Glad to be off the edge of my seat

My silly and wonderful boyfriend interviewed for an amazing job more than two months ago. It has been a looooong and grueling process for all parties involved. We've both been on the edge of seats, giddily discussing all the exciting things that could happen if he got the job.

Now I will share them with you.

If boyfriend got the job...

• Boyfriend and I could take the bus to work together in the morning.
• We could meet for lunch in the park; which is conveniently between both of our offices.
• Boyfriend could take advantage of the tuition reimbursement program.
• We could afford to travel more.
• Oh, and get married!

Well... guess what? He got the job! Hooooray! Woooop woooop!

When he called his mom to tell her the good news, she immediately asked, "Do you hear wedding bells?" His reply, "I hear someone doing the dishes." Very funny, mister. SOMEONE had to clean them. (Don't worry ladies, I happily* do the dishes in exchange for his delicious home-cooked meals. I don't have the cooking gene.)

So excited!


*Well, maybe "happily" is too strong of a word, on second thought.

And now a glimpse into my paranoid mind

Now that I'm part of the 20-something-bloggers group, people might actually be reading this thing for a change. Finding new blogger friends has inspired me to reveal something a little deeper about myself than my obsession for carbs and lack of follow-through.

Today I want to tell you a bit about why I'm the way I am. And by that I mean paranoid.

My mom has lived through some crazy weirdness in her lifetime. She has narrowly escaped from potential abductors, attackers, and your common harmless nut-cases. Sparing the gory details, my mom has her gut instincts to thank for coming out of her 20's unscathed.

With that said, my mom's style of parenting can be described as "fear mongering." At a very young age, she taught me and my sister the dangers of strangers, date rape drugs, and not locking your doors.

She took paranoia to a new level by not being able to go to bed without making sure the knobs on the stove were all turned to "off." Ok... there's nothing too weird about that. Except for the fact that checked them about five times before calling it a night. She would look at each knob, point to it, and (this is key) said "off" as she pointed to each one individually. "Off... Off... Off... Off." She would chant this lullaby of sorts each night during my childhood.

More important than teaching us to eat all of our vegetables, my mom spent most of her energy teaching us the proper way to use a public bathroom (DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING!) and the best method for walking to your car in a parking lot (RUN!)

Alright, I think you get the picture. Now, I bring you a short piece of non-fiction that I wrote last summer after (probably) being a little too suspicious of some young men in the park on my lunch break.

Wanting to publish this piece last summer, I showed it to a writer friend who said I needed to explain why my character was so certain two complete strangers were trying to kill her. I feel I've given you all the explanation this piece needs. Enjoy.

*Disclaimer: I apologize for any unkind references to the Brits in this piece. I admit it is an awful stereotype that Brits have bad teeth. Please forgive me! It was a literary device... or something.

Lulu's

Still sitting on the bench, quickly losing interest with the loudest person in a 100-yard circumference, I block out the noise and read the same book I’ve been reading for three months during my lunch breaks.

Two 20-something men quickly break my concentration with the question, “Anywhere good to eat around here? We’ve just moved to the area.”

Please. Do any men who approach a vivacious woman sporting a plunging neckline and new push up bra from Victoria’s Secret honestly just want to know where to find something good to eat?

I play along.

What are you in the mood for?

“Spicy,” says the one with the gray front tooth.

Right. Try Lulu’s Noodles. Take a left on Forbes. It’ll be halfway down the block between Forbes and Fifth Ave.

“Is it really good? Like do you go there?” the one with the backwards ball cap and nearly shoulder-length hair asks me. They both strike me as creepy. Like they should be British. Maybe it’s just the tooth.

Yes. I eat there. Good luck. Enjoy your lunch. I say as I put my nose back in my book.

They are still standing there... looking at me.

“How much is it? Is it expensive?”

I think a moment for a reasonable estimate. It’s about eight bucks for an entrée.

“That’s not bad. What are you reading?”

These men are not going to leave me alone without an awkward conversation about Chuck Klosterman.

After discussing Chuck’s talent for making a surprisingly convincing argument about why Saved By the Bell is relevant in society, and getting a quick lesson on E-prime, I am relieved to see them go.

I wait an appropriate amount of time to get up from my bench so I don’t accidentally run into them on my way back to the office. I start wondering if maybe I should give people more credit. Maybe they really did just want a good place to have lunch. Just in case, I’m not walking through that alley like I usually do today. Staying in plain sight. My mom always says to trust my gut instinct. Still, I feel bad. Those guys seemed okay.

My feet are aching from the stilettos and wishing I hadn’t opted for a long-cut. Suddenly, all of my paranoid thoughts are coming to realization when I see the guy with the gray tooth’s yellow t-shirt walking towards me through the crowd. He and his friend are walking the opposite direction from Lulu’s. These men are going to kill me. I knew it.

I walk faster. Again, cursing my choice of footwear. My heart is racing. These men are going to kill me. I quickly visualize the final block of my walk and decide if there is trouble I’ll run into the mechanic’s garage off of Craig Street. The heels of my stilettos make a sharp noise against the concrete as I try not to twist my ankle and I hurry back to my office. Each person that I pass is a private victory, and one more person that will hopefully call the police when these guys catch up to me and kidnap/murder me. I reach the lobby of my office. Waiting for the elevator to take me to the fourth floor feels like an eternity. I look around at the people outside. A yellow shirt. My heart stops beating entirely. It’s a woman. The elevator is here. I’m alive.

No Ghosts. Just Quiznos Today.

I was too lazy to pack myself a lunch last night, so I threw a can of soup in my bag and called it a day. Unfortunately, Lazy Amanda forgot how much Hungry Amanda despises soup for lunch. It's boring. It's unsatisfying. It contains no bread. What is to like about soup, really?

I was so displeased with the idea of vegetable soup for lunch that I waited as long as could to eat lunch--hoping hunger is a temporary state of mind, and maybe those 20 ginger snaps I just ate would be a good lunch substitute.

Well, 3:00 rolled around and I am one of those people who need to eat every two hours or I start feeling dizzy and weird. When I get really low blood sugar, it isn't pretty, my friend. Ok. The soup is still in my bag. Should I just go heat it up in the microwave? No. Soup bores me. (Except miso soup. Andrew, I am totally serious about killing you if you eat my soup from TJ's. Srsly.)

Cue the impromptu dash to Quiznos. I have been packing my lunch in an effort to save money. Quiznos is by no means a luxury splurge, but it ain't exactly a can of soup either. To compromise, I tried the very affordably priced $2 Sonoma Turkey Sammie. I brought it back to my office and eagerly took my first bite. HELLO FLAVOR EXPLOSION! I didn't even know what was in a Sonoma Turkey Sammie, but I figured it would be better than soup no matter what. Had I read the ingredients, I might not have ordered it because I am not big on exotic spices like pepperjack and chipotle. But boy-oh-boy! This little gem hit my tastebuds in all the right places. FYI: the Sonoma Turkey Sammie contains turkey (surprise!), pepper jack cheese and Chipotle Mayo--as well as the usual tomato and lettuce. Mmmmmmmm!

I can't wait to go back for the 2 sammie special. Tell them Amanda sent you. (Then please tell me about all the weird looks you received from the Quiznos peeps who don't know what you're talking about.)

In other news, I am now part of the 20-something bloggers. My question is, however, do I get kicked out in six years when I turn 30? That'll be way harsh.

All that and a haunted buckeye

No wonder I am so exhausted today. My weekend was chock-full of fun and craziness.

I kicked things off Friday by whooping boyfriend's bottom at two rousing rounds of Rack-O. Ever beat someone by more than 600 points at anything? I have! Let me tell you, it is more fun than it sounds. We also shared a yummy Sumatra French press coffee at Enrico’s Tazza D’oro in Highland Park.

Saturday afternoon was filled with shopping in Shadyside, petting greyhounds (i want!), and delicious lunch at the Shady Grill (yummy California BLT with avocado and turkey).

Boyfriend asked what I wanted to do Saturday night. I said, "umm... go roller skating."

For some reason, the day before he ignored my suggestion to go sky-diving, but welcomed the skating idea with open arms. I don't get it. I haven't been skating for more than ten years though, so I'm glad he humored me.

After I found a buckeye in the pocket of my jeans for no apparent reason (thanks, ghost), we headed to Glenshaw's Romp 'n Roll for R&B Skate (true). There were tons of peeps getting funky on they skates. Some were invading my personal space with their funkiness, and almost knocked me on my tush a few times.

Our friend, who I shall refer to as "Sk8terboi," made the evening far more enjoyable with his highly-refined skating style. It reminded me of a little tike learning how to walk for the first time. I'm not actually sure you can even call what he was doing "skating," as at no point did I actually see his skate wheels spin. He baby-stepped his way around the rink in such an amusing fashion, that I had to shield my eyes from him so I didn't get distracted and lose my balance.

We had a blast, and though there were many close calls, neither boyfriend, Sk8terboi, nor I took a spill. By 10:30 the rink was packed to the gills and boyfriend had an oozing blister forming on his foot. It was time to call it a night. But first, we all had to smell boyfriend's fingers, which apparently "smelled like someone else's feet and sweat" from his rented roller-blades. Don't worry. When asked to smell someone's fingers, I always decline.

On Sunday I headed to my parents' house where my mom requested I join her for a day of decoupage (true). I made my friend something simply fabulous for her birthday. I won't give away too much, in case she reads this, but let's just say some of it is metallic and all of it is awesome.

Hope your weekend was filled with as many buckeyes, roller skates, and glue as was mine. It was truly outrageous.

xo

The case of the missing slipper

Last night I was looking forward to curling up on the couch with a David Sedaris book and eager to get cozy in my jammies and slippers. I saw one of my pink fuzzy slippers sitting in the hall between the bathroom and kitchen, but its mate was no where in sight. I found this to be rather odd, as I usually take off both slippers together, rather than taking one off... walking through the apartment before abandoning the other.

I searched for that lone slipper for several minutes before enlisting the help of the boyfriend, who helped me turn the apartment upside down. We were on a mission to find that damn thing. I was Cinderella. And my feet were cold.

Boyfriend, in the midst of cooking up a delicious dinner, had to forfeit the search because his water had come to a boil on the stove. After looking under every piece of furniture and in every conceivable hiding spot, I finally gave up. Had I accidentally thrown it away? What the duce?

This morning, I awoke from my slumber to get ready for work. Still wiping the sleep from my eyes as I stepped into the shower, I was in deep thought. "Don't forget your leftover portobello ravioli awaiting you in the fridge," I cautioned myself. "Even if it makes you a little gassy, it would make for a delicious lunch," the voice in my head continued.

It was after the shower that I saw it. Both of my slippers, lying together in a pair as though nothing had ever happened. "Oh, I guess boyfriend found my slipper?" my inner monologue rang. "But when? How? I don't understand!"

I ran to snoozing boyfriend, and gently awoke him. (Read:: shook him violently as though I had said "And this is what it would feel like to die in an earthquake!")

"HEY!" I excitedly hollered. "DID YOU FIND MY SLIPPER???"

Boyfriend gasped and quickly lifted his head, frightened.

"DID YOU FIND MY SLIPPER???"

"Huh? No!" Boyfriend was startled. But not as startled as I was.

"You didn't!? Really!? OMG! AHHHHHHHHHHHH! THAT'S CREEPY!" I was stunned, I didn't know what to do except hit groggy boyfriend over the head with my pillow several times as I screamed in horror.

As I finished getting ready for work, I kept my eye on the haunted slipper in fear that any remaining ghost particles might attack me--possibly when my mascara wand was uncomfortably close to my retina.

Before I left to catch my bus, I cautiously picked up the slipper with my thumb and index finger. I looked on the bottom of the sole for a cryptic ghost message, written in pig's blood. Nothing.

I examined the cloth for any ghost clues... and there it was. The label on my slipper sent chills down my spine. "Easy Spirit." I $h*t you not.

"Ok, I'm outta here," my inner voice proclaimed.

I grabbed my jacket and purse (but not my ravioli... dang) and ran for the hills... or bus stop.