Popcorn and Cupcakes

Perseverance

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 00:46:00 +0000

In my iPod: Fields of Gold - Eva Cassidy version

It's a tough thing - being a sports fan. This weekend was a disappointing one for my teams. My poor Purdue Boilermakers, whom I curse again and again (I'm a verbally abusive fan), lost to Northern Illinois after losing LAST week to Oregon (getting off to a fantastic 1-2 start before even getting to Notre Dame and the Big Ten conference (no, I'm not bitter)). The Detroit Lions predictably choked again. (I technically traded them in to root for my husband's "team" - the Pittsburgh Steelers (excellent trade - in exchange, he roots for Red Wings over Penguins, which actually turned out to matter the last two years - more on that later . . .)), but you find you still start to care, even when you say you won't ... And, of course, my new team, the Steelers, missed TWO field goal attempts to earn the old "L" against the Bears. In short, it was a sucktastic sports weekend. Just plain awful. And the pain of watching three losses this weekend brings to mind the worst sports-related pain I've felt in a long time: The Detroit Red Wings losing the Stanley Cup in Game 7 at home against the Pittsburgh Penguins this summer. As much as I try to tell myself that the team performed quite well (in fact, as good as possible in the post season without actually winning the Cup), the fact remains that they lost - and after being oh so close ... I can't even watch the NBC sports trailers without wincing when I see Sid the Kid hoisting the Cup (it should have been Nicky Lidstrom (yeah, I'm not bitter)).

It's weekends like these that bring out a little bit of the pessimistic side in me (and make no mistake about it, there is one). I think about where I am in life and where I'm headed. I acknowledge that everything is relative and, all things are considered, I've been fortunate in life. I have a great husband and a beautiful daughter. Wonderful parents who allowed my daughter and me to bunk with them for two months while my husband was away. I'm not rich, but I can pay the bills (and even afford the occasional splurge). I'm in decent health. But I've never felt lucky. Instead of getting to stay in our beloved D.C., we're stuck in Del Rio, Texas, a place so desolate that it can't even keep one bookstore in business. We have no Starbucks, no Target. We don't even have a CVS ... Instead of getting that break and landing that overnight book deal, I wait. And wait ... And wait ...Still waiting ...

But then again, maybe being a sports fan is a good thing. Because no matter what happens, no matter how badly your team loses or how devastatingly close they were to winning, there's always hope. There's always another a chance. Because there's always next year.

So thank you, sports teams. Thank you for giving me next year. For encouraging me to persevere ...

Hello Again

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 19:35:00 +0000

In my iPod: "Hallelujah," by Jeff Buckley

It's been awhile since I've blogged. In fact, it's been so long that www.popcornandcupcakes.blogspot.com didn't even show up in my history. I had to retype the whole thing. Excuses? I have many, actually. The number one excuse is that I had a baby shortly after my last post. Two days after my last post, to be precise. And let's be frank: I had no idea what I was getting into, how long it would take before I could catch my breath and be "normal" again (albeit a new version of normal).

I have some ideas for blog entries, and I'm working on them in my head (mostly while in the shower - that's where all of the good thoughts and ideas appear). But I'm not there yet. Writing, like most things in life, takes practice. And I am rusty. Very rusty.

But everyone loves a comeback, right?

Up With People (Or Not)

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 23:10:00 +0000

In my iPod right now: "Falling Slowly" - performed by American Idol contestant Kris Allen (I know - sucker! (but seriously, it's awesome))

I'm sad to say that my knowledge of celebrity gossip is slipping considerably. I mean, sure, while I'm in the checkout line, I'm as fixated on the tabloids as anyone, but I no longer subscribe to US Weekly, and I'm not as good about checking all of those fantastic celebrity buzz blogs as I used to be. I gave myself a pass for awhile based on my brief stint as a paparazzo last summer (a story for another day -I helped contribute to the machine in a pretty insignificant way), but it's getting a little ridiculous. It took me way too long, for example, to learn that Lindsay Lohan and her girlfriend Sam were broken up. Unacceptable. Really. I'm embarrassed.

Well, I recently had a chance to get reacquainted with the old reliable celebrity source People Magazine. Or so I thought. I had a series of dentist appointments to tackle my unfortunate abscess tooth condition, and I was confident that the waiting room would offer a plethora of reading options, including the aforementioned People Magazine and perhaps a few issues of Highlights for Children. I mean, that's the only good thing about the dentist, right? The waiting room reading material. (Actually, that's not entirely true. I like the lead apron too, but that's only because I'm kind of a freak.)

When I am wrong, I am so wrong. This dentist office (while standard Del Rio super friendly) offered only "DTV" (which stands not for "Dance T.V." from the highly underrated "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" starring a young Sarah Jessica Parker, but rather, "Dental T.V.) and various dental industry magazines. Really? I kind of thought that the best way to help patients relax in "the chair" is to help them forget they're at the dentist. A feature on gingivitis isn't going to make that happen.

I think I might mention this when I return for my cleaning in June. As I recall, my usually literary snob mom (and I mean that with the utmost admiration) experienced something similar many years ago. Unlike this case, however, the dentist had once offered all of the waiting room greats (People, Sports Illustrated, you name it) but one day decided to cancel them all and replace them with random promotional magazines that had obviously been sent to the office for free. My mom was furious that her People was not there waiting for her, and the poor receptionist got an earful. I'm pretty sure they ended up just sucking it up and forking over the negligible $400/year or whatever they previously spent and renewing their subscriptions.

Trust me. It's worth it.

The Good Things

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 00:21:00 +0000

Playing in my iPod right now: "Not As We" - Alanis Morissette

I sometimes feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time complaining about my new town of Del Rio, Texas. A lot of things in this town are funny - because you have to look at them that way to survive. For instance, last month, my friend Becky and I passed the marquee in front of what can only be loosely referred to as the "mall," to be greeted with the message "Valentines Feb 14 Renew UR Vows 2 PM By Ross." Understandably, we doubled over in laughter, and I even insisted on getting a bit closer (from the parking lot) so I could snap a picture. I mean, really - what could be more romantic than pledging yourself all over again to the person you love in front of a discount store? Heck, it could be like the end of that movie "Where the Heart Is,"where Natalie Portman ties the knot in Walmart (also possible in Del Rio).

But there are some legitimately good things about being in a town this small and non-lively. Let's start with the Social Security Administration office. For those of you who know me, you may know that it took me over two years to legally change my last name to my husband's. I put it off for many reasons, the first being that we lived separately for some time, and I had a house and all of my utility bills in my name. A second reason was that I had an established career (other than writing), and I was afraid people wouldn't be able to find the new me. Becoming pregnant was the impetus for my decision to finally make this name change happen (it just seemed to make sense). The funny thing about this approach is that, now when I tell people I recently changed my last name, and they can see the obvious growth under my shirt, I fear their impression is that I had a shotgun wedding (not that there's anything wrong with that . . .). I digress.

Anyway, having heard horror stories about the nuisance of changing a last name, upon the advice of Becky, I sucked it up and took all of my documents into the Social Security Administration office into my new town. So after all of that dread, how long did it take me to officially change my name? Less than ten minutes, folks. Other than some creepy guy lurking in the corner of the waiting room, I was the only one in there. You can't beat that.

Ditto for updating my license plates and getting a new driver's license. Did you know that in Texas, you have to go to two different government buildings for this? That right there might have caused me to rethink my plans to change residency and hang onto the Old Dominion. But in Del Rio, not a problem. Getting my driver's license was such a speedy process, in fact, that I could have forgotten a few identification documents, driven home to retrieve them, and still been out of there in twenty-five minutes. As it happened, it only took fifteen (there was one person in front of me - a sweet old lady who was just getting an identification card and apparently did not speak a lick of English).

And finally, I have to admit that the people, for the most part, are quite nice. Becky and I signed up for an oil painting class at the Firehouse art center downtown Del Rio. We thought it would be fun to have a project and some kind of weekly extracurricular routine. After a check debacle at Chili's, we were a bit late for the first class, but when we arrived for the second and began to take our places around the table, one of the women pulled out the one folding chair with a small amount of padding and offered it to me, explaining that it was not much but that it might help. I was touched by the kind gesture. She didn't even know me.

Note: Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the law enforcement officers who have twice pulled me over in this town for speeding. Well, okay - one let me off with a warning, but the second (whose name I remember but will not repeat here) was apparently unimpressed by my "condition" and gave me a ticket for going 58 in a 40 mph zone. Yes, I may have been going slightly over the speed limit, but I could see the 50 mph speed limit sign when I started to accelerate. So we're basically talking 8 miles over. Where I'm from, if you're only going 8 miles over the speed limit, you become roadkill. Sadly, I will have to retire my lead foot from now on. Really - it's a lot more difficult than you might think.

Closing Time

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 20:48:00 +0000

In my iPod right now: Fade Into You by Mazzy Star

A few weeks ago, the Waldenbooks in the Plaza Del Sol "Mall" in Del Rio, Texas shut its doors for good. In truth, it was a crummy bookstore that appeared to be run by a bunch of teenagers who felt it more important to gab and text on their cell phones than to ring up a customer's purchase. The place was in total disarray most of the time, clearly demonstrating where the workers' priorities were. It was really a sad leftover from the 80's, when B. Dalton's and Waldenbooks ruled the world (I know this because together they were responsible for enabling my severe "Sweet Valley High" habit.) It gave me none of those great feelings and imaginary conversations that bookstores seem to promote for me (such as "See how smart and interesting I am? I like to browse history books."). This Waldenbooks had no coffee shop, no music section, no greeting card/gift collection. But it did have one thing going for it: it was the only game in town. When I saw what was happening, why it was having a big "40% off everything sale," I was too sad to even peruse the great bargains. Instead, I went to my car and cried.

The thing is: seeing any store or restaurant going out of business has always made me melancholy. For some people, I guess it's nice to take advantage of the sales, but I can't see past the fact that someone's project, maybe even someone's dream, has died. It's why I have trouble watching "You've Got Mail." I'm the one who needs the tissues when Meg Ryan closes her mother's children's bookstore. It's positively heartbreaking. I guess we're supposed to be happy that Tom Hanks and the big Fox Books rescues her, but it's still hard to watch. I'm not even saying that I wouldn't have patronized Fox Books (I did, after all, pay $25 annually to be a Barnes and Noble "member"). But I still like to support the mom and pop shops if I can, even if they're more expensive. It's worth it; supporting the dream is worth it.

On a more personal level, I can't help but be disturbed that my little town can't keep a bookstore in business. I'm an aspiring novelist, after all. And my success depends on readers. I am all for being that sellout I talked about in my last post. I know times are tough, and almost every industry is suffering, but this is my plea to you:

Please Keep Supporting the Publishing Industry.

You know that feeling you get when you've read a really great book: that feeling that you've escaped to another world. It's a feeling that immerses you, that makes your imagination soar - much more than a two hour movie ever could.

Cherish it.

The Sellout

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 19:27:00 +0000

In my iPod right now: “Everyday is Like Sunday” by Morrissey

Is it just me, or does it suddenly seem like cupcakes are everywhere? Granted, cupcakes are no strangers to mainstream society. They were the perfect little treat for kids to bring in to elementary school on their birthdays. They were a staple of bake sales and cake walks. In my elementary school in Michigan, there were even random cupcake weeks, where we could purchase a homemade cupcake for a quarter to raise money for some cause (this was also a convenient way for my mom to dispense with some of that annoying Canadian change you must inevitably deal with as a Michigander). But cupcakes are now out of control! I saw no less than five bookstore displays this Christmas of cupcake-themed recipe books. I keep seeing cupcake designs on birthday cards and baby clothes.

Sure, it’s nice to know that cupcakes aren’t going anywhere, but I am a little bittersweet. I had this naive notion that cupcakes were kind of my special thing. Turns out they’re everyone’s.

I guess it’s kind of like music. In the early 90’s, I was a big fan of so-called “alternative” music. From Concrete Blonde, to Echo and the Bunnymen, to James. Whatever they were selling, I was buying. But then something happened: alternative became mainstream. Suddenly people were complaining about bands like Pearl Jam and R.E.M. “selling out.” How dare they expand their fan base? Shame on them for making money doing something they love!

Ridiculous, if you think about it. Why shouldn’t bands and cupcakes be successful? If I’m truly a fan, shouldn’t I want what’s best for them? And, of course, without mainstream success, we’d never get to have those bragging rights – those “I knew them way back when” stories.

Side note: The only person interested in these stories is the person telling them. The rest of us couldn’t care less about that person who saw Live at some general admission concert at Wabash College in the Spring of 1993, right before Throwing Copper hit it big. (Oh wait – that person was me.)

But I still can’t get used to hearing “Everyday is Like Sunday” in NFL commercials...

Back in Blog

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 23:35:00 +0000

In my iPod right now: "These Photographs" by Joshua Radin
Competing in my head: "Back in Black" by AC/DC (of course!)

It's New Year's Resolution time, right? Well, I'm not making any. Except that I will try to blog more. I think I said this last year too. Look how that turned out .... In any case, I've seen other blogs that list what the writer is listening to - and I love that idea. I love music. This way, I always get to share without a separate "I Recommend" post. And perhaps the music will give me blogging ideas. Perhaps??

My husband and I just got back from our holiday trip to Denver to visit his mom. And, as luck would have it, three of my sorority sisters (all from my class) live there - and they were ALL around to meet and catch up for awhile. It's always fun to rehash the college stories. My friend Betsy, in particular, reminded me of a poem I wrote in her honor - describing a beer goggled incident in which she stole some poor caterer's sandwich while he was innocently roasting a hog on a spit in the backyard of some fraternity house. Poor guy. But it was damn funny.

Well, I got home and managed to find my journal from the years 1992 - 1996 (yes, I recognize that this ages me - and no, I don't like it one bit). One hundred and twenty-six poems and "thoughts," folks! Most of them Smiths/Morrissey/Cure - inspired garbage (not that The Smiths or The Cure churn out garbage at all, but the sad outlook they seemed to bring out in me was not becoming). However, a few of them weren't bad, if I do say so myself. One entry, in particular, made me laugh. And since I have nothing else to blog about, I am repeating it here, 16 years later (oh God, I'm old):

Untitled:

I think I know why my parents didn't spoil me when I was a child. I wanted all of these toys, and sometimes when I got them, they weren't as neat as the commercials said, and then I never played with them and wouldn't let my friends either. But I liked my Barbie a lot because I only had one - the other ones I had that kind of looked like Barbie were the hollow drugstore kind. But if I had been given as many Barbies as I'd wanted, I probably would have been careless with them, like how my one friend Christine was, because she had so many Barbies and threw them all in a big white bucket with no clothes on. I feel good, too, because deep down I know that my Barbie had it better. It's a good thing I wasn't spoiled like Christine, because if I had been, I'd probably treat people like she treated her Barbies.

"The Suite"

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 21:01:00 +0000

While there are plenty of contrary opinions out there around the world, as an American, I feel that I have many reasons to be proud of this country. Of course it's not perfect; I'd even go so far as to guess that no country is. Part of what makes a country great is the refusal to accept complacency - to strive for better. One of the areas in which I think that the U.S. generally gets it right is its laws regarding access for the disabled. Ramps, elevators, parking spaces . . . we've got them. As we should.

But American women don't seem to agree about the proper etiquette concerning one of our accommodations for the disabled, a little place my friend Colleen likes to call "The Suite." The Suite is your standard disabled-friendly bathroom stall, the one that is extra roomy, has a bar along the wall, and sometimes even has its own private sink (the real score). How do I know about all of these features? Because I have visited the Suite many times. (I have even visited the Johnny-on-the-Spot Suite, which is certainly not ideal, but still better than the alternative.)

Sometimes, however, I hear other women talk about the Suite like it's off-limits to the fully-abled - at all times. Do they really believe this? And if so, is it true? Maybe I am a bad person for taking advantage of the extra benefits the Suite has to offer. But then, I am not sure I am in the wrong here. If there were someone with a disability standing behind me in line for the restroom and the Suite suddenly became available, of course, OF COURSE, I'd allow said person to move in front of me and use the Suite. But in general, it's not like a parking space. I'm not planning to occupy the Suite all day. And sometimes, the Suite is the only one available.

When you've gotta go, you've gotta go.

Fooling Ourselves

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 06:15:00 +0000

Hey everyone! It's officially turkey day on the East Coast (here in Del Rio, we're still shy approximately five minutes)! I could blog about how I spent all day making pies, but I won't. It was pretty anticlimactic (although, I confess that I did have a little taste of my friend Brenda's famous pumpkin bars just to make sure I didn't screw them up (I didn't - and yum!)). Instead, I thought of the perfect blog topic the other night: why do we fool ourselves?

I'm sure we're all guilty of the occasional white lie every now and then. (Frankly, I don't think I could be friends with someone who didn't engage in this practice once in awhile. It's just human nature and a useful resource for sparing feelings.) But what I really don't get is when we try to trick ourselves into believing something. Don't we know ourselves well enough by this point in life? How could we fall for such a thing?

A simple example of this is my constant need to rationalize what I eat. Oh, food regrets - those are the worst. So, in an effort to assuage the guilt I feel after gorging on some snack or sweet, I'll often try to convince myself that I didn't have a full serving or that it didn't have any calories as the package says because it's Sunday or something. Do I buy these ridiculous excuses? No, not really. But I continue to do it, time and time again.

The ultimate attempt to fool myself, though, is when I insist that I am not, I am NOT falling asleep. Here's what I mean: Often, when I'm snuggled up on the couch at night watching the boob tube, I'll start to doze off. But I'm not willing to throw in the towel yet. Oh no. I will finish, MUST finish whatever pointless thing I'm watching. So here's my genius plan: I will simply rest my eyes for a little while, but not to worry - I will still be able to follow the story, sporting event, what-have-you, by LISTENING.

Has this strategy ever worked? Nope. Not even once. Not when my brother and I stayed up late while we were in high school watching "Zapped Again" (which Scott Baio was evidently too good for) on one of the cheap local cable channels. Not during my first three attempts at getting all of the way through the movie "Fletch" (great movie, but it was like some kind of weird curse - sometime after Fletch told them to "put it on the Underhill's tab," the sandman would pay me a visit). Not when I watched my Ti-Fauxed episode of "Samantha Who?" from the other night. (I would start the episode, fall asleep about five minutes in, wake up at some point after the credits and, INCREDIBLY, try to get through it again - with the same master plan.)

The point? I'm not fooling anyone. But you can't blame me for trying.

Who Says Nothing Happens in Del Rio?

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 16:08:00 +0000

Okay, I admit it. I've said that. Many times. When one of the approximately two decent restaurants in town is dead at prime time on a Saturday night, this necessarily causes me to question what on earth people are doing in Del Rio. (Incidentally, Chili's is always hopping; no, I do not consider that one of the select two, although, relative to its competition from iHop to Pizza Hut, it's certainly passable.)

I've voiced my concern several times to my friends in far sexier places (New York, D.C., Dallas, Austin), and I have to tell you - I love my friends. In times of waning excitement, it's nice to know that my peeps are looking out for me. Case in point: I received a flood of e-mails from my preferentially-located pals yesterday with the following (or a very similar) headline:

‘Bachelor’ winner arrested for unruliness; Mary Delgado was arrested after refusing to leave a Texas bar

http://www.austin360.com/news/content/shared-gen/ap/TV/People_Bachelor_Winner_Arrest.html

"Where could this Texas bar be?" I hear you ask. Well, that's the interesting part. Yes, you can probably gather from the context that, indeed, baby-obsessed Bachelor Bob runner-up and Bachelor Byron winner Mary Delgado was arrested for causing a ruckus at some establishment in Del Rio. Of course, the articles I reviewed fail to mention which bar, which I think is a little fishy. I need to know these things, as I'm clearly missing all of the action in this town. If I had to guess, I would say it was probably the bar in the lakeside "resort" purportedly owned by Byron Velvick, the famed pro bass fisherman (note: I use the term "resort" very loosely). Maybe they got into some kind of heated argument over the lack of spice in the queso.

But there you have it. I guess I have to go eat my words now.

Information That Would Have Been Nice To Know . . . Yesterday

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 16:22:00 +0000

Cat's officially out of the bag. I've got a bun in the oven. I'm a first timer, so it's super exciting for me (even more so for my husband who got all choked up when he saw the swag I got at an "OB Orientation" class at the Air Force Base - I thought that dads couldn't care less about burp cloths and onesies - evidently, I was wrong). So, as a first timer, I immediately went out and bought the latest "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (which, thankfully, no longer features the picture of that matronly lady in a rocking chair on the cover), and a few very generous friends sent me some other helpful books. So rock on - I was equipped with all of the information needed to navigate my nine month journey. Right? Wrong.

Now, for those of you mothers out there, you remember the food aversions and cravings. Fortunately for me, I didn't have any true morning sickness, but the very thought of certain foods made me want to ralph (case in point: broccoli - still can't do it). Naturally, this led me to crave some very tame foods, a sharp contrast to my eclectic tastes in food. And yet, I couldn't just eat bread every day. The baby needed some protein. So guess what I turned to? Cold cuts.

But oh wait - - After dining on tasty turkey and club sandwiches for a good three weeks (but not every day), a friend tells me that she was told NOT to eat cold cuts. Did I see this in any of the pregnancy books I read? Nope. But all it took was one google search, and I confirmed my fear. Deli meats are off limits unless you first heat them to steaming in a microwave (and yeah - no thanks). So deli meats are out. That might have been nice to know . . .

So I was sitting in the waiting room this afternoon for my latest doctor visit, and I decided to peruse one of the mom-to-be magazines. There was this section with letters from readers about the things they did before they knew they weren't supposed to. One woman wrote about her daily deli sandwiches, and I thought to myself, "Wow, that stinks - every day? At least my slip only happened a few times a month." And then I kept reading until I read, "I was craving Greek salads . . ." Oh no! I have been jonesing for Greek salads for three weeks now, and I have been making them at home, complete with feta cheese. Yup, feta is a no-no. As Adam Sandler would say, that is information that would have been nice to know YESTERDAY!

Thankfully, the baby seems to be all right with these minor slip-ups, as he gave me a little high five wave during my ultrasound today.

Night of the Living Puffy

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 22:57:00 +0000

Apparently, Halloween is the second most decorated holiday (behind Christmas, of course). I didn't really notice this in D.C., probably because most of us in our compact townhouses simply didn't have the kind of yard that easily accommodates a faux grave yard or a collection of creepy scarecrows. That kind of decorating takes space.

In my new town of Del Rio, Texas, however, I've seen several houses that seem to take this idea of Halloween decorating seriously. Tombstones, cobwebs, skeletons, spiders, the works. But you know what else has made a rock star showing this year? Halloween-themed puffies.

For those of you not familiar with this technical term, "puffies" are those inflatable yard characters that became popular around Christmas a number of years ago. They started with oversized Santas and Frosties and escalated to rotating snow globes. "Puffies" is the term of endearment given to these characters by my mom, who became a little violent as we passed by a particularly tacky row of houses on the way back from my brother's house one Christmas eve and blurted out, "I can't stand those puffies!!"

I do see her point. The kinds of Christmas decorations I like are the more traditional ones: pretty wreaths and lights on the trees, maybe a few ribbons here and there - not a scene that looks straight out of a North Pole-themed episode of "SpongeBob SquarePants." The worst of the lot, in my opinion, is the Christmas tree puffy, especially in my hometown - in MICHIGAN - where there are evergreens-a-plenty. Really? It never occurred to these people to just string a few lights on the pine trees already in their front yards?

I have to say, though, I am actually enjoying the Halloween puffies. I guess I never considered Halloween decorating to be a big tradition, so it is kind of a nice treat to drive down Main Street and see that house with the sitting scarecrow with a pumpkin head that rotates 360 degrees. He's pretty cool. And I smile every time I see those Casper-like ghosts coming out of a jack-o-lantern.

Puffies - I have to hand it to you. I never thought I'd see the day . . .

Flying the Friendly Skies

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Wed, 08 Oct 2008 19:58:00 +0000

This past weekend, my husband and I went to Vermont for a wedding. It was the perfect time to get away, as Vermont gave us a promised taste of fall (my favorite season), which Texas lacks (I'm not even singling Del Rio out this time - Austin presented the same void).

I'm sure it won't surprise you to learn that getting from Del Rio, Texas to Burlington, Vermont is no easy task. No direct flights, that's for sure. Try two connections (i.e., three legs). Good times! Amazingly enough, Del Rio has an airport. Three flights to Houston a day. Just Houston.

So Shawn and I decided to take advantage of the fact that Del Rio has an airport by booking our flights on Continental (for which Houston is a hub). On the way there, it was Del Rio - Houston - Cleveland - Burlington. And you know what? I have to say that Continental is kind of awesome. I recalled flying Continental several times when I lived in Austin, and I never had any issues with that airline. But what Continental offers now, in comparison to other carriers, is seriously impressive. Shawn and I EACH got to check one bag free of charge. And get this - our soft drinks on each of our legs were free, AND we got a lunch on the long leg! It was just a little turkey sub, but still - it was food. And did I mention it was free?

Compare to U.S. Airways, which I flew just a few weeks ago out of San Antonio (keep in mind, this is the same airline on which I foolishly forked over extra money to fly first class at the last minute, only to be served Sun Chips). Oh yes, I handed over the $15 to check my tiny bag. And then I learned (through posters throughout the terminal) that U.S. Airways is NOW offering beverages on its flights starting at $1. Starting at $1? Seems impressive, huh? Oh wait - you mean, $1 for beverages that used to be free? Yes. $1 for a coffee or tea. But if you want water, sorry - that will cost you double.

Hey - I understand that times are tight and that airlines are starting to charge for things that used to be complimentary. But seeing those posters just pissed me off. Hey U.S. Airways - here's a tip: why don't you just admit that you've hit hard times and just tell us that you're sorry you have to charge now? Instead of the "Beverages starting at $1!" like it's some kind of great bargain, why not just put up posters that say this:

"We're sorry to tell you that the soft drinks that used to be complimentary on our flights are now $1 and up. We know it sucks, but we are just trying to stay afloat so that we can afford to get you to your destination. Thank you for flying U.S. Airways."

Or how about this action? At LEAST offer us a glass of water on the flight, for God's sake. Are times really that rough?

A Kiosk Does Not A Coffee Shop Make

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 12:56:00 +0000

Dear Friends -

I am afraid the Del Rio situation is more dire than I initially feared. You have heard me rant about the lack of my favorite chain establishments. No Target - that was bad. No Starbucks - absolutely devastating, particularly since I have practically lived at Starbucks in San Antonio for the last four months (I have even hit several different Starbucks in a single day, as I try not to make a habit out of eating both breakfast and lunch at the same place). I tried to convince myself that being inundated with Starbucks in San Antonio would be enough to carry me through the upcoming Starbucks drought. And anyway, it is true that Starbucks was not quite as enticing this summer, without its Orange Mocha Frappuccino and all (Mint Mocha Chip Frap instead? Isn't that, like, a Christmas drink? I don't get the summer debut). I told myself that surely there were some good local places. I can adapt.

Last week, I went in search of the local places. It began with a search on my iPhone for WiFi locations, as we did not yet have internet at our house. This was much more difficult than I could have possibly imagined. I managed to find only a couple of places that had it. Aside from the T-Mobile store itself, the list was strictly limited to hotels. What did this mean for me? Squatting at the Ramada for four hours. I felt like a damn stowaway, hiding out in their upstairs sitting room at the little desk there. I kept waiting for someone to call me out on the fact that I was not a guest (although I did enjoy their breakfast buffet for two days in a row, just in case I was questioned). I escaped unscathed, but I still felt a little sneaky. Unlike theater hopping in high school, my stealthiness did not come accompanied by the glow of "getting away with it." Instead, I just felt . . . well, sad.

But I was not giving up. I had read months before on a chat site during my internet search of whether a Starbucks would ever make its way to Del Rio that there was some place in the town called "Coffee Now." It's simple. It gets the point across. Local is very often just as good, if not better than the big corporate giant. I was optimistic, especially since the poster had poo-pooed Starbucks and said he was a "loyal Coffee Now patron." So I looked up Coffee Now in Google, found the address, and began my search. Funny thing, though - I went back and forth on the street it was supposed to be on a few times, craning my neck to look at every strip mall I saw. Nope. No Coffee Now. Luckily, the listing I found had a phone number. So I called. You never know how long these things stay in business. A cheerful young woman answered right away. Phew! I asked for the cross streets.

And then I went back along the same road. And then it occurred to me why Coffee Now had escaped my notice. It wasn't a store front. It was a damn kiosk, like those Kodak photo labs in the 80's. There wasn't a seat in sight, not even a couple of folding camping chairs in the parking lot. Instead of Coffee Now, for me this realization was more like "Serenity Now!!!"

Welcome to my nightmare.

Fish Out of Water

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 15:51:00 +0000

After being in denial for the past four months that I have officially left Washington, D.C., I finally got a good glimpse of what my new life will be like in Del Rio, Texas (pop. 40,000). Shawn, Shawn's dad, and I started unpacking the new boxes in our lovely new home in our new town. I have to say that the house really is beautiful. I seriously lucked out in marrying someone with similar taste. And I think when we have it all landscaped, it will be a wonderful haven.

The problem for me is the town. 40,000 isn't tiny, I realize. Frankly, that's the size of a decent college campus. The issue is that the closest BIG town is San Antonio. A debilitating 2 1/2 hours away. This is not okay. (I realize that it will have to be, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it.)

I've done a lot of traveling this summer, spending some time visiting my friends in New York, San Francisco, and back to D.C. For each of these visits, I've stayed with people in the city - in great neighborhoods where I could walk to "stuff." While these trips were great, they made me long for the big city more than ever.

If I'm being fair, I should admit that I've never been a true city girl. I've always been more of a suburbanite. But still - the city was always right there. And the suburbs had their own charm (charm = the great chain stores I frequent, such as Target, Barnes & Noble, World Market, The Gap, etc. etc.). In Del Rio, I will have none of those conveniences. Instead, I will be forced to get comfortable with my nemesis, Wal-Mart. I will have to get used to ordering everything on-line.

It really hit home when I visited my nemesis Sunday, in a mission to find dish soap and a few other goodies for the house. I went through five different aisles before I heard a soul speaking my native tongue. It's not like I haven't heard Spanish spoken in a store before. Whenever I visited my nemesis in Alexandria, VA (during desperate times, of course), I often heard customers speaking Spanish. I don't have a problem with it, really - I don't.

But for the first time in my life, I truly felt in the minority. A fish out of water.

The Ding Letter

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 13:34:00 +0000

If you've been following my sporadic posts, you may have learned that I am an aspiring novelist. I learned quickly that it is a tough business, and that you will go crazy if you don't develop a thick skin. As they say in the publishing world, everyone has been rejected at least once, but you have to persevere. In any case, I would much rather receive a ding letter than nothing at all.

Going through this process brings back fond memories of my favorite ding letter of all time. While I doubt it's the norm in any business to take pleasure in drafting the DING!, in this particular case, I have no doubt that this person was sitting at his desk and laughing as he composed this masterpiece. I am sorry that this comes at the expense of my good friend from law school, whom I'll call Mr. Smith.

Here goes:

Like many diligent job seeking law students (note that I did not fit in this group), Mr. Smith set out early on in our first year to secure a summer internship for the transition from obnoxious 1L to even more obnoxious 2L. (This is a generalization, of course. Incidentally, Mr. Smith is one of the least obnoxious people I know.) Mr. Smith's search was very impressive. He visited the career services office and found contacts for dozens of law firms. He dipped into his law school loans to spring for the expensive bond paper (because these were the days before everyone had e-mail). He sent out these letters by the tens, being careful to address each to the hiring partner at the firm to which he was applying. This was the year 1996.

A few months later, the letters started pouring in. Many were the standard, "sorry we don't hire summer associates, we have already fulfilled our internship needs, etc. etc." But one special letter stood out from the rest. It was so special, in fact, that it was gingerly placed in the display case by the library in the spring of our third year, the highlight of all of the good times we had as law students. And this is what it said (more or less):

"Dear Mr. Smith,

Thank you for inquiring Mr. Jones [contact person from career services office] about a possible summer internship at [insert name of firm]. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones will not be getting back to you any time soon, seeing as how he died in 1981.

Love,

[insert name of surviving partner/associate laughing ass off while composing letter]"

It was classic.

Journalism At Its Finest

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 04:52:00 +0000

Now that swimming is over and I've just watched two American gymnasts get robbed in the event finals (I'm not biased, I swear - how can a woman who lands on her knees in a vault knock poor team finals choke artist Alicia Sacramone off the podium - I mean how bad can that poor girl's week get anyway?), my interest in the Olympics is starting to wane. For some reason, after former fantasy boyfriend Dan O'Brien got too old for the competition (I was inexplicably drawn to that gap of his), I lost some interest in track and field (okay, the whole Marion Jones scandal certainly didn't help matters - disgraceful!). So in reflection, I thought I would revisit Michael Phel . . . err . . . I mean swimming.

So at this point, you're probably thinking that I'm about to go off on another rant. And ding-ding! You are correct. I would never take anything away from Michael Phelps, and believe me - I was just as excited as anyone else when he out-touched that poor dude to win the 100 meter butterfly by one one-hundredth of a second! The guy is amazing, and he deserved every single one of those gold medals. What bothered me was the failure of a certain journalist to appreciate the efforts of some of his teammates as individual athletes instead of simply supporting characters in Michael Phelps' quest for Olympic history.

Now, I am sure the other swimmers knew that their efforts in the Cube would be overshadowed to a certain extent by the phenomenon that is Michael Phelps. They probably had a special support group just to prepare them for that. But what really got me was when a journalist interviewed Jason Lezak about his clutch performance in securing that gold medal in the 4 x 100 freestyle relay. Jason Lezak, who not only redeemed himself for a previously disappointing performance in the 4 x 100 relay in Athens but who came from behind against the world record holder, beating his personal best by one and a half seconds.

So, as a journalist with a prime two minutes of Jason Lezak's valuable time, what would you say to him? Here's what our friendly correspondent for NBC decided to go with: "I bet the fact that you were helping Michael Phelps keep alive his quest for eight gold medals in a single Olympics helped motivate you for that strong finish." Okay, I'm paraphrasing, but you get the point. Are you kidding me? Yes, random NBC correspondent who apparently graduated from the University of Disrespect, even though Jason Lezak was born a decade before Michael Phelps, he has trained for his whole life, all thirty-two years, with the hope that one day, one day, he could play a small part in someone else's dream. It was not besting his own personal record that helped him edge out the trash talking Frenchie. It was not helping his relay team (which, at last count, included four people). It was all for the cause of one single American.

Jason Lezak - just in case you're reading this, I want you to know that I thought you handled that embarrassing question with as much dignity and grace as humanly possible. And I thank you for gently reminding our friendly reporter that, in fact, the dreams of Michael Phelps were not what drove you to reach that wall first. What drove you was your own passion for swimming and your desire to win for your teammates.

Yes, as in plural.

The Trash Talker

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 16:42:00 +0000

Okay. I admit it. I am a sucker for the Olympics. In the months leading up to them, I ignore all of the hype. I don't watch the trials. I don't follow what's going on with drug testing. I don't rush out to buy a bunch of red, white, and blue garb so I can follow along like a crazed fan from my living room.

But once they are on, I get hooked. And my favorite part of the Summer Olympics, I've decided, is swimming. I love swimming for many reasons, just one being that I know for a fact how ridiculously hard it is. I was never a serious competitive swimmer, but I did spend two summers swimming for the Forest Lake Country Club in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, and believe you me - that was plenty. It was positively grueling. I also love swimming because it is one of those sports that truly shines in the Olympics. The game-related sports like basketball are totally boring to me because these are professional athletes who are just taking a break from their million dollar salaries to give this little 'ole Olympic thing a try. Now, don't get me wrong - I'm sure Michael Phelps does quite well in endorsements - QUITE well. But swimming is at its pinnacle on the Olympic stage. The contest is over fast, and it's always exciting.

What I don't get is the trash talking. The French swimmer dude (sorry - can't be bothered to look up his name), saying prior to the 4 x 100 free relay, "The Americans? We're going to smash them. That's what we came here for." Is that right??? You didn't come to represent your country with honor? You didn't come to win the gold? You specifically came to bring someone else down? I mean, it goes without saying that, to win, someone else must be defeated, but still - what kind of sportsmanship is that? ESPECIALLY during the Olympics! Not to toot our own horns or anything, but the NBC coverage, while certainly America-centric, does focus on some of the athletes from other countries who deserve to be celebrated. I believe all Olympians do.

I have to say that I was rather proud of the Americans in their response. Of course they let the swim speak for itself. And it did. It spoke volumes, in fact.

Stress for Breakfast

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 20:50:00 +0000

I once had a boss who liked to say he ate stress for breakfast, like it was some ridiculous badge of honor. Well, I ate stress for breakfast, lunch, and a mid-afternoon snack today, and you know what? It tasted terrible.

I had two major "filings" due today for work, and I've once again proven the theory that, no matter how much time you have to complete a project, you will always work until the very last minute. We almost made these filings a month ago and gave a big sigh of relief when we realized we had a whole extra month. "Woo hoo!" we exclaimed. "Now we don't have to rush!"

Yeah. I wish I had a time machine to go tell my 7-8-08 self, "Get it together. Let's nail this thing down so we're not racing the clock trying to get it done at the eleventh hour. Maybe this time, you'd prefer to finish something without that awful tension building up in your back so severely that you can barely move at the end of the day. Maybe you'd like not to snap at your husband when he calls in the middle of your giant C.F. to ask you a question about your bank account."

But no. Apparently, my 7-8-08 self was destined to eat stress for breakfast today.

Mis-Animation

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Mon, 28 Jul 2008 17:15:00 +0000

My husband and I were watching "Mad Men," last night (excellent, in case you haven't jumped on that bandwagon), and I started thinking about the business of advertising. I understand from post-9-11, that when times are rough in business, the marketing budget is among the first to be hit. To me, this is a shame. I am not embarrassed to admit that marketing has a lot to do with the purchasing decisions I make. If the packaging is good, or the commercial makes me laugh, I'm more likely to buy the product - plain and simple. But sometimes, I really wonder what those people in advertising are smoking and how their proposals even make it past the boardroom.

The most glaring of these, to me, is the overuse of animation in advertising. And by animation, I mean the kind that personifies an inanimate object. Remember the smashing success of the California Raisins? Well, so do I. But that was over 20 years ago, folks!!! Come up with a new concept. Have we learned nothing in the last two decades?

Last night, I was forced to watch this commercial for Compound-W (I assume it was Compound-W - maybe it wasn't - either way, I didn't care because the commercial sucked). The geniuses at the advertising firm gave life to a wart on someone's finger. And the wart was talking smack or something and then got covered with some kind of liquid, turned white, and apparently died. Gross! This does not inspire me to buy your stupid product. I'd rather pay the extra money to have a doctor remove the wart for me.

This brought to mind two other commercials with animation that I cannot stand (again, please excuse me for not remembering the name of the product, which proves to me that even though your commercial was notoriously memorable, it's still not enough to earn brand recognition). The first of these is that awful commercial with the fungus that lives under the bed of your toenails. That commercial was so unbelievably disturbing that I would interrupt whatever I was doing and leap across the room to change the channel. I do not want to see anyone, even a cartoon, lift up a toenail.

The second was some commercial for diapers (Luvs? Huggies? Again, not sure). These advertisers had the balls to animate a DIAPER! The diaper was turned in profile and had eyes above the hole where the baby/toddler's leg would go, which was apparently the mouth of this character. Are you serious? Do you even realize what diapers are for? And what goes into them? That is beyond disgusting. And unless I have stepped into an Austin Powers movie or something, that is animation gone way too far.

Thinking of these dumb commercials makes me at least appreciate the Geico cavemen a little more. Sure, they blew it with that lame attempt at a sitcom. But it was original. I have to give them that.

Repeat, Repeat Performance

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 18:43:00 +0000

This past weekend, my husband Shawn and I went in on a couple of condos in South Padre Island with some of my Austin friends. We were pretty happy to be included, especially since we could not get our act together and figure out what we were doing until the night before everyone was leaving. This wouldn't have been that big of a deal except that it was 4th of July weekend. We got the room with the two single beds in the condo with the couple that had two kids. Call us Ward and June Cleaver.

Well, incredibly, it rained the ENTIRE weekend. This is not supposed to happen in Texas. I don't mean a few sprinkles here and there. I don't mean the bummer of an overcast sky. Oh no. I mean rain. Rain, rain, rain. So we drove four and a half hours to a beach in order to stay inside all weekend to eat, drink, eat, and drink some more. And some more. Good times. (You can ask my friend Michelle from New York, who I think tried to drunk dial me on that first night but got more than she bargained for - I'm sure I was probably twice as looped as she was, and she was the one who was eventually like, "Uh, yeah, I gotta go.").

So, take four couples and throw in some cabin fever, and what do you get? Let's call them "debates." There were a lot of doozy "debates" (thankfully none between Shawn and me), but my personal favorite involved the value of a story that one has already heard. Here's how it goes: the "day after," my friend Jenn and I kept bringing up a story from the night before. The story itself is not important. What is important is the fact that her boyfriend became very annoyed at having to hear it repeated several times. Fair enough - it wasn't the best story I've ever heard. But where he went too far was to proclaim that people should never repeat stories at all because (and I quote), "nobody cares."

Whoa! Excuse me?? I beg to differ. A good story is a good story. And each and every one of my friends has at least one of these gems. And you know what? Like a good movie or a book, I'm going to want to hear that story more than once. Heck, I just finished watching "Old School" for the umpteenth time, and it was even the crappy sanitized version on TBS. If I like a story, I'm going to get sucked in again, especially because, unlike the sanitized "Old School," there may be nuances in the second, third, twelfth time around that weren't in the first. New details = new laughs. And here's the other thing, perhaps the biggest thing of all: if there weren't any repeat stories, there wouldn't be any inside jokes.

And, where, my friends, is the fun in that???

What Would You Say?

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 18:40:00 +0000

I am a creature of habit when it comes to eating. While I certainly enjoy a variety of cuisines, when I first discover something I like, I tend to go on a little mini binge with it. It's not really binging in the true sense (no, I don't gluttonously consume mass quantities in one sitting), but I do engage in a routine of consuming my new discovery on a frequent, and often repetitive, basis.

My friend Kim once gave me a Whirlipop for my birthday. It's no secret that I love popcorn, of course (hence the decision to gift to me this fantastic contraption), but I bet even Kim didn't know just how far I took it. I ate popcorn every day for a solid two weeks after that sucker was mine. Did I eventually get sick of it? Well, not really. Popcorn is one of those things I could eat every day without complaint. But I did end up eventually having to make room for some other foods in my diet, so I had to start occasionally letting popcorn take a backseat.

Since moving back to Texas, while I, sadly, have been robbed of the Starbucks molasses cookie (damn regional differences), I have been reintroduced to two WONDERFUL fast food delights. Taco Cabana and Sonic. If you haven't become acquainted with Taco Cabana, you're missing out. It is so many leagues above Taco Bell (try the chicken fajita taco - out of this world), and they even serve beer there. What could be better? I have to be honest too - I have eaten at countless sit down Tex-Mex places since I've been here, and Taco Cabana's chips and queso cream them all (is that a pun? almost, I think - but not quite). I ate Taco Cabana yesterday and then immediately craved it again today. And yum. It was just as tasty and satisfying on Day 2.

And then there's Sonic. Man, oh man. Sonic is awesome. It's true you have to deal with that awkward dilemma of whether to tip the carhop who delivers your food (they have a drive thru, but I can't tell the difference between that and the regular ordering style - you still get a carhop when you "drive thru"). However, it is well worth the effort. I've become accustomed to swinging by the Sonic after a good gym workout to get a refreshing Diet Cherry Limeade. I recently added a regular sized tater tots to my routine, which kind of defeats the purpose of the gym, but they're so tasty that I can't pass them up. I've earned it.

Which brings me to my point for today. After a great hour and a half workout at the gym, I pulled into Sonic to reward myself with a Diet Cherry Limeade and some tots. When the carhop comes out to deliver my food, I ask the rhetoric "How are you?" (translation: "Give me my tots and scram!")

Here's what I get in response: "Ugh. I feel fat today. It's all my husband's fault."

Now, I think I just uttered a non-committal, yet sympathetic "awww," but this begs the question - what the heck did she expect me to say? The girl looked like she was in her early twenties, and she was puffy - not fat - but dough boy puffy. I had seen her there before and observed her as a little chubby, but nothing out of the ordinary. But was she pregnant? Perhaps that was what she was trying to tell me.

But I wouldn't dare suggest such a thing and risk ruining my Sonic routine.

Okay, So Your Name Is Mudd. Who Cares?

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 18:37:00 +0000

A week or so ago, my husband and I sat down to watch "National Treasure: Book of Secrets." While the first "National Treasure," was passable (certainly not great), I think even People magazine gave "Book of Secrets" a dismal review. Regardless, I do like history, and for a semi-action flick, there was at least the possibility that I could pick up a few historical tidbits. "Book of Secrets" partially delivered on that score. I learned a little more about the origin of the desk in the Oval Office. I learned that a smaller scale Statue of Liberty exists in Paris. But, I am sorry to report, that's about it (unless you count learning that Nicholas Cage really needs to just admit he's going gray and balding and be done with it - that was some seriously bad hair).

I just couldn't get behind the premise of the movie. I'll give you the nutshell. Nic's character, something "Gates," has his family name threatened when inexplicable bad guy (played by Ed Harris (see Nic - the bald thing isn't so bad)) comes forward with a dog eared page from the diary of John Wilkes Booth that implicates Nic's great great grandfather in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Nic spends the entire movie, traveling to Paris and London, and then ultimately kidnapping the President of the United States (yeah, right) at a birthday function at Mount Vernon trying to clear the Gates family name. He tells the story of Dr. Mudd, how even when he was cleared after setting Booth's broken leg, his reputation remained tarnished by association and the rumor that he was somehow complicit (I suspect that this was supposed to be one of those neat tidbits to pick up from watching the movie, but I already knew it so was unimpressed). Oh, and some kid at the White House Easter Egg roll taunts Nic with the latest headline, "Your family killed President Lincoln, nanny nanny boo boo." (as if an eight-year-old boy is really going to get all worked up about something that happened a century and a third before he was even born).

The entire plot was absolutely ridiculous and unbelievable, which still would have been okay with me had I found it remotely entertaining. What was even worse than Nic's antics was Ed Harris' bad guy, who was so obsessed with having his own family name get a gold star in the annals of history that he was willing to tap into Nic's dad's phone, follow Nic across the ocean, have a wild car chase in London that resulted in millions of dollars of property damage, and hold various members of Nic's family and friends at gunpoint. Really? Would you go that far?

As a relative of John Wilkes Booth myself, I would have to say no. Get over it. You weren't even there.

I'd Like To Be Envious, But Don't I Need A Reason?

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 18:35:00 +0000

Nope. Take it from me - you don't need a reason. At least not a legitimate one.

Case in point: Last night, I was watching the second episode of the second season (?) of "My Boys," that cute TBS sitcom about a twenty-something girl sports writer, P.J., who is always hanging out with the guys (including her male crushable roommate, Brendan, and her older brother, Andy - superbly played by Jim Gaffigan). So far, this season isn't quite as cute (or funny, for that matter), but of course I'm going to watch because what else is on besides "Celebrity Circus?" In addition to the "boys," P.J. has a sassy single girl sidekick named Stephanie, whose purpose seems solely to contrast P.J.'s tomboy with a boy-crazy, girly girl female character. In a word, Stephanie is annoying. It's probably just the writing, but Stephanie's lines are always so contrived, so stereotypical, so not funny. But last night, I learned something else about this Stephanie - she has one upped me!

At the end of last week's episode, Stephanie announced that she was going to forget about men for awhile and was going to focus her energy on writing a book. She even held up a little journal to show that she was serious. Well, last night, Stephanie and P.J. are walking down the sidewalk, and P.J. makes some comment about how Stephanie looks so happy. And this is what Stephanie reports: "I finished my book, and I sent it out, and four publishers are interested in it, and one of them even offered me a three book deal!!"

WTF?!!!! I'm not even kidding around. I was mad. Mad, mad, mad. How could this silly Stephanie person write a book in a week, and send it to four publishers (evidently skipping the whole agent step all together), and get ALL FOUR of them to consider it??? I spent months on my book, and have sent it to three agents, two of whom politely rejected it (well, assuming you count the one "Dear Author" letter as polite), and one of whom has not yet responded after several weeks. Four publishers? FOUR publishers?

I was practically inconsolable, having to remind myself again and again, "It's just a t.v. show, Amanda. It's not real."

Come On, Get Happy

riggsconner@gmail.com (Amanda) — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 18:33:00 +0000

I confess that I have been a little moody lately. Okay, more than a little. The highlight of my day yesterday was when I set my mocha light frappuccino on the edge of the table at the Riverwalk Starbucks, and it landed perfectly upside down on the ground, like a stellar flip cup performance. Too bad I hadn't taken a single sip before this happened. I still managed to salvage about a third of it, and I did drink it, out of pure desperation.

When it comes to feeling down, I turn to music if I can. Sometimes there is a part of me that just wants to feel sorry for myself, and that's when I put in something syrupy sad like a little Josh Groban. Other times, however, it's just time to pick myself up and play something that makes me deliriously happy. And I look to three tunes to accomplish this.

1. The Girl From Ipanema. Who doesn't know this song? It seems like it's been around forever. But I was reintroduced to it when I guy I dated in D.C., Josh, pulled it out of his CD collection in his car one day. He told me that he and his friends always put that in the CD player when one of them was pissed off, and it instantly cheered everyone up. I could see exactly what he meant. Normally listening to a favorite song of a guy who dumped me would cause me to wallow in self pity. But "The Girl From Ipanema" puts a smile on my face every time.

2. Freedom! '90. If you know me well, you know that I have a mild (very mild) obsession with George Michael. There are so many great George Michael songs, including the now mostly forgotten "One More Try" (very big at the Van Hoosen after school dance when I was in the 8th grade, but I think I've only heard it on the radio about five times in the twenty years since). I may not be a supermodel, like the women in the famous Freedom! video, but whenever I hear this song, I just want to get up and dance. It makes me think of my friend Michelle's bachelorette party and good times at the Adams Mill when I first moved to D.C. It just makes me happy.

3. Never Wanna F'n See You Again. This is the granddaddy of them all. It's a lesser known song, and probably only really recognized amongst those of us in college in the great state of Indiana in the 1990s. The chorus to this song would never make it on the radio because censoring it just doesn't have the same impact. I'll give you a half censored version anyway: "No, I never wanna f'n see you again. You've always been a bitch. Since I can't remember when. You irritate my brain. You're driving me insane. No, I never wanna f'n see you again. Why do you have to be such a bitch?" I can't explain what it is about this song, but the melody is so hoedown happy, and to have it go with these lyrics, where you know Rich Hardesty is smiling as he sings - it is everything that is right about swearing. Sometimes, it just makes you feel better. Proof of this, to me, was when I went on a Spring Break trip in law school to Vegas, Phoenix, and Mexico with eight of my classmates. And when we were all bickering in the van en route somewhere, singing along to this song was the only thing that could bring us all back together. In a word: awesome.