I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
My friend Nate, the recovering canned fruit addict, is one of those tall, quiet types to watch out for.
When we went to see R. Crumb awhile back, we talked about our impressions of each other. I had mine of him, some of which he shot down. But his impressions of me were dead-on.
I’ve really enjoyed getting to know Nate. Next stop: psychoanalysis.
Two days ago, I found out that someone I grew up with died.
This boy was a classmate of mine for years, the son of my theater arts teacher. He always got first place at the science fair, and I got second.
He was the only boy who asked me to dance at the first dance in sixth grade. This was when he briefly liked me, before he began a passionate romance with a girl named Sabrina who was taller than him. I went to the other dances the rest of the year, never got asked to dance, and then stopped attending.
I’ve been surprised by how much the characters and situations I’m writing about in fiction class are based on my experiences in Texas.
I write about people, places, and feelings from NYC, too. So past and present mix to yield interesting results.
Playwright Neil LaBute puts it beautifully in the preface to his play Reasons to Be Pretty:
One of my New Year’s resolutions for the last few years has been to participate in National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo).
However, one of my other resolutions was to do yoga at least once a week. That certainly hasn’t happened.
The demanding workload of my fiction class is reason enough not to commit to a blog post a day, but I’m covering November 1 just in case.
So…
Annie has made her faildogs.com debut!
I was recently reminded of those household tips in “Hints from Heloise.” As ridiculous as it seems coming from a woman who can barely fry an egg, I once subscribed to Good Housekeeping. I was 10, I think.
Magazines were how I dreamed about my future as a grown-up with my own house and my own money and my own womanly figure to clothe in smart, mix-and-match separates that flattered my figure.
My mom occasionally bought magazines, which I hoarded in my sister’s room. To this day, I can visualize a Redbook cover from November 1995 and tell you exactly what’s in it. (An interview with Roseanne Barr, for one).
I’ve been remiss in blogging this week.
The good news is that it’s not because I feel depressed and spend my hours thinking I’ll die alone without even a few cats to love me. I’ve just been busy with work and fun activities after work.
Also, I’m still not sleeping well. My attention span is embarrassingly limited. My mind wanders as I read updates on Twitter.
My sister works at a nursing home, where she’s paid to feed, diaper, and bathe adults who are often confused and alone. Uplifting stuff, this is not. It’s like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I guess all nursing homes are.
Megan: I helped a priest on the toilet today. It kinda made me feel funny.
When I was a kid, my dad decided to get a private pilot’s license. It was something he’d always wanted to do. My mom was off the nights he had his class.
Sometimes we’d all pile in the car and my mom, sister, and I would spend those few hours visiting my grandmother in a nearby town while I imagined my dad sat at a squeaky desk in a room that smelled like sawdust.
I was told not to mention to anyone outside our home that my dad was learning how to fly an airplane.
1. Choose the milk (or really, any beverage) from the back of the refrigerated section.
2. Hold the door for someone else.
3. When you get home from work, change into your “play clothes.”
