Friday, February 26, 2010

like, you know, because i was tagged.

I got tagged in a fun blog meme, because ND at Delicious Ambiguity thinks I am a fun blogger. We do have some important things in common, since I think she is a fun blogger, too.

For instance, last Friday she was feeling a bit prickly and wrote a list of her greivances of the week, including this wrongspice boy she once, I assume, quasi-dated.

I sent my former rebound flame a really nicely thought out birthday card in hopes that he has gotten less hateful in the 6 months since we last spoke, and he responded via email, "Thanks for the birthday card. I have no desire to reconnect with you right now. I hope things are well."

Don't you just love her already?! You must check out her blog!


So, the rules of the meme are to post a list of things you like/love/hate, and then link to three bloggers who you admire! All you have to do is fill in your likes/loves/hates after the bolded words! :) Have fun!


I like the cool side of the pillow.

I like sleeping in on Sundays.

I like listening to cute boys sing.

I like kettle-cooked potato chips. and ranch. and at the same time.

I like the way I feel when my niece hugs me after I haven't seen her in awhile.

I like the idea of soulmates.

I like love stories that end sadly.

I like getting a group-laugh when I say something witty in a room full of people.

I like kissing boys remembering what it's like to kiss boys who are not my husband.

I like people who have passion.

I like thinking about him.

I like it when I look skinny in photos.

I love knowing my parents still believe in me.

Today was payday, which is awesome. Momoneyspice!

I hate when my feet are cold.

I hate the way I feel when I oversleep on a work day. Like today, for instance. (Unshoweredspice.)

I hate anxiety attacks, which I have occasionally.

I hate cleaning the house, so I don't do it that often.

I hate when someone leaves the toaster plugged in.

I hate lukewarm coffee.

I hate my thighs. (Cellulitespice.)

I hate Jay Mohr.

I (secretly) like my current fantasy: someday when I am an old, old woman I might get to be with another man. A certain man. (Not Jay Mohr, though. Obvi.)

I love knowing he might read my blog, and I love the boys who are sitting at their laptops right now, possibly scratching their heads. (Sorry, Travener, you aren't him.) ;)

For this meme, I hereby tag Ashley at Fragment Ideas and Too Many Pronouns who shares my love of karaoke and is a Superstar! (That's pronounced "Supe-uh-stah.") I don't think she sticks her hands under her arms and sniffs them, though. At least not to my knowledge.

She's a fairly new blogger, and you should read her blog. Seriously. She has the most beautiful heart.

Next, I shall tag my bestie Tina Lynn Sandoval at Sweet Niblets, because she is the gooey marshmellow in my chocolately s'more. Plus, I know she'll do the meme. She's cool like that. Read her blog, too, if you don't already.

Finally, I will tag Laurel (who is, though she may not agree, adorable) at Laurel's Leaves. She is very writerly and uses all the best words. Go. now. Followspice.

Well, happy weekend, loves. My birthday is Tuesday so I will clearly start the celebration tomorrow night, when hubs and parents take me out for sushi. And I see karaoke in my future... after we ditch the Tidd's, I assume. Though the idea of my dad and I at karaoke together is actually rather appealing.

Hmm.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

TMI Thursday: in which i won't tell you about that.

TMI Thursday
Oh, alright. You didn't ask for this, so I won't tell you.

I won't tell you about the explosive way I decorated the back end of the toilet seat yesterday during my lunch hour when I almost didn't make it to the loo...

or the details, including the way it happened -- in which I began decorating while still in hover mode, pulling down my pants with an urgency...

or that after I cleaned up my earth-toned artwork and was back in the living room touching up my Wednesday blog post that felt a little something chilly near my tail bone, and had to change my panties.

No, I won't tell you about any of that.

Because even though being a poopy-pants certaintly fits the TMI Thursday category, it's just far too disgusting to admit that I can't get my pants firmly around my ankles and seal my ass to a toilet seat on time at the age of 28.

I mean, seriously, that's repulsivespice.

Who would read or comment on a blog post like that anyway? What well-adjusted adult would be able to relate?

This post is brought to you by UPS. (Unusal poopy situations.)

What can brown do for you?

Check out Lilu's blog for more tragic (and less smelly) tales.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

My "Fucher"

Over a year ago, my mom and dad decided to clean clutter out of their own house and, in an attempt to streamline, they went ahead and gave me boxes of things they had saved from my childhood -- if I'm honest, things I didn't really expect I see until they died or something gruesomespice like that.

Whatever, it's fine. I'm not complaining about it, even though it isn't like I really have the room in my house for boxes of cards I was given when I was five, or worksheets and stories I wrote in the second grade.

I hadn't even really dug into those boxes until last night.

I found one little "story" I wrote (and we'll use the word story lightly here) called MY FUCHER. (It took me a minute to realize I'd meant MY FUTURE.) Hilar.

My Fucher

I want to mary a boy who will stay home all day and clean the house. I would not stay home. I would work as a singer or hope to. I want to have a babey girl. I would name her Lynn or Trecey or Nciol. I would take good care of her.

I think it's awesome that I felt this way at the age of six.

Yes, I may have less yearning in the babey department these days, but I love knowing I was career driven even as a child.

Now I'm sort of drawn to these boxes from my past. I want to see what else six-year-old Amber had to say. She was a really cool kid in spite of some serious spelling issues.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

it wasn't a publicity stunt, i swear; or, i'm already back

Thank God.

(Virus 2010: defeated.)

I was starting to get the shakes from having quit social networking almost cold-turkey.

And, boy did I need to get out a good blog post this afternoon. I can always tell when I'm feeling particularly rant-y. My fingers fly over the keyboard with ease. I don't think twice about what I am going to type or how witty I will sound -- and usually, if you'll excuse my vanity, I think these posts end up being some of my best.

Work has me a little stressed out today. I am so thankful for my lunch hour -- and that I am now sitting at home (that was for the benefit of the suits, you know, letting them know that I am not in the office as I compose this blog entry) sipping leftover morning coffee.

And perhaps letting out a primal scream or two.

To be honest, the marriage of my former bank and my current bank hasn't been that bad. Yesterday was kind of like our wedding day, and now we're on our honeymoon -- already bickering like an old couple.

Enough about work.

Sadly, I missed the Whoops! blogfest hosted by the adorable Laurel at Laurel's Leaves. Click the link to check out scenes in which main characters have some TMI moments (or, at least embarrasing, clumsy and awkward ones) of their own!

In other news, what is writing? Can someone remind me again?

Were my manuscript truly my (brain) child, my baby -- someone would likely call Child Protective Services and then a social worker would come and rescue it. Seriously, I'm treating it worse than Tiger treated his wife, worse than NBC treated Jay Leno, worse than Simon Cowell treats American Idol hopefuls, worse than... worse than I occasionally treat my own husband.

That's bad. I need to go to writer's rehab.
But the only place I get to go is back to work.

FMLspice.

Monday, February 22, 2010

because celebrities go on hiatus

Sadspice.

Le laptop has le virus.

I will most likely be unplugged for a few days -- or until hubs purchases the spy-ware we need. If too much time goes by, I will probably go to the local library and borrow their computers in order to post (can't miss TMI Thursday!) and read your inevitable comments about how much you've missed me.

(Because you will be commenting about how much you miss me -- right?)

Come on. Throw me a bone.

Friday, February 19, 2010

all we are is blowin' in the wind

My old bank officially closed today. I'm sadspice.

The bank were I worked merged was bought out by the bank where I started working about a month ago. (Officially, I am still working for the same company, it just has a new name and now I work at a different location.)

My old branch closed at 2:00 this afternoon. Some of the branches will reopen Monday morning with a new sign on the door, new brochures in the racks and blue-and-orange-everything. (Instead of green.)

Not my old branch: it's gone for good, probably to become a McDonalnds or Kentucky Fried Chicken. (I secretly hope it is turned into a Starbucks with a drive-thru, since it's super close to my house. I would go brokespice, but it would be worth it.)

So, I went to lunch just in time to stop in to my old branch and be there to see the very last customer and to lock the doors. (I'll admit, I got a little choked up.)

It was so weird to drive past the building on my way home tonight and see a dark building without the neon green sign that used to be there. Almost eerie.

A wise man once told me that change is a difficult thing to take comfort in, but that it is really the only thing we can take comfort in. To that man, I say -- you're right, yet I still don't know how. Le sigh.

I'm off to catch up on my reader. My bloggy schedule has been screwed up all week with the extra man-hours and brain-hours I've worked to get ready for the conversion of the two banks.

Most boring post ever, so I'll leave you with a random gem: my follower Elliott thought I was asian.

(I corrected him: I'm not -- I'm white rice. Which is true. I couldn't be whiter, especially in the rhythm department.)

Thursday, February 18, 2010

TMI Thursday: in which I am too tired to hone in on one particular event

TMI ThursdayGrab your dinner plates: I've got a smorgasbord of overshare for you this evening.

(Feel free to come back for seconds. It's all-you-can-eat over here tonight.)

- Sometimes when I'm at a red light or stuck in stop-and-go traffic I examine my split ends and forget to pay attention to real life. Usually, horn honkers politely advise me when cars are moving again. 

- I am almost always attracted to male authority figures, especially when they specifically have authority over me.

- Also, sometimes when men say condescending things, it kind of turns me on. Is that weird?

- I have uttered the following sentences and asked the following questions:
a) I know it's wrong, but I judge. Wait, is it wrong to judge?
b) Do you know what she smells like? She smells like poor people and tears.
c) What is going on here? Power to the whites! (That was after Halle Berry won the Oscar, and clearly, I was joking.)

- I once saved a condom wrapper -- I stuck it in my sock drawer (um, is that still in there?!) as a memento of really, really special and sexy sex. 

- After all the things I've posted before, I still wondered if the admittance above was crossing the creepyspice line and considered deleting it for the better part of five minutes.

-  Sometimes I am inexplicably paranoid that I will spontaneously combust.

- In related news, sometimes I am afraid while sitting at a stoplight that I will become unconscious, and my foot will slide of the brake and I'll roll out into oncoming traffic and die. (Does examining my split ends makes me feel safe?) (Ineedhelpspice.)

- I loathe Jay Mohr. The hatred I feel for Jay Mohr is palpable. Strangely, I don't know why I feel this way.

- I have used the zip code loophole to internally justify certain past actions. (Thankfully, Louisville is a good-sized city.)

- I'm level 324 in Mafia Wars. Sue me. 

Visit Lilu's blog for more tragic tales!

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

i cry like a girl, and i watch my television closer than my finances

I must be a girl.

Several things made me cry -- like actual wet tears on face -- today.

I am not ashamed to admit the first thing that opened up my tear ducts (faster than chopping an onion) was American Idol. Finding out who makes it to the Top 24 (i.e. the-performance-round-which-is-all-that-really-matters) is one of the highlights of the Idol season. Tonight's episode revealed 7 of the lucky 12 guys and the lucky 12 gals who are younger than me have the chance of a lifetime.

When that gal Didi found out she made it? Yup, I went all sobspice. Cause her friend died and stuff. And, she had on a cute hat. And, she sang a Kara Dioguardi song during Hollywood week. I heart her!

Secondly, I cried when I noticed the state of disorder which is my checkbook.

(Bankers sometimes get overdrawn, too.)

Luckily, I have that credit line which spots me in fifty dollar increments. So it isn't like I got any transactional overdraft fees. (If that had happened, I'd probably still be crying)

But, seriously. My checkbook register has been in shambles ever since I started my new job. I'm working on getting back on track. Just so you know. I'm a little choked up about it though, and hangin' my head.

Thirdly, LOST made me cry. Are you a fan of LOST? If so, you KNOW you want answers. I want them, too. Tonight, I felt like we got some. And do you know what? It sort of made me sad. It's ending: the final season is here. This cuts so much deeper than, for instance, the speculation that it's Simon Cowell's last season on American Idol. *pointing at my eyeball* crocodile tear

Fourthly, the end of the Kentucky basketball game tonight made me cry. No, I didn't cry when my Indiana Hoosiers lost earlier this evening. In fact, I didn't even watch the last two minutes of my game.

(Clearly, my tivo-dance-card was full.)

I expect Indiana to lose... but a Kentucky loss? It's like orgasm. (Usually doesn't happen?! What? Did I write that?)

Tonight, Kentucky almost lost. The game went into OT, and the Mississippi State fans got mad at the end of the extra minutes... and went ahead and heaved their water bottles and their hopes and dreams onto the court.

They were crying, too. They were sad because Kentucky won, and so was I. (I am a hater. Go ahead and send your hate mail to ambertiddmurphy@gmail.com -- or in the comments below. Bring it, Kentucky Blond!)

Lastly, I am a little bit teary because it is midnight and I am still awake. I'm only exhausted emotionally, though, so not to worry. I've got a coffee i.v. drip ready for tomorrow morning, a swiss cake roll that I'm seriously considering as breakfast food, and tickets to the Louisville game tomorrow night -- I think the fresh air and human interaction will do me good.

Holdmespice.

Monday, February 15, 2010

sugar coma... the kissy kind

This just happened, while I was sitting here reading blogs and my hubs was playing a shoot-em-up x-box game. (This whole scenario is also known as federal holiday: in which bankers get a paid day off.)

Hubs: This guy I'm killing on here? His name is Zack Attack.

Me: Is he aware that's the name of Zack Morris' band?

(I just wanted to inform you that sometimes here at the musings of amber murphy headquaters, there actually are some really romantic moments.)

Likely, I'm just feeling generous after getting flowers, a couple of IU tee-shirts (I think he finally got my "no jewelry" memo!) and being cooked a tasty medium-rare filet last night. Ohh, and there was a cheesy card, too, which, let's be honest, wasn't as good as a funny card would have been.

How was your Valentine's Day? Did you eat chocolate? Was there passion? Were you alone, even when you were with someone?

Oh, hell. You all know me. It wasn't really as bad as all that.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

love at first sight blogfest, or, go eat a heart-shaped cookie

Courtney Reese is hosting a love at first sight blogfest, in which writer's write about the icky love stuff. Check it out -- there are already a ton of entries over there.

Okay, so my scene isn't really love at first sight for my mc, Laurel (in fact, she doesn't even want it to be) but this is the first time she interacts with her second love interest, David. 

Read! Enjoy! Critique!


     A sea of southerners filled the lobby of the movie theater. David Winter stood at a neon orange podium in the center of the throng, his head throbbing. He tore off one ticket stub after another, pointed the masses in the appropriate direction. The work was monotonous. Most of the patrons were lost in conversations with one another, and they paid David the same lack of attention that he showed them. He tried not to grimace at the giggling teenage girls, the smug looking guys in gold chains, the overweight middle aged couples: all annoyed him equally. Thankfully, the line was starting to ebb a bit as all of the seven o'clock showings were beginning. He rubbed his longish brown hair out of his face; he was lightly sweating.
     David stood almost six feet tall and weighed one hundred and forty pounds, soaking wet, on a good day, as his mother described him, to his chagrin. She didn't think he ate enough because she rarely saw him eat. Family dinners were anything but routine at the Winter household.
     He tore off a couple more stubs for some college jocks.
     "Thanks, guy." He was roughly smacked on the back, the gesture of a bro. David rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond. He slightly hunched his shoulders and then rolled them back, a nervous twitch, but effective in adjusting his too-big theater provided t-shirt: his uniform. He wiped his hands on the back pockets of his black pants. He didn't notice Laurel looking at him. He was still reeling from the exchange with the frat boy, stupid motherfucker in Abercrombie.

     Laurel was carefully crossing the lobby, slowly headed out of a box office. Now that the line had dissipated she would let the ticket sellers handle it alone. Part of her job as an assistant manager was crowd control, and she intended to check on the customers at the concession stand. She met David's eye as she neared the podium and flashed him a smile. They had never spoken. Laurel pegged David as mysterious, maybe a little shy. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her cotton sundress by grabbing each side and pulling outward, like a dancer gearing up for a curtsy. Behind David, the line at the concession stand billowed out, full of grumbling moviegoers willing to sacrifice previews for popcorn. David looked miserable at his post. He didn't smile back at Laurel, rather, in response, raised his eyebrows a bit and looked away, as if he was wondering why she smiled at him, or thought it ridiculous that she had. Laurel briefly contemplated being offended, but decided to consider his reaction a challenge.
     "David, right?" Laurel reached up and puts her hand on the podium, and leaned in a little more than necessary to be heard over the din. She stared up at the lanky stranger and resisted the urge to bat her eyelashes.
     "Yeah, and you're Laurel. I guess I am supposed to call you Ms. Lancaster?" He looked down at the rubber mat under his feet. Laurel grimaced, a little embarrassed. She thought it absurd that the staff must address managers as if they were high school teachers.
     "Uh, Laurel's fine with me." She scanned the lobby for any sign of their general manager. "Well, unless Peterson is around."
     David tore a couple more stubs. He didn't know what to make of Laurel's attempt at small talk. He got the impression that she might be flirting with him.
     "So, you've only worked here for a couple of weeks, and I can just tell that you already absolutely love it." Her sarcasm remotely amused him.
     Laurel turned and spotted another usher sweeping up stray kernels and straw wrappers into a dustpan.
     "Joey, wanna take podium for awhile?" She smiled sweetly at the overweight, bespectacled boy. "I'm gonna put the newbie on trash." She faced David. "You. Come with me."

     David followed Laurel down a hallway, past standees for soon-to-be summer blockbusters. She stopped at the door of theater number twenty, opened it and gestured David in. David consulted his crumpled time sheet. House 20, Scary Movie, 7:15.
     "Didn't this showing just start fifteen minutes ago?" David checked his watch and then glanced up at Laurel, genuinely confused.
     Laurel and David settled in between the sets of double doors. She leaned against the wall, dark purple and the texture of carpet. "We aren't taking out the trash. We're carding."
     David raised one eyebrow. "Carding?"
     "Yeah, we're gonna stand here and bust the twelve-year-olds who try to sneak in." This wasn't technically part of Laurel's job description, but she took joy in bursting the bubbles of preteens.
     Next to her, awkwardly, David allowed himself to lean against the wall as she did.
     "So, you're going off to art school in the fall? That's the rumor, anyway." Laurel had learned little about David since he began working at the theater. No one explicitly told her that he was an artist, but he had that aura about him: chiseled jaw, birdish features, faraway look in his eyes. He reminded her of Adam, or maybe she just want him to. She mentally scolded herself.
     "No, um, music. I'm starting at U of L in the fall." He's staying in Louisville. Laurel felt a little flutter, and thought for a moment that the flutter wasn't necessarily a good thing. Laurel just wanted a proper summer romance, a fling that could later be flung and left by the wayside for what it was.
     Still, she wanted to keep him talking. "Vocal?" Laurel pictured him strumming a guitar, very sexy-singer-songwriter.
     "Composition, actually. I'm not much of a singer. I play bari-sax, er, baritone saxophone. Classical, orchestral."
     Their attempt at conversation was interrupted by two sheepish looking boys who walked into the theater. Laurel straightened up, cleared her throat and put on her professional voice.
     "Ticket stubs, please."
     The boys eyed each other. One of them waved his hand nonchalantly. "We, uh, must have left them back at our seats. We just went out to get Junior Mints." He held up the box of evidence.
     "Well, then, I guess if we just look at your i.d.'s we can let you slide."
     The other boy cleared his throat. "Seriously?"
     "Yes. Seriously." The boys looked at each other. They knew they had been caught. "No go on back to Chicken Run or whatever," said Laurel.
     "Come on." The boy who had spoken first looked Laurel straight in the face, his arms crossed. "What are you going to do if we don't?"
     Laurel held up her two way radio. She calmly spoke into it. "Officer Woodson, what's your twenty?" The boys didn't understand the lingo. Laurel was merely asking the Friday night security guy to let her know his current location, but they tensed at her mention of the word officer.
     Their eyes widened and they quickly backtracked out into the hall. David laughed.
     "Did you think we needed back up? I could've taken those punks!"
     Laurel eased back against the wall and allowed her shoulder to brush David's arm. "I didn't even press the TALK button." She giggled.

     David and Laurel spent the next hour alternately chatting and repeating the same scenario with a few more under-aged miscreants. Laurel learned that she and David attended the same high school, though he graduated a year later than she did (he was in Adam's class, she couldn't help noting) and that he grew up no more than five minutes from her own childhood home. They found it strange that neither knew of the other -- their suburban school was by no means small -- but they ultimately agreed they didn't run in the same social circles.
     "You were cooler than me in high school," David determined.
     "I wouldn't say that. I was a drama nerd. School plays, poetry readings. I took myself way too seriously." Laurel again tried to push away the memory of Adam. A year after their breakup, she was still aching for him. She alternated between feeling devoted and pathetic.
     "I was in band. Bottom feeder."
     Laurel rolled her eyes, though she knew with certainty that she never would have dated him in high school. It would have been social suicide. "Well, I was maybe one or two rungs above you on the coolness ladder," she allowed. They gazed at each other, all grins, and Laurel momentarily forgot her breath. The static sound of her two-way radio sliced through the moment like a dull steak knife, leaving jagged edges and things unsaid.
     "Ms. Lancaster, we need quarters at the concession stand."

Saturday, February 13, 2010

when i feel sad i look at these: re deux

I have been feeling kind of low the past couple of days.

I mean, there are multiple factors, a couple of which are sports related. The end of football season is always a sad time (I'm like a man, I know) and I'm currently watching my Indiana basketball Hoosiers play the number 13 ranked Wisconsin Badgers, in what is sure to be another painful loss. (We're currently getting blown out.)

There are other important motivating factors: the general state of disorder that is my house, the crabby way in which I have interacted with hubs as of late, my overall lack of an actual social life, and financial woes a plenty.

(I mean, I didn't even feel like blogging yesteray, and when I don't blog on a weekday, it usually means I'm having a pretty awfulspice day.)

I think I'm just exhausted from my new work schedule. Don't get me wrong -- I really do like my new bank branch, but work is no longer a place where I already know everything about my job.  

(Yeah, so I've been having a pity party.)

I'm sure that this, too, shall pass. 

Still, I need a little pick-me-up today. 

This is my niece, Carley, whom I love and adore.
Sometimes, my sister and I teach her how to front.
Or, we practice our puckers.
We take time to stop and smell the roses.
And look smashing in black and white.
She looks up to me.
She knows how to pray.
How could I ever feel blue with this little girl in my life?


Thursday, February 11, 2010

TMI: because if you don't read my blog on Thursdays, it's your loss

Last Friday, I posted a confession (mother mary, comfort me) regarding my TMI embellishment bold-faced-lie.

(I think the reason I felt most guilty was that the title of last Thursday's post was TMI: in which I am long-winded but it is worth it in the end. And you know, since the end was the part where I lied.)

So, I offered to put aside my pride and, as penance, answer all of your burning questions.

What was I thinking? Little did I know...

Well, let's just jump right in:

Ashley Stone, who has known me for more than a decade, got the ball rolling:

haha....well I heard a little rumor back in high school about you and a certain someone sneaking into the unfinished side of my basement during the "Design for Murder" cast party at my house. Haha...true? Fabricated? ; )

Oh, Ashley.

Let me answer this question with another question: are you allowed to be mad at me for something that happened more than ten years ago? I hope not. That being said, I do not recall anything about an unfinished basement. What I do remember however, is a laundry room with doors.

I would like to elaborate for my readers that the certain someone Ashley referenced was not just some random, skanky hook-up. Rather, the co-culprit here was my high school boyfriend, who I still (hell, since it's Thursday I'll just put it all out there!) believe hung the moon, and were I half an inch taller (he has a height requirement now) and a quarter of an inch braver, I would literally run into his arms and never leave them.

What can I say? It's Thursday.

(Ashley, do you love me less knowning that I christened your parents washing machine and possibly their dryer as well?)

Travener asked...

Are they real?

At first I was a bit miffed that Travener had the audacity to question the validity of the twins. Then, I got over it. I decided his query was best answered in a photo response:


The girls are not products of the late nineties or the new millenium. In reference to Travener's follow up comment, if they're real, they're spectacular, Elizabeth and Ophelia would like to say...
thank you very much.


In a less revealing-required comment, Roni @ FictionGroupie asked:

Why did you choose to write literary fiction? (i only ask because based on the "voice" you have in your blog, I would have pegged you to write something lighter that would give you more opportunity to use your sense of humor.)

Roni, this is a great question. I know that my blog is more often tongue-in-cheeck than it is serious or literary. However, in my writing, I love to use fancy schmancy words and I aspire to write a beautiful, character driven novel. Also, the subject matter lends itself to the genre. (Suicide, love lost, sanity lost, etc.) I hope that choosing literary fiction doesn't mean I won't be able to incorporate some moments that give readers cause to ROFL or even to LtheirA'sO.

Because I asked for it, Tina Lynn wanted to know:

Okay...(and remember you asked for it), how did you lose your innocence? Back up the truck! Did I just ask that? Yes, I did.

My dearest, sweetest niblet, I adore the way you worded question, except I'm not entirely sure what you mean. Are you asking me how I lost my virginity? I assume that's what you were going for, so here is my answer:

First, I did not lose it at Ashley's house during a cast party.

Secondly, I assure you, no banana bicycle seats were harmed in the event.

It was a romantic February evening -- might have happened on the most romantic day of the year -- in fact, I'm about to celebrate my 11th anniversary of being de-virged.

After eating dinner at a chinese buffet, cast-party-boy and I watched Zeffirelli's Romeo & Juliet in my parent's basement, and then we did it! Mostly, I remember he wore a yin-yang necklace and I had on special hot pink panties.

It. was. fantastic. fine. Whatever, it's not like I still think about it sometimes.

Ohh, I do think this is awesome... I started using this joke a few years ago. I'll say, "Um, excuse me. Has anyone seen my virginity? I've been looking for it for the better part of a decade!"

Krapfish, who is weird, asked...

Whats the difference between a potato?

Dude, seriously, were you drunk when you wrote this?

Diana Paz said...

Oh that's okay, we forgive you. And you just inspired a new post for me, so thank you! As for a question, I have ten, only because I asked them of Tina on her 10th postday celebration and I enjoyed her answers. It'll be fun reading yours too:


1. Coke or Pepsi?
Diet whichever, but lately it's diet pepsi. I drink like a six-pack a day. It is my number two vice in life.

2. Star Wars or Star Trek?
Um, can I choose neither? I definitely prefer the Wars to the Trek, but, you know... I'm not really into either.

3. Elvis or The Beatles?
Duhspice! The Beatles! Let It Be is one of my favorite songs of all time.

4. Edward or Jacob?
Team Edward over here, though one of my coworkers referred to him as a 150 year old pedophile today, and it kind of creeped me out, because I hadn't really thought of it that way before.

5. TV or internet?
Oh, god: both!

6. Fame or fortune?
I would choose fortune, and I might then consider using my fortune to catapult me into fame.

7. Lip gloss or lipstick?
I don't really wear either with regularity, but I would pick lip gloss over lipstick every day of the week.

8. Beach or mountains?
I'm a pisces -- a water sign. I love being at the beach... the wind and the waves. Can't I go there now?

9. Jet plane or cruise ship?
I have admitted before that I have an intense fear of flying and have never been on an airplane. Someday, I will look this fear in the face. That's a promise. (But, today I'm going to go ahead and go with cruise ship.)


10. Hugs or kisses?
It cetaintly depends on who is on the receiving end, but I am definitely a touchy person -- I don't require much personal space.

Finally, Organic Meatbag had his mind in the gutter like practically everyone else:

Oooh ooh, I'll throw in another inappropriate question, Amber: top or bottom? Hahaha

Okay, let's wrap it up. Here's the last of my weekly overshare:

Lately, I prefer the bottom...

(because I'm lazy.)

Visit Lilu's blog for more tragic tales!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

sometimes when I look at you I want to punch you in the face

Yesterday evening when I got off work the snow was coming down pretty hard and the wind was whipping it around -- biting cold, such a nasty, slushy day.

I got gas (which was non-negotiable) and then pointed the car toward home, feeling crampy and exhausted and frozen-toed. I called the hubs as I always do after work.

"Are you stopping for dinner?" he wanted to know.

"No, I really just want to get home. The roads are not great." Etc.

He was pissy all night because I wouldn't stop for fast food. (When I'm the one with the valid excuse to behave that way, what with the PMS and all.)

When I turned onto our street I called again. He was parked curbside, and I wondered if I should do the same. He assured me that I should park at the top of the driveway. Let me give you a visual: our driveway is sort-of-hilly, like two flights of stairs with a landing between them. It slopes, then flattens, then slopes again. So, the point of the story is that he commanded me told me to park on the flat part. It'll be fine, he promised.

This morning, it took me fourty-five minutes to get my car out of the driveway. My wheels were spinning on a sheet of ice. About fourty-two minutes into this song-and-dance, I called the hubster at work to tell him about my little dilema.

"I should have parked on the street," I told him, my voice icier than the pavement.

"Well, you should have brought home dinner last night," he said. The edge in his voice was not well-timed. No, I did not find it funny. I. was. pissed.

"Okay, thanks. Bye."

When I got to work there was an email waiting for me.

Sorry I was such a jerk on the phone.

I thought long and hard before responding.

You were a jerk on the phone. Whatever. I'm over it.

Mostly, I was mad because I felt like he only told me to park in the driveway because I hadn't stopped to get dinner, and he knew that I would have a hard time pulling out -- like it was revenge or something. Maybe what he thought it was... was karma.

So, he didn't respond to my email, and I emailed him later in the day to ask him what he wanted for dinner tonight.

On the way home tonight I stopped and got us a Jersey Mike's giant number 13 to split because I am the bigger person.

(But, I still wear the pants.)

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

snow/ blows/ pantyhose/ toes/ woes

This is the best day of my life.

I just realized that I can blog at work.

I tried to pull up my blog on my worky-computer not long after I started my new position with [name redacted] Bank. I enetered my bloggy address and a warning box came up that said heck, no, you can't go... there.

Today, I thought, what the... and tried again.

I logged into my google account and -- here I am.

(I'll pause for your soulful ovation, your tearful applause...)

Thank you, thank you. I'm touchedspice. Please, sit down.

So yeah, I'm at work but there's no work to be done right now (even though every area school is closed, no one is out and about today.) Louisville got a snow dump of some inches last night, and the roads are empty and white today. No, it isn't much -- it's still snowing and we're looking at a total of maybe seven inches by the end of the day. (I know you guys in the D.C. area probably want to tell us Kentuckians me personally to suck it up. That's fair.)

I would like to point out that an employee of one of those video game stores says that at his place, business is booming today. (You know, just for the record.)

The roads aren't too terribly bad... if you drive slowly and in a lower gear and with both hands latched to the steering wheel. Oh, and your knuckles are required to turn a painful white. My top speed on the drive to work this morning was about 20 mph, but I still managed to arrive on time. (Score one for me!)

(Punctuality isn't usually my middle name.)

Now I'm debating what to do for my lunch hour... there's no way I'm driving home for lunch. I think I'll head to Fuji for sushi. Maybe I'll even write a scene or two while I shove raw fish and wabasi into my face. What I write today will certainly take place in a blizzard, ot at least conditions which are quasi-wintery.

On second thought, maybe I will put my characters in the sun today.

(White isn't Laurel's best color.)

* Note to the suits. I do not plan on blogging at work on a regular basis, so don't fire me. Please?! In this economy, I can't afford to be out of work. Also, blogging is a way to create connections, and in turn, I can use this networking to encourage more people to bank with us. Thank you for your time.*

Monday, February 8, 2010

monday morning quarterback

Thank you, dear readers, for leaving me questions to answer in the comments section of my Friday post. Since 90% of your inquiries will require answers in the realm of TMI, I will be responding in my Thursday post.

Did you forget to ask me a personal (or impersonal?) question?
There's still time!
Feel free to ask away. All topics are fair game -- and I'll be required to answer, as I am very, very brave and do quite enjoy the weekly overshare.

Moving on.

I'm certain several bloggers are posting about the big game last night. As a Colts fan, I am disappointed that my Christmas pajama pants did not turn out to be my lucky charm. However, as a football fan, I found the game exciting. (That onside kick to start the third quarter was ballsy genius.) Furthermore, as a relatively decent human being, I was happy to see the Saints win one.

So, congrats to the South.

(Plus, both Sean Payton and Drew Brees are seriously hotspice.)

(Sorry Peyton Manning. You're still my favorite QB. I'll be your tight end.)

I'm also certain that several bloggers are writing about their favorite Superbowl commercials. I'll admit I was partial to the Dorito's advert --  little kids with attitude get me every time. Another gem was Betty White getting reamed while playing touch football. It made me laugh and want a Snickers real bad. In addition to being wildly funny, it sort of took the wind out of the controversial sails of the Tebow anti-abortion commercial (which, really, was quite vague in its message, anyway.)

My favorite commercial, by a mile, was the google search ad. I know I wasn't the only gal who got a little emotional watching it. Right, ladies?! Right?

Okay, so there you have it: my super Superbowl recap.

Just call me sportyspice.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Confessional/ Q & A day

For those of you who read my TMI post yesterday, I have a confession to make:

it was truth or scare in disguise.

The entire story is true except the last paragraph. Though I was the waitress of the family in question, years after the camp events described, I did not contaminate their food with any of my bodily juices.

Confessing that the end of the story is untrue is not very fun. In fact, I feel my ego deflating a bit as I type this now.

I wish I was that person -- someone able to perform acts of sweet revenge.

But, in my six years (plus) as a waitress, I never once messed with anyone's food. I mean, I may have peed once mid-shift and neglected to wash my hands, but let's be honest -- who hasn't done that a time or two?

I'm crestfallen. Yesterday marks the first time I have fabricated a story for TMI Thursday.

(It's way more fun to tell the truth.)

I feel there is a penance to pay -- that I must redeem myself for the untruth that was told.

I think the only way to do this is to find out what you want to know.

Ask me the difficult questions, readers. Ask me anything your little hearts desire.

I will be accountable for answering them all. I've been wanting to do this for some time anyway, so don't hold back.

(Bring it on.)

Thursday, February 4, 2010

TMI Thursday: in which I am long winded but it is worth it in the end

TMI Thursday
Back when I was churchy, I went to a churchy summer camp. Kids from all over the state of Kentucky would gather for a week of Jesus at a tiny little campground just outside of Louisville.

When one was old enough, the cool thing to do was to volunteer to work at the camp -- cleaning the restrooms, helping in the cafeteria, and serving snacks at the canteen (which is called The Manna Hut. I told you it was churchy.)

Since I lived about 15 minutes from camp, I decided to make history the summer I was sixteen: I volunteered to work all six weeks. The Camp Director even decided to pay me for my efforts -- I earned a whopping $125.00 per week, which I was encouraged to put into a fund for an overseas missions trip at the summer's end. (I think I saw dollar signs in my eyes, so I decided to skip the trip and pocket my pay. I'm pretty sure the Camp Director -- who organized the trip -- was not entirely pleased with my decision.)

The camp is always divided up into teams and compete against each other in scavenger hunts, belching contests, etc. to win a Thursday night pizza party. The volunteers get to participate and are always on "the peach team" and get to go to the pizza party regardless. There are hundreds of photos taken. Endless games of tetherball and volleyball are played. Cute college boys from a dramatic arts group at a Florida college hold your hand all week, wink at you, make you feel like you're their girl. (Well, if you're me.) Snail-mail addresses are exchanged at the end of the week.

Ahh, camp.

So, I was having a hell heck of a time that summer, feeling the stirrings of the Spirit (which I am now certain were stirrings for that college boy, Jeramie, who turned out to be quite douche-y, if you wanna know. He called me after camp, and pretty much phone sexed me against my will. I don't think he asked himself the important question: WWJD?)

Anyway.

It was the last week of camp, and the campers were all-ages, and all had physical and mental disabilities. This was always my favorite week of camp, because these people look forward to coming all year long. It's the only time they aren't stifled by their handicaps, the only time being disabled puts them in the majority. And they all had the most positive outlooks on life. There is one camper, Tony, who I will never, ever forget. I was mopping the cafeteria one afternoon and he was hanging out with me. He was probably in his thirties, and he is in a wheelchair. I was complaining about mopping, whining that my back was killing me and that I wished I didn't have to do it.

He told me, "Amber, if I could walk, I'd mop that whole floor for you a hundred times."

Humbling.

Anyway, on to the TMI. There was one camp counselor (one of the college drama boys!) who would sneak off at night with another camp counselor, a blonde dimwitted gal who was as skinny as she was easy. (Whitetrashspice.) Now, the problem was that since they were staying in rooms with people with special needs they really needed to be there in case one of them needed something. All the volunteers got wind of the situation, and we were all pissed.

So, the last night of camp, the camp director's son (who I ever so briefly dated, of course) and his brother decided that they wanted to bust the lovers and get them caught red handed. He wanted me and my friend, Anna, to assist them in setting a trap. The plan was, when the two walked out of their cabin and off into the woods, Anna and I would sit at the picnic tables in the middle of camp and wait, so that after they re-emerged post make-out sesh, they would join us at the picnic tables for a chit-chat. Director's son would be the lookout, and upon his signal, his brother was to bang on the door of his dad's cabin and tell him there was an emergency -- to get him out of bed so he would come outside and bust the horny couple.

Everything went according to plan until the camp director emerged from his bed. Anna and I, seated at the picnic table with the guilty party, looked just as guilty of sneaking out in the middle of the night.

Camp director chewed us new ones while directing us back to our bunks. I wish I could remember the words he used, but I don't think I have ever been yelled at so profoundly in my entire life, before or since that night. He basically told us to pack our bags and that we were leaving and were never welcome to come back. Ever. We were told to stay in our room until he told us what to do. We tried to explain, but we couldn't get a word in.

We thought he might call our parents. We thought he meant we needed to leave then, in the middle of the night. Shaking like little leaves, we packed in the dark. I was crying because I am emotionally weak. We lay in the dark on our bunks, waiting for certain punishment, sure to be harsher than hades.

I'm sure we dozed, but I just remember starring at the ceiling for what felt like days. Around sunrise, there was a knock on the door. Camp director's evil wife said, "He wants you in the kitchen in thirty minutes, ready to work. We have to close down the camp today. Do not be late."

So, he wasn't sending us home. No, of course not, with all the work to be done. He gave Anna and I the most disgusting of the jobs, hosing down and scrubbing out practically every crevice of the campground. We worked for hours.

Apparently, his sons did not cooroborate our story, did not validate the fact that she and I were scheming with them for an honorable purpose.

My regret is staying until the early evening that day and doing all the work I did. I should have left the camp that morning, and gone home to a hot shower and my comfortable bed and thought of camp director and his spawns-of-satan sons, doing all the work on their own. No, instead, I stayed, because I was a good Christian young woman, turning the other tear-stained cheek.

I carried a grudge for years, until the time a few years back when that campy family came into the restaurant where I was working as a waitress.

If you think I might have spit into my hand a little and then allowed it touch the camp director's french fries, you might be right. If you think I might have had an itchy nostril, and then accidently allowed that same thumb into the egde of the son's chicken pasta dish, you might also be right. If you wonder whether or not I may have gone into the ladies room, produced a soup spoon from my apron, and stuck it near my (rear)nether-regions before exiting the ladies room and taking out the soup du-jour to my ex-beau, well...

I'm not confessing to any of it.
Check out Lilu's blog for more tragic tales!

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

everything but the kitchen sink

Yesterday, I made a promise.

I promised my husband that I would do the dishes tonight.

This is not awesome. The sink is full to overflowing and I have a sneaking suspicion that the majority of the
dishes and utensils may be best described as crusty. The predicament is that I have not done dishes in um, over a week.

Granted, that's only 4 or so actual meals in the Murphy household. Typically, we eat at least one frozen pizza per week, which requires minimal cleanup. We never cook breakfast (unless it's at dinner time!) and when I do come home for lunch, I heat up something lean-cuisine-ish and dirty only a fork. Then there are the nights -- like tonight -- when I bring home Qboda and chew away stress.

(Chicken nachos > antidepressants.)

I'm procrastinating... there are several items that are daunting me more than a little: there's a casserole dish from shepherd's pie which is soaking at the bottom of the sink like long-buried treasure, certain to be algae-ed with mold by now. When did we have that Shepherd's Pie? Was it really so long ago that I can't remember? And why was there only A1 to put on top of it instead of S&P? No matter, it was still really yummy. (Hubs wears the kiss the cook apron in this house.) (I wear the pants.)

Moving on:

There are peanut-butter encrusted spoons from numerous snack-times (hubs) and an eclectic mountain of coffee mugs (me) stained tobacco brown from my morning and evening coffee addiction. (Worth it. I will scrub at those watery brown stains and not care in the least if they never completely rub out.)

There is certian to be a skillet or two, greasy from our Saturday afternoon omelets or curled with the cream of a frozen chicken alfredo dinner of yore.

Two pots aren't even in the sink -- there's no room in the inn. Instead, they flank the sink like bookends, filled up with semi-soapy water and the leftover chunks of spaghetti sauce (left of sink) and somethingmysterious (on the right.)

A glass casserole dish from last night's pork ribs, bottom coated with some fatty, congealed, meat-mush which looks lardy, isn't even soaking. God, help me.

I'm off to unload the dishwasher and then to face the rancid, sticky plates and bowls which once housed the meals lovingly prepared for me.

(The real reason I've procrastinated all week and let the dishes pile up? Hubs did them last week. I think it was the same evening he made the shepherd's pie. He said to me, "We really need to start keeping up with the dishes better than we have been." Since I'm supposed to do the dishes, I knew that by we he meant me.)

(Not doing them all week was my passive-aggressive way off telling him where to stick it.)

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

a lover not a fighter

It's hard out there for a bookworm.

I stayed awake until 1:00 in the morning reading THE ROAD. I am more than two thirds of the way through, and I just couldn't put it down last night. It's hard to find a stopping point since there are no chapter divisions, and since it is the best book ever written. Well, it's already on my top ten.

When I finally decided I had to get to bed, I flicked off the television with the remote, then got off the couch and pressed the power button in an attempt to turn it off again. Oops.

(I do bizarre things when I'm sleepy.)

In other news, I missed out on the fight scene blogfest hosted by Mireyah Wolfe over at Crimson Ink. Sheeshspice. I really wanted to post a scene in which my main character gets all up in someone's grill. Look for my belated fight scene: coming soon. In the meantime, I will leave you with this important piece of information:

it's one month until my birthday!

Will there be a bloggy birthday party here at musings of amber murphy on March 2nd? Oh, yes -- there will be. Save the date!

Will I regale you with memories from each year of my life? Perhaps.

Will I post about neat-o events which have taken place each March since 1981? Maybe.

Will I scan in some baby photos and some pictures of me as an awkward kidlet? It's a definite possibility.

Will we ring in my last twenties birthday with compliments about how young I still look? Absolutely!


Oh, eekspice. I have to leave for work in thirty minutes. Where did the morning go? Shower: like now.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Reading Challenge Check-in

Sleepyspice.

That's the story of my life, I guess. I stayed up too late last night watching the Grammys. (There were some super weird performances and some moving ones. Enough said.)

Can you believe February is here?

I'm proud to say that I am well on my way in the 100 book reading challenge for 2010. I just started my ninth book of the year -- Cormac McCarthy's THE ROAD. I'm 70 pages in, and it is so devistatingly good.

Here's what I've read so far this year:

THE LITTLE FRIEND by Donna Tartt
EXTREMELY LOUD & INCREDIBLY CLOSE by Jonathan S. Foer
NO WAY TO TREAT A FIRST LADY by Christopher Buckley
THE MIDDLE PLACE by Kelly Corrigan
MIDDLESEX by Jeffrey Eugenides
LOST IN THE FOREST by Sue Miller
THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING by Milan Kundera
HOW TO BE GOOD by Nick Hornby

(I'm pretty sure I blogged all these titles after I purchased them all at 1/2 Price Books, but you certainly needed a refresher, right?)

I signed up for Goodreads -- now I just need to figure out how to link the little book collage or a shelf to my blog! I'm such a web-novice. Also, I'm friendless on the site. If you are a user, add ambertiddmurphy!

In other news, Hubs said to me the other day, "You read a lot lately."

I wanted to tell him about my 100 book reading challenge, but since it's blog related, I decided to keep it a secret, too. He still has not discovered my blog, which I find amusing and rather daft of him. I mean, I have little trouble discovering his internet activity. But that's neither here nor there.

Happy Monday, blogworld. Are you reading more in 2010? What's your favorite read of the year so far?