I'm Getting Fat

Everyone knows that in the winter, it's normal to put on a few pounds, like we're hibernating. You wear wool and flannel and parkas, the gluttony of the Holidays. It's perfectly acceptable, even animals do it. I've been extremely fortunate, and my weight hasn't fluxuated very much at all, except for two specific occasions. There are two specific times in my life when this has happened, and surprisingly, it's been weightloss, not gain. When I had my first seriously devastating break-up, and I survived on coffee for about a week- my body didn't know if it was hungry, nauseated, nervous, so I barely ate anything. Then there was the time that I moved out of my mother's house for the first time, relying on myself to do groceries and prepare my own food. Most college freshman put on a freshman fifteen, I lost the freshman fifteen. Friends visited and grew concerned about my nutrition, rightfully so. Money, and therefore food shopping, was an bit of an issue. I can remember eating a sandwich made of cinnamon raisin bread, fluff, and cucumbers. Maybe I was delusional, but I think I liked it?  Don't tell my mom this, but once or twice, I went to sleep hungry, assuming that it would be gone in the morning.

This winter, however, a number of things have changed. Barely noticable to the naked eye and those around me, but proven by a dress I wore to a wedding last year no longer zipping, I put on *gasp* five pounds. My apartment is a lot farther away from everything, so I've been taking the bus a lot more. I could not resist a Tony's molasses donut for breakfast, then I'd eat a delicious Rosemont Bakery ham and cheese croissant for lunch, plus a various mix of assorted coffee drinks throughout the day. Vegetables? What vegetables. Possibly in some veggie cream cheese on my bagel. I was (well, still am,) drinking a lot of cheap beer, and eating at Pizza Villa all the time (ham Italian, no onion, no olives, no oil, plus pineapples or a meatball sub, since it's cheap, and a block from my house. This is a big one: I rounded the corner of my twenties, which means, maybe my metabolism is finally slowing down.

Anyway, there's a really easy way of dealing with this, or so I thought. It was only a matter of time before I shed this winter weight, and in the meantime, Spanx. I wore Spanx under my jeans, under my tights, dresses, and sometimes after a long day, I'd pass out in bed with all of my clothes on, Spanx included. Beyonce wears them too:

But something bad happened. I think I abused the privilege of the Spanx. Here is a picture taken a few weeks ago from a nice morning hike up Bradbury Mountain that I took with Angela Pizzo. I asked Darcy if it was a difficult climb, and she said that I could go up the mountain in a wheelchair.

OH MY GOD, I'm maimed for life! I don't know when exactly I finally noticed this, and it's only on my left leg, but holy shit. Alright, well. A few things to consider: Since then, I've been cutting my donuts in half and throwing the other half away. I got sneakers to go on walks/jogs/the gym. There's a gym at USM that I can use for free, although I don't even know how it works. When my budget allows, I'll order a vodka soda, with it's low sugar content, over a cheap beer. There are precious few weeks before beach weather rolls around, and I don't intend on spending the summer in a baggy t-shirt to hide my Spanx scar.

I might need to rethink the name of this thing.

Scratchpad Reading Series, Take One

For those of you who follow me is an RSS feed (whatever that means), Google Reader, and are around Portland this week I'm reading some of my writing on Tuesday night at Mama's Crowbar. It's kind of exciting! If anyone ends up filming or recording, I'll be sure to post it here. Wish me luck!

For more information, go here.

Texts from Today

Me: I have a sinking feeling they're getting back together.

Former Lover: At least she can't say anything if you and I hook up, then?

Me: Wait, did she tell you that I threated to start sleeping with you if she started hanging out with him?

FL: Oh my god, you are amazing. No, she didn't.

FL: That's going in my blog.

Me: Not if I blog about it first!!!

FL: Again with the amazing.

Bump!

Have you ever been asked to Bump?

This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.

It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.

Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:

I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)

It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:

So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.

As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.

The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.

Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app:

Portland Pins

Google really is a funny thing.

http://www.portlandpins.com/tag/amanda-pleau/

Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder...

Names Have Been Changed to Protect... Someone.

In my last post, if you happened to see right when it was originally posted, you saw sightly different, slightly more realistic names used. Although it's not even close to the funniest, offensive, raciest story I've told, I received a lot of heat from all kinds of different sources.

So, this text conversation ensued, word for word:

Me: Okay, what do you want your fake blog name to be?

Javier: What suits me?

Me: Well, my first thought was something ridiculous, like Javier.

Javier: Holy shit. I had Javier typed out, but I erased it because I didn't want to seem racist. No joke.

(stunned two minute pause.)

Me: You're the apple of my eye.

Happy Easter

In My Wine, Belly Up

There are things that you do when you're in a relationship, standard procedure, unless you really suck at being in a relationship. You meet parents, you attend work functions, you go on double dates, holidays, etc. These things are mildly annoying and can be borderline unpleasant. Last summer, I was involved romantically, sort of, with an ex-boyfriend. Javier and I, we were retrosexing, if you will. The details of the relationship, subsequent break-up, the whole story is irrelevant, however, I will say this: the first time we saw each other over coffee after three years, I thought to myself, yup, what an ass hole, this is never going to happen; and he thought to himself, yup, I'm into it. He was right, obviously, because a year later we were making out and I was driving to Auburn to have dinner with him at his boss's house, a very relationship-like thing for me to be doing with someone I'd already broken up with, years earlier. (Editor's note: to Javier's credit, he's handsome, funny and smart. The fact that he isn't in a serious long term relationship is minorly baffling, especially because as we all know, girls are into ass holes.)

Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.

Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.

The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.

Party in the USA

Some friends of mine are in this hardcore band, and this video went viral a little while back- Perez Hilton tweeted it. I love this video, I love this song.

I love this song so much, in fact, that I played it once at bowling, and it blew the speaker. This is not a joke, Miley Cyrus actually blew the speaker at Yankee Lanes, right around lane 20, and it was actually my fault. Bowl Portland is over for Hyperbowle, and it was a great run. Despite never quite performing at the top of our game, we had a great time, a great team. There were some great memories, like the time Nat rolled over 200 to Don't Stop Believing, or the time I fell (crumbled?) into the lane, and DJ Mic Check. I'm not totally sure what I'm going to do with my Tuesday nights from here on out.

Members Only: The Mile High Club

It seems like a great time to go on a cross-country roadtrip. Kate Digby Skinner and I were Skyping, and throwing around ideas for such a trip, and somehow, the subject of having sex on a plane came up, and I told her this story.

I tried to join the mile high club, once, sort of. On my way back from Paris last year, I had a connecting flight in Munich. I've flown with a boyfriend on one trip, we did not do it, and the rest of my limited time in the air has been alone. Darcy once had a party on a trans-continental flight with the crew and some of her friends in the back of a plane, and during a rowdy game of Never-Have-I-Ever half the staff admitted to doing it, which makes me really want to be a flight attendant.

It was overcast but bright, in Germany that day, and the terminal was very white. Very few of the signs were in English, and it's really ignorant of me to assume that everything will be in English everywhere. So I'm exhausted, ready to go home, almost out of money, with a long day and a long flight ahead of me. I was probably alternating reading a book and people watching, trying to decide who was American and who wasn't, which I was terrible at. David Sedaris had a really funny passage in Me Talk Pretty about identifying Americans by their clothing, but it didn't help. Just as I'm thinking about this, a man sat next to me, a few seats over, and starts talking. Really, I couldn't have cared less. He seemed like kind of a d-bag, bragging about how much he travels and how easy loud, obnoxious American tourists are to spot. (If I can't identify them, does that mean I am one? Like, if you don't know anyone like Michael Scott from the Office it means you ARE Michael Scott?) He's wearing jeans, sneakers, a ball cap, possibly lightweight North Face jacket. Oh, and a black longsleeve shirt, made of some kind of material that people buy if they are very physically active, or camp a lot... I only know that it dries fast and does something like wic the sweat from your body. Darcy was helping me pack for the canoe trip last year, and she said to bring fleece, polyester, or wool... Anything that will dry fast. That's when I realized all of my clothes are cotton- no excessive physical activity or die hard camping for this kid.

I digress. This guy tells me that he's not even sure that he's getting on the plane, because it's overbooked and the airline offered him $100 cash and a night in a hotel to stay in Munich for the night to go on standby. I'm thoroughly annoyed- why didn't Luftansa offer ME that deal? I had a really difficult time getting to Munich, and they owed me. If I had little interest in talking to this man to begin with, when I found this out, it was gone. He was only talking to me because I was alone, American, not fat and under 25- he striked me as the type of guy to have an oval sticker on his SUV. I have this way of acting like a raging bitch and causing people to not want to talk to me anymore, and that's what must've happened, because he got up and walked away.


Without a doubt, I'm judgemental. But as quickly as said judgement is made, I'm willing to change it. I get in line to board, they take my ticket and I'm in. It's a huge plane, and there are a lot of babies and it's taking a long time to get to my seat. I'm at a window, towards the back. When I finally get there, guess who is in the seat next to me. That guy.


"I swear I'm not following you," was my opening line. He smiles. I realize that this guy, Joe, and I are going to share an arm rest for the next six hours. We start talking, and as he's telling me about his travels (Germany for two weeks, drinking a lot of beer,) his job (nurse, but, people often mistake him for the doctor, which probably pisses off the actual doctor, royally,) where he lives, (Idaho,) his hobbies (volunteer smoke jumper, deer hunter, marathon runner, amateur photographer,) things we have in common, (the iPhone, taking planes from Munich.) He laughed at my jokes, I laughed at his. We had two poor quality meals together, he flirted with the stewardess and we got as many free drinks as we wanted- I even napped on his shoulder. It was like a six hour date, and the more time passed, the more attracted to him I became. His body was rock hard, and though I've been known as something of a chubby chaser over the years, this guy was hot... or the pressure in the cabin was low and I was delusional.

It was after I had to stop watching Marley and Me, the in-flight film we were both watching, (because I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably if I didn't take my headphones off immediately and stop watching,) that I started to consider how to make this mile-high club thing happen. Hey, I wasn't a virgin anymore, I could have sex with anyone I wanted to! The world was my oyster! I let my leg touch his leg and he didn't move. I brushed my body against his when I got up to use the bathroom an annoying amount of times, hoping he'd read my mind and follow me in. I'm good, but I'm not that good. But there was no condom, was there? Absolutely not going to risk it. There was no way to get kicked off the plane if we were caught, but would I have to pay a fine or something? We were the only two people in our row, but I was paranoid someone would hear me if I started talking about it.

To make a boring story shorter, we stayed together until the bitter end, through customs, through baggage claim at Logan, I said goodbye, and that's it. I texted him and said he was the handsomest guy I'll ever fly from Munich to Boston with, and we're now friends on Facebook, which is the new first base. I seriously regret nothing happening, but I'm prepared for next time, though, thanks to Kate's sweet Googling skills and this eHow article she found. My favorites are steps 6 and 7:

Having sex on an airplane is many people's fantasy. The idea of engaging in sexual activity high above the rest of the world is so exciting that it leads people to have sex in very uncomfortable situations, like tiny airplane bathrooms. If you want to join the mile high club, follow these steps.

 

Difficulty: Moderately Challenging

 

Instructions

1. Book a flight to anywhere you desire. If you want to have a better opportunity to have sex, take a red-eye flight--most of the passengers will be asleep and you will have more privacy.
2. Find an attractive person to have sex with, if you didn't bring a partner along. Choose someone who is traveling alone and try to negotiate a seat close by so you can invite him to join you in the bathroom.
3. Get up and head for the bathroom one at a time so you are less obvious. Go at a time when you are least likely to be disturbed such as during the in-flight entertainment.
4. Clean the toilet seat and cover it with a seat protector before you sit down to be extra cautious. It's safest to have sex while one partner sits on the toilet so you avoid injury if there is turbulence.
5. Finish quickly because other people may need to use the restroom. Be courteous to others and don't tie up the restroom for too long. Clean up all evidence of your adventure so you stay discreet.
6. Exit together and if anybody approaches you about having sex, deny it. Having sex on an airplane is illegal, so pretend that one of you got sick and the other was helping out.
7. Brag about having sex on an airplane to your friends. You have officially joined the mile high club and you deserve bragging rights.

My New iPhone Case

So, if you know me at all, you know I'm obsessed with my iPhone. I can't LIVE without it, I send and receive 1,500 text messages a month, and you can judge me all you want, just don't take it away. I update my Facebook status, I check my email all the time... Anyway, I'm a huge klutz, and since the iPhone is always with me, it's endured some significant wear and tear. Actually, I broke it twice, and had to get it replaced... Which explains this recent trip to the Apple store, where I got this new case. It's kind of funny, right? It reads, "Juicy Couture: Born in the Glamorous USA."

Train Car Cobbler

Sometimes I consider changing the name of this blog to “My Life with Mandy.”  Together, we’ve had some ridiculous adventures, some hilarious stories, and I believe soon, we will be working together in a more official capacity. She’s my silly little redhead, and if it wasn’t for her, I might not be in Portland at all- I could still be in Burlington, or Boston, or Paris… who knows. Last week, we had once such adventure... to Westbrook.

Mandy has a million pairs of shoes. She needed a pair to be fixed, so we headed out to Paul’s Shoe Repair in Westbrook.  There are a few different cobblers in the area, and it’s one of those things that it seems like everyone has an opinion about. Mary likes the one on Stevens Avenue; Rebecca likes the guy in South Portland, etc. It’s like finding a locksmith or a taylor- something you never think about until you desperately need one. Since I love giving directions to places and I love being right, I always want to know what the best places in town are. I think I’m the only person I know that’s ever been to Paul’s to have shoes repaired, and although it seemed pricey ($50 to repair and resole my boots,) the work was quality, so I didn’t question Mandy’s decision to give this guy her business over the other guys in town. Since my office used to be in Westbrook, and I know that town like the back of my hand, I was able tell her where to park and the fastest way to get there. We even stopped by Mich's work on our way home, just like old times. The shoes in question were bought on Heather’s Etsy, and the tap on the heel crumbled as soon as she got them home. Heather gave her a refund, but they’re too amazing to just cast aside.      

It’s a sunny Friday afternoon when we arrive at Paul’s. The counter is directly in front of the door when you walk in, and we are immediately greeted by a 50-something year old man we can only assume is Paul. It’s like being on stage. There’s no time to look around, gather a feel for the place, talk in low voices to each other to decide what we think. Immediately, you have to state the nature of your business. You know how if you walk into a furniture store, or a record store or the Apple store, wherever, and someone approaches you and you turn them away to say no, you’re just looking, or you need a moment? That was not the case.  After a short lecture about how she could’ve ruined the shoes and that she should’ve brought them in immediately after the taps fell off, he quoted her twenty dollars. Twenty dollars happened to be her preset limit, so we’re good to go.  He’s friendly, in kind of a fatherly way, and since Mandy and I are customer service veterans, we know how to turn on the charm and small talk. I would’ve gone with the whole boring, so, how long have you had the business, are you from around here, etc.  Boring, right? But she jumps in and starts explaining that there were many other cobblers that she could’ve gone to, a subject I feel sort of uncomfortable about, and I have no idea where she’s going with this. So, she’s like, “This isn’t the most convenient location, and you didn’t get the best recommendation, but when I found out there was a cobbler in a train car by the tracks in Westbrook I knew I just had to come! I love trains, my great grandfather spent half his life on a train, I used to manage the Narrow Gauge Railroad… if there’s anything I know and love, its trains. I am a train expert! I even had a one night stand with the man who drives the Amtrack Downeaster!” (Oh, wait… that last part… that was me.)  She is really enthusiastic about this whole train car thing and makes it explicitly clear to this guy.

Paul is holding her debit card in his hands, up high in the air, as if he’s going to conduct an orchestra with it. He’s about to run in through the machine, stops, and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t run this.” Mandy looks confused, and Paul gets serious. “Because… this isn’t a train car.  It’s a mobile home I painted to look like a train car.”

Nice job, train expert, identifying the train car. We leave sheepishly, Mandy's tail is tucked between her legs, and yes, it is so. obviously. a trailer.

The Strangest Email

I recieved this email from my dad yesterday. I'm not entirely sure what exactly he's asking for, but I thought I'd share...

I am on a vengeance to track illegal movie viewing and need your help. Is there some site that I can use to track these pirates? I am working on getting paid for all the illegal sites I can report but I need to know how to track the site for their source of movie downloads.   Basically I want to be a CSI for pirating. We could work together on our computer skills and make some serious money.   Any info you might have on this subject would be a real big help.   Love   Dad

I walked to Save-A-Lot this morning in my pajamas and accidentally bought Jesus eggs.