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Wednesday, April 16, 2014

How Do I Turn My "I Don't Give a Shit" Back On??

Seriously. My over-sensitivity (and I have at least reached the point where I can admit that I am WAY too sensitive) is really becoming a handicap in my daily life. I have gotten to the point where I have completely handed power to everyone around me -family, friends, people I don't even LIKE-  to hurt my feelings to the point where I go home and cry some nights.

Wow, look at me and my "admitting" streak- I just confessed that I'm a total baby. Go me.

The thing is, I think I am a good person. A nice one, even. Up until recently I have believed that, despite my flaws and the mistakes I have made, I am not even remotely close to being a "bad" person. I think I am fun and caring and a good friend. Anymore, the only time my inner bitch comes out to play is if you're hurting or taking advantage of someone I care about, abusing/neglecting animals or cutting me off in traffic. I don't wake up in the morning thinking of who I can hurt or insult. I don't plot ways to rain on anyone's parade or make their life miserable.

So tell me why is it that so many people seem to dislike me? And more importantly, why do I care? Why do I remotely care about a backstabbing friend, or that someone's ex (or someone's new girlfriend) doesn't like me, or that some people don't think Tom and I should be engaged? Why do I let these things seep into my brain for me to process and analyze over and over?

I'm definitely an analyzer by nature. I like to know why people feel how they feel, why they do what they do, what their actions mean, etc. This can be a good thing at times...but it can also feel like a handicap. There's no medicine to stop it, no switch I can flip. I WANT to not care. I really do.

Here's a random picture of Joe Boxer dressed as Princess Leia to break up the seriousness of this post.

I WANT to let go of the fact that when someone backstabs me I still feel obligated to try to smooth things over even though they're the one who should be apologizing to me.

Here's Joe Boxer dressed as a squirrel. Mwahaha. 


I WANT to stop wanting to get along with EVERYONE.

Here's "Oh Boy It's the Holidays!" Joe Boxer. 


I WANT to stop letting the judgment and opinions of others, even those who mean well and love me, stop making me feel like I am not a good person and that I should fall into line the way they think I ought to.

The problem is I simply don't know how. I guess the reason I am writing about it is because it all seems to be happening in one burst- I keep finding that people I thought were my friends or least liked me really don't. And it makes me mad at myself, like, "How freaking naive can you be, Amanda?" I want to shake myself then possibly slap my own face (I guess it's possible to slap one's own face but I don't think I can grab myself by the shoulders and shake, unfortunately). It should be simple to talk myself through it: I thought so and so liked me, turns out they don't. Oh well. Right?

I wish.

I just wanted to vent a little. I'm tired of carrying all this weight on my shoulders- weight of others who have decided that I suck. I want to lose it, I really do. I really just don't know how.

I think I liked myself better when I was a bitch.

And no, Joe Boxer doesn't do modeling as a career nor does he sign autographs. Sorry.


Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Ever Want To Go Back To Being a "Mean Girl"?

...not that mean girls were ever glamorized or anything...



And it's not that I WANT to be mean. And maybe I never was. But as usual, my thoughts flow best after a glass of wine. Or two. Or three.

Annnnnyway. I spent my early 20s being a "mean girl." Not mean to EVERYONE, though. I prided myself on only being mean to those who DESERVED it- skanky girls, douchebag guys, users, abusers, etc. I was actually proud of myself for refusing to tolerate (most) bullshit from people. It's like I was on a one woman crusade to show all the asshole in the world that someone WAS going to call them out.


This method worked for me juuuuuust fine. Then, as I got older, I started to care about what people thought of me...I started to get soft. 


I also tried cynical, just to see if that was a better fit. 


If nothing else, maybe scare tactics?


I'm hoping someone out there can relate to me turning all soft as I get older. Although I did it for my own sanity and self-preservation, I also did it because I thought I could make the world a sunnier place by being friendly and positive...


But now, as I watch the days tick away till I turn 32, I am starting to rethink "nice" Amanda. I think it is more exhausting to worry about who likes you and who doesn't, who approves of you and who doesn't, who hates you and who doesn't than it is to be Ms. Super-Super-Sweet-Happy-Go-Lucky-Everyone-Should-Be-Friends. Because that keeps biting me in the ass and breaking me down, hurting feelings that I thought I had hardened thanks to high school. 

It isn't that I want to be mean to everyone. I would never be the least bit mean to someone who didn't deserve it...


But this business of caring what people who don't care about me think? It has to stop. It wears thin. In a perfect world, I could enjoy my engagement to my wonderful man and everyone would throw confetti at us and life would be goddamn jolly. 

Ain't happening. 

So maybe being a mean girl isn't the answer..but being a thick-skinned girl might be. Letting others rain on your parade lets them rob you of your happiness, whether that happiness is being engaged, losing weight and getting fit, getting a stellar new job...and even those who you thought were your friends may turn out to be something else. 



Lots to ponder here...but I also really just wanted to do a "Mean Girls" themed post. I have mostly liked New Amanda, the one I have become in my 30s. But every now and then I wonder if things would be easier if I didn't let my feelings get hurt so easily and didn't let unimportant people rain on MY parade. 

Maybe if I cared less what they thought, I would feel better. 











Friday, March 28, 2014

Things I Could Do to Amuse Myself While Tom is Gone

(in no special order)

- Clean the whole house so when he gets home he will marvel at what a domestic diva I am. Or ask me who I hired to clean the whole house.

- Go to the gym. Haha. Yeah, right.

- Watch a movie (Done. I watched Frozen last night and liked it, especially the little snowman.)

- Get some of those bath crayons for kids and write scary messages on the shower walls for Tom to find when he gets home.

- Teach Maggie to stop chasing the cats once and for all. This will involve an exorcism and holy water.

- Drink wine (most likely of all scenarios).

- Set up booby traps for the neighbor kids around our driveway bricks (please refer to my Facebook post from Thursday night for further explanation).

- Get a manicure.

- Hang some pictures. Because there's no better combination than me, wine and a hammer & nails.

- Position the webcam so that Tom can see in the kitchen. Make it look like I am cooking meth (not sure how to do this, must Google).

- Call my mom and whine about missing Tom. Bonus points if I can get her to stay on the phone for at least ten minutes without hanging up on me.

- Read some of the new book about vampires that I found in the discount bin at the store. This is another that will probably actually happen.

- Make ThomASS Meacham buy some Scentsy. Because he just SHOULD. I bought Girl Scout cookies from him when he was selling them.

In all seriousness, though, I really am very bored and lonely. And I know that being apart is healthy for couples but he's also my best friend so it's like having my boyfriend AND my best friend gone which is just loneliness overload. At least I have the dogs although it would be nice to walk around the house without tripping on one of them- they've been following me around relentlessly since he left.

And now I'm off to nail holes in the walls. Don't tell Tom.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

This is going to be painful because I'm only good at self-deprecating humor...

...and also because I think that anytime someone shows a weak, vulnerable side people start to get uncomfortable.

But here it is: today I feel like a failure.

I feel like a failure at work. A failure at being a pet owner. A failure at keeping my own house clean. A failure at not allowing petty, insecure, unimportant people to get under my skin.

It's just been one of those days.

Have you ever had an ordinary day-not bad, but not GREAT- and then suddenly it's like someone flipped a switch and you want to hide under your blankets in bed for the rest of the week?

If you haven't, then I applaud you because you must be some sort of superhuman. Because I'm so out of sorts this evening that I can't even be bothered by wine that needs a cork removed.


I miss Tom. He leaves tomorrow for a business trip and I won't see him till Tuesday. He got stuck working late tonight and I'm being a baby about it. Will I live? Of course.

Worse, though, is that I'm feeling like a failure as a dog owner. I devote so much time and energy posting about rescuing animals, donating to rescuing animals, fundraising to help rescue animals...yet here I have my very own "rescue" at home and at times she makes me completely insane and I secretly, in a deep dark place and just for a millisecond, regret ever picking her up. I'm ashamed to admit that I have those thoughts but I feel like maybe if I admit it for others to see, they won't beat themselves up for having similar thoughts about their own pets, family, jobs, etc.

My point is, it's OK to be in a bad mood sometimes. It's OK to not be all "glass is half full, life is perfect, I'm living the dream"- because none of us are, not all the time. Not a single one of us. Rich or poor, single or married,  jobless or employed we ALL have bad days, days where we want to just throw up our hands and yell, "Fuck it!" To pretend that we don't, or to try to make others believe we don't, is to live a lie.

That doesn't stop me from understanding that there are things to be absolutely grateful for. I'm beyond lucky to have Tom. My family, while not perfect, loves me and they're all alive and well for me to see and talk to. I have a nice circle of friends and even better than that, I can count at least three friends that I can tell ANYTHING about myself and know they will still love me. I am fortunate to be in a position to give the animals I have a good life, even if I am not always the perfect owner. I am healthy. I have money in my bank account.

But I am allowed to be mad. And sad.

I am allowed to feel defeated.

I am allowed to hide in my face in Joe Boxer's cheek and cry a little.


It's what I do with tomorrow that makes the difference.

I'm going to make it a better day. I'm not going to let an insecure, childish, STUPID "woman" make me feel like I don't belong somewhere. I'm not going to fail my new dog tomorrow. I'm going to come home, embrace the silence and make some plans for the weekend even I have to spend it by myself.

But I'm not upset with myself for being down and I'm not going to let myself give a shit if someone else thinks I shouldn't feel that way.

The good thing is my blog is now resurrected and generally I gravitate towards writing funny stories about my own mishaps. Stay tuned.

Edit: I am sitting across from my love. He is still on a conference call dealing with work but he is HOME. He's here with me and I get to stare at him till my eyes get heavy and I need to sleep. I'm avoiding sleep as long as I can because, even after a year, I absolutely adore being in his company. I have absolute faith that the coming years will be the same. 

Thursday, June 13, 2013

A Picture Post, Because I'm Tired And Was Informed That Words Are Boring

I've been sick all week. It was kinda miserable. I think I'm pretty much over it but I'm still feeling a little weak. Sadly, my wishes for a butler have not come true.

I'm doing a picture post because ThomASS says that too many words bore people and they stop reading. Hopefully he looks at this entire post because there's going to be a quiz at the end, bitch.

Note the breakfast tea K-cup. Because I'm a LADY.


This is basically what I've been living on all week. Don't get all judge-y. I checked the drug interactions. Sort of.

I don't know why the picture is all stretched out and I am too sick to investigate.












My boys were basically glued to my side the whole time. Rufus clung to me more than usual, so much so that I began to think he was one of those animals that could smell death before it came- like that cat I read about who lived in a nursing home and would linger in the rooms of residents who were about to die. Can you imagine? I'd be like, "Get the fuck out of here, cat. Wrong room. Move along. No death here."


Who names a squirrel Rorry?



Eventually I had to wander to the lovely Wal-Mart for supplies. I could have gone to CVS but I know for a fact they don't sell cookie dough, which was on my list (also on my list: Epsom salts, coloring books, Jell-o and Campbell's Chicken & Stars soup). I was going to have my friend go but he only halfheartedly pretended he wanted to go offered to go while not moving from his place on the couch and  I knew he wouldn't get the cookie dough or the coloring books. Pity that my appetite doesn't get sick along with the rest of me.







Armageddon





While coloring, I took a dose of Nyquil and kept an eye on the radar. Apparently, all hell was breaking loose across the state. An hour later, the End Times had not come and I was still not sleepy so I had another helping of Nyquil and watched Duck Dynasty.    
                     











I'm starting to rethink Barbie. 



Woke up feeling a lot better and decided to do some more coloring and have some coffee. I wish they'd had a My Little Pony coloring book because Barbie is a shallow skank. I can't believe I spent so much of my childhood playing with her.











I texted my mom about my Barbie concerns. And yes, the time stamp IS 5:03 and yes I DID just wake up. I'm sick, people. Opened my eyes at 9 a.m. and took more meds and went back to sleep. I'm healing, dammit.










The pictures end with three of my kitties and my highly ironic mug: 

Kenni

Lily

Dunkin'

The End. 

Oh, and there's no quiz. I'm too exhausted from posting all these pictures. MUCH harder than typing a story. 

The Real End. 

I had watermelon for dinner. But I refuse to post a picture of it because I'm not a hipster or a health freak. I'm just not hungry.

Ok, I'm done. 

Monday, May 13, 2013

Some Dude Called Me Fat (Or, Why I Am Treating Myself To A Frozen Pina Colada Later Tonight)

When I was in high school, the boys who rode my bus made up a nickname for me: Pudgy. They relentlessly teased me about my weight which, looking back, was actually just average- I wasn't skinny but also not obese by any means. Every day on the way home from school I had to listen to their taunting while pretending that it didn't bother me a single bit. Then I'd get off the bus and either cry in my room or immediately strap on my roller blades and try to burn off some of the "pudge."

In my late teens and early twenties, I popped ephedrine pills like they were going out of style and lived mostly on crackers and beer. It worked, but I sure wasn't happy or healthy. I kinda felt like a crackhead, to be honest.

Needless to say, I've had body issues from about 8th grade on into adulthood. The difference between now and then is, I am my own worst critic. No one else in my life calls me fat or makes fun of my (still average) size. I criticize myself every day but, at 31, have also realized that the extra pounds are no one's fault but mine. I love chocolate, wine and Doritos. And craft beer. Oh, and potatoes. LOVE them. I try to go to the gym but sometimes I just don't wanna. And so when I get pissed off while jeans shopping (which I tend to avoid like the plague if at all possible- truly, I'd rather endure a bikini wax than try on multiple pairs of jeans that I already know aren't going to fit me right) I only curse myself.

Till some random fuckface almost hit me with his truck today while I was walking into Kroger to get stuff for dinner. There I was, minding my own business pushing a cart through the parking lot behind a purple S-10 with a stupid bumper sticker that said something along the lines of, "If God wanted us to filter our beer he wouldn't have given us livers." As the driver stopped to turn left (with his left blinker on, no less), I walked along the right side and started to cross. He suddenly changed his mind and swerved to the right with no warning, without looking, and nearly ran into me.

I veered my cart to the right quickly to avoid getting smashed and turned to glare at him for being so careless. Rather than shooting an apologetic glance or even possibly saying he was sorry, Fuckface rolled his window down and yelled, "I fucking swerved because that fucking guy almost hit me so-"

I cut him off with a crisp, "Oh shut up!" because I was not about to stand there and let him cap his sentence off by calling me a bitch or telling me to screw myself.

But he didn't shut up. And he didn't call me a bitch. I guess he did kind of tell me to screw myself so that snippet of foreshadowing was accurate on my part because this fine gentleman then hollered, "Fuck you, fatty!" and drove off as fast as his piece of shit truck could go. He was gone before I could conjure up a scathing retort about his feminine truck or how small his dick must be to go around screaming insults at women he nearly runs over. He was also gone before I was able to grab my bottle of vitamins out of my purse and whip them at his truck.

My feelings were not hurt. I didn't cry like I used to back in high school. I was plain and simply FURIOUS, just livid that some asshole felt like it was OK to insult someone's physical appearance- especially when he had almost run her over. I could have mentioned his terrible, sleazy looking shoulder length hair or his gigantic hook nose. But I didn't, because that was not the issue here- the issue was that he was driving like a dick and yelling at ME for it. How did the size of my pants relate to the fact he almost took me out with his stupid little truck? Not to mention I ALWAYS apologize when I am wrong. Like that time a few years ago when I almost sideswiped another car- I totally caught up with them and told them I was very sorry at the next stoplight. Or the time I Facebooked some girl who had upset my sister and told her I was going to pop her stupid breast implants. I immediately followed up with an apology message and told her that while she WAS a plastic skank, I would never pop her expensive implants and was sorry for saying that I would.

Anyway.

So through the entire shopping trip, I was seething. And plotting. How foolish was he to insult a self-admitted batshit crazy woman about her weight? I mean, I keep my crazy in check as much as possible but on this particular day I had just come from my doctor after finding out that my abdomen/pelvis is swollen due to a possible cyst. I'd had blood drawn and then scheduled an ultrasound for next week. So to be driving around a small town in such an easily identifiable vehicle (purple) with a bumper sticker that talked about how beer shouldn't be filtered or whatever the fuck and then call me a "fatty"? Not smart, sir. Not smart.

I won't incriminate myself by putting my intentions into writing. I bought myself a single-serve frozen pina colada so that my fat ass can sit on the porch and sip it later while thinking about how pissed off and bewildered Random Fuckface is gonna be when he runs into a store to get a six pack of Natural Ice and comes out and finds his truck significantly altered. In a negative way.

Because this fat girl believes in doling out life lessons to maybe make this world a less insensitive place one jackass at a time.

Has anyone ever torn down your physical appearance in an attempt to insult or hurt you? Feel free to share your thoughts/stories- I want to interact with ya'll rather than have you just chuckle and shake your head at Batshit Crazy Amanda.