On Advance Directive

Hey still alive people,

It appears I have died or am in the process.  Bummer.  I hope I went out someway cool and not whilst being an idiot.  However, I know myself, and I was likely doing something dumb like trying to pet something I shouldn’t, choked on one too many pizza rolls in my pie hole, or some other mortally embarrassing thing that led to my untimely death. Herein is how I’d prefer you to wrap things up.

Health Care Power of Attorney
Page 5/12 of my living will thing, which asked if I need more space AND INDEED, I DO.
Additional Instructions or Limitations:  I may give additional instructions or impose additional limitations on the authority of my agent.  Below are my specific instructions or limitations.

Gino, if you’re reading this, you were the first pick in the draft for caring for my dying body or burying my already dead corpse.  Sorry bud, that’s in the whole “better or worse” line of them vows. So, I’ll do my best to make it easy for you:

• Don’t embalm me, ew.  I’ll have enough preservatives from my hair care and horrid eating habits that I won’t waste immediately away.  
• Don’t get an expensive casket (I’m sure you weren’t going to lol)
• But for real, I don’t want a traditional casket.  What a friggen waste of cash, I'm literally going to turn into a pile of goo in there.  I’ve rather grown fond of the idea of natural decomposition.  This will be a bit of a pain in the ass because, well, decomposition starts right out the get go, so we’re looking at 3-7 days before things get stinky around here so you can't procrastinate as you normally would.  If we’re still in Northeast Ohio at the time of my demise, here’s a place that looked rad (and conveniently located only 1.5 hours from us: Foxfield Preserve 9877 Alabama Ave SW, Wilmot, OH 44689 (330-359-5235).  All you need is a shroud or a wicker casket, dump me in the ground, throw some dirt on there and let nature do its thing.  If we’re not in Ohio, fire up the old Google machine and search for “big naturals” …I jest!  “natural burials XXwhateverstateweareinXX”.  
• ALTERNATIVELY, if you want to donate ½ my corporal form to a body farm or bits and pieces to a search and rescue team, that’d be dope as hell.  You don’t get remains back or get to visit, hence why I included the natural burial above, so there’s an HQ to my rotting essence should anyone want to come and sit with me for a spell.  You gotta call and ask ‘em, cuz they fill up and such, but if they could use a femur to watch decompose for the next 40 years, go nuts.  Example:  Forensic Anthropology Center at University of Tennessee (https://fac.utk.edu/)
• I would like some flowers spread around my angelic form and at my dirt mound, if that’s not too much to ask.  
• If, for some reason, I die abroad or in a real gross and inconvenient way (first of all, go me!) then you can cremate me for ease of travel, I guess. Please see "Amanda’s preferred hierarchy of ways to dispose of her body" (Figure A).
• Bury whatever pet ashes we have accumulated with me too, so I can have my thunder buddies with me when it’s lights out.

Diane or Patrick Briggs, if you’re reading this, Gino and I likely died at the same time, probably because he was texting and driving, or we choked simultaneously at AYCE sushi.  Please see above.

James Briggs, if you are reading this, fuck bud.  Life just took a giant shit on you because that means Mom, Dad and Gino are all dead along with me.  Try and get my animals somewhere safe, otherwise do whatever works, man. FERDA.

Living Will Declaration
Page 5/7 Additional instructions or limitations 

Alright, here’s the deal on the harvest of my sweet, sweet organs and eyeballs and how long I wanna be hooked up for:

• I am not listed officially as on organ donor but feel free, if I’m hanging on the brink and it’s not looking good, to make the decision to slice and dice.  I leave this decision with Gino and the folks.  I would like anything that can be used to go to use, I’m just not officially on the DMV paperwork because I read a conspiracy theory once and BOY OH BOY /adjusts tinfoil hat.
• I’m not wanting to be a vegetable and draining anyone’s finances.  If I’m a gonner, per what the medical professionals say and what your gut is telling you, pull that plug Steel Magnolias style. 
• I do not want a showing or a funeral, and ABSOLUTELY DO NOT HAVE AN OPEN CASKET, but if everything is going according to plan I will be in a hole somewhere being eaten by worms and not on display to the public.  If someone was important to me, they’ll get in touch with you. However, if a bunch of people want to show up to throw me in the ground and have a beer after, great. Just remember to pour one out for ya girl. No matter what, don’t let a funeral home take you to the cleaners over little ol me.  I’m not there, yo.
• Also, delete my Facebook page, that dumpster fire will not be my everlasting memorial.

Thank you for reading my aftercare instructions.  If for some reason you need to deviate from this plan, just do your best, I won’t really know the difference anyways ;p

See you suckers on the other side.

Fig. A Amanda's hierarchy of preferred body disposal methods

Boat for Sale.

I tried to sell our boat on craiglist.  It got flagged and taken down.

Don't adjust your polarized Oakleys - this boat is FOR REAL. Imagine you and your bros (or hauxs) on this Sea Ray of freakin' sunshine. Born in 1993, an excellent boat vintage year, by the way -  the color scheme is like a 90s dixie cup, and she drives like one too!

AMAZE YOUR FRIENDS with things like the radio, the steering wheel, and the table that turns into a super uncomfortable bed (ooooo ahhhh!).  Test your relationships as you scream at your boat guests to assist you with putting in, pulling out, and all the various other annoying tasks associated with boat ownership!  Can't wait to get on the lake?  WELL YOU'RE GONNA.

This baby comes with all accessories like the flamingo lights and the stick-on cup holders...actually we're keeping the lights, Wal-Mart just doesn't give those things away, you know.  We will leave you with the (faux) Little Trees Air Freshener and the boat hook (spoiler alert, it'll collapse on you just when you need it most and test how close your marriage is to divorce when you try and dock!)

We never changed the name because an old timey captain said it was bad luck, but in our hearts we named it "Hall and Boats" and the trailer goes by "Totes My Boats" - we'll need you to contractually agree to keep these names.

Bonus:  Sh*tter's never been used!  You can be the first to drop anchor on this bad boy!

Fear and Loathing

Gather 'round, children, and hear the account of my most humble moment on planet earth:  the time I almost shit my pants in the Las Vegas desert.

We've all been there, right?  On vaca, away from home for an extended period. Lotta rich foods, lotta drinking and ZERO regard for your own well-being. Fuck getting enough fiber and sleep. Add the time zone difference from East to West coast and you've got the favorable atmospheric conditions for some plumbing issues.

There I was, Las Vegas, circa 2009.  Me, honey-bro and another couple decided to hit Vegas for a week. In retrospect, I'd like to state that this decision was mistake #1. Allowing my delicate body, one that was only used to a temperate deciduous forest climate and bland foods, to suddenly be thrust into the alcohol soaked sand for more than 2.5 days was an act of hubris.

Mistake #2.  I was trying to "eat my money's worth" at every buffet in Vegas.  I am a human trash pile from blue collar upstate New York.  The fact that I was paying over $30 a whack at each meal was COM. PLETE. bullshit. Hell no, Mr. Casino.  I am tucking in.  The house was gonna lose on this girl.

(Oh, younger Amanda.  You were a purer soul then.)

Flash forward to day 5.  I wasn't ill, per se, but not feeling tip-top, that's for sure.  And there was a sense of foreboding...when you see a certain volume going in, and none coming back out for several days, it can leave one feeling a bit concerned.  But the trip was coming to a close, this was our final night out, and I figured worst case there'd be a few colorful days upon my return to Boston, but that I'd be no worse for wear.

With the clarity of hindsight, I can now see the series of unfortunate events that unfolded:

• For our final dinner out, we decided to go exploring, eventually winding up about a mile off The Strip from our hotel. 
• I remember ordering the veggie burger, you know, to be safe. With that false sense of security, I crammed that mf-er into my pie hole with abandon.  
• Since it was a beautiful night, we decided to walk the mile back rather than taking a cab.
• The route we took back was not populated.  We were walking in the middle of some area that was about to be developed. The bulldozers and bucket trucks were empty and left in the dirt, our only company on the trek back.

It started fine enough.  The desert air that night was refreshing.  I was amongst good friends and the love of my life.  I filled my lungs and...started sweating.  Like, a lot. Surely from the desert heat. We marched on.

"Guys...uh...how much farther do we have left?"

I felt a slight tug. I knew I'd have to make a deposit soon, but there'd be time to make it to our hotel and handle this discretely. 15 more minutes, max.  Nothing to worry about, just make sure to head right to the room when we got back.  No problem.

My pace slowed and I started to fall behind.  What didn't slow was my heart rate. The tug was becoming more of a kick. And it was kicking at 2-minute intervals and falling.  

"Heh...maybe we should uhm...*gasp* call a cab?"

"What?  We're over halfway there now we might as well finish and save some cash."

The kicks, now at 1-minute contractions, suddenly turned to stabs.  I doubled over.

"Woah...you ok?"

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFfffine... heh...just *burp* ..yikes...cramping for some reason..." I stood back up and mopped at my flop sweat with my sleeve.  

"You don't look good at all..."

The next wave of pain sent me almost to my knees.  "Just,...ah...just keep walking guys, I gotta like... figure this out..."

Of course, they didn't keep walking, but were now concerned and audience to quite a spectacle.  

"I need to find a place to stop" I finally admitted, putting away my pride.

"Stop? What do you mean stop...we're in the middle of a construction zone." complained my love.

"I. Need. A. Bathroom." I growled.

"Oh....but there's literally nothing out here..."  he offered helpfully.

"................"

When the pain eased, I limped forward for a while. It was here I began weighing my options. The reality was setting in, I could barely walk, and could clearly not make it back to the hotel with my deteriorating condition.  The group, at this point, was unaware of how serious my situation was.  The intestines were preparing for an emergency evacuation. I had thrown the dice at dinner, and they just turned up snake eyes.

Panicked, I whirled around, looking for something, ANYTHING, for privacy and shelter. An excavator creaked in the wind.

"I...uhm...might have to...go over there for a minute".  Another lie, for the coming tide would not be "over" in a "minute".  My love was now at the correct level of concern.

"Oh...ohmygod....no....no!  Let's keep walking...keep moving don't stop!"

What happened next is one of the few reasons I believe God hasn't abandoned us.  As if appearing from a mirage, a small casino came into vision.  In the middle of nowhere.  And in brightly lit gold letters, flashed "GOLD NUGGET CASINO".  Was this a fever dream?  A joke from the universe?  No matter.  The sight gave me the burst of energy I needed to finish my zombie walk to their door.  Once inside, we were met with the usual punch-in-the-face of light and noise from the slot machines.  Overwhelmed by sensations both internal and external, I bumped into a waitress as I whirled around, trying to orient myself.  My pupils were dilated. I was sweating out food smells.

"Ugh...bathrooms are back there" she said as she nodded her head towards the back and stepped away from me.  I lurched forward and entered the women's room.  It was ENORMOUS.  At least 20 stalls in a long, bowling alley type row, and it appeared no one was in here. I flew into a stall and got to work, hoping to be as efficient as possible and not humiliate myself anymore than I already had.  We had an early flight and everyone needed to get to bed.

Sigh.

As things initiated, my earlier prediction was realized. This would not be quick, nor efficient. The pain: overwhelming. The sweat: unyielding.  I got so sick, I TOOK OFF MY CLOTHES.  LIKE A TODDLER.  I was in the middle of Las Vegas, bare ass naked, sweating, shaking, and on the brink of unconsciousness.  Is this what Elvis felt like in the final moments?

I pressed on.  Quite literally.

My friend texted me at this point as we were pushing about 45 minutes into the ordeal.
Jenn: [Do you need me to come in there?]
Me: [MOST DEFINITELY DO NOT COME IN HERE]
Jenn: [OK but...are you OK?]
Me: [YES.  NO.  I NEED MORE TIME. DON'T COME FOR ME]

Things were still progressing at an alarming rate.  The volume, had I not been so scared for my life, would have impressed me.  I had to take a breather and reassess the surroundings.  Kicking my shorn clothes to the front of the stall, I turned to face my reality.  And the reality was, we needed to reset the playing field.  I gave the porcelain a flush.  It chugged.  It sputtered.  It went down then came right back up.

Wide-eyed in horror, I grabbed my clothes off the floor, opened the door, and ran across the aisle to another stall.  Reminder:  I'm still 200% naked. If there was someone else in the bathroom to behold the pitiful failure of a woman barrel rolling from one stall to another with an armful of her clothes while one toilet overflowed in her wake, I would not know.  Pain seized my body again, and I didn't have time to mourn the loss of humanity left behind.  The second half was about to start.

After an hour and a half, I emerged.  My clothes were soaked.  I was pale.  My hair was drenched and pulled to the top of my head in a matted bun, chunks falling out around my face.  I informed my group that we would be taking a cab and that I estimated I had about 15 minutes to get to the hotel.

The rest of the night was spent on a moist pile of week old towels in the bathroom, cramping, crying, praying.  There was nothing left to give, but my body tried anyways, for HOURS.  With the light of dawn, my love creaked open the door to my sick den.

"Hey.....so, um..we have a flight in a few hours?"
I looked up from my towel pile with the expression of a rabid raccoon.
"I NEED YOU TO GO FIND IMODIUM"
"Will that help, or...I mean you still need to pack..."
"I AM NOT FLYING IF I CAN'T STOP SHITTING."
"Right! OK...Imodium..."

I am happy to report we were able to catch our flight.  It was the scariest plane ride I've ever had to take, every bump of turbulence had me conducting a body scan.  I was popping Imodium like pez.

They say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and proving that theory, QUITE a bit of me stayed. 

To the vet who put my dog down

Dear Dr. Hurst,

It is with conflicting feelings that I am reaching out to you.  On the evening of May 18th, you stepped into our exam room and, quite honestly, dropped some really shitty news. Not by any fault of your own, the role of the messenger is a shitty job.

I want to begin with the fact that we were at a different ER before coming to you.  I had a weird feeling we needed to change locations, despite that office having our records and expecting us.  Perhaps because I haven't procreated, and therefore have channeled all my pent up maternal energy into my canine companion, I was granted some otherworldly insight.  That's all I have to explain how we won the lottery to end up in your care that evening.

I'm sorry you had to see her like that.  She was an amazing dog and, had she been well, would have charmed your socks off. But those gentle giants aren't meant long for this world, and her faulty heart made sure she wasn't an outlier in the longevity department.

She had been misdiagnosed with seizures and we spent a very scary and frustrating week caring for her as she fell, wet herself, refused to eat cheeseburgers (her favorite) and slowly lost all ability to function for more than 10 minutes without an episode of unconsciousness.

When you introduced yourself, compassion rolled off you in waves. You were kind and understanding.  You gave us options (even when there really wasn't any) and explained the process when we came to that conclusion. You were so gentle with her, she liked being spoken to.  In one of my darkest moments, I was grateful for your presence.  We fell to pieces before we could properly thank you and didn't get to see you again.  I'm sure being the night shift ER vet doesn't bring many joyful outcomes. Please know what you did for us was unreasonably amazing.  I thank you deeply and will never forget it.

While my opinion on the divine is complicated, dogs are one of the few tethers to my belief that something in the universe cares.  We don't deserve dogs. And I sure didn't deserve her unconditional love. And we're so thankful you were working that night she had to leave, thus becoming another instance that makes me squint up at the sky and think "maybe...".

Thank you.

On Six Shooter Coffee

One time, after drinking at Six Shooter Coffee in the Waterloo Arts District of Cleveland, I almost shit my pants. I attribute this solely to their ability at crafting a quality caffeinated beverage that unintentionally (?) sends a piledriver to the digestive system. If anything, their product is too good and should come with a warning label for those of us sensitive to peristaltic events.

There I was, meeting with a graphic designer on branding for a new blog idea.  I had ordered a cappuccino prior to the meeting to go over my notes, which under normal circumstances is innocent enough.  I ordered a second once the designer arrived so I could sip smartly while nodding at his ideas, like a grown up.

Just as we were getting to the business end of the discussion, my coffee was getting to the business end of my lower intestines. We still had a few colors to decide on as well as narrow the design down to a few directions.  Sensing a change on the internal barometer, I glanced nonchalantly towards the restroom.  There's only one at Six Shooter Coffee, and it's a single hitter.  Being at the prime coffee fetching hour, at least one person was in line at all times - less than ideal conditions to make anything happen here. Thinking we had 10-15 minutes to go, I estimated that I could conclude this meeting, make the 45-minute drive home, and deal with all of this in the comfort of my own porcelain.

I estimated incorrectly.

About five minutes after settling back into the discussion, I broke out into a sweat.  "Strong coffee here, huh?" I stammered as I wiped my upper lip. We pressed on, and so, too, did the blooming pressure in my lower abdomen. It became so intense that at one point during this professional-ass meeting, I shot up from our table, hoping that straightening out my innards would calm the storm.  And then just stood there.  We exchanged confused looks.  "Sorry...uh, my legs were falling asleep" I gasped as I pointed at one of the designs and asked how he felt about blue. He launched into what I could only assume was color theory, I'm not sure because I was no longer listening.  My entire body was now sweating and shaking slightly.  I couldn't delay my departure another minute.

"Listen, Robert, whatever color scheme you think is fine."
"...But I mean, this is your brand, this should really spea-"
"WHATEVER YOU THINK IS FINE.  I... have to bounce to another meeting so just send me some options, I trust you completely!"

I grabbed my bag and penguin-walked out the door.  The pain was excruciating, but the fresh air seemed to calm things a bit, and after three dragon breaths at the car, hope was restored.  I climbed in and buckled up, I just might be able to make it home yet!

Wrong again.

No sooner had I pulled onto I-90, prepared to spirit home, than did things take a turn.  An invisible, crushing hold was on me, like a toddler squeezing a toothpaste tube, and that cap ain't on there too tightly.  My plans must change to accommodate the new timeline so I took the next exit, expecting to find a gas station or McDonald's, like at any other on/off ramp in this city.  Alas, in my haste I took an exit to an industrial area,  walls of buildings with no public access and lines of blighted others met me and my speeding Honda Element.  It was here I began to panic.  I had already unbuttoned my pants and pushed my seat back, hoping to offer some relief. My shirt was soaked through.

"It was only cappuccino..." I whispered to God.

I slowed the car down to a stop after realizing the empty street only had empty industrial buildings as far as the eye could see.  I texted my husband.

[I might have to shit in the Honda]
[What?]
[I can't find a bathroom and its a super emergency]
[Like no bathrooms anywhere?]
[What do I do]
[How is there not a gas station where are you?]
[Do we have dog doo bags in here]

A seizure of pain wracked my body and I gripped the steering wheel until it passed.  I had mere minutes, I could not hold the gates much longer.  I moved the car forward to find a discrete place to die.

BUT THEN.

On the horizon.  The world's tiniest Subway was attached to an abandoned strip of stores.

Lights on.
Open.

On two wheels, I pulled the Element in. I opened the door and stood up, almost immediately doubling over with pain.  It was here I almost lost the war, how cruel to be so close. Somehow, someway, the contraction ebbed.  I straightened, and slowly made my way inside, giddy with relief.

This Subway did not have restrooms in the seating area.
Any.
At.
All.

It had a drink machine, a small cooler with bottles, a sandwich makin' counter, and a western style door leading to the back of the house. Tears welled in my eyes as a young woman made her way from the back to the counter.  I limped to the cooler and grabbed a Sprite, then limped to the register.

"OnespritepleasemayIuseyourbathroom?"

She looked scared.  I looked ill. Pale, sweaty and resembling someone coming off hard drugs, I threw a wadded and moist $5 bill on the counter.  We both knew I wasn't really asking.

"S-sure - just back there.."

I turned, took a labored breath, and began the extremely slow walk to the broom closet/employee bathroom where I would be baptized by fire, for it was by the divine love of the infant Christ that I did not shit my pants in front of this scared stranger.

And so concludes the second worst bathroom emergency of my life.

The Ol' Shit-and-Run

To the gentleman who shit on the wall at the winery in which I work:

It's not THAT you shit, or that you shit on the wall, the floor, and sent a nuclear bomb to our plumbing that came up through the urinal. No, no, I actually found the feat itself rather impressive and mildly amusing in a twisted sort of way.

It's that you knew.

You knew the evil you were impregnated with and you knew we only have ANCIENT one-seater bathrooms with a line 15 people deep at any given moment. And yet you stood in that line, defiant, massaging your lower abdomen with noticeable flop sweat. We locked eyes on my way up the stairs because I know the signs. And I thought, "is this joker REALLY about to destroy that bathroom?" And in that moment, you smirked. And when the old woman scrambled up the stairs wide-eyed, pale, stammering about the bathroom being flooded, I knew exactly what happened. And goodness knows I've been there. I've abused food in such a way that has left me cold, shivering, naked on a restroom floor begging for the sweet embrace of death. But given a 20-minute leeway, such that you had, I would have chosen the vineyard over a one stall bathroom in a winery that was a former church.

Jesus saw what you did... next time leave a 20 spot on the can, you soulless monster.

On Rural Half Marathons

At some point in my life, I was decent at running.  Not qualifying for Boston or anything, but I could squeak out 9 or 10 minute miles for long distances.  The day I hit 16 miles on a trail behind good old Kent State University I decided it was time to take my talents on the road.  I searched the interwebs for upcoming races, and lo, in a few weeks, there was one in Wooster, Ohio. This was rather convenient because my crush at the time was from Wooster, Ohio.  Geography Tom.  *Sigh*

Geography Tom was a kid I sat next to in, shocker, geography class.  It was one of the undergraduate requirements so they had several sections and stuffed as many scholars into the lecture halls as possible.

Of all the geography sections in all the campus, you had to come walkin' into mine.

He was a tall drink of water and made fun of the meathead wrestler in front of us.  After much low key flirting, we eventually exchanged AIM screen-names towards the end of the semester (WHICH WAS A BIG DEAL REMEMBER? IT WAS BASICALLY A PHONE NUMBER), class ended and so, too, my crush. Or so I thought.  One random night I messaged him on AIM asking if he knew of any parties because YAWN I sure was bored.  An hour later I was at his friend's apartment hearing Wonderwall for the first time. The beer pong game stopped so everyone could sing along.
I.
Was.
STARSTRUCK.
Everyone was belting this tune out, and that song was so good! I couldn't wait to add it to a mix CD later.  *Side note, Wonderwall came out in 1995.  This was 2004ish.  I MISSED HEARING ONE OF THE MOST OVERPLAYED SONGS OF THE 90s UNTIL I WAS A SOPHOMORE IN COLLEGE A DECADE LATER. This unfolded before me in an embarrassing way, but that tale is for another time.* In that moment, it was magic, and I thought the divine was pointing me towards his beer-bonging direction.

So, there I was, signing up for my first half marathon in Wooster, Ohio. Wooster is a fairly rural area where the local demographic is about 99% white farmer.  I should have known not many people would show up to a half-marathon in rural Ohio.

*foreshadow*

I planned and plotted, picked out a super cute running outfit (and did NOT wear it for a test drive beforehand because I wanted it to be perfect and cute the day of!  JFC) and slowly dropped hints on AIM as to my plans that I'd be in the area of his hometown where he happened to live during the summer, and I just so happened to be running a local half.  Oh, you ran track?  How neat! Oh!  That'd be great if I can couch surf because I have to be up SO early for the run, and why YES let's hang the night before, such a good idea. After printing out directions from mapquest, I was off to GLORY.

And in all honesty, that night was amazing.  We grabbed dinner at Crapplebees, played mini golf, drove around back country roads listening to Crossfade in his CJ7 with the roof off...  It was a perfect early 2000s summer evening by all accounts.

Then came race morning.  I guess things started ok.  I looked super cute when he dropped me off at the church where the race was starting and ending.  I checked in and told him I'd see him when I crossed the finish, then noticed there weren't that many people on the list...and they all seemed to be part of local running clubs. Huh.  No matter, I put on my headphones and got in place behind the starting timer.

And we were off!  Cruising right along....at quite a clip...jeeze they weren't messing around... but that's ok, I had some Britney on the mp3 and after a few clicks to skip the songs, it died.  Completely. Shit. Its. Pants. and I am not a runner that can run to the sound of her own thighs slapping together.  Speaking of, those super cute shorts DID let my thighs slap together, and I was getting a super huge welt between them. Within the first mile the entire group pulled ahead of me.

There I was, dead last in a half that was clearly just a training run for some Boston bound running clubs in rural Ohio.  And my heart's freaking delight was waiting for me at the finish line, where, at this rate, I would surely roll in an hour after the gazelles.   I tried to pick it up and made it to mile 8 before realizing this was about to be humiliating.  When the support van pulled up, I waved the white flag of defeat.  I sat stone faced in the back as I traveled with them to pick up the road cones and water stations.  I'd have to fake an injury...sprained ankle? ...heat stroke?

We pulled into the church just as the middle of the pack runners were coming down the road. Only we didn't pull to the side parking lot where the timer was or the cars and crowd had gathered .  WE PULLED INTO THE FRONT WHERE NO ONE WAS OR COULD SEE ME EXIT THE MEAT WAGON.  #blessed

"THANKSVERYMUCH" I yelled to the road crew and ran into the church.  Runners that had already finished were getting their post-race banana and water bottle.    I, too, grabbed the post race banana (a sure sign of race completion) along with all my shit and walked straight out of there and to Geography Tom's truck.  He was reading a newspaper when I knocked on his window.

"Hey!"  I said.

He startled.  "Holy shit - I didn't think you'd be done so soon."  He looked at the radio clock on the dash. "DAMN you made great time!  I'm sorry I missed you finishing....Geeze I didn't know you were such a runner.  I'd love to run a race with you sometime - let me know about the next one!"

"Sure, sure" I said.  "If you can keep up."

I know this face-saving opportunity was a gift from heaven, and I lied my tiny running shorts off taking advantage of it.  Sorry, Jesus.

And Geo Tom, if you ever read this, uh....well you might think this was all a little stalker-ish.  And you might be right.  But you were so cool! And I felt so dorky in comparison, and in my efforts to play it chill, my perfectly orchestrated plan fell apart. If I had to do it all over again.... I'd still do the same fucking thing.  :)

I had a blast, and hope you did, too.

My email to the Franzia Boxed Wine company

To:  info@franzia.com
Subject: A Proposition and a Toast

Dear Team Franzia,

I am writing this email to you as both a wine enthusiast and fan of your boxed wine line of adult beverages.  What started has a joke has grown into a fond appreciation for your brand and product, and I only wish I could go back in time to tell 21 year old me to slow down and smell the grape mash.   No need to rush through it in a game of Easter Wine Pong (which was amazing, by the way), rather sit back and let the notes hit you like the boozy kiss they were intended to be.

Yes, my college debauchery ended up fermenting into true fandom, like the sour grapes that one day make a fine box of wine.  To prove my commitment to your product, I am attaching a photo from the 2013 Somerville Jingle Bell 5k  (and one taken at home, just for funzies).  To be clear, I’m the one in the box of Crisp White. I don’t often like to toot my own horn, but let’s just say I was the toast of the town that day.   Of all the high fives and awkward hugs I received, never was there a bad word for Franzia.  There was nothing but love for your brand of boxed wine, and as I ran around Boston that day, there were plenty of other people who became fans, too.   Which got me thinking….

Franzia email answerer, I hope you’re sitting down, because I have an idea that will blow the proverbial cork out of your bottle, or rather, the wine bladder out of your box.  

Imagine, if you will, a Franzia sponsored semi-decent athlete, competing in local races adorned in your brand.  It would be best if said athlete was not of rock-hard stature, because when they finish more towards the back of the pack without placing in the top 10, 15, 20, maybe even 40% of their competitors, it's all good, because they're going to sit down to a nice box of wine (amongst friends, we can add those in there if you're concerned about promoting over-consumption).  I know what you’re thinking….”WOW great idea, but WHO ON EARTH would be both an amateur athlete not of a god-like physique who can also appreciate our great products?!”.  Fear not, my ambrosia producing friends, for I am ready and able to slosh around town in a box of wine, ready to usher in the next generation of wine aficionados from the Millennial era and point them in your celebrated direction.

But for reals, thanks for the boss wine and solid green production practices that your company partakes in.  Super cool.  And just kidding about being a Franzia-sponsored athlete.**

From the bottom of the bottle, er…box,

Amanda

**Unless you think it’s awesome, then I’m totally in.  You now have my contact details, consider me standing by ;)

Et tu, husband?

"Don't worry, babe, no one is dressing up!"

I stared at the Christmas party e-vite again.

"...But it says casual or formal dress, what does that even mean?  How can you have both like that?"

"Seriously, the higher-ups are trying to get as many people there as possible. All the floor workers are going and they all said they aren't dressing up. You can totally wear that Christmas sweater and leggings. Hell, you might even be *too* dressy looking like that."  He winked. "This is going to be super casual."

A few hours later we were walking up to the venue.  I adjusted my bright red reindeer sweater and Christmas themed leggings as we approached the Quail Hallow Country Club. Our arrival was a half hour into cocktail hour, perfect to avoid too much small talk.  He had on dress jeans and a velvet blazer, which he meant to wear as a joke, though it fit him well and looked formal, all things considered.  I chuckled, imagining him standing out next to everyone else in hoodies and casuals clothes.

He held the door open for me and we entered the room set up for "Casino Night".  The staff, in suits, was putting some final touches on tables and adjusting chairs.  We were told the rest of the company was in the "Main Ballroom". I started to feel uneasy. "...Usually casino nights are dressy, isn't thi-"
I stopped short.  As we came to the top of the staircase, below us lay the ENTIRE Perkin-Harper Company, ENTIRELY dressed up.  CEOs, their wives, the employees of all levels, gathered around crystal glassware and formal table settings.  There were tuxedos and ballgowns and cocktail dresses, but not one hoodie or sneaker as previously promised.  There was, however, one Christmas sweater, and it had actual bells on it.  I gasped and instinctively took several steps backwards, my sweater jingled softly.  As realization slowly fell over me, and I turned to my betrayer.  He looked confused, and also a little frightened.

"Dude..."  I hissed.  "I thought you said this was CASUAL".

"Well it said so on the invi-

"THIS IS NOT CASUAL."   I crept to the edge of the staircase again.  "JESUS CHRIST, THEY ALL HAVE BALLGOWNS."

We started our descent.  Everyone turned to look at who had just arrived.  Smiles faded to confused looks, then away from us, quickly. Soon, I was being introduced to co-workers and their well appointed wives.

"Amanda, this is Greg, he's on that big project I was telling you about."

"Hey Amanda! Nice to meet you."  Greg's handshake was a little too enthusiastic.  The bells adorning my sweater jingled aggressively.

"This is my wife Charlotte -".

Charlotte extended her thin hand.  "SO nice to meet you!"  She was trying, but couldn't hide her judgmental "up-down" glance of the Christmas themed dumpster fire that stood before her.

After a few more awkward exchanges where Rudolf and the gang met major players on my husband's team, I went to the bar for a gin and tonic.  The bar tender, dressed more formal than myself, sent the rocks glass over.

Bless her, she made it strong and didn't even take my complimentary drink ticket.

Klean Kanteen Review

A little review I left on Amazon:

Stars: 5

Subject:  Almost gave 3 stars for as many degree burns as it gave my mouth hole

Review:  Can we please start selling these with a warning?  Some sort of red alert label stuck to the cover you must see and acknowledge before breaking the seal?  How many countless drinking vessels have we encountered in a lifetime that conditioned us to believe that heat retaining technology doesn't exist for civilians?  Satan's canteen here is no joke. It was a late summer morning. I boiled some water for tea and decided I was going to take the long way to work.  I let that devil mug ride in my car's cup holder for almost an hour before I remembered it and went for what surely was to be a swig of lukewarm hibiscus flavored water. SIKE.  BURN TOWN, BABY.  HOPE YOU DIDN'T WANT TO TASTE ANYTHING FOR A MONTH. How many holiday gifted, off-brand, company logo bedazzled, hot/cold thermoses do we have sitting in our cupboards at this very moment that can't hold a degree for five minutes?  And then Klean Kanteen walks up in here, all in its "fun" colors and cute alliteration, and we're supposed to take it seriously?  WELL YOU BEST BE DOING SO.  It's been MONTHS now later and I still can't taste sour things correctly, it's like a blind spot on my tongue.  Seekers of warm beverage vessels, HEED MY WARNING.  The Klean Kanteen will be the only witness as pure lava disintegrates your esophagus while you flail and claw at your chest and throat, eventually grabbing onto the back of a chair and praying to your god for mercy.

Overall, dank thermos, just remember to let your coffee sit for 5 hours first.

"Mac n' Cheetos" a mac n' cheese snack: review

It'd been a bad day. I only needed paper towels. But there I was, answering the frozen snack aisle's siren call with no nutritional value in sight. Staring at my reflection in the wall freezer's glass, I wondered where I had gone wrong.

I grabbed a box of the Mac n' Cheetos and shoved it into the cart next to the booze and ice cream and headed for the check out, looking around me to ensure no one saw my shame. I didn't make eye contact with the cashier. I could see in my peripheral that she smirked knowingly.

Back at the house, I fired up the oven to the instructed 450*. I carefully laid out my frozen purchases. The orange color was not created by Jesus or nature. In 11 short minutes I was staring at 24 "c" shaped forms, some had split their shells and were oozing cheese.

Overall, the outer shell of cheeto dust was crispy and cheeto like. The inner cheese was as expected, much like Kraft mac n' cheese powder you re-liquify with some sort of dairy product, and included whole macaroni noodles. However, the liquid cheese quickly coagulated faster than a rattle snake victim's blood. These treats were not meant to be savored, but rather inhaled to fill a deep internal hole.

If you didn't hate yourself before eating these, you will soon after.

Summary: 3/5 stars, would buy again if they were on sale.