School Supplies

My favorite time of year - back to school. Only my favorite because I'm an adult and I don't have to go to school - school is awesome kids, stay in it. It's actually my favorite because I love to shop for school supplies and I know that even if I didn't have a school-aged child I would still be wandering the aisles smelling pencils and buying colors. Yes - I call them colors, not crayons. Deal with it.

 

I was reminded recently that some people just don't get the importance of school supplies - the importance of getting just the right folder, the perfect notebook, the correct pencils with that really pink eraser and above all else the correct brand of colors.

 

Crayola.

 

I was at the store, wandering, and I saw a mom walk out of the school supply aisle with an armful of colors. The brand: RoseArt.

 

WTF? Seriously? Did you miss that huge bin of Crayola? Did you not see that the Crayola - otherwise known as "correct" - colors are only 24 cents? Do you hate your children? You must. Lady, you're are going to go home with that bag full of RoseArt colors and your kids are going to burn your house down - and rightfully so. If I want to have a terrible day I start it off by thinking about RoseArt brand colors and I finish it with thinking about that one gray RoseArt colored pencil that squeaks when you write with it.

 

When I was a kid my favorite part of school supplies was writing my name all over my shit - mine, mine, mine, mine and mine. Everything had my name perfectly written on it - there was no mistaking my Elmer's glue for your whatever the hell that is. Well, don't bother doing that these days. Classrooms have "community supplies". What's that? Oh, it's where the teacher dumps all of the supplies into bins and then when it's time to use them she puts the bin in the center of your table that you share with 4 other people and that's when you find out who your friends are. There you are staring at this pile of colors, desperately trying to dig out the good ones and not accidentally scrape the bad ones with your fingernails and get that waxy RoseArt shit under them. The worst. Doesn't matter though, because RoseArt colors weep wax residue, it's how they cry about not being loved, so when you pull your hand out it's still all waxy and smells like sadness.

 

If I were a kid in a class of "community supplies" I would sneak in my own colors and use them instead of the community ones - that's how serious I am about my coloring. Serious. Please don't be "that" parent - if you love your children, buy Crayola. If you are going to tell me that "RoseArt colors are fine!", please don't waste your breath or energy - you're wrong. You're wrong so just sit there in your wrongess and be wrong.

 

I was explaining to Morgan "community supplies" and before I could finish my sentence he interrupts:

 

"NO. No. No no no no no no no. No."

 

"No."

 

"Free" would be paying too much for these.

 

You must get so much texting done at the gym...

Do you? Do you get a lot of texting done while you stand there next to your boyfriend while he "lifts weight". I put "lifts weight" in those sarcastic quotation marks because he's lifting just enough weight so he looks like he's working hard but he's only working hard because he's doing it wrong.

I bet that weight bench is super comfortable to sit in - here let me angle the TV so you can see it better from your location. I never thought of using a bench for texting, I'll have to give that a try sometime - is it comfortable? It's not super comfortable when I use it for tricep dips, I don't expect it to be...but that's just me. To each their own I guess.

Does your boyfriend love it when you stand right in front of him while he curls those dumbbells? I would imagine you are blocking the mirror from his view of checking his form but what you are really doing is blocking his view of just checking himself out. "Look at these guns...why does my elbow hurt so much...whatever, I'm going to look hot. Owwwwww."

I really love that you picked up that 5lb dumbbell and are now curling it with one limp wrist while you text with the other hand. You are just super cute, what kind of lip gloss is that you're putting on? I bet it's fantastic. Here, could you hold my 25lb dumbbell while I readjust the bench from your TV watching adjustment? It doesn't really work well for what I need to use it for...sorry.

I see that you like to lean against that piece of equipment there, it's called a Horizontal Leg Press in case you were wondering and I need to use it. Oh, you must be confused - You. Are. At. The. Gym. I'm sure you arrived here by just following your boyfriends feet - since that's probably all you can see while you're head is down staring at your phone while texting or Facebooking or whatever it is you're doing that's so important.

Whoah, where are you going? The locker room? What do you need to go there for, wipe the sweat from your brow? Doubtful. Oh, reapply your makeup - proceed. Let me just get out of your way...sorry.

Kids Say A Lot Of Things...

Kids talk. A lot. Like, so very much. Sometimes I just stare at their little mouthes moving and wonder, "What the hell are you talking about?". I often think that they won't ever stop making noises, that's when I demand QUIET NO MAKING NOISE TIME OR MOMMA MIGHT DRIVE INTO A LIGHT POLE.

It is important to listen to them - always. They are telling you things that they think are super important and serious. If you don't listen to them now, they won't talk to you when they are older about things that you think are important. Plus, they say some pretty hilarious shit.

Here are a couple of my favorites from this week:

• Coop: "Hit me in the face." (he wanted me to throw a nerf ball...at his face - I didn't, in case you were wondering)
• Madison: "You can be honest with me - are you really just holding the quarter the whole time?" (in regards to pulling a quarter from her ear)

I have something important to tell you...puppy.

Medicated Traveling

I'm not a good flyer. I have to medicate - Xanax is my preferred method. Morgan is the same way. We had to fly quite a bit when our parents divorced and momma decided Alaska was a great transition...from Louisiana. Morgan and I would fly back and forth during the summer to visit Daddy, family and friends.

We did great on our flight to Alaska - Morgan had a fresh set of stitches on his forehead in the shape of a lightning bolt from a gash he received while playing baseball with a pipe. Of course this happened right around the beginning popularity of Harry Potter movies. Oh yeah, and he wore glasses. It was perfect. Two kids traveling alone across the country being stopped by strangers constantly. Piece of cake. We weren't traumatized at all.

Right before (the night before) we would be flying home for the summer that year Momma decided to take us to the cinema. "Oh, a film! Fantastic, what did you see?" Final Destination.

*blink*

We saw Final Destination. Why? Hell if I know! I felt fine after seeing it - it's just a movie for goodness sake.
Just. A. Movie. Yeah, it was "just a movie" until Morgan and I were headed to board the plane and I blacked out. Of course, I thought I blacked out. Actually I misplaced all of my shit and pushed everyone out of the way as I drug my poor brother through the crowd back to momma while screaming "We're all going to die probably!" Needless to say, no amount of coaxing could get me on that flight. I would like to take this moment to apologize to my step-dad Jack who at this point hadn't really seen anything like this and really acted honorably by sitting out of the way and pretending like he didn't know us. So, sorry.

We were put on the next flight - momma gave us some anti-anxiety medication. We woke up mid-flight and had the best meatloaf sandwich we had ever tasted. We still talk about it. So very good.

And that's why when we fly now we take a bit of anti-anxiety medication, we're adults so sometimes it is accompanied by whiskey. Don't judge, it's rude. (Note: this medication is prescribed to us - we do not advocate drug abuse or taking medication that does not belong to you or isn't prescribed. Drugs are bad. Also, drinking while taking medication is probably also bad. Consult your physician.)

Morgan is traveling right now for some fancy meeting for his job. He called me at 8:30 am. Here is a basic transcript of our conversations.

8:30am
A: Bueno (don't ask)
M: What time do the bars open at the airport?
A: I don't know...now?
M: Hmm...I'm going to check. They open at 10.
A: Wow. I feel like they should be open all the time.

9:00am
M: Okay, so I took half a xanax about an hour ago...when do I take the next half?
A: When do you board?
M: In like, 30 minutes.
A: Well, I usually just take a whole one an hour before then I sit at the gate, then when we board I stand up and can't feel my legs. That's how I know I'm okay.
M: Yeah, I like that but I need the half before I get to the airport.
A: I understand. You need to take the other half now.
M: Moment of truth - half or whole?
A: Half
M: Too late.

Then he boards - he calls me when he gets to his layover a few hours later.

A: How's that xanax treating you?
M: Well. I sat next to two old people on the flight - the wife wouldn't let me go pee because her husband was asleep.
A: Seriously? It was 10 am, did he not sleep at nighttime like he was supposed to?
M: Also, I thought I saw Stanley Tucci in the bathroom...but it wasn't him. Upon further inspection the only similarities between this guy and Tucci was the bald head.

15 minutes later...

M: I've just learned, Adbbhell Jameson is really tall
A: Who?
M: A double Jameson. It's tall. And big.

Tall and big.

Yellah

I'm assuming all of the people reading this aren't from the same general location. Just an assumption. Perhaps you are from the North...South...East...West...

I am from the South. I live in the God forsaken North, but I will always be Southern. I've been away from home for about 12 years - so long. My accent has definitely decreased but there are a few words that I still pronounce in Southern fashion (or wrong, as some people put it). Also, if I'm mad or have been imbibing, my accent comes back. If I speak to someone from home for even a few minutes it comes back full force. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I find that a lot of the time I will pronounce words the way I think people want to hear them... Since some people (one person) in my life insists on correcting the way I speak sometimes. If you have an accent and live somewhere besides your hometown do people correct you? When they do, do you punch them in the throat? Just curious.

Here's a little list of words and how I pronounce them or the word I use instead of the original. I guess I could've done a video for it...but, meh.

• Aunt - Aint (I know that this makes no sense to anyone where I live now but that's just how I grew up saying it - Aint Pam)
• Oil - Ol
• Yellow - Yellah
• Window - Windah
• Pillow - Pillah...okay, anything with an "oh" sound at the end automatically turns into "ah"
• Tip/Dump - Tump, I combine those two words to make one word and it's adorable. (Be careful or you gonna tump it over.)
• Anything with 1 syllable can be made into 2 syllables, anything with 2 syllables can be made into 8 syllables. Simple math.
• Theatre - Cinema, because that's more fun to say.
• Route - Root
• Fire - Faaar, because reasons.
• Ruin - I used to pronounce this "Rern"...but now I just pronounce it how it looks.
• Going to/About to - Fixin to (this is one of the ones that people used to call me on ALL the time, so annoying)

There are more, but that at least shows you a little glimpse into my weird ways. Which aren't weird at all, just different than some.

Oh, one more. What do you call saran wrap? I call it "film". I didn't even realize anyone called it different until I moved here and momma sent my stepdad to the store for film and he came back with Kodak.

Where I'm from every "soda" is called "coke".

You wanna coke?

Yep.

What kind?

Sprite.

This Group of People That I Love

Remember that time I told you about that fantastic band that was going on tour and I told you to help out with their kickstarter? And you probably did, because you are awesome.

Well, they did that tour and they rocked the faces off of all the people.

Then they traveled south and recorded and have now released a new EP. One that you should have...or at the very least purchase on iTunes.

You can check out their site here: We Are Thera

See them on the Facebook: Thera on Facebook

If you are local, you should see a live show. Bring an extra face.

I Simply Don't Care What You Believe...

If you've been outside of your cave lately you probably know about Chick-Fil-A standing up against marriage equality. Taking a stand against humans having equal rights. You would also know that today is..what's it called? Chick-Fil-A Appreciation Day! Are you going?

Here's where I briefly share with you something about me - I don't give a shit what you believe. I could tell you what I believe but you didn't ask me and you probably don't care either - you shouldn't. I'm sure you can figure out my beliefs by simply reading a few of my posts...I am not one to push my beliefs on to people and I don't like it when others do it to me. You don't think gay people should be able to get married? Okay. That's your deal. You think you should be able to marry your dog? Alright - what the hell ever dude. You think we should all be split up according to face shape and wear cream colored unitards? That's your thing and it doesn't affect me. Now, if you show up to my door with a face chart and a unitard in my exact size - we may have a problem. I hate unitards.

I would love it if we all believed the same thing and we lived in harmony and everyone smiled all day and got along and were happy. I would also hate it. Can you imagine? No one having a thought of their own. No one deviating from the pack. No one being their own person. Gross.

What I would really love, and I mean - love more than anything in the world - is if we could all just leave each other to believe what we want without having to make "public statements", "press conferences", without having to use words like, "boycott", "defend", and "intolerance".

Once you admit that you support equal rights and marriage equality, my God, you are berated with all of the dumbest questions. "Oh, you support marriage equality? Well, what if a woman wanted to marry a child? Or, a man wanted to marry a boy or young girl? Or a horse wanted to marry a cow!?"

Don't be a fucking idiot.

If you can't differentiate "equal rights" and "illegal sick shit" then you have more problems than any of us can help you with.

You know what - now that I'm already into this rant I'm going to go ahead and share with you my "beliefs". I believe in God. I believe we were all created by him. I believe that if you are gay, it's because he made you that way, not because you chose to be that way. I think that a man and a man have a right to be married or a woman and woman. Why not? Does it cause you physical pain when a same sex marriage occurs? Does it make a scar on your forehead burn? Do you think you will go to hell if you see two elderly ladies holding hands at the park? Are you afraid that if your son sees two men shopping for groceries that it will turn a switch in his brain that says 'I wanna marry a dude, boobs are the worst.'? Do you honestly believe that by allowing same-sex couples to wed that it ruins the sanctity of marriage? You know what I think ruins the sanctity of marriage - everyone.

I don't agree with abortion, so I won't ever get one. I would super hate it if someone that I loved got one, but they aren't me. If you are fine with getting one then go ahead. I won't knowingly donate money to support places that give/advocate abortion - it's my money, I'd rather it go to something that I support, like cupcakes or bacon...or those cute puppies that Sarah McLachlan is ruining everyone's day about.

Guns? I like guns. Sure, not every psychopath should be able to walk in and grab one off of a shelf - that would suck for so many people. I have to take a test to drive a car - I sure don't mind filling out a little bit of paperwork to own a weapon that I will shoot to kill if someone threatens me or my family.

What else? Anything else I could share with you that will totally piss you off? Oh, here's one: I believe in the death penalty. I also believe that it's not used nearly enough. People that sell drugs and pirate movies get a firmer sentencing than someone who assaults a child.

Okay. "Honest Amber" is done. Like I said very clearly - I don't care what you believe or what you think about what I believe. If you do enjoy reading my blog then I hope you continue to do so - if not, whatever.

If this is wrong...well, that's not possible.

Another One...

Another post where I have nothing to share, nothing to write about...but I felt like I should write something. Y'know?

I could share a story that belongs to someone else...you want me to do that? I will if you really want me to. Okay, you twisted my arm. This story belongs to Morgan. He says "hi" by the way.

A few years ago I was living in LA pursuing my dream of becoming the most fantastic person that ever was - I succeeded by the way. I was headed to work and had to take the bus - either my car was inoperable or it was that time that all of my parking tickets caught up with me and my car was impounded. 


After a few minutes on the bus we are all informed that the driver has to go 500 miles out of the way because a million roads are closed - Obama is in town - of course. This being the day I had to open the store, it made sense that the President of the United States of America would make me late. Taking me 20 blocks away from my desired destination, I finally got off the bus - the driver tried to tell me that he would be circling back around but I don't trust bus drivers that drive buses. It's a thing.


There I am walking in the sweltering heat, dressed in all black, wearing sandals and being mad. Mad. I'm headed down this narrow strip of sidewalk bordered by street and offices. Scowling. I look up and see Dominic Monaghan walking towards me - but like a thousand miles away. So it begins - the awkward "hallway" walk, where it's only two people walking towards each other for miles and you have nowhere else to look, nothing else to do. You don't want to say 'Hi' too soon, you don't want to wait too late...It's maddening and I hate it. Finally we were close enough and we both said "Hi" and I mumbled, "Thank God that's fucking over with.".


I walk into work and am greeted by a coworker, my only response: "Well, I saw that LOST guy today."


The cherry on the fucking cake of life? Obama wasn't even IN TOWN! IT WAS A DECOY!


And that's the story of how President Obama introduced me to Dominic Monaghan.

Apparently so...apparently so.

And there you have it. Now I will get busy making things happen so that I have more to tell you...if you want.

Face.

Do you use Pinterest? Of course you do. Hey, me too! TWINSIES!

Well, I've started trying things that I see on Pinterest - not just pinning shit willy-nilly. I decided to try something today. A face scrub to help rid blackheads. Blech.

I have enormous pores. Pores that you can probably see from where you are sitting. I've tried a million things to clean them out and nothing has worked...yet.

Tonight - nutmeg and buttermilk scrub.

I took no pictures. You're welcome.

The instructions said to mix milk and nutmeg - or to mix buttermilk and nutmeg. Buttermilk has more lactic acid and would do an even better job of dissolving dead skin. The nutmeg acts as the...scrubber? Okay.

I poured too much buttermilk into my little bowl and instead of dumping some out I just dumped a ton of nutmeg in there so it would be "pastey". Well, don't do what I did. You don't need very much of the mixture so you'll just end up wasting all of your nutmeg supply for something that you do once per week.

Oh, yeah. Only do this once per week or you will scrub all of your skin off and then you will look like a monster and you will smell like sour milk and church. Also, I think churches smell like nutmeg.

Wash your face. Dry your face. Splash your face with water....or, just don't dry your face when you wash it the first time. Now scrub your face with the nutmeg mixture that you made. Scrub for 3-5 minutes - don't do this around your eyes, focus on where your blackheads or oily skin is. 

Your skin will turn red.

After the scrubbing rinse all of the stuff off of your face. Voila! Blackheads.

Well, at least mine are still there. Now - I'm not nixing this all together. My skin is super smooth! I can definitely tell that it has rid me of excess skin. I can see that a few of them are gone and my skin seems to be a bit tighter. 

I found this little do-it-yourself skin scraper over at Crunchy Betty. I think next week I will try the honey pat down.

Check out the Crunchy Betty site for tons of great natural and money-saving tips.

 

Click here for my pinterest...you know you want to.

Boom.

Have you ever disarmed a bomb? No? Have you ever put a toddler to bed?

It's the same thing...except more dangerous. 

Since being moved to a big boy bed my little perfect sleeper Coop has been an absolute hellion at bedtime and it is slowly murdering my soul. 

We have a bedtime ritual - it involves hugs and kisses to everyone, potty (attempt - almost always fails), change the pull-up, and brush teeth.

Then he has to make sure he has his favorite blanket and any animal he is currently obsessed with. Finally it's storytime. Typically it's two stories but sometimes he can coax a third story out of me - especially if I can get him to chime in on some of the words in the book. It's so damn adorable.

Once he finally lays down he like to have his back patted. Now, my typical rule of thumb is to pat his back for a few minutes and then leave him to fall asleep on his own..HA HA HA right. That involves hours of me putting him back in bed and I just can't do that every night - I have a life and a delicate psyche.

Many nights I will pat his back until he falls asleep - because it's quicker that way. Do you know what this involves? Let me paint you a picture.

I pat/rub his back. He rolls around like a dog in mud for awhile. I continue to pat/rub his back. The sleepier he gets the slower I pat/rub. After his eyes close I stop patting/rubbing all together but leave my hand on his back. After a few moments I slowly lift my fingers off of his back, then my wrist, then my forearm. I keep my arm hovering for a second - just in case the red wire touches the blue wire. Then I slowly - SLOWLY - get up from my seated position next to his bed. It is important that I check my knee proximity to the bed so that I don't hit the bed while I'm getting up. I stand slowly and then proceed to leave the room.

There is a squeaky floor board between the door and bed, I know exactly where this floor board is. I can elegantly step over it avoiding any noise and then leave the room. 

Have you seen the movies where a bomb squad dismantles the bomb and they think all is good and they're walking away all slow-motion and bad ass-like, but then something goes wrong and BOOM! Fiery death ensues!

That's what it's like when Joe goes in and steps directly on that fucking squeaky floor board.

Every. Goddamn. Time.