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Friday, February 29, 2008

Mourning the Loss of My Beloved Backpack


I'm not one to get very sentimental about "stuff" like some ugly vase that your great aunt Beatrice left you. I'm all for handing things down and having them be special, but you have to LIKE them. For example, when my aunt died last year, in life, she was quite the pearl aficionado, and because I was her favorite niece, I got all of her pearl jewelry, black pearls, pink pearls, regular pearls, necklaces, rings, earrings, the works. I love all of them equally, and I'm glad to have them. However, my mother's
creepy Christmas decorations? No thank you. I'll have the memories, you can keep the scary dolls.

That said, there are certain exceptions to this rule. That exception, of course, is my beloved backpack. Right before 8th grade, I decided that I needed a new, grown-up backpack. I saw the East Pack Navy Blue backpack and fell in love. It came with a lifetime guarantee and a hefty price tag. $50 for a backpack was too much for my mother to indulge, seeing as she thought my fickle tastes would change with the next school year as they always seemed to do. But not this time. I ended up buying the backpack with my own money and proved my mother wrong. I used that backpack for my final year of Middle School and all throughout high school.

It was ravaged with patches, safety pins, and various punk rock band buttons when I was 16 and angry at everything even though I lived a privileged life and had no real problems.

The hormones died down and the patches and pins were removed, and the backpack followed me to college. Of course, as we all know with college, while the backpack was used from time to time to transport books, most of the time it transported Nalgeine bottles full of Raspberry Vodka or an 18 pack of Bud Light as we snuck past dorm security freshman year. Seriously, did we really think that the security guards thought we were coming back from the library with our bookbags filled with, um, books on a Friday or Saturday night? Please.

Needless to say, my backpack has been with me through all of my formative years. This is why my housemates found me on the living room floor, clutching the backpack and screaming "WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY" as I realized that the old zipper had finally broken and is totally beyond repair.

Of course, the stupid/beloved thing decided to bail on me a mere three months before I will never, for all intents and purposes, need a backpack again. I refuse to buy a new one. I'll carry my books, old school style. You know, in my hands.

Goodbye, old buddy. I'm going to miss you.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

An Open Letter to the Mail Room Guy



Dear Mail Room Employee,

I am confused by you. Note that I used the word "confused" not "intruiged" because I didn't want to leave the impression that I want to delve into your strange little world and get to know more about you.

I just want you to know how strange it is that while half of the time you're yelling at me because I didn't correctly address something or didn't fill out one of 219832 forms that I apparently have to fill out to send something via FedEx, the other half of the time you are creepily sexually harassing me.

Make no mistake that I am not one of those humorless feminists who gets offended when someone calls them "baby" or "sugar." I've often wondered at what age people I work with will stop calling me "kiddo" and finally give me the respect I believe I deserve, however, harmless pet names are not a problem with me.

You can call me "sweetheart," "sugar," "baby," etc., as long as you send out my mail. While Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem may be upset with me, I've found that in dealing with people such as yourself who have very old school views on gender, it's easier to act like the stupid female (ie: "oh my god, I didn't know I needed to add a zip code!!! I'm SO sorry!!!"). Hey, I never said I was a great feminist.

That said, when you tell me I look tired every day, it's a little disconcerting. We've been over this before, and I told you that when you tell a woman that she looks tired, the immediate translation is "hey, you look like shit." We laughed, but I secretly wished you would stop commenting on my lack of sleep. Especially since I believe that I look fresh as a daisy.

Our relationship reached creepy new heights this afternoon when I was at the water cooler and you came by and whispered in my ear, "You know you're gorgeous, I'm just playin' baby, you know what I'm sayin? I know you wanna be told you're gorgeous, I'll tell you every day."

Perhaps our massive parent company didn't put you through the mandatory sexual harassment training that most people have to go through. Let me tell you in no certain terms that your shenanigans by the water cooler today completely creeped me out- not so much because of the words you said, not so much that you're about 60 years old, but moreso that you WHISPERED it into my ear and that you seemed to be serious when you said it.

I just hope I never have to mail anything again. Although I know with my luck I'll have to mail out about 50 packages tomorrow, and you will once again tell me I look tired/gorgeous. Such is life.


Sincerely,

Amanda

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Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The Life of a Communications Major



It's long been thought that communications majors don't do any real work. For example, I wrote a 20 page research paper on The Flavor of Love. My roommate took a TV Theory class and her homework was to watch one sitcom a week and then write a paper about it. Hard stuff, right? It's not.

So for my Small Group Communication class we had to create a video, and of course, we wanted to create a spoof on Marist. Check it out:







I did the voiceover, but trust me, that's not my real voice. That's the voice I use when I give tours. Scary, huh?

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Monday, February 25, 2008

Weekend Update



Murphy's Law states that if anything can go wrong, it will go wrong, and that basically sums up my life. This weekend, while pleasant enough, took enough disasterous twists and turns to qualify as a comedic farce. Really, we should have had cameras following us around.

My parents drove from Buffalo to Po-Town on Thursday, arriving just in time for the massive blizzard. The plan was to go into the city early in the morning because I had a job interview, and then spend the rest of the weekend there. Awesomely enough, Friday morning brought a ton of snow and all classes were cancelled
, yet as usual, I still trudged into NYC.

The interview, by the way, was at one of the top publishing houses in the city, but it was more of an informational interview tha
n anything else. So unless I get into the associates program, I'm really on the same page as I was before the interview, plus a good HR contact. Regardless, I'm hopeful.

Because the weather in Manhattan was the same as the weather in Poughkeepsie (ie: TERRIBLE), we didn't do much that day besides shop and have a nice dinner. My brother, who is 14-years-old but his voice hasn't changed
yet and he has a speech impediment, so he tends not to be taken seriously or given much respect, because when he talks, he says things like "I wuv you" and "I'm going to frow up."


Unfortunately for all concerned, my brother said "I'm going to frow up" quite a lot this weekend. He was sick all day on Saturday, a day my father and I used to venture into Brooklyn to check out the slum I'll be living in in a few months. Yes, people, it's likely I'm moving to Brooklyn after graduation. I had heard a lot of good things about Williamsburg, so we went there and let's just say I'm pretty sure everyone lied to me. Or maybe I just need to learn to look past the graffiti and the bars on the windows of EVERY building. Who knows. I realize that everything isn't going to be like Disneyland, but I would like to feel safe if I'm paying $1,000 a month for rent. Just sayin'.

After Williamsburg, we made our way to Park Slope, which I absolutely LOVED. It's really nice and the rent is about the same as Williamsburg. So moral of the story, around April, my future roommate and I need to start apartment hunting. I also need to stop spending so much money on booze. Oh, who am I kidding- like that's gonna happen.


So after returning to the hotel, we found that my brother was sick all day, but my dad wanted him to try to go to dinner with us and then go see Legally Blonde afterwards. So we all got dressed and as we were waiting for the elevator, my brother puked again. We went back to the room, cleaned him up, and tried again. We got into the elevator again, and I was just praying to God that he wouldn't throw up again until a bunch of trashy guidos insisted on cramming into the elevator, because apparently, it wasn't like another elevator would come along in 60 seconds. Don't you ever wish that yourself or a loved one could vomit on command? No? Just me? Okay.

So we got to the restaurants and Sicky McGhee laid down in the booth and went to sleep.


He threw up in the bathroom of the restaurant and he threw up in the bathroom of the theatre. I felt like I was in The Exorcist.

In an appropriate turn of events, last night, I woke up and threw up about 3 times. I didn't go to my internship for fear I'd puke on the train into the city. I definitely wouldn't have made it.

I wish I was dead.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

My Mother at the Drag Club



I called my mother the other day, and left a message for her. Because I am, what my parents semi-affectionately call me, "the princess" I expect a phone call back immediately when she returns home. When I call, you answer, dammit.

Not so much. Two days passed without a returned phone call. Finally, I call her and ask her what the deal is. "Oh, I'm sorry, I've been working a lot lately and the other night I went to
Marcella's with the girls."

Marcella's in Buffalo is a gay drag club. Apparently, my mother's friend is friends with the drag queens who perform at this club. As funny as I think this is, I was kind of weirded out by my mother being at a gay club. Well, maybe not weirded out. Just that feeling where you shake your head and say "life is ridiculous." Especially because I'M GAY and I don't go to gay bars. Whatever.

Here's my mother waxing poetic on being at a gay drag club for the first time:

1. "It was depressing for two reasons. One, because I was the oldest person there, and two, the drag queens are prettier than me."
2. "Someone thought that me and my friend were a lesbian couple; do I give off the lesbian vibe?"

My mother using the word "vibe" and asking me if people regularly suspect her of being of the sapphic persuasion is enough to make me veer of the edge into crazyland. I'm being dramatic. It's funny. Really.

In other news, my family is coming up this weekend to carry on our yearly tradition of going into NYC for the weekend to celebrate my birthday. We're eating at fancy restaurants, staying at the Marriott where they have the most comfortable beds in the world, seeing Legally Blonde on Broadway, and a bunch of other fantastic stuff.

We'll catch up on Sunday. Promise.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Amanda Yells at America



Let me just say that because I'm such a hopeless cynic, I've never had much faith in mankind. But recent things have happened to me that have made my cyncism worse.

Reason #109230 Why I Hate Everyone:

For my freelance job, I had to create a posting looking for field reps for certain cities around the country. It's not a paid position and the job application was casual, but that doesn't mean that you should approach it with about as much class and decorum as you would that basket of curly fries you're eating at the bar at 3am on a Friday night.

Basically, I'm a stranger. You have three questions in which you can make an impression on me. The criteria is simple; when reading the applications I want to know that you have some enthusiasm, direction, mild intelligence, and that you're not crazy. I spent three hours today going through hundreds of applications and here are the things that made me bang my head against my desk:

a.) An overt inability to string words together to form a coherant sentence.

"I t hink I shuld get job b/c i likee music nd itz fun...yah so pik me cuz i am good nd i lyke cats."

OMG, I kno the WWW has made it totally ok to abbev evrythng, but NOT ON A JOB APPLICATION, PEOPLE. Moral of the story: learn how to spell, don't abbreviate, and re-read what you've written to make sure that your sentences don't sound like they came from the short bus, okay?

b.) TYPING YOUR ENTIRE APPLICATION IN CAPS.

We all know that typing in caps is the online equivalent to shouting. Do you really want to shout at the person that's deciding if you should get the position?

c.) Giving too much personal information.

Sometimes it's nice to paint a nice mental picture for someone. But when you're talking about your four terrible children and your marriage of 15 years that just broke up and the fact that your brother only has one leg and that you're working toward getting your "lactation consulting license" (that's legit what someone wrote, and I don't even want to know), all I think is, "wow, this person is crazy." We all have weird things in our lives. Do what everyone else does and lie about it.

d.) I'm not impressed that you have our company logo tattooed on your body.

I mean, I don't really know if there's anything else to say. Yes, I get it. It's great that our company means so much to you. But a photo of our logo on your naked lower back with a visible ass crack just makes me want to run for the hills, not give you a job.


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Monday, February 18, 2008

I'm on a SHOEstring Budget, People




Trying to buy shoes for gigantic feet is like Roseanne Barr shopping in Limited Too. Nothing fits.

You'll see from the drawing above, my lifelong dream is to open a store for people with big feet called, quite appropriately, BIG FOOT. Sasquatch, or "Big Foot," if you will, would be our mascot and we'd specialize in shoes for ladies with ridiculously large feet like me. Of course, I put this dream on the back burner to pursue more "legitimate" career paths, like working for crazy celebrities and the like. Good move, idiot.


But my dreams of giant foot store glory all came flooding back to me today, as I angrily walked around DSW for 45 minutes, finding nothing besides ugly, chunky flats for my size 10/11 feet.

My family always told me that they never invested in flood insurance because they could just climb into my shoes and float away to safety, but I'm not thinking that size 10 or 11 is THAT huge. I'm not a FREAK, DSW.

I was watching some vapid clip on E! the other day that featured Nicki Hilton (Paris's less famous, less trashy sister) show the camera crew around her house, and perhaps most importantly, her closet, where she proclaimed she has hundreds of pairs of heels for her size 10 and a half feet. Is this what it's come down to? I need to be an HEIRESS to get decent shoes? Am I living in NAZI GERMANY? (okay, maybe I took it a little too far there)


Because I have such a hard time finding shoes, when I actually do find a pair that I like, I always say that I should buy two pairs of them. Well, that's all well and good for Nicki Hilton, but I don't have enough money for such things. I'm on a SHOEstring budget, people (get it??!). A few months ago, I went out and bought two pairs of black heels, one pair that was more conservative for my internship, and the other that were nicer and pointy-toed. I figured they'd last me at least six months.


Unfortunately not, because on the way to my internship last week, the heel on my shoe broke. I survived the day and just figured my other pair would have to last me. Well, I wore them to a house party on Saturday night, and as I gathered both shoes from the place I threw them when I returned home all liquored up, I realized they were all ripped up. What happened? The world will never know.


This is how I got into my current situation. I ended up finding a crappy pair of plain black heels that remind me of the wicked witch of the west, but to ease the pain I bought myself Taco Bell and a surprisingly cute pair of peep-toe patent leather red pumps. Anyone who knows me personally just read the second half of that sentence and are shaking their heads in disbelief.


Whaaaaaaaatever.

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Sunday, February 17, 2008

Musings on my (lack of) hairstyle



I have had the same haircut since I was in 11th grade of high school.

After pondering this for a few minutes, I got into a fight with myself because I couldn't decide if this little factoid about myself made me a.) more like a cartoon character or b.) more like Ellen DeGeneres.

Despite the fact that I don't adore hard core rap as much as Ellen seems to, it seems that she and I do have a lot in common. We both have a penchant for trousers, tennis shoes, witty banter, stripey button down shirts, and perhaps most importantly- girl parts. Ellen also has been sporting the same haircut for a good 10 years. Are we soul mates? Are we actually ONE PERSON?


You might be thinking that this line of thinking is really ridiculous, and you may also be thinking, "Hey Amanda, if you're so much like Ellen DeGeneres then where's all your millions of dollars, hot girlfriend, and wildly successful television show?" And then I'll punch you in the face and tell you indignantly that Ellen didn't have any of those things when she was 22 either. And I'll go on to say that you will never get any of my riches in the future.


PS: I'm looking for jobs and they're asking me for salary requirements and I want to say that I require my salary to be given to me in bars of solid gold. Do you think that'll fly?

PPS: The whole point of this stupid entry was to tell all of you that I desperately want a new hairdo, and I need to find the gay man of my dreams to give me that. I will look high and low. Until then, I will remain a cartoon character. Incidentally, my hair kind of resembles Daria's. Laugh amongst yourselves.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

I am too fast for my blog/the internet



So maybe this is like total nerd central, but I find that my mind goes too quickly for the stationary-ness of the blog. Probably because I AM A GENIUS. But really, throughout the day, I think of things that are funny that would make great blogs, but I lose the passion for the topic relatively quickly. It's basically the reason why we have a three day waiting period for buying hand guns. BUT I DON'T WANT TO WAIT THREE DAYS- I'M MAD NOW. Either that or I just forget about the idea totally. So I've been trying to write myself reminders so I can revisit them later when the time is right. So the time is right for this little gem. As you may or may not know, my birthday was this past Saturday. I won't get into the details of why it was particularly crap-tacular and instead focus on the positives. Even as I write this, I can't believe I'm actually looking on the bright side of anything. Anyone who ever tells me to "look on the bright side" or mentions a silver lining or ventures to suggest that "everything happens for a reason" I want to stab them in the heart with a dull knife (too much?). This tells you that I AM A FRAUD, PEOPLE. I'm much more petty in real lyfe.


Being a homo at Marist is a unique experience, and not like the ridiculous school slogan, "a unique american campus" but more of a unique/terrible experience. For the most part, I am the first out lesbo anyone here has ever met, outside of their high school gym teachers that is. It's a unique experience mainly because it's fun to see people's reactions, like when my friend Kari didn't know what I meant when I said I "came out of the closet" (she's from Connecticut) or when a former friend who will remain nameless thought that because I was gay that meant that I would automatically fall in love with her. But despite a few bad experiences, everyone has been amazing and accepting either in a completely normal way or in a commer
cial "I think it would be great to know a gay" kind of way. Whatever it is, I don't really care.

Because my housemates made me rainbow cupcakes for my birthday. They were delicious.


One of the two bakers gave me a card that said "I love you as much as a straight girl can." I love it.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

The Best... DAY OF MY LIFE



Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating with the title. Classes were cancelled today on account of the snow and ice and road flooding, but us schmucks who had internships trudged along in the snow and rain to our unpaid internships. This is not the typical beginning of a great day.

However, when I got to the office, everything changed. Surprise, surprise, I got a crappy filing job. But after I was done filing, the Lifestyle Editor came over and gave me like $50 worth of free make up. While I was picking out which shades of eye shadow, someone came over and gave us smoothies made with fresh fruit and fresh fruit juice.

Later, I was hanging up comp pages of the new issue on the wall, and I see someone come out of the test kitchen with mini burgers made with tenderloin steak tips, sauteed onions, and red peppers. As I was feasting on the mini burger, someone else came out of the test kitchen with a big bowl of home-made guacamole with tortilla chips. Basically, I was in heaven.

I also finally got a chance to show the people there what I'm good at, and that I'm useful for more than filing and filling out packing slips. Sweeeeeeeet.

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Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Dumb Bitch Fooled Us All



Remember when I posted a few days ago about the rape on campus a few weekends ago? Well, brace yourself for the stunning conclusion of this story.

We live in a society so hysterical over crime that when we hear the word "rape," we automatically go into a panic. We stock up on pepper spray and mase and anything else we can arm ourselves with in order to feel safe again. I've never really played the damsel in distress card, but as a female on campus after an alleged rape by a masked, anonymous attacker, the fear was palpable and it was truly one of the first times I felt vulnerable and actually feared for my physical safety while at school.

So this evening, we get a campus-wide email from the Office of Safety & Security:

"The student who made these claims [of rape] admitted to police that she made up the entire story. Through evidence gathered by the town police and the student's ultimate confession, it was determined there was no assault of any kind, nor was there any real assailant. The description of an alleged attacker was also a fabrication.

The student who made these false accusations was arrested by town police and charged with Falsely Reporting an Incident, a Class A misdemeanor, and was released to appear in Town Court at a later date."

I was absolutely speechless when I read this. Rumor has it that the night she made up the attack, her boyfriend broke up with her and asked her to leave his house. Nice way to make him feel guilty about the break up- by telling everyone you got raped on the way back to your dorm.

This situation is unbelievable to me because even though we all do our fair share of crazy things for revenge and attention, by doing this, this girl single-handedly fucked up so many people. It made everyone in Marist Security look bad (which, for the record, isn't hard to do), it made nearly every female on campus afraid, as well as scared the shit out of a number of guys too. Basically, what this idiot did was make us all literally afraid to be at a place that we've happily and comfortably called our home for nearly four years. And seriously, every time some crazy bitch does something like this, it's a step backwards for women. We've all heard the statistics that most women who are raped don't report it, for fear of no one believing them. Every time something like this happens , it's another point for the other side, the side that automatically assumes that the woman is lying. Way to go, ace.

Whatever happens, I hope this girl ends up doing some time, and at the very least gets kicked off campus.

And I'm pretty sure my father will want the $30 back that he paid for my goddamned pepper spray.

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Monday, February 11, 2008

Life Unscripted?



You all know how I feel about skateboarder/reality television star/teeanger Ryan Sheckler from the
previous post that I know you all read. A few weeks ago, after a few drinks (of course), my friend Scott did a dead-on impression of how Ryan talks. Like. he's. reading. from. a. cue. card. Isn't this supposed to be reality TV? Life unscripted, right? Whatever.





And if you don't believe us, see for yourself. Basically, just listen to the first 30 seconds, and his terrible, terrible voiceover.

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Saturday, February 09, 2008

Twenty-Two



Okay, so straight from the not-funny department... last weekend, there was a rape on campus. Not a date rape at a frat party, but an attack where a girl was forced to the ground and raped by a guy in a ski mask. What's scarier is that it happened right by my house, and right by where I was walking DRUNK the very night it happened a mere two hours before the girl was attacked.

This situation creeps me out because I've watched enough A&E American Justice and Law & Order to know that this guy's probably going to do it again. And it sucks because I've always felt that Marist really is a safe
campus; all 4 years I've been here, I've walked by myself, drunk through campus and not one thing has happened. Now I'm afraid to go anywhere by myself after dark. What a great way to end an era.

What pisses me off is the way the school is dealing with it. Our security is a bunch of 65-year-old out of shape rent-a-cops and the administration seems more concerned with covering it up and saving face than informing us. When we were first told of it, it was a "sexual assault." Talk about sugar coating.
They claim they're amping up security, but the other day when I was doing my laundry, a security guard was sitting there, playing solitaire. Way to be vigilant, guys.

On the heels of this, I guess I should mention that today is my 22nd birthday. This is what my parents sent me:

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Thursday, February 07, 2008

A Very Gay Post



First off, thanks to all who commented/voted for my new banner, I have my own favorite, and it's pretty much in tune with everyone else, so I'll be putting that up sometime next week. Now, on to this post that I've been siting on for awhile...


I have this thing where my brain will not accept the "new thing" as cool.

When Facebook came out, I thought it was stupid. I declared that I wouldn't join. Of course, within a few weeks I did, and nearly
four years later, I'm addicted. I think my years masquerading as a "punk" kid in high school (read: I wore a studded belt, band t-shirts, and deemed anything mainstream TERRIBLE) trained my brain to think that anything that everyone else likes is awful. I guess that's really a more indie rock mentality, now that I'm thinking about it, that nothing is cool if anyone else likes it. Whatever.

Fast-forward a few years, the studded belt is long-gone, replaced by Ralph Lauren polo shirts and
pearl earrings, and regrettably, my most-played song on iTunes is "No One" by Alicia Keys. Regardless of my new-found preppy-ness, usually, when I talk about "the best thing ever" or my "new favorite song," it's likely that it came on the scene months ago
and it took my subconscious that long to embrace it.

This is the long-winded way of telling you that I love the new(ish) song, "Back in Your Head" off of Tegan & Sara's new(ish) album, The Con. As a rule, I love their unconventional lyrics and their signature way of
being catchy without being cheesy. Give it a listen, and download accordingly:






And as long as we're riding the homo train on this post, I'd like to mention a new favorite blog,
Girlfriend is a Homo.


It's like Perez Hilton for exclusively lesbo entertainment news, meaning it's snarky and funny, but it seems to lean more towards the journalistic than the gossip. In fact, in a post about the aforementioned Tegan & Sara, GIAH wrote, "Somewhere one of you is crying hysterically and sending Tegan a poem with a rain metaphor for loneliness and your unrequieted love...she totally wants to do you."

And in another hilarious post, they write about the insipid "Lipstick & Dipstick" column in Curve Magazine. It seems Lipstick and Dipstick have written a book, and according to GIAH, it's right up your alley "if you’re a few decades behind and think lesbians can be easily divided into butches and femmes...[Lipstick and Dipstick] answer questions like “How do I get with this straight girl?” and bicker back and forth with no real resolutions."

I think that's a spot on characterization. Brilliant. If only they would update more frequently...

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Tuesday, February 05, 2008

My Banner Sucks; Help Me Out



Okay, so sometimes I forget that I'm a graphic design minor and that is evident in my really crappy banner that I've had on this site for over a year. Even though I've looked at it countless times, today, something just clicked, and I knew it was time for a change.

I got a little design-happy and now I have too many choices. I need you guys to help me narrow 'em down. I'd like to keep with the overall theme of the blog, and I'm staying with the simple blue layout I have now. So let me know what you like best (click on them for larger versions).

Option 1:


Option 2:

Option 3:

Option 4:

Option 5:



In Honor of Super Tuesday




I'm usually not that political, mainly because I don't really have the energy to care about "issues," and instead devote 100% of my time to my favorite cause (myself). But, that said, I do have a subscription to Newsweek, and I try to keep up with what's going on, because while entertainment news might seem more, well, entertaining on the surface, seriously- what is more hilarious than the farce that is American politics? NOTHING.

This upcoming election is historical not just because of the ridiculously mixed bag of candidates, and the fact that as a country, we're realizing that hey, maybe a woman or a black guy are viable candidates for president, but because it seems like people actually care for once.

Even people (like myself) who normally don't care about politics that much find themselves paying more attention and giving their votes some serious thought.


This is all so inspiring to me that I made sure that I requested my absentee ballot and actually did some research on who I should give my vote to.
All of this is thoroughly inspiring, right?

Yeah, you'd think so, maybe up until I tell you that I forgot to send my absentee ballot in before the deadline. Yes, that's right, folks. I'm your average American jackass.
I guess it's probably for the best. I like Obama and Hillary equally, and I kind of like that my decision is going to be made up for me, because it's a hard one to make.

And you better motherfuckin' believe I'll be sending my ballot in waaaaay early when it's the actual election.

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Monday, February 04, 2008

I'm in Love with a Cab Driver




Remember all of those episodes of Taxi, where driving cabs for a living seemed so thrilling? Well, maybe "thrilling" isn't the word I'm looking for. Grungy? Terrible? Whatever.

I come from a very small town outside of Buffalo, and because of that, there is no public transportation to speak of, no cabs to be found. As a teenager/young adult, this poses a quandary. If you want to go out, someone has to be the DD, because there are no cabs. We all know that being the DD is about the closest thing to hell on Earth possible, so in my hometown, you've got two options: drink and drive, or don't go out. Because I'd rather not kill myself or others, I usually opt for the not going out while I'm at home.


When I'm at school, it's an entirely different story. There are cabs aplenty in Poughkeepsie, and because of that, any time of night, any day of the week, you can get a ride to the bar and get hammered. But because in
Po-town, it's a known fact that you will die of old age waiting for Yellow Cab or AAA to come and pick you up, Marist students frequent sketchy vans for rides to and from the bar.

This means that if you can get your hands on a van and some stick-on letters that they sell at Staples, you've got yourself a bona fide cab company! Congratulations, you're an entrepreneur! And everyone said you'd never you anywhere.


I first met my favorite cab driver early in my Junior year. He had a van with lopsided stick-on letters that said "Peter's GOOD Taxi." I liked his lack of hubris. His taxi is good, not great. He set the bar low and leapt over it like an Olympic gymnast. I love this man.


Like most cab drivers, Peter is foreign. During our introductions (read: I'm friendly when I'm drunk), I asked him where he was from. He told me he was from Jordan, and I told him my name is Amanda. "Oh! There is a city in Jordan called Amman," he said. "It's a very beautiful city. Beautiful like you."
Everyone loves a flatterer.

My affection for Peter was cemented one particular night last year, when I had been drinking for a good solid three hours before we left for the bar. Of course, in my drunken state, I forgot my ID, but didn't realize it until Peter had dropped us off. I turned around, got back in the cab, and asked Peter to take us back home. He didn't charge us for the ride back, and he did one thing better. He said he would come back for us, call us when he's outside, and take us back to the bar. He didn't charge us for this. What a guy. We all love him.
When he took us to the bowling alley, on the way we sang his favorite songs, "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt" and the "Chicken Dance" for him.

This past weekend, we went to happy hour and called him to pick us up and take us home. Because my apartment and my friend's apartment (where we were going to continue the night) are a significant way's away and it was monsooning out, we asked him if he would stop at my house, wait until I got my beer, and then drive us to said friend's apartment. "No problem" is what he said.
Back in my house, I grabbed by beer and searched my room for something to give him.

I have a million baseball hats, so I grabbed one, one that could surely make a great replacement for the ratty Sunoco hat he always wears. I gave it to him, and he put it on immediately. The next night, I got a text from a friend that said "Peter is wearing your hat."


I love my life. LOVE IT.

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Sunday, February 03, 2008

Obligatory Post Superbowl Ad Post



Maybe it's just because I'm obsessing over applying for jobs, but my two favorite commercials were for Tide Stick and CareerBuilder.com. The Tide Stick commercial features a hilarious job interview scenario and the CareerBuilder.com commercial, while really grotesque at first features an awesome message and concept.

Enjoy:


Tide-to-Go Superbowl Commercial, My Talking Stain Ad

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CareerBuilder.com Super Bowl Commercial

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Saturday, February 02, 2008

I'm Fucking Matt Damon



Well, not me. But Sarah Silverman is, apparently, in this hilarious video that she made for her boyfriend Jimmy Kimmel's birthday present.






I love it.

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Friday, February 01, 2008

Tales of the Office Drones (pt. 3)




And now for yet another fantastic installment of Tales from the Office Drones. Read on:

1:21pm, June 1, 2006

From: Christine
To: Amanda

Do you know what Dress Barn is? Because I have an interview there Thursday....hold your laughter, please

ARE YOU THERE GOD? ITS ME, MARGARET.

3:27pm, June 1, 2006

From: Amanda
To: Christine

I hate that book.

Did you ever read There's a Boy in the Girl's Bathroom? I realize how gay the title sounds, but it's actually a really touching story about the class bully who is just really insecure because he doesn't have any friends
except the ceramic animals that he talks to when he's alone in his room.

I'm glad that you changed the title of the emails we were sending. "Hola" was wearing thin. I hate when white people do that. Insert Spanish words into regular English conversations. Example: "Hey, Christine, I'm leaving. I'll see you MANANA." No. Shut the hell up.

I forgot to tell you about what I had to do yesterday. We sent out over a thousand press kits with the press release and the new CD in it. We got about 25 back because the addresses were wrong so I had to try to find the new addresses online. Well, of course, they were all of the gay magazines. Smart Dyke, Out in the Mountains (a magazine for gays in Montana), Nasty Boyz (I don't even want to know) and Empty Closet were among them. I was thinking, "oh my god, I don't want to call a place called Nasty Boyz."

Good thing their number was disconnected. They was probably out bein' nasty. Cuz they nasty boyz.