Hey, there, Kitten Britches!

I'm gonna go "face plant" someone today . . . Not really. Actually, today I'm going to stop wishing that I could "face plant" someone.
I'm going to stop taking things to the extreme in my head just because some other people might. "Sweet" doesn't have to equal "spineless," and "giving" doesn't necessarily signify "doormat."
Some other people can bite me, but I say that in the nicest way possible, not because I'm weak, but just because I'm nice, which, by the way, doesn't mean that I can't stand up for myself.
I'm going to start acting on my impulses to do little things that might make the world a bit more pleasant. They may seem like futile gestures, but if everyone did them, would they really be futile? I mean, there's a whole lot of "bad" out there, and there's a whole lot of "stupid," but if there are enough people who are in agreement to do just a little bit, wouldn't that add up to quite a lot. I'm not a math genius by any stretch of the imagination, but even abacus-girl over here has that one covered. It could be a veritable army of good-smart, and it could change the world, and it might be beautiful.
That's my fly-by bit for this morning, written quickly, in earnest, and with absolutely no apologies.
If you accidentally happen upon this, go ahead and let yourself have an extraordinary day. Give someone a hand. Do something unexpected. Smile at a stranger . . . Well, not too much . . . Don't get weird about it or anything. We're being nice here folks, not creepy.

Love,
Amy

Tell Me Again How Cool I Am . . .

This is my Jane Austen action figure. She stands on my dresser, and she GET'S ME, man. I loooove my Jane Austen action figure because it's a funny concept, but I've also spend a good deal of time defending Ms. Austen's work. It's been said to me that she wrote "the most boring books on the planet," and, of course, I couldn't disagree more. I think that her books, for the most part, are funny, well-crafted, and sincere. I also like flowers, romantic gestures, and Han Solo.
Tell me again how cool I am . . .
Sometimes I have a hard time being a girl. I get all emotional, and I worry too much. Sometimes I think that I missed my era. I mean, there was a time when a chick could get all crazy to the point of falling into a swoon, and not only would people typically not think less of her, chances are, someone would actually catch her, and be happy to do so at that. Sometimes I just want to go all hysterical. Sometimes I want someone to yell, "Stella!" at me. Well, you know what I mean . . .
Anyway, maybe I've lived too far off the ground for too long. Maybe I have some kind of "princess in a tower" complex, and, to be quite honest, if some guy came by on horseback, even I'd be snarky enough to yell down, "Hey, Dudley Do-Right, Canada's that way!" Or, you know, as we like to call it, "South Detroit." I shouldn't complain, actually. Even if they don't wear tights anymore (well, not usually), I know what heroes look like, and even if all of my girliness isn't completely understood, it might still very well be appreciated for what it is . . . Just me being me . . . glow-in-the-dark star stickers on my ceiling, the fact that I'll probably be teaching tap dancing this summer, Jane Austen action figure, and all.
I'll tell you how cool I am. I'm as cool as I ever was and ever will be.

A Bit of Part Two of Chapter Four

It wasn't long before they arrived at Poncho's. Jen was a little surprised that Dorf knew where the place was, but only a little. Dorf had the weird ability to just kind of know everything.
Dorf pulled the Mustang up at a large and delapidated looking shack that was lit up all over with "old school" Christmas tree lights. Large, primary colored bulbs blazed and illuminated the place like a beacon. There was a porch, and they were strung across the railing. They framed the windows. They framed the large sign above the door that read "Poncho's Fine Mexican Food" in red and green letters. It was July.
Poncho's was packed. People spilled out onto the porch, and into the front lawn, walk way, and parking lot. They looked like college students for the most part, in standard "grunge" dress; lots of cordurory, lots of flannel, band t-shirts, and unwashed hair. Badly tuned guitars mingled with voices and laughter.
Jen led the way, with Dorf a couple of steps behind her. It was about 9:30, and Mike's band wasn't scheduled until ten. She seriously hoped that they hadn't gone early. The band playing now, if it could even be called such, was truly and remarkably bad, and she very much wanted to like Mike's music.
She stopped right before she had reached the porch and looked back at Dorf. He was wincing. He shook his head.
"Dorf, I'm pretty sure this isn't him. He--" She was cut off.
"Jen! Hey, you made it!"
She turned back to the porch and saw him. He was beautiful. She would never forget how he looked right then and there in a plain, white t-shird, tuxedo jacket, and easy, uncomplicated blue jeans. His hair was loose, hanging well past his shoulders, long straight, and perfectly smooth like a single sheet of silk . . . Just like the song . . . "Just Like Heaven."
Dorf poked her in the back. "Go."
She went.

Okay, folks, you can puke now if you want to, and I have to warn you, it's only gonna get worse. Hopefully, though, you'll find some humor in here as well . . . And, well, the gushy, romantic bits can't be all that bad. Don't we all secretly like silly love songs? Anyway . . . That's all for now . . . More again soon. How Soon is Now? ASK Morrissey.

Love,
Amy

The Ballad of Mike and Jen: An American Love Story Chapter 4

Part One

Jen was amazed at how easy it had been to persuade Dorf to accompany her to Poncho's. This was definitely not his "scene," but he had shrugged his acceptance almost as soon as she had offered her plea, "Dorf, please come with me to this thing."
Even though she didn't have a car, Jen could have easily made it to Mike's event on her on. Poncho's was only about twenty blocks away from her apartment, well within walking distance. However, Dorf was her best friend, and tonight seemed like it was going to be an important night. She wanted Dorf to be there, and she wanted Dorf to meet Mike. That would bring Mike more tangibly into her world. It would make him more real to her.
Jen was still fretting with her hair when she heard the Mustang's horn. She took a deep breath, another quick glance in the mirror, grabbed her lucky panda purse and her keys, and practically skipped out of the door and down the stairs to where Dorf was smoking and holding the passenger door open for her.
"Wow. You're quite the gentleman tonight, huh?"
"Not so much. You know I don't smoke in my baby. It was a good excuse. Get in."
Jen watched as Dorf looked around for a trash can in the parking lot. He spotted it quickly in spite of the shades that he insisted upon wearing even in the dark, and limped over to toss in what was left of his cigarette. That was another funny thing about Dorf. He never littered. One time, she had asked him about it, and he had given her a long and strange look over his glasses before saying, "I may limp around like a three-legged dog, and think and talk like a pig, but I am not an animal."
As he made his way back to the car, Jen noticed that Dorf looked pretty handsome tonight--Skinny Puppy shirt, tweed jacket, faded jeans, black boots, ponytail neatly arranged. He had a nice look that he pulled off well, and she told him as much.
Dorf grunted, looked her up and down, and pronounced, "You look almost normal. What gives?" He started the engine, took off the brake, and backed out of the parking lot.
Jen stopped playing with her purse straps, reaced for the visor that might be hiding a mirror, then remembered that Dorf didn't have visors.
"I . . . Well, you know . . . Wanted to play it casual tonight." It was true. She had really dressed down tonight. She didn't know what sort of people whould be at Poncho's tonight. She had never been to Poncho's, so she didn't know what to expect, and she had no desire to stand out in a potentially bad way. She was wearing plain jeans, a fitted red t-shirt with a large, abstract black flower printed on the front, and her red velvet Docs. Normal. Yes . . . Pretty close.
"Hey, whatever blows your hair back. Speaking of which . . . " Dorf hit the button that lowered the top of the convertable.
"Dorf! Come on! I'm gonna looke like utter shit!"
Dorf just turned up the heavy guitar sludge that was pouring out of the speakers anbd mumbled something that might have been, "Chicks."
Jen sighed and resigned herself to leaving her appearance to fate . . . Right along with everything else.

More tomorrow . . . Tired, now.

Another Day in the Life . . .

Thank God for small favors . . . Precious, four-year-old, fantastically well-timed favors.

Chapter Four tonight, folks. That's a promise. Set it in stone. I know y'all are just dying to know what's so great about Mike Kadeezler, and I think I've finally figured it out. It's never been my strong suit, but I think that today is a good day for the male protagonist.

See ya real soon. Why? Because I like you.

Love,
Amy

Devil Don't Care

Yeah, I know I'm utilizing bad grammar, and I know that this isn't chapter four . . . That's coming. I'm just tuning the engine a bit more before I begin again in earnest. I think I have some garbage to throw off before getting to the good (Okay, mediocre at best) bits.
Anyway, this is it. This is what I do. I just write . . . WRITE and write and write, and stuff comes out. I don't always know what, and it isn't always pretty, but generally I'll at least try to work with even the worst of it. I'll dress it up in Sunday Best and parade it around for a while to see if it breaks china or chews with its mouth open . . . Or, minds its manners and proves to be at least quasi-useful. Hey, thoughts are thoughts, and if one is kind enough to enter the no man's land of my mind, who am I to kick it out of bed for eating crackers?
Anyway, do you want to hear something funny? The other night, I found myself running up Woodward in search of lotto tickets . . . Literally running, because I was running late. It was about five 'till ll, and the lotto thingy closes at 11PM. In spite of my efforts, I ended up going to the wrong place first, I didn't make it in time, and no one who is of any interest to me won the lotto that day (Come to think of it, I don't think that anyone won that particular lotto that day. I wouldn't know for certain. I'm no expert. I'm just the . . . sprinter.). However, I remember thinking that if I had someone running down Woodward for me at nearly ll o'clock at night, I would think that I HAD won the lotto, and a really good one at that. Granted, there's no monetary compensation included in such a thing, but as they say, money can't buy me . . . You know, stuff that money can't buy me. So . . . Yeah. I would think that I was pretty damned lucky, but that's just me.
And, of course, if you know me at all, you know that that wasn't exactly a hard sell, getting me to take a sprint down Woodward. Hell, if I thought that it would improve the quality of someone's day, I would probably do it right now . . . At 6:21 in the morning, wearing my Love and Rockets t-shirt and Tigger shorts. Why not? I'm a huge fan of extremely proactive likeyness. Catholics refer to "Outward Signs of Inner Grace." Maybe this is kind of along the same line, but, you know, more stupid. It's like Jane Austen meets Jack Ass.
And, I come by the whole thing quite honestly. My grandfather used to eat lightbulbs. Okay, that's a lie. My grandfather STILL eats lightbulbs. He also ran down a fairly large tree with his pickup truck once just to impress me. Yes, he may be a little crazy, but he also loves us grandkids like crazy, and he'll eat lightbulbs to prove as much. It's a wonder that anyone in my family survived his/her first crush . . . Let alone the second, third, or 100th. We somehow manage, though. Heaven knows, I'm the proof in the pudding. I'm still here . . . Not only that, but I'm actually ridiculously unscathed. Funny.
I'll probably be eating lightbulbs for Hannah's kid(s) one of these days.
So, yeah . . . If you're one of the rare few who've managed to not become comfortably numb in a world that rabidly encourages such a mental state, go ahead and love/like like you mean it. Go crazy. You'll live.

Love,
Amy

Back in Black

Sorry, folks. Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa. That hiatus took a little longer than I expected. You see, I had to go get my heart ripped out, flattened, blown to bits, then spread out all over the proverbial Kingdom Come. No worries, though, my friends, physiologically speaking, my head is still wedged firmly in my ass, so I'm the same old Amy, sans pitty-pat thingy. And, I don't miss the ol' thumper. I could happily and peacefully do without it for a tick.
Anyway, how did all of this transpire? Eh, you say? Well, apparently I got boring. I'm BORING. Yeah, I know. I'm living in the wrong freakin' universe. mr. cummings, leave the light on for me, 'cause Mama, she's comin' home. BORING? Good grief. I almost refuse to believe as much . . . But, there it is. Some other human being thinks that I'm boring. Yeah. It hurts, folks. It really fucking HURTS. I am humbled. I would be slain if I weren't so fucking full of myself. Ouch.
Anyway . . . Life goes on. There's a book to finish, and I'm on it like the proverbial white on rice. I've got a chapter for you kind folks, if you'd be so kind to receive it. I'll post it tomorrow night, because I'm apparently too mundane and too pedestrian to be of any good to anyone . . . I guess I'll get used to the idea. It's funny. I fancied that being well-read, multi-lingual, physically fit, at least moderately amusing, and reasonably groomed would make me pleasant company for anyone with whom I would like to spend time with. Well, it isn't . . . Anyway, it isn't enough to buy me time with the one person whose face invaribly has the potential to brighten my day. Go figure. As I've often said before, irony is a real bitch. Stay tuned . . . Tomorrow will be fruitful.

Yours,
Amy