandals Everyday of Her Life."

Christine, you're fired

A few days ago, Christine, my lazy publicist called me to tell me that she had applied for a job in Public Relations at our college's Career Services Center and she put that she was my publicist on her resume. That's funny for two reasons:

1. She's my publicist. Which really means nothing. I'm not noteable- yet.
2. She's the laziest publicist ever. Who went to Office Max and printed up invitations for the book signing? ME. Who addressed all of the invitations by hand? ME.

Christine, you are so fired.

What outrages me the most is that the people in the Career Services Center have read my book and they love it and she's probably going to get hired- all on my back. GODDDDDDDDDDD. Thanks for profiting off of me, jerk. Good thing I'm not paying you much (aka: nothing).

In other news, I wrote a depressing article for the Spree on The Devil Wears Prada and how much us plucky young journalists desperately want to sell out for the glory of the almighty dollar. Read it!

Also- my mother found a book I owned when I was younger called, If I Should Die Before I Wake. It's a tragic tale of a young girl who volunteers in a hospital one summer only to fall hopelessly in love with a patient dying of cancer (do I sense that Grey's Anatomy stole a story line or two?). After reading the author's bio in the back of the book, I realized that every writer need a niche. Lurlene McDaniel's niche is writing about people dying. Her other books include "Six Months to Live," "I Want to Live," "Mommy, Please Don't Die," "One Last Wish," and "Until Angels Close My Eyes." I don't know how successful of an author she is with such morbid subject matter, but I do know fo sho that she's probably a hell of a time at a party.

Book signing recap

As you know, my booksigning was yesterday, and all in all, it was quite the success. Granted, I was worried when I found out that my aunt was going to bring a schizophrenic from the half-way house that she works at. Is it the one that stabs people or the one who thinks he's got bugs on him? He turned out to be pretty normal and he shook my hand and said he wanted to meet me in case I ever become famous. "In case." Ha!

My other aunt blew in and started shouting, (in a Carla Tate voice, I might add) "I NEED TO USE THE PHONE, I HAVE TO CALL THE COPS. I'M NOT A JERK." And then she took a stack of copies of the book and put them on the store's shelves. It was outstanding.

While the only people who actually came to the signing were friends and family members, one very special person did come to my signing, and that was a Mr. Johnny Depp. I was amazed. Johnny, shouldn't you be promoting Pirates of the Caribbean 2? Needless to say, I was honored that he dropped by during such a busy time for him. (And for those of you who look up when someone shouts, "Hey, there's gullible on the ceiling!", that's my cousin Jessica's boyfriend, Lee, who really does bear a striking resemblance to one Jack Sparrow.)

And for all of my friends/family who were in the area but "couldn't come" because of several PATHETIC reasons ("my car wouldn't start," "I had open-heart surgery," I got mugged on the way there because you had it on Main Street in Niagara Falls," etc.) I just want to let you know that I hate chu fo' lyfe.

I'll end this post with an adorable picture of my little brother and I, pretending that we don't squabble like some kind of animals who squabble (I was going to write chickens, but I don't think that's right).

Shopping Spree

After working at Buffalo Spree Magazine for almost 2 months, I was told that I could write something on the official Spree Blog. So I did.

And to back up my claim that Buffalo is awesome: a few nights ago, I was at a local bar with some friends from work and we were having quite a fun time out on the patio, but my thirst wasn't completely quenched. So, I went inside to get another beer. Sitting at the bar was a man in a police officer uniform (complete with the hat). In addition to this, he had a lazy eye and a HOOK for a hand. I ordered a Bud Light and he looked at me and said, "Hi, I'm Captain Hook."

After trying not to piss my pants laughing, I said hello back, and he bought me my drink. What a nice fella. Yeah, B-lo, you got my heart.

And hey, did I mention that my book signing is this weekend? Basically, if you have plans from 1-3pm on July 15, cancel them. I'm so serious. I made my friends take the day off from work. My Aunt who works at a half-way house for schizophrenics is bringing one of her residents. BE THERE.

1801 Main St.

Niagara Falls, NY

(716) 285-2928

1-3PM

Dorky photos of me are forthcoming.

I need press coverage like Britney Spears needs an image consultant

Being the ego-centric jerk that I am, I figured, hey, I wrote a book. That's pretty special. The local news media will be allllllll over that. In an area where front page news is usually, "NEW LITTER OF KITTENS BORN," I thought my story would be jumped on by every cub reporter in town. People with fedoras and press cards stuck in the brim bearing the word "SCOOP" would be banging down my door, clamoring for an interview with me. Not so much. Phone call after phone call unreturned, press kit after press kit probably thrown in the recycling bins of every area newspaper's news room, I began to get discouraged.

Then, I was thrown a bone. Don Glynn of the Niagara Gazette mentioned me in his weekly column a few weeks back. Granted, you had to get out the magnifying glass to find it, but it was there. Score.

Because it was such a tiny mention at the botton of the page, way in the back next to Classified Ads reading, "Card Table- 3 legs- free or best offer," I didn't think it would make it onto the online archive. Wrong. Here it is. Make sure you scroll all the way down to the bottom.

Moral of the story: I'm totally a local celebrity.