Author: amorettevirginia

My name is not Elizabeth Willow, you can’t get a hold of Bryan May by calling my phone number, and I’ve loved all things bitey and deadly since my first viewings of Jurassic Park and The Crocodile Hunter at age two.

TBT: How sportz doo?

I initially wrote about this when I was sixteen and decided to appropriately re-post it today, but with a bit of editing to make it somewhat more relevant to my life now. It’s not very good, but I felt way more like editing something than trying to write something new. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, but I’m hoping to start posting a little more regularly. S.O. to the like, three people who read this stuff, though. You know who are, you sexy snipes, you. Enjoy.

Between the ages of two and six my very best friend in the whole tall world (the world seemed much taller then), aside from my cousin Katie, was Johnathon Corriere. Like many of my fool-hardy friends over the years, Johnathan was convinced that I could could play sports. Unlike the following several times someone tried to get me to play a sport, I was also convinced I could play sports. Rock ball changed that.

Rock ball is a pretty simple game to understand and Johnathan taught it well.

HOW TO PLAY ROCK-BALL:

  •  Make sure you have at least two people, a batting stick, and a couple of rocks.
  • One person stands at the back wall of the yard, and the other stands under the tree near the door to the back-yard.
  • Argue over who gets to bat first.
  • Little Girl gets to bat first according to the solemnly obeyed, age-old, irrefutable law “girls rule, and boys drool”
  • Little Boy irritably instructs Little Girl in the proper way to hold a bat.
  • Little Girl demands why the bat cannot be held by the larger end.
  • Little boy gives in-depth explanation of the history and reasons for holding a bat by the slimmer part -“because – that’s why!!!”
  • Little girl stubbornly holds bat by the fatter end, determined to prove that it will be a much more effective way to send the rocks soaring.
  • Little boy makes face and walks back under tree to pitch the first rock.
  • Little girl suddenly decides that pitching would be a lot more fun.
  • Little boy happily switches.

By this point, it had occurred to me that perhaps rock-ball wasn’t so safe of a game. I was confronted with the knowledge that I was about to have a rather hard object thrown uncomfortably near my face, that the wider end of the bat would indeed be far more likely to make contact with said object, and worst of all that Johnathan knew more about something than I did. I attempted to evade the impending doom of being a made a bruised and bloodied fool. I informed Johnathon that we should switch. He agreed readily enough, but made the mistake of calling me a scaredy-cat and pulling my pony-tail. I really didn’t appreciate that.

In retrospect, it occurs to me that stepping on his foot and trying to punch him in the face was not the best way to convince him I wasn’t scared and should have incurred a more violent reaction from him, but it didn’t. His crush on me must have been HUGE. All he did was dodge my flailing fist and say as he stepped back “Okay, okay! I believe you! I won’t do it again!” smiling a little in the charming way little boys have. I stormed off to the position under the tree and he took the one by the wall. To my increasing humiliation he was also holding the bat correctly.

Sports are a complete lost cause for me. I don’t understand them, they bore me, and the physical effort they require is just not my jam. This doesn’t mean I hate any physical activity. I used to go running and dance all the time, I still go for long walks when I have the time, and sex is great. But I was particularly uncoordinated as a small child. So, really, all the terrible things which then ensued were definitely Johnathan’s fault.

Point in case, when I tried to pick up a safe, small stone that wouldn’t be likely to maim something were my aim to go horribly awry in the manner it usually did, he made me find a bigger stone.

It wasn’t just bigger. It ended up being the biggest fucking stone I could carry and still throw a reasonable distance.

I knew what Johnathan was trying to do. He wanted to rub it in my face that I couldn’t handle the intense bad-assery of rock ball. He wanted an impressively large rock to hit in order to make my defeat that much more humiliating. If anyone had been watching – wait no.  If anyone older had been watching Johnathan and I would have had a far less interesting childhood.

I was too scared by this point to care how embarrassingly I lost and even nervously suggested to him that we play a game of spies instead. He refused, insisting that we had gotten this far and were gonna play this game. However he must have noticed how terrified I was, because he then set down his bat and proceeded to very sweetly encouraged me. He thought I was going to throw real good and he trusted me and he just knew I could do it! With such flattering and positive encouragement my fear evaporated.

I put on a brave face for my best bud, lifted my hand, aimed, closed my eyes, and threw the rock.

I shouldn’t have done that. Close my eyes.

I like to believe that I am a great source of hilarity for God and that this was particularly true in my younger days. I’m pretty sure that, when I closed my eyes and threw, He decided then would be a really funny moment to bless my aim. It was swift and true. Never truer, in fact. You see, I had been aiming for Johnathan’s face, because I knew there was no way on earth I could possibly hit what I was aiming for. I didn’t account for divine intervention.

HOW TO RUIN A REALLY GREAT GAME OF ROCK-BALL:

  • Hand Little Girl an enormous rock to throw.
  • Give Little Girl flattering encouragement.
  • Pray for divine intervention.
  • Watch smiling as Little Girl closes her big scared eyes to throw.
  • Little Girl throws big rock, aiming for Little Boy’s face.
  • Little Boy does not expect to get hit.
  • Little Boy starts screaming.
  • A lot.
  • Attracts Little Boy’s mom’s attention.
  • End game.

So ended the first of many misguided attempts of my friends’ to include me in their sport games. I don’t think I made any of my other friends go to the dentist with a blood-soaked mouth though, so I think this one takes the colloquial cake. Also, maybe I should have warned them what I was capable of. Maybe then I’d have a lot less traumatizing attempts to athletically fit in. Ah hindsight, you fucking 20/20 perfect vision bastard. You make my life so bittersweet.

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Pointless Concerns

I am always so worried about my creativity disappearing. Like, what if one day I wake up and can’t draw? At all?

I’m terrified that’s already happened. I’m also terrified that it’s because I haven’t gone to college. I’ve traveled the world, worked crappy jobs, had a dream wedding, and have been married for like, seven  months, but for some reason I feel like that’s not enough. Especially the traveling bit – it took me so long to come to terms with the fact that maybe I didn’t do everything I felt I should, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t get shit done, you know?

But man, I’ve waxed and waned oh so poetically about my possible loss of creativity, and I just want to be done. I want to be motivated to draw, and write, and dance, and run, and make a little music every day. I want to be motivated enough to actually learn Spanish. I want to get over my fear of debt for life and total failure and actually apply for scholarships and schools and just go. I want to be an art student, but I also want to be a bad ass investigator or something so I want to stop caring if my art is good enough and just make art for my love of it and study hard to become the bad ass investigator or international diplomat or whatever I want to be.

Shoot. I just realized something.

I don’t actually want to make a career out of my creativity, and I think I’m okay with that for the first time in my life.

I don’t have to make being creative how I support myself, I can be creative just because I want to and I need to get something out. And I can always do that, no matter what. And I can pursue a more intellectual career, and I won’t be betraying my little artist’s soul, so long as it doesn’t prevent my from generally being creative.

I can do what I want, and by choosing one thing it doesn’t mean I’m forgetting or excluding the other.

Huh. I should write more often. It really helps me think.

Tough Shit

I feel like 90% of what I write on here is about sad crap. I also feel like I created this to write about whatever the fuck I feel like so I don’t care. But also I kind of do because I apparently have followers?

Sorry. Skip this if you’re not feeling somewhat sad or contemplative. I really am.

I have a friend who’s gone through an ectopic pregnancy, miscarriages, damaged Fallopian tubes, and general fertility issues all since December. And she is one of the most fucking joyful humans I have met in my entire life.

I would say more about her, how I know her and crap, but I feel she has a right to her anonymity, and I think some people who personally know her could end up reading this, and they’re not the people she would want to know. Let’s call her Tulula, for no other reason than my love of Cool Runnings, and the fact that is was the first fake name other than Jane to pop in my head.

When Tulula first had surgery for the ectopic pregnancy in December I didn’t even know what to say or how to feel or what to do. How do you comfort a person dealing with pain of a nature you don’t know anything about and may never experience?

To anyone who wasn’t family or practically family she didn’t say anything. While she was convalescing from surgery for the ectopic pregnancy she just pretended she was really ill. Which was somewhat the truth. But it was so difficult for me not to punch a mutual friend, my best friend, straight in the mouth when I heard her rain down judgment and confusion on Tulula for having years before confessed that she was unsure of having children. Especially because this mutual friend of ours was smugly pregnant at the time and had experienced more than one miscarriage when trying for her child. Like, I know she didn’t know Tulula’s situation, but man. I would have loved to break one of her teeth.

You’re probably thinking it’s odd that I’d like to break my best friend’s tooth, even if she was kind of unknowingly being a bitch at the time, which probably doesn’t make her a bitch, but I carry a lot of emotional baggage from the last few years of trying to keep up a relationship with her so sometimes I’m meaner in my thoughts to her than I should be. I can get along really well with her, and in a lot of ways she’s one of the most incredible women I know. But sometimes she’s so judgmental and self-righteous I can’t stand her. Maybe it’s like looking in the mirror for me at the things I hate about myself, or maybe I’m jealous of her boldness to believe that whatever she feels is right is right. Maybe I’m not like her at all so there’s a huge disconnect now that our lives our different. Either way, we’re just kind of weird former best friends that talk every now and then, but are better off loving each other distantly and we don’t keep up on a regular basis.

Back to Tulula, and away from my myopic friend problems.

Tulula’s family has asked us to fast a pray for her and her husband for the next two days. I want to pray but there’s a part of me that’s just now acknowledging how distant I’ve become from God. How do I come to God and say “hey, we haven’t talked as much lately, like, at all, but someone we both love is dealing with some tough shit and I really need you to be there for them.”

I mean, I guess that’s^ how I say it.

But what do I say to her and her husband? I don’t know how to comfort them. I have no wisdom to share with them. And I’m like, 1,500 miles away from them right now so just a hug is not possible.

How do you comfort people going through tough shit when literally anything you say is going to be cliche? Obnoxiously so?

I could draw them a dumb, weird picture that will either make them laugh or feel mild absurdity that would be better than the frustration and mourning all this must cause.

And the best and worst thing is that they’re still so damn joyful. Tulula especially.

Seriously, she’s toned down a bit from her former exuberance, but it’s really hard to tell because her former exuberance was so immense and she could lose a lot of exuberance and still be the most exuberant person I know. I think she is.

So I guess this meandering post is just here to say that Tulula inspires me, because even if I’m scared to say the wrong thing and not be comforting at all, she’s so incredible that I don’t really have to worry that much. She’ll get through this. So will her husband. And God will give them a big fucking hand, because they shine bright as an example of love and trust and joy in a world full of tough shit.

tldr: I got lost in an airport, thought I was Harry Potter, failed to pass through a portal to Utah and then got un-lost.

I’ve traveled quite a bit the past few years and this summer has been no exception with a fair mix of both flying and driving. Normally I like to think that I’ve become a fairly competent human at navigating the labyrinths that airports can often present, but Charlotte Int’l threw me for a loop last week. Here’s what I wrote on it:

That weird moment when you’re in the Charlotte Int’l airport, stuck for a three hour layover?

Not weird, you would think, until you realize your gate does not exist.

You cock your head to the side like your dog does when he doesn’t understand why you’re staring at him when you think you have a psychic, heartfelt connection and he doesn’t know what any of those words mean. You pace up and down between gates 16, 17, 12, 19, and 10 trying to figure out what logic there is to this organization of gates. Was the architect of this airport on crack-cocaine? Or just bizarrely mischievous? Why is gate 11 not between 10 and 12? A small, childish part of your mind that grows larger as you continue to pace vaguely wonders if your flight from Charlotte to Salt Lake City is actually a magic portal, or maybe the gate only appears when the sun’s at a certain angle. MAYBE IT’S LIKE PLATFORM 9&3/4. You realize that generally running headfirst into columns in the middle of several busy gates is not the most logical decision you could publicly make, so instead you just walk quickly over to it and heavily lean into it with your hand while sort half stretching your other arm out since you can’t decide whether to look like you’re stretching or relaxing momentarily in between catching flights like the cool, nonchalant, not neurotic traveler you are. . . not. When you don’t magically fall through into a fancier, magical terminal that doesn’t look like it was designed in 1978 you realize that A. you’ve indulged your crazy too much and/or B. you were supposed to run into the column.

B. Is not an option but you’re delusional and desperate at this point to find the correct gate. You skip the running bit and check the departure screens in the tiny hope that maybe you’ll be leaving from a gate that actually exists, but no, it’s still the taunting, non-existent gate 11. You’ve already checked the mockingly friendly arrows on the signs that are supposed to direct you to your needed gate seventeen times, but you check for the eighteenth time hoping against hope that you’re just a blind idiot and maybe gate 11 has been right next to you the whole time.

It hasn’t.

Finally you decided to walk further down the rows of small eateries and further gates whe- WHAT THE DUMP GATE ELEVEN, YOU UNTRUSTWORTHY SWINE, WHY ARE YOU ACROSS FROM GATE SEVEN 80 YARDS AWAY FROM THE NEAREST LOGICAL LOCATION FOR YOU?

Then you type up an awkwardly long description of your illogical confusion when you grumpily but gratefully sit down after realizing that odd numbered gates were on the right and even numbered gates were on the left, thrown out of whack by the restaurants randomly inserted between gates.

Oops

I should not be allowed to be an adult.
Good news is I only have two hours left till I board my next flight.

Existential crap

My life is a bundle of messes all wrapped up in Christmas time gift paper that makes you think something cute and endearing like a tiny kitten, or puppy, or duckling will pop out. Instead you find a haggard mutt, once the runt of his litter, nestled into pieces of trash. Upon closer inspection, you will find the trash is actually discarded sketches and writings.
My past hopes.
My future expectations.

The spit from my soul.

I feel wrecked. Superannuated. Potentially unusable.

Potential. Do I carry any now? Or has it all faded?

I know these things are all in my head but they’re hard to ignore.

They’re easy to trust, to masochistically cherish.

Do I want to be awful? Crazy? Beyond the reach of God?

No. Not really.

Not really at all.

Sometimes I think I am.

I think I put myself there.

But no, not really.

Not really at all.

Today’s post is brought to you by the letter “S”

There’s this kid at my work named Tyler and I think he hates me.

I’m good at my job, but I hate it and I think he’s picked up on that and doesn’t appreciate it. I think he also dislikes that I’m almost always hustling to get out of there when my shift ends.

Most of my co-workers are fine and it’s not the worst job I’m just tired of it and it gets in the way of getting stuff done for the wedding and it’s just kind of a gross job. I come home smelling like campfire smoke, dirty dishwater, and feet. And like all people in food service my back is trying to murder me and may eventually succeed.

Since I’ve been so annoyed by it lately I’ve decided to start changing the notices and stuff at work in order to bring myself some small, absurd, mischievous joy.

MUST BE DONE BY THE END OF YOUR SHIFT
becomes
SMUST BE DONE BY THE END OF YOUR SHIFT

QUALITY INN MAP
becomes
LOW QUALITY INN MAP

Of course I didn’t just stop there. I messed with people’s time cards too.

TYLER
becomes
STYLER

LOGAN
becomes
SLOGAN

VANCE
becomes
SVANCE

Most of them have gotten a good laugh out of it. But Tyler asked me about it today and I think he was really mad. He said he wasn’t, but he was pretty passive aggressive about it.

Oops.

Sorry, Styler.

Ya’ll.

I have followers. And I don’t know how you found me. And it’s weird. But welcome, I guess? I suspect most of you are fishing for follow backs but I’m not really into that scene so no thanks, franks. If you’re here because you care about what I write then I hope you don’t mind that I’m not censoring or editing myself very much. Pretty much not at all. Whatever.

Anywho, I’m in the middle of a skype date with my fiancée but wanted to write this before I forget and he’s busy doing sexy things like checking his financial statements so I don’t want to keep missing out on that. Check ya later, ya’ll.

I’m the worst. By which I mean awesome.

I have a million things running through my mind going at a frantic, non-stop pace that should probably qualify me as asylum worthy but for some reason has yet to visibly imbalance me that much on the outside. That or I’m so crazy I don’t realize that this isn’t reality and I actually am in an asylum. But I’m also really happy with my scatter brained existence so I guess I don’t care? Is that bad? Shouldn’t I care if I’m actually insane? Oh golly maybe I do. If I’m genuinely insane then I could wake up at any moment and everything here will go away and my life is really going good at the moment so I really don’t want that to happen. Oh gosh I hope this is the really real reality because if it’s not then I’m going to miss my fiancée so much and it’s going to really freak him out if I start acting like we’re engaged in this other actual reality if we aren’t in both.

SEE. GADZOOKS, I WAS GOING TO WRITE ABOUT MY WEDDING PLANS OR ACCOUNTABILITY OR SOME NICE SHIT AND HERE I AM DISCUSSING MY POTENTIAL SANITY. I SWEAR MY BRAIN IS ON CRACK COCAINE.

This is why myself and 90% of the world’s population are probably concerned about my impending marriage. I still do things like climb on roofs just to prove I can and graffiti the notices around work to change them from things like “Amanda Wisely bought a 5 Cheese Pizza.” to “Amanda UNWisely bought a 5 Cheese Pizza.
And I sprayed spittle all over the youth Pastor’s husband just because he told me not to.

Yeah.

I’m getting married in T-Minus 41 days.

Awesome.

Also,

Wedding Update:

  • I’ve heard my future sister in law is very excited that I will have a preggo maid of honour
  • The other one is getting over the fact that her baby brother could be (will definitely be) having sex
  • I found out that my future groom really didn’t like the colours I was thinking about. I got upset at first but he explained why and then I was just mildly irritated because it was a really sweet reason.

When his grandfather passed away he left future groom a very fine, vintage vest from the thirties or forties. When future groom received it he promised himself he would get married in it, I think maybe as a way to honour his grandfather. When I was talking about a bunch of bright, rainbow-like colours he thought it wouldn’t go and that bothered him. So now I can’t do it, but I’ve gotten over it. Now I’m thinking of an adventure theme with lots of maps and old fashioned travel stuff. That, or I’m still thinking about not actually having a wedding . . .

More than once while growing up my parent’s told me, a little joking but actually very seriously, that they would encourage me to elope. Now that I’m actually engaged it’s like they can’t fully decide what they want, although I think my Dad is leaning more towards a wedding. But whilst my darling groom thought at first that  a wedding was important, he’s recently changed his mind and decided it’s just a horse and pony show and doesn’t want one at all.

This will be an interesting process.