Read: 2010 style.

I'm all signed up and ready to read!

If you are interested in joining the fun, head over to J. Kaye's Book Blog to enlist.

I think I'll start the year with Donna Tarrt's THE LITTLE FRIEND. Next I plan to check out Barbara Kingsolver's much awaited THE LACUNA and Sue Miller's THE SENATOR'S WIFE.

What books are you guys excited to read in 2010?

TMI: Christmas Edition (subtitled, the 100th post had to be good.)

It's a banner day here at musings of amber murphy. Not only is it Christmas Eve (eggnog: check!) and TMI Thursday (hilarious humiliations: check!) but I am also celebrating my 100th post. I thought about linking my most memorable posts -- my favorites, the ones that got the most comments -- but that just seemed like a ton of work to do on a holiday. Instead, I'll opt to focus on the present, and post a TMI for the ages. I'll give you so much information, in fact, that you might regret ever being mildly amused by my TMI Thursdays. Are you ready for this?

I went through this phase. I fondly refer to it as my six-month bar-slut phase. It started smack in the middle of the summer in 2002, and basically ended just before I started dating my future husband in early 2003.

(Three years from now I can say this all happened a decade ago. I sort of look forward to that milestone.)

In July of '02, I ended a two year relationship. Instead of spending weekends curled up with the same boy, watching movies or making googly-eyes at one another, I was free to go out and do as I pleased.

Newly 21, I started frequenting a karaoke bar with my friend, whose privacy I shall protect, since I passionately blame her for what comes next. (Why? She recomeneded the karoake bar.)

I was never that kind of girl, back before the endless rounds of beer and tequila shots started flowing as easily as Mariah Carey's Without You did from my drunken lips. (And Allison Kraus' When You Say Nothing At All. And Jann Arden's Insensitive. And Deana Carter's Strawberry Wine. And Jewel's Foolish Games. And Faith Hill's Cry. Yes, I was also a karaoke whore.)

The first boy was named Sean. He was an IU fan, like me. He drank Coors Lite, like me. He ate meat. After two serious relationships with vegetarians, this fact alone made me certain he was my destiny.

He wasn't.

I'll spare you the gorey weekend-details of the many, many men the few lucky men (insert small-ish, appropriate number here) who came to know Amber Leigh Tidd-not-yet-Murphy over the span of those hazy months.

But, this TMI belongs to a dee-jay. He was really the last of my conquests, the end of the list of first names boys I remember with  fondness. Dee-jay was a passionate Pittsburgh Steelers fan who was allergic to wool and shared my love of slow dancing to Journey songs.

Oh, and he had a girlfriend.

Dee-jay and I weren't doing anything wrong. We just hung out a ton. I don't remember why his old lady was never around. Maybe she worked nights. Went out of town a lot? Just didn't care that he was out all the time? Who knows.

Well, by Christmas Eve, I was just absolutely smitten. After opening gifts with my parents and my sister, I rushed off to meet dee-jay at a bar for karoke and Christmas gift exchanging. (If I remember correctly, I spent a small fortune on a Steeler's blanket that wouldn't make him sneeze, and he bought me a few beers.)

That night we had our first kiss. Yes, Amber the home-wrecker and dee-jay the cheater, shared a fantasic little snog under twinkling white lights on the bar patio. It would have all been very romantic if he hadn't been such an asshole.

Our "relationship" was one of possibilities, which we talked about through Christmas and into the New Year, celebrated together at the karaoke bar where it all began, clinking our plastic glasses of champagne -- but not kissing of course, in a bar full of people who knew he was dating someone else.

Over the phone the next day, he wanted to know a few things. If he left his girlfriend, would I understand that if he and I were together, there would be certain things he would expect? The money, for instance. He would be the one in charge of it. Oh, and in the meantime, I shouldn't be dating anyone else. It was important that I be faithful to him while he weighed the options of ending his real relationship.

In early January, the bathroom in my apartment was gutted for repair. Still toying with the idea of seeing where things went, I headed to dee-jay's house for a shower. He obsessively made sure I didn't leave so much as a strand of hair for his girlfriend to discover. We got all snuggly on his couch, and he asked if I spit or swallowed, because, in a relationship, he expected the latter.

Neither, I told dee-jay. Neither.

Whew! I didn't expect to go there, today. Thought I might keep it tame in the spirit of Christmas. And where, prey tell, does Amber get her redeeming qualities? Is it in the willingness to share her indescrestions? Do you still love her?

Don't forget to check out Lilu's blog for all the tragic Thursday tales. TMI goes great with spiked eggnog, and is the perfect stocking stuffer.

Merry Christmas, bloggy pals.

bloomington christmas

I miss the days when my Mammaw used to come down to Louisville, Kentucky for a week in late December. I miss her sitting in the rocking chair at my mom and dad's house drinking her coffee in her deep purple robe and matching slippers. Despite missing the way things used to be, I am mostly just thankful to still have her in our lives, even if we have to go visit her these days. She refuses to move from Indiana to Kentucky to be closer to us, even though my mom is her only child. I guess I know who passed on the stubborn gene to me.

The little one in the middle is my four year old niece, Carley. She is currently obsessed with that GAP kids commercial, you know, "We want comfy sweaters!" and "How cute are these boots?!" Clearly, I'm getting her a sweater and cute suede boots (with tassels!) for Christmas, and I'm going to learn the song in the commercial so we can perform it together on Christmas Day. (Formal Attire/ Officially Retired!... I've got a ways to go.)

The little bundle of joy in Mammaw's arms is my six month old nephew, Clayton. He seems to be enjoying his first Christmas season, even though my sister did try to lop off his finger with nailclippers Sunday morning. If you peer closely at that tiny thumb, you'll see a band-aid. My sister cried. She felt horrible. Clayton bled, but he was a trooper. Someday, IF I have children, I am sure I will harm them in some way. At that time I shall allow my sister to verbally slaughter me.

I love my new purple scarf, a gift from one of my favorite coworkers who went to India this fall to visit her family. Also, my hair looks pretty in this picture. Doesn't it?

Retail Therapy? More like retail torture

Oh sweet baby Jesus.

I am exhausted. I have power-shopped the last two days away, and I am still not finished.

My calf muscles are throbbing, what with months and months of general unuse, and though I shopped in sneakers, seem to be screaming at me that it is unfair to sideline them all year and then demand they work overtime around the holidays. My feet ache in agreement.

I'll be honest -- there are one and a half shopping days to go and I am not quite sure I am going to be able to finish without beating my head against Wal-Mart shevles or just plopping right down in the middle of Barnes and Noble and sobbing.

Um, I'm yet to buy one single gift for my husband, and also have not completed one iota of bagging thoughful gift wrapping.

You might ask why I am sitting here staring at my monitor, pounding out a blog entry. How can I sleep at night? With all there is to do, where do I get off taking leisure time this evening?

To you I respond with this: suck my balls. I'm exhausted, my back hurts, and I still need to buy the gift wrapping essentials, so there isn't much else I can do tonight. I'm not going back out there until I've had at least eight hours of sleep, a large coffee, and perhaps a foot massage.

And maybe a valium or something, too.

kissy face; pucker up and close your eyes

     So, people have been posting scenes from their writing today in which the characters kiss each other. It's the Official Kissing Day Blogfest, and I am applying Soft Lips, spritzing Binaca, and trying my hand at this virtual tongue tousle. If you participate, you can link to the hub here.

This is an excerpt from my current WIP, which might be titled ANOTHER MAN DOWN, or FOR THE LOVE OF LAUREL LANCASTER or THE DEAD END, or perhaps none of those. Warning: it's a sad kiss.

     They sat on top of the picnic table outside Latte Da. Adam dangled his legs off the edge and Laurel looked down at her jeans and picked at the frayed edges around her ankles. She could not look at him.
     "I don't know that I've ever really been myself with you," said Laurel. "I want everything you don't. I want the white picket fence and a husband and children."
     "What are you trying to say, Laurel? I know that about you. I think you're yourself with me."
     "I tried so hard to be this adjusted, confident person. But, the whole time we've been together, all I could think about was how it was going to end. I was always so insecure, thinking that you might like another girl better than me. I guess that's why I decided to go ahead and go away to school, because whatever I decided, in the end, I knew you were never going to decide on me. In another year, you'll be the one who is leaving."
     He sighed. The sigh told Laurel that she was probably right, at least in the assumption that he would be leaving town next year. But, the part about liking another girl better? No, it wouldn't be that he found someone he liked better, it would just be someone different. He hoped Laurel understood the distinction.
     "So, you're breaking up with me?" His question came out in a voice she hadn't heard him use before. The words sounded thin, small. She did not want the moment to end, wanted to stay wrapped up in the sadness with him. At least they would still be together.
     Tears fell hot and fast against her face, and she knew that there was no turning back. She did not want to lose him, but she did not want to lose herself either. She just could not envision a scenario where she left for college in a few months with him as her boyfriend, or one where she cancelled her plans and stayed in Kentucky instead. The ultimate mistake, in her estimation, was planning ones future around a man. Regardless, a wave of anguish would come over her and linger; it was inevitable, and she needed it to linger now, through the summer, rather than to hang around her through the fall. That would be no way to spend her first college semester, walking around with a dark cloud over her head and crying her eyes out in bed every night.
     "I need to summer to get used to being without you," said Laurel. She reached for his hand. "I don't know if I can do this." He held her hand in both of his. "I love you. I love you from this deep part of me and it hurts so much to..." She made a fist and put it between her breasts, as if indicating a pain in her chest.
     He did not speak, and she feared that he might stand up and get into the car, and drive her home in silence, and that would be the end of it all. He was always better at goodbye, whether he was leaving her for the evening, hanging up the phone, or getting on a plane to cross an ocean.
     "Adam, if I ever decide I want to move out west, to have a more adventurous life, you have to know that you're the first person I am going to call. And if you decide you want the white picket fence, a wife and a couple of kids... you better call me." She spoke quickly, trying to get it all out.
     "Twenty years," said Adam. His voice was a whisper on the wind, his promise swirling up into the universe.
     He put his arms around her and held her against him. He did not cry, but he did not look unaffected. She wanted him to tell her not to do this, to argue that it did not have to end here. To tell her again what he tried to say in her yearbook. She wanted him to fight for them.
     "Can I kiss you -- one last time?" Laurel would laugh at how dramatic she sounded, if it had not felt so poignantly dreadful.
     "Yes," said Adam. "Yes, you can. Of course you can."
     There was a longing in that kiss, an urgency that Laurel feared she would never again match with her lips.
Time wasn't going to change the way she felt for him; miles would not make the ache inside her heart go away. Soulmates do not need a zip code in common, or the label of a relationship to thrive.
     "Can we still be friends?" Laurel asked, shaking her head a little at how banal she sounded.
     Adam brushed a tear off her cheek and put his hand on his heart. "Friends of best-ness," he said.


***************

a post in which the murphy's procrastinate

Where's this snow the weatherman talked about?

Today there's nothing but a cold December rain here in Louisville, Kentucky.

I'm supposed to be cleaning the house and wrapping my grandmother's Christmas gifts, as we are leaving for Bloomington, Indiana in a few hours. So far this morning, I have puttered around facebook, caught up on my google reader, smoked four cigarettes, and had two diet cokes for breakfast. Oh, I started a load of laundry. I'm on task!

My husband is working -- he'll finish up around noon thirty -- and when he gets home at 1:00, I plan to be packed (and have him packed) and showered and ready to go, and I'll inevitably stamp around as he sits on the couch and takes forever to claim that he is ready to leave for our road trip.

This is how we operate when preparing for travel. If we're going to visit my side of the family, like today, he won't be ready to go on time. If we're going to visit his side of the family -- well, then usually he won't be ready to go on time, either.

I have learned that I just need to tell him I want to leave about 30 minutes earlier than I actually do, so that I can trick him into timely arrival for family affairs.

So, I'm signing off until Sunday night, at which time I will arrive home from Bloomington and throw myself at the television in order to claim the remote before my husband does, so that the Survivor finale will trump Sunday Night Football.

I wear the t.v. pants in my house. Buh-ya.

Oh, crap. I'd better go wrap my Mammaw's gifts, and do the dishes, and sweep the kitchen floor, and dust things, and pick up clutter, and get myself into the shower. It's already ten in the morning.

Maybe just the tiniest peek at my WIP before I start on all that. I mean, I'm leaving her for the entire weekend. She'll be lonely while I'm gone. Maybe I can just cuddle with one of my middle chapters for a few minutes before I go.

them's fightin' words

I am so zapped today. I think I need to stop staying up so late every night.

Seriously, I do not even have the energy to compose this. My eyes are closing.

Oh God.
Caffeine crash.

I am pretty sure this is like the time Jessie Spano (from Saved by the Bell, of course) was strung out on uppers and was soooo excited, sooo excited... so, so scared.

Not only am I fatigued, I am also tired of certain elements of my job, like not being able to straight cuss out certain people who I work with.

Seriously shut the hell up and do your job.

Khtankxbye.