My Son is a F-U-a-Bomber

I picked up my 4-year-old from preschool last week, and his teacher and the school director met me at the door. And that can only mean one thing.

Uh oh. What did he do this time?  Stick Lincoln Logs up his nose? Painted stuff with paste? Tried to stink Lincoln Logs up his nose after he painted them with paste?

"Drew has been saying bad words today."

So I asked for details. One, because that's the good mother thing to do. Two, because that's as close as I'll get to a PG-13 movie in the near future. I don't even bother watching the Oscars, because if it's not an animated picture, I don't have a freaking clue what they're talking about.

Life of Pi? Yummy! I love pie! Do you have any key lime?
Argo? Don't you mean we go? Gah.
Beasts of the Southern Wild? Hey, are y'all talkin' 'bout opossums? Them critters is mean!
Lincoln? Ahhh!  Lincoln Logs!  Finally, one I understand.

She said that Drew was watching a little girl play computer games and shouted, "Sh*t! You lost!"

The teacher thought he said the word that rhymessssssss..hit, but discounted it with "There's no way Amanda's son would say that word" philosophy. Whew! Dodged a bullet there.

And that bought me some time until later when she took the kids to the playground to play tag. Drew shouted, "WHAT THE F**K?! Come back here!"

Awesome. And I didn't think it could get any worse.

This didn't actually happen, by the way (as far as you know).

Everybody knows that there's a scale for cuss words. If Ross said it on Friends, then it's lower-ranking, and certainly not okay, but probably won't get me a call from DFCS. But if it can only be said on HBO after midnight, and it's the mothertrucker of all cuss words, then I'm probably going to have to explain myself. (DFCS, call me.)

When Drew shouted that obscenity on the playground, all twenty pairs of 4-year-old ears heard it, along with several pairs of adult ears who decided that the delinquent kid's mother needed a good talkin' to.

Goodbye good girl rep! It was nice knowin' ya!

You know when a teacher talks to you about your toddler's potty mouth (No? Just me?), and suddenly, you feel the need to defend yourself, to prove that you're not throwing around four-letter words every other breath.

"Sh*t, why did he say that?"

I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Because, seriously, I do not say any bad words in front of my children, especially the impressionable little one who tends to stick paste-covered toys up his nose.  But it was hard to prove that after Drew used both cuss words correctly and in context. Ahem.

I was so embarrassed!

So just like our parents did with movies like Stand By Me and Goonies, I blamed the media for my son's less-than-stellar verbiage.

"Oh, you know what it is? It's those YouTube videos he watches. He loves to watch videos of teenagers playing Super Mario Bros, and occasionally, I'll hear them a bad word, so I'll tell Drew to find another video that is appropriate."

She was really nice not to point out that maybe I should look into better parental controls on YouTube and/or not allow my son to watch homemade videos of kids talking about Mario Bros while trying to look really cool.  Or, you know, 48-year-old gamers living in their mother's basement, whatever.  So then I felt the need to defend why I let him watch those videos, too.

I swear to you, there was more defensive strategy going on than in the NFL. But I kept fumbling the ball or some other really impressive football analogy that I would make if I knew a darn thing about football.

Hey, notice the use of the word "darn"?  See, it's totally not my fault.

Speaking of, on the way home, I forgot to turn into the grocery store, and I said, "Dang it!"  Drew said, "Mama! Dat's a bad word! I'm sworry, but you gonna hava go to time out."

When Drew talks to me in that sweet, little Toddlish language, I usually get lost in his cuteness. But I had to focus and seize the opportunity to talk to him about words that are okay/ not okay to say.

And what I learned was that Drew had a firm grip on almost every cuss word out there, not just the two that he brought to preschool that day for show-and-tell. It's like his superpower.

So there's no more homemade Mario Bros YouTube videos until he's at least 45.  And I'm putting his iPod Touch on the mantle, out of reach... right beside my Mother of the Year Award.





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Ellen's Dance Dare at Disney World

Dang, the guys in the club are so much furrier than I remember... 

I'm just kidding, y'all.  That's no club.  It's Disney World!  And that photo is a preview of my Ellen's Dance Dare.  

Have you ever seen the Ellen's Dance Dare videos?  If not, please go to her YouTube channel immediately.  Don't worry, we'll wait on you. 

Oh my gosh, aren't they hilarious?  

And since I've been known to bust a move in public a time or two (or fifty, whatevs), when I watched these videos, I felt like I was home.

But unfortunately for my family, when we were on our way to Disney World was when I thought, 'Hey, I want to make an #ellensdancedare video, too!'  

(You see where I'm going with this, don't you?)

So while we were at Disney World, I dance dared every single character that we met.  All of them.  When Winnie the Pooh saw me grinding behind Tigger, I think he poohed his pants a little.

Hey, when you go to Disney World, are your kids embarrassed about your sun-visor or your fanny pack?  My kids DREAM of a day when that's all they have to be embarrassed about.  Bless their hearts.   

\\

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Bailey's Monsterrific Interview

Have you ever been to the Monsters, Inc. comedy show at Walt Disney World?  It's hi-lar-ee-ass.

Even though the monsters are just cartoons on a big screen, and I know they're not real, somehow Disney makes them interact live with the audience.

Most people think that's really cool, but as for me?  It made me check underneath my bed and inside my closet just a little more carefully that night.  Ahem.

There's a couple hundred people in the theater watching the show.  They flash several different audience members up on the screen as part of the skit.  They try to choose the grouchiest, grumpiest Paw Paws to put up there, because the more miserable the person looks, the funnier it is to the rest of us.

Then one lucky kid is interviewed by the monster.

If I had watched the movie, I could probably tell you which one, and maybe you'd be impressed.  Or, maybe he'd be like like Jon from NKOTB and getting interviewed by an accountant would be more exciting.  I don't know, because unfortunately, if it doesn't have to do with shoes or doughnuts, I'm pretty clueless.

Anywhooooo, Bailey got picked.  Yay!  I'm not sure why, I mean, she was acting completely shy and introverted all week long.

Now, before you watch the video, I'd just like to put one fear to rest.  After the last Presidential debate, everybody was up in arms about the fate of Big Bird and the rest of the Sesame Street gang.

But let me ease those worries, y'all.  No matter what happens with PBS, I'll give you a little bit of Ernie, donation and government subsidy free.

However, if you'd like to make a donation or give me a government subsidy, it's spelled w-e-r-d-y-a-b.  Thank you for your support.

I never knew that I laughed like Ernie until I watched this video.  And now, I can never un-hear it.  It makes me want to LOL without the OL part, if you know what I mean.

So if you need to get in touch me with me later, I'll be organizing my stripped shirt collection, playing checkers with my good ol' buddy Bert, and then taking a bubble bath with my rubber ducky.

Without further ado, please check out Bailey's 58 seconds of Disney fame...





Added Note:  Hold up!  I just realized.... is that Bert's laugh instead of Ernie's?  Crap, I just saved the wrong character.  I need a do-over with pigeons and bottle caps.  Stat!



Do you spend a lot of time on Facebook?  Me, too!  We should hangout!  Like Werdyab Blog and I'll like all your hilarious e-cards.  Seriously, you'll be doing me a favor.  I freaking love those e-cards.   

Do These Glasses Make Me Look Smarter?

Recently, I've been having some trouble with my vision.  As in, I can't see jack-crap.

The scoreboard at Bailey's game?  Can't see it.  Drew's Lego that I just stepped on?  Can't see it.  The interstate exit sign?  Can't see it.

I can't even see this computer screen.

Asieorh a ugvfhaisp;e lkan gt8eoa fvek

See?  It's that bad.

And no, my vision problems aren't the kind that come from drinking too many vodka/tonics in the club.  1) Because I'm WAY too old to be hanging out in the club.  2) I prefer vodka/cranberry.

My vision problems are the kind that come from getting... oh, must I say it?... older.  *gasp!*

I wanted to make an appointment for a vision exam, but those things don't come cheap!  And my new fall boots aren't going to buy themselves, you know.

Then I remembered that I got glasses when I started college.  Hey, maybe those could work now?

So I spent some quality nap time on Saturday digging through the attic instead.

And... YES!  I found them!

So, uh, whaddaya think?  Do they suit me?

I mean, I see the glasses in this photo, but where's my face?  I guess it's hidden behind those EXTRA LARGE LENSES.

Snorkeling, anyone?

Somebody PLEASE tell me these glasses were fashionable in 1993.  Somebody?  Anybody?

So I did some research.  Surely I can find one example of these glasses being pure awesomeness back in the day.

Urkel had glasses then, along with a rather high waistline.  Bless his heart.  Okay, maybe not the best example to make me feel better about my college fashion choices.

What about Stephanie Tanner from Full House?  She got glasses... but, uh, then the entire class made fun of her for looking so dorky.  How rude!

And, of course, let's not forget about 90210 school journalist extraordinaire, Andrea Zuckerman.  Hey, if it was good enough for Brandon Walsh, then it was good enough for the frat boys at my college, right?

But, then again, Brandon only liked Andrea as a friend.  Ohhhhh... all those lonely Saturday nights are starting to make sense now.

But, wait.  What about Sally Jesse Raphael?

Okay, okay, fine.  Her glasses were ridiculous in any decade.  Whatever.

I can't even remember why I wanted glasses in the first place because my vision was fine then.

I think it was because I wanted to look like an intellectual when I started college.  And I knew that it was only a matter of time before I busted out the Running Man or the Sprinkler and everybody saw the real me.

My glasses were sort of like wearing a costume.  For a short while, I was cleverly disguised as a responsible, mature student.

I also think it was from all those years of watching Grease:
"Hey, you got glasses!"
"Yeah, don't you think they make me look smarter?"

But remember Rizzo's response?  "Nah, you can still see your face."

(I think that's what happened to me, too.)

Besides, I make a better Dance Walker than an intellectual anyway.

After my I'mma Ho post, I felt like it was my duty to collect weird names.  So if you're in the mood for some LOL fun, stop by my Facebook page and read all the comments about the cray-cray names that people named their kids!  Hilarious!

Please "like" the one you think is the best!  There's no actual prize for winning; it's just about the gloat of victory.

Oh, and if you haven't had a chance to "like" Werdyab Blog on Facebook yet, you can do that while you're there, too.  You know, if you want to.  Ahem.

Drew caused a stink at Bailey's tryout

The middle school softball tryouts were last week. Sixth, seventh and eighth graders were invited to show up and show off their skills.

I never tried out for a competitive sport when I was a kid. And that was pretty obvious when I kept referring to Bailey's tryout as an audition.  Listen, if it doesn't require stage make-up or jazz hands, then I just don't get it.

Bailey has been playing softball since she was in Kindergarten. Translation: If I had a nickel for every hour that I've spent at the ballpark, I wouldn't have a "Louis Vuitton" that I bought in New York at the corner of Imposter and You're-a-Poser. It would be a real Louis Vuitton without the quotation marks.

Bailey asked me if she should try out for the middle school softball team. Well, of course she should try out! And that's exactly what I told her. Why? Because it's the good parent thing to do.

Nevermind that on the inside, I was rocking back-and-forth in the fetal position and crying, "Please let her make it, please let her make it, please let her make it..."

See, Bailey's never actually tried out for anything. We've just signed her up for various teams, clubs, and organizations. Big difference.

So I wanted to prepare her for the worst.

I reminded her she was the youngest girl trying out for the team, and if she made it, she would be playing with girls almost 3-years older.  But this tryout would be a great opportunity to meet the coaches and discover what skills needed improvement.  Then I followed it up with some overused cliche like, if at first you don't succeed, try, try again.

How's that for a pep talk?

So if you need a motivational speaker for your next convention, expo, or business luncheon, just email me. I'm pretty available.

We pulled into the parking lot, and suddenly, the butterflies in my stomach turned into fire-breathing dragons. I was sweating like I ate an entire jar of jalapeno peppers on a dare. My heart was pounding like the cast of True Blood just invited me to join them in the hot tub.

I looked over at Bailey, but she was doing fine. (It's nice to see that somebody can keep her cool under pressure. Signed, Somebody's Mama.)

All the girls lined up for drills. And bless her heart! Bailey looked so little out there!

And that's exactly how I saw it, too, with all those imaginary height markers and everything.

I was so nervous. I thought I might puke on my shoes, which was bad because 1) Bailey would have been sooooo embarrassed and 2) I was wearing really cute shoes.

They started the tryout, and Bailey was doing great! I was so proud of her for trying her best.  Everything was going to be okay. Because make it or not, Bailey will be proud of her effort. Good job, baby!

That's when Drew said, "I gotta go potty, Mama."

No problem! See, here's the awesome thing about boys: they can pee anywhere. In fact, boys love to pee outside, so this was Drew's lucky day.

We walked over to the side of the field, to the most out-of-plain-view-but-still-grassy-spot I could find.  I said, "Okay, go ahead and pee."

Drew said, "But I have to poop, Mama."

Uhmm, come again?  You have to what? Wait, uh, here? Right beside the softball field during your sister's first ever tryout?

But what was I supposed to do?  He's only three, so when he's gotta go, he's gotta go.

So I held Drew in a squatting position and let him drop a nugget right there at Bailey's softball tryout.  Then I wiped his butt with his Cars underwear and threw them in the trashcan.

Bailey looked over at us. I saw her facial expression change from "Hey, what are Mom and Drew doing over there?" to "Huh?" to "No.Freakin.Way!" to "OMG, I'll never be able to show my face here again!"

It was a moment.

This is a dramatic reenactment. 

Sorry, but I couldn't bring myself to take an actual pic of Drew's poop because that's just gross, y'all.  I don't care how little he is, dude poop is still dude poop. And the last thing I wanted to do was bring more attention to this event by shouting, "Whoa!  WHAT DID YOU EAT? This one's goin' in the scrapbook!" I thought Bailey had already been through enough.

I did snap this photo, though. I call it, "Drew After Poo: Free Ballin' at Tryouts."

I didn't think anybody noticed until I saw this sign the next day. I'm not sure if I should take it personally, BUTT it seems to be directed at Drew, don't you think?

But guess what? Bailey made the team! Yay! Congratulations, Bailey!

When we were leaving, I looked in the backseat and saw Bailey bawling her little eyes out.

"Why are you crying, baby?"
"Because now I'm on a new team with older girls that I don't know.  I won't be playing with my friends anymore."
"I'm so sorry, honey.  I know it's hard.  But we'll make plans to do things with your friends."
"I'm going to miss them so much!  I only tried out because you said I wouldn't make it!"

Oh.

See, I'm a better motivational speaker than you thought.

(Call me.)

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Dear Diary, I'm sorry I'm so immature, insecure and needy.

I found my 8th grade diary while I was looking through some forgotten storage boxes last week.

But I couldn't find the key!   IT WAS A DIRE(Y) EMERGENCY.  (See what I did there?)

I was frantically searching through boxes when Brian said,
"What are you looking for?  Your diary key?"
"Yes!  I'm dying to know what's in there."
"Oh, just hand it to me."

A quick snip with wire cutters, and Brian had unlocked all my middle school secrets.

I guess I should have focused more on security and less on colored ink and swirly penmanship.

Please allow me to set the stage for you.  The protagonist in our story is a young teen named Amanda.

She has a spiral perm, teased bangs and buys Aussie Scrunch Spray by the case.  She wears two Swatch Watches, canvas Keds, and carries a Liz Claiborne purse.  She begs her Mom to buy her a tote that says Esprit on it just because it says Esprit on it.   

All she does is eat.  Whoppers.  Whole pizzas.  Dairy Queen.  But she only weighs 70 pounds.

Gah, I hate her.

She's embarrassed because she's too skinny.  She's embarrassed because her lips are too big.  She's embarrassed because she said something stupid like "hi" to the cute boy in the hallway.  She's embarrassed because she's always so embarrassed. 

She's painfully aware of how awkward she is and has trouble fitting in.

She worries about everything:  What she'll wear to Amy's birthday party.  What song will be used for the next cheerleading dance.  Is Family Ties really going to be cancelled?

She hands out the word "love" like Lindsay Lohen hands out crack rocks at a party. 

She doesn't have a freaking clue about life or responsibility or what is yet to come.  Bless her heart.

The antagonist in our story is, well, the rest of the world.  Why?  Because she's in middle school.

Her family.  Her friends.  Her acquaintances.  Her teachers.  Molly Ringwald.  Emilio Estevez.  That girl in the Reebok commercial.  They are all quiet reminders of her insecurities and low self-esteem.

Here are a few pages.

...................................
WARNING LABEL.

The grammatical errors in this book haunt me like the Ghost of Idiot's Past.

What belongs to the word belong's?  The world may never know.  And I can't figure out why I was so interested in this "dairy".  Is there a field trip?  Are we going to a farm?  Are we going to milk cows?  

No thanks.  I'd rather stay at home and make friendship bracelets. 

.....................................................
SPEAKING OF FRIENDSHIP...

Awwww!  Remember when your biggest problem was deciding between a full extension and a basket toss for the halftime routine?  Man, those were the days!  Days when I didn't have to worry about insignificant things like the world's economy, my family's happiness or the results of my next mammogram.

I'm surprised that my friend and I made up so quickly, though.  I take my cheerleading pyramids very seriously.

........................................................
LOVE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT.

Oh, honey.  We all feel that way when we're 13-years-old.  But it gets better, I promise.  One day, you'll grow into those skinny legs and big lips.  And the minute you do, you'll learn that it doesn't matter anyway.  There's more to life than dating the football quarterback.

Soon, you'll realize that you're an honest, intelligent, young woman with an entrepreneurial spirit and a kind heart, and you've got a place in this world.  You're going to meet somebody wonderful.  You're going to have children.  You're going to have a great career.  Life will be amazing.

And, hey, maybe you'll even start a blog one day.  Hopefully you'll learn how to spell the word "maybe" first.

.............................
POP CULTURE.

Great.  Now I'll be singing that stupid Debbie Gibson song for the rest of the day.

Oh, sorry.  That DEBORAH Gibson song.  I guess she grew up, too.

............................
DATING.

Oh, sweetie, don't let having a boyfriend determine your self-worth.  This will be the first of many broken hearts, but all of them will serve a purpose.

They will teach you about the type of man you are looking for.   They will teach you about the type of man you are not looking for.  And ultimately, they will lead you to the true happiness that you find when you're REALLY OLD AND CRUSTY, like, you know, 29.

See how I wrote "this will last a long time" in my diary?  Well, let me end the suspense for you now: It lasted until the next journal entry.  Then that relationship lasted until the next journal entry.  And then that... well, I think you get the point.

.........................................................
BREAKING UP IS HARD TO DO.

Don't worry, y'all.  By the next journal entry, I was leaving that necklace on his doorstep and saying something like, "Oh yeah?  Well, I want my Whitesnake cassette back, too."

................................................................
PARENTING A MIDDLE SCHOOLER.

Remember when "dating" was sitting on the opposite side of the movie theater from your parents?

At that age, we're just emotional hot messes who want to be adults but aren't ready.  And as a result, tears are shed, doors are slammed, and you have to apologize to your mother for it when your 25.

I'm strongly considering having this page bronzed to preserve it for my daughter.  SEE, Granna said that I was acting inappropriately and she was right.  Because mothers are always right.  REMEMBER THAT.

............................

Hey, are you still singing that Debbie Gibson song?  Yeah, sorry.

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Werdyab Storage Wars

Do you ever watch the show Storage Wars?  It's pure awesomeness, right?

People bid on abandoned storage units to resale the contents for profit.  You have to buy a unit without knowing what's inside it.  Some win big.  Some lose big.  But either way, it's fun to watch two grown men get in each other's faces over an antique tea cup.

As luck would have it, this show made me remember some stuff that I had in storage!  SO IT WAS WERDYAB STORAGE WARS TIME.

I went though all the boxes over the weekend, and lawdy! at the stuff!  There were some sentimental items, tons of junk, and unfortunately, not one single thing of monetary value.

Let's just say that if my unit was on Storage Wars, the highest bidder would've drank themselves into a comma immediately following the show.

.....................................

I found all my old cheerleading uniforms.  Looking at them made me want to do a herkie, you know, if I could still get my old ass off the ground.  


Literally HALF of me fit in that skirt.

Does this mean that I'm twice the girl I used to be?  Deep Thoughts.  By: Werdyab.

P.S. Did you notice that it's my middle finger pointing at the skirt?  I don't think that's just coincidence.

There were four boxes of 90s clothes and almost all of them were denim.  Denim shirts.  Denim jackets.  Denim skirts.  Denim headbands.   

If somebody wrapped a turd in denim fabric in 1996, I probably would have worn it as a belt buckle. 

And speaking of 90s clothes, what do you think about these MC Hammer pants?  PLEASE tell me this was fashionable at some point in my life.  Somebody?  Anybody?

Of all the horrid Saved By The Bell clothes that I found, I saw one thing that I like: high waist jeans (AKA "Mom jeans").

I don't know what moron invented low rise jeans, but they should be shot at dawn.  If you're over the age of 21 and/or eat solid food, they look terrible.  I could open a bakery with all the muffin tops that I serve above my waistline every weekend.

But 90s jeans are like pants with built-in Spanx! It doesn't get any better than that.

Before Al Gore invented the internet, everybody's Grandma gave them one of these books when they started college.  That way, you'd know the difference between alcohol poisoning and a stomach bug.

And speaking of the pre-internet era, remember when you had to put an ad in the newspaper to sell something?  Remember when people actually read the newspaper?

"No way I'm spending all my shoe money on expensive color copies!  Oh, I know!  I'll just write this paragraph a zillion times with magic markers."  - Amanda in 1994.

Do you remember writing notes to your friends?  That's right.  I'm talkin' 'bout old school, notebook paper, TTYL, LYLAS, folded in the shape of an origami swan, passed in class notes.

Here's a note from 1994.  Sorry for blurring it out, but I can't risk an 18-year friendship over telling you what we were *thinking* about wearing to the sorority social.  That's classified information, y'all.

She wrote her sentences in the shape of a square, so I had to turn the page 4,200 times.  I almost had to take a Dramamine to finish it.

I kept every single textbook, workbook and paper that I ever wrote in college.  So email me if you want some light reading material on Advanced Calculus or Assimilation of the Jewish Culture and I'll hook you up!  You're welcome.

I also found tons of ex-boyfriend stuff: photos, cards, letters, movie tickets, etc.  Why do we save that crap?  It was hilarious reading some of the romantic exchanges from my teenage years.  And based on this research, I think that 35 is a good age for my daughter to start dating.

Just look at all those Tiffany boxes!  Ahhhh yeah!  Jackpot?

Nope.  They were all empty.

(This is the part on Storage Wars where you die laughing at the idiot who bid big money for empty boxes.)

Apparently, there was a time in my life when I thought that spending money on a creepy Marie Osmond doll was actually a good idea.

But now?  That would only happen if it came with a year's supply of Nutrisystem and a free video download of Marie Osmond falling on Dancing with the Stars.

I found my Christmas cards from 1995 that were still waiting to be addressed.  See, I told you that I'm a procrastinator.  Do you think it's too late to send them out?  Christmas in July... 17 years later?

I even found a few of Bailey's baby things like this "Girls Hunt Too" t-shirt.  Someone gave it to me as a gag gift because I detest all things outdoors, hunting and camouflage.

But guess what?  That gift giver just so happens to have a 4-month old daughter now.  Are you thinking what I'm thinking?  BOOM.  Re-gift.

I also found Bailey's baby book (completely blank) and her memory box (completely empty).  So if you need to get in touch with me later, I'll be accepting my Mother of the Year Award.

And don't worry.  I didn't do jack-crap to preserve Drew's memories, either.  I believe in equality.

And last, but certainly not least, I found my 8th grade diary.  O to the M to the G.  It made me embarrassed to be me.

This diary definitely deserves its own blog post, so tune in next time to read excerpts from my middle school emotional rollercoaster.  Six Flags is thinking about it adding it to their theme park.

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Who's Drunker?

If you saw this post, then you know that I've been having some stomach problems lately.

My gastroenterologist decided that an endoscope was the next step.  

"We'll run a large tube and a camera into your stomach and look around.  And then we'll do a stomach biopsy, too.  But don't worry.  You'll have anesthesia."

Sounds pretty gross, huh?  But I wasn't upset at all.

You hear 'tube running down my throat' and 'anesthesia', but I hear 'day off of work' and 'nap'.  See?  It's all about perspective.

And I don't get nervous about medical procedures anymore.  I used to, but then I had children.  If you get poked on enough, eventually you stop crying about it.  I'm sure that's exactly how Heidi Fleiss felt at some point in her life, too.

But when I was a kid?  I was a total hot mess around needles!  If I didn't puke or pass out or both, people started gathering their loved ones because they knew the end of world was upon us.

Case in point.  When I was 10-years-old, I asked my Mom if I could get my ears pierced.  My younger sister decided that she wanted earrings as well, so I let her go first.  You know, just being polite and all.  But when she started screaming, I chickened out.  And my Mom wasn't going to let me get away with that.

So what would any mature and non-dramatic 10-year-old do in this situation?  Pfft.  I don't have a clue!  But I can tell you what I did, which was hide underneath the coffee table in Merle Norman.  

I guess it goes without saying that I was an immature and dramatic kid.

But now, I'm totally fine around needles.  And I hardly ever hide underneath coffee tables anymore.

They rolled me into the procedure room, which looked and smelled surprisingly like an operating room.  The nurse said, "How old are you?  You look too young to have all those... uh, blonde hairs."

"I'm 37 and thank you for calling them blonde hairs. *smile*  Both my parents were white headed by 40, so I was fighting a genetic uphill battle.  But it's something that I can easily fix with a monthly trip to the salon.  There is no way that I would want to be white headed in my forties!"

In a scientific study completely made up for the purposes of this blog, my anesthesiologist was 46-years-old and his hair was 92% gray.  Ahem.

So he said, "Hey! What's so bad about being gray headed?"

Great.  Now I've offended the man who holds my life in his hands for the next half-hour.  Think of a compliment. Quick!

So I said, "When a man's hair turns white, he looks Richard Gere-ish.  When a woman's hair turns white, she looks Barbara Bush-ish.  See the difference?"

I thought that line belonged on an e-card, so I made one.

YESSSS!  I indirectly told my anesthesiologist that he looks like Richard Gere.  I'm a shoe-in to survive this procedure!

So, look - I'm not saying that he held a grudge or anything, but here is how the next 5 minutes went down.

"Okay, Amanda.  Start counting backwards from 10 and you'll fall asleep."
"10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.  1.  Uhmm, I'm still wide awake over here, doc."

Not only do I have insomnia in real life, but apparently I have insomnia under anesthesia, too.  Awesome.  I guess counting sheep won't do crap for me here either.

"That's alright.  I'll give you a little bit more medicine and you'll be asleep soon."

But before I could say "thanks", the nurse stuck a huge plastic guard in my mouth to hold it wide open.  You know, so they could stick a tube down my throat.

I hate to sound picky here, but isn't that something that could have waited until AFTER I WAS ASLEEP?

The last conscious thought that I had was, 'I'm going to wake up in the middle of this procedure.'

Actually, in my head, it sounded more like this:  'OMG! SOMEBODY HELLLLLP MEEEEE!  I'M GOING TO DIE!  I TAKE IT BACK, YOU UGLY MO-FO.  YOU DON'T LOOK ANYTHING LIKE RICHARD GERE!'

Seriously, y'all.  It was just like being in that Merle Norman all over again.

And I had a plan for when I woke up.  But Dick Gere ruined it for me.

Brian was going to make a video of me.  Everybody knows that acting afool after anesthesia is the fastest path to YouTube stardom and Tosh.0 web redemptions.

But since I had all that anxiety when I went under, that's exactly how I woke up.

I was crying, kicking and yelling for help.  Poor Brian.

Once I was actually awake enough to realize that it was over, I tried to play it off like nothing happened.  'Huh?  Did I say something?  Oh, I did?  Really?  Cause I don't remember a thing.'

For the sake of internet stardom, Brian should have filmed me freaking out.  But for the sake of marriage, he should have wiped my tears instead.  And he's a smart man.

So I'm sorry to report that there's no video of me crying or trying to jump from a moving car or slurring my words or anything.   Sorry, Tosh.  Raincheck?

Brian and I were starving when we left the outpatient center about 3 o'clock.  But I felt drunk.  Where could I go like this?

Well, that's easy!  The Waffle House!

I stumbled in and plopped myself into a booth.  The waitress looked me up and down and said, "What's wrong with you?  You sick 'er sumpin'?

I sooooo wish that I had the presence of mind to make up a communicable disease story, but I wasn't thinking too quickly on my feet.  I wasn't doing anything on my feet actually.

Right after this, I started drunk dialing people.  

I told her that I had anesthesia and was probably more drunk than her 3 AM customers.

"Darlin", she said.  "Then you ain't never been to a Waffle House at 3 AM.  Them peoples is D-RUNK.  In fact, ole Charlie over there's three sheets to the wind right now."

That's when Charlie explained that he'd had a few drinks and was probably drunker than me after anesthesia.

Huh?  Do I smell a drunk challenge?  Oh, IT'S ON.

So Charlie and I competed in a Who's Drunker? contest right there in the middle of the Waffle House.  Pasty Cline provided the jukebox soundtrack, and our waitress, Holly, kept score.  In a couple of minutes, I had more points than she had teeth.

The challenges included things like standing on one foot, walking in a straight line, counting backwards from 20, and recalling all the different ways you can order hash browns at Waffle House (scattered, smothered, covered, chucked, diced, peppered, capped, and topped.)

And I'll be damned.  Charlie WAS drunker than me.

Hey, ABC.  If you're reading this, I think "Who's Drunker?" would make a great reality television show.  And I know exactly where you can find Charlie - either sitting at the Waffle House or at the bar down the street.

Take my word for it:  When it comes to being d-runk, that Charlie's a STAR.

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I Have a Twin! (so please sign my petition)

Remember my cousin Chris and his wife Lydia?  The couple who performed a first dance at their wedding like NOBODY'S BUSINESS?   Well, the celebration continued on Saturday with a reception for those who couldn't attend their wedding in Mexico.


My sister texted me two pics after the reception.  She thought that I should post them on my blog for you to see "the real me".


You know how I portray myself as someone who's animated, ridiculous and will do anything for a cheap laugh?

Well, that's exactly how I am in real life, too.

Case in point.  My sister snapped this pic while I was talking with my cousin, Deanna.  So sweet.  And totally normal, right?

But then 15 seconds later, I did this.  

Please note that Deanna's facial expression didn't change because this sort of thing is considered normal when you're talking to me.

Okay, okay - sure.  If I'd known that my sister was taking photos, OF COURSE I would have acted differently.  I would've made a funny face or thrown a leg up in the air or something.

In related news, I met a fabulous lady at the reception!

For confidentiality purposes, we will call her "Jenny" because her name is Jenny.  

Listen, y'all - if you're worried about confidentiality, don't hang out with a blogger.  We don't give a crap about confidentiality. THAT'S WHY WE'RE BLOGGERS.

Jenny is 6'4" and GORGEOUS.  She was wearing heels, so she was about 6'7" and looking all supermodelish.  I scanned the room looking for "her people".  Because every supermodel needs people to do things like 1) pick up her dry cleaning 2) fluff her pillow 3) stick their fingers down her throat if she tries to eat solid food.  

But me?  I'm 5'1" on a good day.  And in this example, "a good day" refers to Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday or Sunday.

I was wearing heels, too, which meant that I was only about 5'4".  And NOBODY confused me for a supermodel or subsequently scanned the room looking for "my people".

Jenny and I looked just like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito in the movie Twins.  She was the tall, beautiful, diplomatic one.  And I was the short, dumpy, funny one.   But I guess that goes without saying.

And get this - she reads my blog!  Small world, huh?  She said that she wanted to put me in her pocket.  One more margarita, and I probably would've let her try.

Do you know what I immediately thought when she said that?  BLOG VIDEO.

OMG, y'all.  What's wrong with me where I make a new friend and all I can think about is putting her on my blog?

So here's my vision:  6'4" Jenny and 5'1" me will dress up in identical outfits and try to convince total strangers that we're actually twins.

Wouldn't that be hilarious?  And, yes, that's a rhetorical.  OF COURSE IT WOULD BE HILARIOUS.

But Jenny needs some convincing.

And, unfortunately, I don't have any "people" as is evident from the big pile of laundry in my hallway and the leftover pizza that I ate for lunch.  But I do have you guys.  (Yay!)  Will you be my people?  I won't even ask you to stick your finger down my throat or anything.

Please persuade Jenny to be in this video.

How?

By taking a moment to add your name (or alias or symbol or whatever - there's no rules here) to this petition. Once I've collected 50 names, Jenny will agree to be in the video!  Most likely.

Our humiliation is just one click away.  You know what to do.

(click this box to add your name to the list!)

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