Top 11 lessons learned at 27

1. Google maps lie.

2. Cannot consume an entire pot of coffee before work because people will think you are on drugs.

3. Instant messaging means that people CAN see things as you type them.

4. I am not allowed to have unsupervised girl's night out anymore with Ali.

5. Sometimes when the label says "All Natural" it really means "You will have diarrhea for 2 days."

6. It is not a good idea to "explore" Jamaica alone. And if a guy named "Sea-ray" approaches you on the beach, do not make eye contact.

7. Duct tape is the best invention ever in the entire world.

8. Apparently eating two large pizzas in bed with husband at 2am on wedding night is not the norm. But it is delicious. We got breadsticks too.

9. When they say, "Don't take your digital camera on the float trip"…consider not taking the digital camera on the float trip.

10. Lime-A-Way will turn your eyebrows freaky-neon-orange. And Lime-A-Way doesn't care when you're getting married. So when scrubbing bathroom…keep hands away from face.

11. The universe does not want me to have a driver-side mirror.

There are about 37 other things that I should be doing right now. I’m a little overwhelmed. And so…I blog.

I’m not sure if there is some sort of rule or something I don’t know about but my question is this: Why in the world do people wear such ridiculous things to mow their grass?

As I was driving home tonight I saw a man with an eerie resemblance to Will Ferrell mowing his lawn in VERY SHORT cut-off jean shorts. He was sporting a full vest of gnarly man-chest-hair and wearing a hip pack. I almost wrecked my car.

It’s almost as if mowing the lawn gives people the excuse to wear whatever kind of goofy clothes they want. I don’t think that mowing warrants a denim diaper. That can’t even be comfortable. Heaven forbid you cut your grass in normal length shorts.

Amy’s 9 rules for lawn mowing attire:
1. No visible arm-pit holes . The key word here is visible.
2. Wear a bra.
3. Wear something over your bra.
4. No swimming goggles (I’m serious).
5. Don’t rock the high school football jersey from 1992. Dude…let go.
6. No sweatbands…DAD!
7. Alright, I wear sweatbands…sometimes. Alright, and wrist bands. Shut-up.
8. If it feels like your butt-crack is hanging out of your pants…your butt- crack is probably hanging out of your pants. Please pull your pants up.
9. Do not, under any circumstances, wear a Speedo. Unless you are Mathew MaConaughey. And then…you must always wear a Speedo. Everywhere.

20 days to go!

Wow. I'm getting married in exactly 20 days. I'm going to be a Mrs. in 20 days. I'm pretty happy about the new last name. I could have gotten stuck with something like Amy Bloblaw or Amy Ramsbottom or well, just something not nearly as cool as Hietter (pronounced Heater). Yes, Johnny almost has the exact same name as Napoleon Dynamite.

I'm so excited about the honeymoon. That is, assuming that Jamaica is still there in a couple of weeks. I'm going to try to convince Johnny to go to a nude beach. I don't want us to be nude. I just think it's fascinating that there are places where naked people just walk around like it's no big deal.

The wedding planning is going really well. There have been a couple of disagreements between my mom and me. One particular argument ended with, "Amy, I'm not going to let you have a gypsy-clown wedding". Apparently, she did not like my idea to use feathers and beads in the floral arrangements. Gypsy-clown wasn't really what I was going for. I was also told that I am not allowed to bedazzle anything myself including the invitations.

I would honestly be lost in this whole process without my mom. Really, I would be lost without her in general.

I'm relatively calm. Two or four years ago I would have been a nervous wreck about this. I just am not going to get too worked up. If it rains, fine. If it doesn't, super. If grandpa pees in the parking lot in front of everyone…well, let's just hope he can hold it this time. I'm just happy to be with all of the people that care about me.

It is just one day. A very important day. But in the end all that really matters is that we both say "yes" and that I get to spend the rest of my life with my best friend…which is pretty cool.

My Honda, my Honda, wherever I go she goes too. My Honda and me!

I recently started a new job in Branson. I have always enjoyed driving. Every morning when I leave Springfield for work I feel like I'm going on a mini-road trip. I have my BIG coffee, a banana, and my on-my-way-to-work playlist that rocks. I love the drive down 65, especially on foggy mornings. It is gorgeous.

The part about the drive to work that I don't like so much is my car. Don't get me wrong, I take care of my little Honda. I give her all of her oil changes and vacuum and wash her once a month. I'm pretty sure she is still pissed off at me for the 2004 "ooops that was diesel fuel" incident. Or she could be a little upset about the time that I put a watermelon in her trunk and forgot about it…for about a month. The subsequent mess of fruit flies and stickiness might have created some resentment.

We do really well going down the big hills; however, going UP the big hills is problematic. Every time I start the decent up a hill I have to turn off my air conditioner and shift down to fourth gear. I know it makes my Honda feel inadequate and embarrassed when she sees all of the other vehicles with the little V6 decals pass her going over 40mph. Sometimes I just give her a pat on the dash and tell her, "little Honda, it's all right...all of those guys might be fast but they are paying twice as much to drive from Springfield to Branson."

One of my friends once described my Honda as "persevering as though it possesses a dream of martyrdom." We have been through a lot together. And I am planning on driving her forever. That is unless I win the lottery and am able to buy a super-hybrid car that runs on corn or water or poop or something.

Seriously... the best hybrid anybody could ever come up with is one that runs on doo-doo. It's the ultra-renewable resource. We are never going to run out of sh*t. Ha! I can just see Johnny and I in 10 years with our hybrid poop car, "Honey, we're driving to St. Louis today...I hope you didn't eat any cheese last night." Or "We're running a little low on fuel…better head to Mexican Villa."

Alright, that was fun. Well, I guess I'm basically done here: I like my new job. The drive isn't bad. I want my Honda to be able to run on feces. Happy 4th people!

Next Time I'm Calling the Cops

Yesterday morning I was jogging down National and a group of guys drove by me, screaming at me out of their car windows, "SLUT!" I'm not sure whose definition of slut they were using. Jogging down the street in no-make-up and covered in sweat and dead gnats is not slutty. In fact, not at all.


Just because I am wearing a sports bra does not mean I am a whore. I am not wearing my sports bra to church; I am not wearing my sports bra and standing on a street corner handing out BJ's. I am wearing my sports bra because it is freaking 90 degrees outside and humid as hell and I would rather not run six miles wearing a sweatshirt.


The reason I am jogging down a busy street is because it is busy. Not because I am a tramp. If I wanted to get kidnapped I would run in some sort of desolate area. They make episodes of 20/20 and 48hrs about this stuff.


This is not the first time I have had a problem with stupid people harassing me mid-run. I have had people scream obscenities at me like, Bitch, Hoe, Whore, Tramp, and sometimes people just like to scream. What is wrong with these people? Do they have nothing better to do with their lives than to yell obscenities at joggers?


I am super pissed off about this. I take my running pretty seriously. That is MY TIME. I use my morning run to center myself, meditate, and get ready for my day. And when some dick burger screams stupid shit out his window at me…it screws up my whole system.


Those rude pricks had better watch out because next time someone messes up my run I am getting their license plate number and calling the cops.

Random stuff I see in Springfield, MO

There is a god...now we can buy all of our swords, dragons, and knives at the same place!

I wonder how this is working out....

My Phone Looks Like a Pile of Dog Poop

A couple of months ago I bought this fancy new phone.

All of the celebrities have their I-pods, phones, and laptops adorned with Swarovski Crystals. How neat. If only I had an extra $900 sitting around, I too would have a fancy phone like Paris and Nicole.

I was in Best Buy and I saw these little pink stick-on gemstones for $4.99 a package. YES I LOVE STICK ON GEMSTONES! I decided to bedazzle the heck out of my phone. I spent hours sticking these glorious little gems all over my new phone. It looked awesome.

3 days later I had these pink and silver fake diamonds stuck in my carpeting, they were in my bed, on my clothes, in my hair, stuck to my dog. Then I thought, alright, maybe if I super glue them on my phone they'll stay.

This was a great idea in theory, however, I didn't really think this one all the way through. Aside from the obvious and semi-permanent fusion of my fingers, the super glue (even when dry) collects all kinds of fun stuff. Now my phone doubles as a filthy collage of dirt, crumbs, dog hair, tobacco and really dirty, cheap, fake press-on jewels.

Yummy

I'm not growing up because pants with elastic waists scare the crap out of me

This past weekend I was feeding my fiery bargain shopping addiction at a store that shall remain nameless. I browsed the racks of oh-so-cute cheaply made and cheaply priced clothing. I grabbed a couple of things to try on, one being this bright yellow empire waist sundress (very short sundress, okay more of a this-should-be-a-shirt-but-it's-a-dress sundress).

I was waiting for a dressing room, casually studying the other people in line when I had a very startling revelation; I am not 22 years old anymore! I was in line next to a twelve year old waiting to try on a dress that was probably designed for a twelve year old.

Am I too old to shop in the juniors section?

Am I becoming that old lady? That one old lady whose pleather pants blatantly brand her so far in denial of her age that she looks like a fool. Please tell me this is not happening!

Inside the dressing room I slipped the bright yellow dress over my head. Darn-it. It fit and it was cute.

I left the fitting area and made my way to the Women's Section. I studied the racks of shapeless tops and long stretchy skirts and pants. No shortage of elastic-waist jeans there. I picked up a pair of long shorts with a double-pleat in front and thought to myself, Wow, these will definitely fit me…in the highly unlikely event that I grow a second ass out my front side. No thanks!

I suddenly felt like the walls were closing in on me, I envisioned myself ten years older in stirrup pants and an oversize tunic with little teddy bears and bows and stuff embroidered all over it.

I left the store. And I love my new yellow sundress.

Ode to Steak

Oh hello mammoth piece of bloody flesh
He is so excited to eat you
Please don't be overcooked
He likes his steak to moo

In his dreams he licks his lips,
Sometimes he can't sleep 'cause he wants to eat the sheep
And when sleep comes he dreams of Certified Angus Beef

Vegetarian, Vegan, and all the hippie-freaks
He doesn't understand, he feels it's unfair
He indulges in the scrumptious limbs and innards
Poor herbivores, it's a JUNGLE out there

To the Butt faces that sat directly in front of Johnny and I at the 5:35 Matinee showing of Cloverfield at Campbell 16:

Johnny has been begging me for the last two weeks to go to the movie theater with him. I’m not a super huge fan of going to the movies, but Johnny LOVES it. I am especially not a fan of scary movies. Johnny LOVES them. I was told that Cloverfield was a comedy. Sure, I’ll go.

Johnny sent me multiple text messages throughout the day reminding me of the precise moment we would have to leave our house in order to make it to the theater with ample time to buy outrageously expensive junk food and get “the best seats”. Johnny is pretty particular about his movie theater seats as am I. We like top row, right in the center.

As it happened the theater was almost empty at show time. Excellent! We got our perfect seats and snuggled up with our large buttered popcorn which, I might add, is only 50 cents more than a medium.

Three people walked in right after the movie started. They must have noticed the other 291 empty seats in the theater. I am dead serious when I say that they sat down DIRECTLY IN FRONT of Johnny and I. Who does that?

As it turns out, Johnny and I are adults, thus we have all of the coping mechanisms associated with maturity that should have enabled us to deal with the inconsiderate butt heads sitting in front of us.

We left the house 45 minutes early in order to secure those seats. This was WAR! I started in with a little passive aggressive loud-shaking-of-the-candy. Johnny followed suit with a very impressive display of hacking and coughing.

These people didn’t get it and they weren’t moving.

We reluctantly moved two seats to the right and enjoyed the rest of the movie. FYI: Cloverfield is not a comedy. And I’m not sure why, but I know for the next two weeks Johnny will be walking around squawking like a giant alien-dinosaur.

Father Time is an A- hole

Congratulations father time
It seems you've won again
It's tomorrow
And I'm awake
Let the circus begin

So I lower the stakes and shut my eyes
To escape the mundane madness
And remind myself to keep them closed
I indulge in edenesque sadness

Green eggs and ham are black and white today
But I eat them anyway
Those arrogant hands still marching away
Eat them in the dark? I just may

I walk out the door and trip and fall
Remembering not to open my eyes
All the kings' horses and all the kings' men
Really get a kick out of this disguise