Just when you thought Succubi didn't exist...

I like to use this blog as an outlet to be witty, sarcastic, and silly. Well, I haven't been feeling particularly witty or sarcastic or silly lately, so good content has been hard to come by. Now bad content? There have been plenty of those ideas. You should probably thank me for stopping myself from posting photo streams of Helo or video of myself playing Rockband or inspiration boards for my office redecoration or my imagined audition for Les Miserables. Yes, all of these things I've considered and then wisely unconsidered. Because not only would they be painful for me down the road (as I'd look back and wonder what the heck I was thinking), they'd be disastrous for my readership.

So for today's post (because I really should be consistent about posting regularly), we're going to get a bit serious. We're going to talk about my sleep disorder.

It all started in high school. I'd wake up in the night, eyes wide open. And I'd see something in my room. Usually, it was a person. Sometimes it was a creature. Always very terrifying. I'd keep staring and staring and staring at it until it dissolved and there I'd be alone in my room.

When this first started happening, I was so freaked out and confused and frustrated that once when I awoke to find a man standing at the head of my bed, looking down on me, I started to talk to him. I asked him what he was doing there. He answered me, though I don't remember what exactly he said, and then he dissolved.

So this...this suspension of the dream world...continued. I experienced it through college, post-college, and I even experience it now (it happened last night, actually). I've come to accept it as part of my sleeping experience. I go to sleep, knowing it's very probable that I'll awaken in the night only to have the crap scared out of me due to some super-sized Helo, or bugs swarming the ceiling, or an old man sitting in a chair. I've accepted this and told few people. Because to be quite honest, this isn't really the type of thing you want people to know about you. Mostly because it sounds like you're demon possessed. And secondly....because it sounds like you're demon possessed.

But then today, my whole world changed.

On Yahoo!'s home page, it had an article that said "Strange Sleep Disorder Makes People See Demons."

You bet I clicked on that thing so fast it were as if I were playing Gopher Bop.

Come to find out, I am NOT demon possessed. I'm not even being haunted by spirits. Turns out I probably have Sleep Paralysis--a sleep disorder in which the mind remains suspended between dream world and reality while the eyes are open. (Okay, it's either Sleep Paralysis, or I'm being stalked by an incubus...which is gross and exactly what the ancients would have told me back in the day had I explained my symptoms).

Sleep Paralysis is also the likely explanation for those who claim to have been abducted by aliens (!) or had ghostly encounters (!).

I can only hope that some night my SP leads to imagined alien abductions and sweet encounters with Casper. In the meantime, I'll settle for seeing antlers grow out of light fixtures and random appearances of my siblings as the foot of my bed.

The Funny Side of PTL

There is a certain Internet acronym called:

PTL

This fun, little guy is short for something very, very serious among us religious folk.

It means:

PRAISE THE LORD

But for the life of me, I can never seem to remember this when I run across it in an email or FB post. Instead, my mind translates it to mean:

PAIN IN THE ASS

Now, you may think that such a flub would result in endless laughter and hilarity! Because when your brain translates PTL to mean “pain in the ass,” what could possibly be funnier than reading:

Henry is out of the hospital, PTL, and back home!

Or:

PTL!! My in-laws made it here in time for Christmas!!!

Or:

PTL Amy is going to be assisting me at work!

But eventually, it gets annoying. Because there are some people that just PTL all over the place. It’s PTL this and PTL that, and despite my attempts to consciously switch the term to mean the RIGHT thing in my brain, there's no hope for the misread connotation. It sticks with me and refuses to change to the positive and hopeful. So in a nutshell, an email or note of extreme YAY-JESUS celebration becomes one, gigantic piece of angry that annoys me to death.

In other words, the PTLs still become PITAs.

And I’m back where I started.

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

So once upon a time, I played guitar. I've mentioned this before, though I've never really gone in depth with my former rock star days. I mean, what goes on in Vegas, right?

But what I will discuss is all of the annoyances that came with being a left-handed guitar player. You think I'm kidding, I'm sure. You think "Oh, here's sweet Amanda, blowing things out of proportion and hyperbolizing hyperbole as usual."

How I wish you were right.

10 Annoying Things About Being a Left-Handed Guitar Player

1. Really dumb right-handed people will ask you "Is it hard to play left-handed like that?" causing you to mentally smack them. (This has happened to me on multiple occasions. And here they say blondes are dumb...)
2. You leaf through a guitar magazine and your heart skips a beat at all the beautiful guitars there are in the world. Then, you go to buy one and you realize the one you want isn't available for lefties. And furthermore, you only have like 10 models to choose from because guitar manufacturers find it too expensive to offer every model in a lefty version. Grrrrr....
3. When you do settle on one of those 10 guitars, it will cost you like $200 more than what they'd charge for the very same guitar built for a right-handed player. (And people think I'm kidding when I say I'm going to march for Lefty's Rights!)
4. Slightly-less-so-but-still-very-dumb right-handed people will hear you griping about lefty discrimination and say "Why don't you just learn to play it right-handed?" in a tone that tells you they feel they've solved your problem and are expecting you to give them a kiss and go "You are so smart!" (Again, blondes are the  dumb ones??)
5. Right-handed guitarists will pick up your guitar and look at you with the most confused expression when they try to play it and it doesn't sound right. Then they berate you for not having a guitar on hand that they can play.
6. People will exclaim things like "You're the best left-handed guitar player I've ever heard!" As though the left-handed guitar is a different instrument than the right-handed one.
7. You will be more attractive to some guys because you play left-handed. Not because you have actual talent, mind you. But because you play "backwards."
8. You'll be at church and the worship pastor will be MIA and suddenly everyone will turn to you and expect you to pick up his right-handed guitar and lead worship. And when you try to explain that you can't, they suddenly think you're a less-talented guitar player and say things like "Can't you just figure it out?"
9. You want to punch the makers of Beatles Rock Band for designing Sir Paul's bass controller as a right-handed bass, when clearly he played a left-handed bass. It's this kind of discrimination that makes you want to scream and lead rallies and give speeches.

And lastly,

10. Famous left-handed guitarists become your idols for no reason other than you know that they went through what you're going through. Mind you, most of these idols are barely "idol" matieral: Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, etc.

So there you have it. The horrors of being a left-handed guitar player.

Anyone else have any instrument-related horrors to add? Like the assumption that tuba-players are overweight or that only girls play flutes?

Come on, your confessions are safe with me. Because you know the saying...What's said on Swedish Pankakes, stays on Swedish Pankakes. For the entire world to read.

Obsession

I go through these obsession phases with male historical figures.

In late elementary and early middle school, I was obsessed with Alexander the Great (in my defense he did rule all of the known world). To this day, I know the name of his horse, the various theories behind his death, the specs on his arch nemesis, and that his revolutionary war maneuver (the phalanx) looked a lot like a porcupine.

After Alex came Julius Caesar. This lasted through late middle school into early high school. I even took a class on Greek and Roman history and for years could name each of Rome's rulers in order (thankfully, that bit of knowledge has been replaced with a knack for being able to name the entire Cullen family).

After good old Jules came James Dean. This lasted from high school through early college. I can tell you about the car he died in, that his middle name was Byron and that he died before Giant came out. I can also tell you that he was disappointingly short.

After Jimmy, came...well. Perhaps I should explain this next one. I was in college, in the library, when this book (that happened to be shelved library style and therefore not easy to spot) caught my eye. This super attractive (in my opinion) guy was on the cover. And his name? Che. Now before you go judging me for my obsession with Ernesto "Che" Guevara, know this...I had zero clue who he was. I mean it's not like the book was titled "Che the Commie!" or something equally obvious. And I'm young!! I know who Fidel Castro is, but I never knew he had famed accomplices.

This meeting marked the beginning of a time in my life where I was stalked by Che. You may laugh (!) but I swear he was everywhere I went. My most prominent memory of this happened when Che followed me all the way to Turkey. I was there for a summer, and whose face showed up on the t-shirts, totes and pins that littered bazaar stands? His.

Now the only way to get rid of these obsessions was to research the heck out of the person. I'd usually tie it in to schoolwork (so it wasn't a complete waste of time), and would let the papers, presentations and reading material stack up until I felt I knew the person so well that I could move on. (If you like, I can make a compelling case for why Che would have been a much better leader than Castro). 

So recently, I stumbled upon this fellow named Doc Holiday (again, I'd never heard of him before. Sue me). As soon as I started reading about him, I felt the obsession begin to take hold. I needed more. More info. More theories. More urban legends surrounding this clever and cunning man of the wild west. My only problem was that I didn't have any school assignments. No papers or book reports through which to funnel my obsession.

It looked as though I was stuck.

And then Tad heard about suggested we watch Tombstone...

Ladies and gentlemen, nothing is more of an obsession buzzkill than seeing who Val Kilmer used to be.

When Nature Attacks!!!!!!

Wow, it's been an eternity since I last posted. Sorry about that. I made a promise to post more, and not only did I break that promise, but I broke one of my blogging rules: Never make promises you can't keep.

Again, sorry.

It's not that my life is uneventful or boring or difficult to depict. Aside from busyness (which is the lamest excuse in the world, am I right youth pastors?), I just haven't had anything that was so crazy impossibly convoluted that it couldn't be shared in 140 characters or less.

Until today.

Some background: I'm not a fan of nature. I get scared when I'm in open country, and I really dislike the sun in a very fair-complected-can't-see-without-squinting-can't-exist-without-getting-sunburned sort of way. So I avoid nature at all cost.

But since moving to this house that is in front of a forest (woods? forest? serial killer hiding spot? is there an appropriate term here?), nature has been on the attack.

ATTACK 1
So you may or may not have heard about my snakes (plural!) escapade. I was at home, minding my own business, when Helo had to go outside. So, we went to the side entrance, I opened the door to the landing and noticed something rope-like in the corner. I stared, and stared, and kept staring, thinking I was making it up (it's dark in our landing!), and then I realized. Snakes.

Not one, but two. Two garter snakes had made it into the house and were hanging out by the side door. One was SUPER long. We're talking at least 2 feet. Its body was the circumference of a quarter, and it was trying to slither UP THE DOOR. The other was a little guy. Maybe 10 inches. It kept popping out FROM UNDERNEATH THE WALL.

Now I'm not the screaming type. In a tense situation, I may yell out orders or furrow my brow, but I don't scream. So when I saw the snakes, I shuddered, took an abrupt step back and moved on to thinking about what the heck I was going to do to get rid of them. (Turns out, you can get snakes out of the house the same way you get birds out of the house).

ATTACK 2
While solving the snake problem, I decided to use the FRONT door. (See how smart I am?!). We have a bunch of rocks for a walkway instead of you know...civilized concrete or stepping stones. While making my way to the driveway, I noticed a rock that looked like a brain.

Upon closer inspection I realized that this rock was in fact the top portion of a squirrel's skull. Teeth, eye sockets, brain-y skull ridges. The whole shebang.

ATTACK 3
Right after the Snake and Squirrel Skull situations, our back yard was invaded by butterflies. And not like pretty, fluttery things that keep their distance. No, we're talking maniac dive-bombers who would fly right at me and try to land on my shirt or skin. Let's just say for that entire week, I took the long way through the back yard to get to Helo's romping grounds.

ATTACK 4
Number of snakes I have seen slithering around the yard while I'm mowing: 2

ATTACK 5
Today, I was mowing the lawn (an activity that I love yet am quickly growing to hate). I was minding my own business, mowing by this tree that is between our garage and a fence. There are tons of sticks there, so I was keeping an eye out for ... OH MY WORD WHAT IS THAT RUNNING AT ME?!

A crazy squirrel (probably the son of the squirrel whose skull I found), ran at me full speed. He smacked into my bare naked leg and bounced off.

This time, I screamed.

He did a few crazy man spins (at which point I thought he was going to come back for more) before he scooted under the fence and disappeared. (Tad has made the point that he probably had watched Helo do the very same thing to me...bounce off my body before spinning around like a crazy man...but I don't think this particular rodent was trying to play).

Now for the record, squirrels are surprisingly soft and cuddly. But that did nothing to ease my anxiety.

I kept mowing and all I could think about was whether or not I had rabies.

Then this guy was standing on the neighbor's driveway, watching me. I shut off the mower, thinking he was going to ask if I was ok or something.

"Hey," he said, "Have you seen a white cat?"

And then it all made sense.

I am Nature's Gatekeeper.

Amanda Raeanne Heinsch - the formative years

So a bit about the aforementioned Heinsch family video Christmas present ..

There is a side of me that wants to burn the video. Burn it so that the world may never know what I was like in my 13th year. Burn it so that no one can see my ungraceful and awkward transition from childhood to young womanhood. Burn it so that humanity can be spared raw footage of my acne and wretched fashion sense.

You see, homeschooling allowed me to miss out on any public documentation of my beastly transformation. I have no school photos, no yearbooks, no school plays or choir performances recorded on videotapes. Nothing...except this.

Sure, there are a few family photographs, but those can easily be dismissed. I mean who doesn't look bad in a photo or two (or three or fourteen)? But when you have a living, breathing, moving representation of who you were in the midst of puberty, well there's just no forgiveness. The video camera doesn't lie.

So with no further adieu, here are 15 observations on my life from 1996 to 2002:

1) When I get to heaven, I need to thank God that cheeks thin out as one ages
2) Hair down to my butt, parted in the middle and quasi-greasy. WHY DIDN'T ANYONE LOOK AT ME AND SEE THE PHYSICAL MAKINGS OF A FUTURE DRUGGIE?! WHY WAS THERE NO INTERVENTION?!
3) Gah! So tall at such a young age!
4) Dear Mandi - why don't you wear shirts that fit? Sincerely, Stacy and Clinton
5) Ugh, my facial features are being eaten BY MY OWN FACE.
6) I had better softball form than I remember...still, the glasses that take up half my already-large face are unforgivable. My high socks are awesome, though.
7) Yep, there I am. Left field. Probably batting 8th. It wasn't that I totally sucked...I was just going through this funk with my swing...oh, and I was afraid of sliding and getting dirty.
8) And BIG SIGH OF RELIEF. We cut to high school graduation and I'm actually starting to pull it together. 9) I open my mouth WAY too much when I laugh.
10) Hey, my makeup was really nice on grad day! And my hair very acceptable. I think I'm very datable!
11) Ugh there's the girl who got the solo that I wanted. *crosses arms*
12) I graduated with high honors! I forgot about that...funny how everything you do in high school means nothing down the road.
13) And there I am walking down the graduation aisle with the tallest boy in class. I remember feeling weird about that...but it turns out it looked ok. And at least I got to walk with a boy, am I right??
14) My close HS friends are all in this!
15) And then we cut to Ryan's basketball game. Note to self: when filming future sporting events, do NOT tape the whole thing.


And there you have it. Adolescence in a nutshell...and the joy of growing into your own.

why I could never run for president

In my line of work as a literary agent, I attend writers conferences throughout the year. At many of these conferences, they have these things called panels in which experts in the business sit up front facing the audience and answer questions.

Now I’ve participated in a number of these panels, and they always remind me of presidential debates. I’m not sure exactly why. We never really get into any tiffs up there on stage. There’s occasionally a disagreement or two among professionals but for the most part we respect opinions and try not to make each other sound dumb. So maybe it’s the lights? Or the microphones? Or the use of a moderator? Or the fact that there can be 100+ faces staring back at us, expecting us to say something brilliant and inspiring and insightful?

So anyway, this past September I was on an agent panel at ACFW. Now this is the big gathering for Christian fiction with about 600+ in attendance, including new and published authors, big-time editors, publishing house marketing people and more. So I guess you could say of all the agent panels that I participate in over the course of the year, this is the big one. The one that’s most like a presidential debate.

Well this particular year, someone must have slipped something into my drink. Or perhaps a fellow agent paid off another agent to subliminally fill my mind with ridiculous and useless analogies. Because in the middle of the panel, in the middle of answering a question, I somehow found a way to fit the word “cannibal” into my response.

Moderator: What productivity level do you expect from your clients? Is there a number of books per year that you’re looking for from a client?

(Laughter away from the microphone as Agent Steve Laube says he looks for 12 books per year from each author).

Me (in all seriousness): Every client is different. Now if you take a hiatus... If you decide “I’m going to go visit the...uh...cannibal people” or whatever. We don’t like that.

(Tons of laughter. The sound recording fails to capture the many baffled looks I get from my colleagues).

Me: I was reaching! I was really reaching.

(Laughter).

It’s pretty safe to say that never in the history of ACFW panels had the word “cannibal” been used without associating it with martyrdom. But I used it! And not only did I use it, but I acknowledged that I used it! And everyone laughed. And I’m pretty sure someone tweeted about it later.

So this is why I could never run for president. Because all of my good ideas will be buried by all of the crazy that comes out of my mouth.

And instead of being the candidate with the great plan for world peace or civil liberty or flat tax, I’d be The Cannibal Candidate (or better yet, Amanable the Cannibal) whose deep dark secrets include eating lots of meat (never free range), researching the Donner party in high school and being momentarily obsessed with PBS’s Northwest Passage specials in 2006/07 (in which cannibalism was an outcome).

Do I have your vote?

Why I'm About to Put Ed Hardy on My Arm

I went through a very long and angsty phase in which I wanted to be a rockstar.

Now, I know what you're thinking...who doesn't? But I'm a good singer who is also good with words and has a knack of putting those words to music that makes people smile and clap and ask for more. So this dream of mine, though near-difficult to achieve, was never totally off the mark.

But there's one component to the rockstar thing that I could never quite get right and it's the very thing that doomed my career before it even started: Image.

I'm what you call a late-bloomer. One of those freaks who actually benefits from age. And while I'd like to say that I always had a handle on who I was and how I wanted to express myself, I triple dog dare you to drag up some pictures from my college days. I guarantee they're filled with grandma sweaters, hoodies, band tees and studded belts that I would buckle on the side...so that they didn't scratch my guitar.

So now I'm a bit more put-together. A bit more mature. And when I shop, I go to Express instead of Salvo and H&M in place of Goodwill.

But every now and then that deep-seated desire to be a rockstar will rear its ugly head and I'll find myself thinking about choppy haircuts and black nail polish and in times like those, I have a few items that I turn to:

A gray shirt with a black and red graphic print. When I wear this, I feel like Joan Jett.
Black boots that I wear outside of black skinny jeans. When I wear this, I feel edgy.
Eyeliner. When I wear this, I feel emo.

I tell you this, because the other night at Meijer, I bought a pack of 30 Ed Hardy temporary tattoos. My inner rockstar has been knocking at my door for awhile now. Demanding to come in. And he wants more from me than a Coheed & Cambria ringtone or a Kings of Leon/Florence + the Machine playlist.

My Dark Passenger wants a sleeve. A tattoo sleeve of 30, colorful depictions of skulls and flames and flowers.

And that's exactly what he'll get.

teavana

Enough about my ailments. And freakishness. And mutations. I could totally keep going and share about how my eye has a dry spot in it now. Right smack dab in the middle of the cornea. So saith the eye guy. Or I could discuss my growing astigmatism. Or the fact that I have to use Sensodyne. Or the reality that my ears aren’t perfectly parallel.

But I’ll spare you. Because I care. And because I’d like to have some friends as I go through this change into nerd-hood. Hah, that’s a thought! Instead of aging at a normal rate, I’m staying perpetually young as I slowly morph into the form of a complete and unsightly nerd.

Sigh.

So instead, let’s talk about tea!

My tea obsession started a month or so ago whilst on a business trip. We all went shopping together (as most do when they’re out of the office and have time to burn), and happened upon this enchanting store called Teavana.

And we’ve been in a figurative Teavana ever since.

They have the craziest teas and all you do is stand there as they waft the scents in your direction. Then, you buy it by the ounce. The ounce! And before you know it, you’re walking out of there with $40 worth of dried leaves.

Which is totally worth it, because it’s supposed to curb appetite and boost health and assist in the growth of wings so that you can fly.

But very soon after purchasing, you become absolutely paranoid of oversteeping or doing something that will prevent the leaves from going through their agony. (Yes, this is real). You freak out and overthink things and measure and test the water on your wrist and the whole nine yards … until you do the math and realize each cup is like .50.

So then begins the phase of steeping and resteeping and re-resteeping the leaves.

And in the back of your mind you think about spreading the grounds out on the sidewalk so they can dry and be reused.

And you tell yourself you’re done. That you’re just going to go back to Celestial Seasonings. But then your coworkers announce they’re putting in another order and you cannot help yourself. You order more. Different flavors. Flavors that you probably won’t even like.

But you don’t pay for it. Because you haven’t yet paid for your previous order.

And suddenly you understand what crack addicts go through.

Can I get an amen?

iFreak

So you've heard all about my teeth woes. But what if I told you that I also have freakish eyes?

Every time I go to a new eye doctor (which is every year, because I just like to keep life interesting like that), they do their little 1 or 2, 3 or 4 thing and then they start talking about wanting to take pictures of my eyes.

Which for two seconds makes me feel kind of awesome, because the only logical explanation is that my eyes are super attractive or something like that.

But then I remember that these are doctors we're talking about, and doctors are only phased by one thing.Weirdness. Freakishness. Abnormalityishness.

Apparently, I am at a .6 on the glaucoma alert scale. The scale runs from like .5 to 1.5 or something like that, and because I'm .1 over the lowest mark, I must BE ON THE ALERT FOR GLAUCOMA.

But who cares, right? People get glaucoma all the time. Well here's where it gets interesting  ...

I'm a freak to these doctors, because they think that I might have been born with eyes that make it look like I have glaucoma when in fact it's just the way I am. They think this, because of how symmetrical the freakish parts of my eyes are. They also think this because of my age.

So long story short, I always have to get these pictures taken of my eyes so that they can gaze at my freakishness. And so that we can catch glaucoma early ... just in case it happens to show up.

At which point the eye nurse/glaucoma expert looked at me and said:

"It's just a preventative measure, really," she said. "It's like cancerous cells. You keep an eye on them to make sure they don't turn into cancer. And, well, this is just like that."

Yes. Glaucoma is just like cancer. Thank you for turning this freak into a paranoid one.

And we all know paranoid freaks are the worst.

nubbin' : living a life with nubs

Imagine how much you enjoy and/or tolerate talking to me.

Now imagine how much worse that experience could be if I had little nubs for teeth.

Ladies and gentlemen, that is the fate we all may face if my teeth do not start cooperating.

Almost a year ago, I had some cavities filled. Shortly after, I realized that one of the teeth that had been worked on hurt every time I bit down. I went back to the dentist, and he said that it wasn’t anything alarming. My bite just needed to be adjusted.

No prob, right? Wrong.

I’ve been back THREE times in the past year TO GET MY TOOTH FILED. Yes, filed like a fingernail.

And each time I go, I swear I come out of there with what can only be described as a phantom tooth -- a tooth that I imagine is larger than it really is (because it has in fact been whittled down). Three times this has happened. Which means THRICE my tooth has shrunken in size. And this time was the worst of them all ... I swear I'm beginning to feel an opening where my teeth aren't even pressing together anymore. The nub is on its way.

Needless to say, I am so ready for this madness to end ... for all of our sakes. 

Because I'm pretty sure we'd all prefer that I NOT look like Gollum in the near future. 

P.S. If this post title results in a ton of search engine hits I'm going to laugh so very hard it just may re-set my bite.

P.P.S.S. Points to the person who can come up with the best vampire joke!

lady of the night

My parents used to tell me that I'd become a morning person once I grew up. That one day, a love for the damp, coldness that is the world right after sunrise would hit me like cupid's arrow and I'd never go back to my late-night ways.

Well, it's 12:05am, and I'm sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, wide awake.

You'd think after years of battling the night owl disease, I'd have a strategy of sorts. But I don't. Not really, anyway. I mean there's the obvious reading strategy. And the tv strategy. And the lay perfectly still and relax one body part at a time strategy. But their success rates are sketchy at best, and I'm in no mood to try the sampler platter of drug-free narcotics.

So, in the meantime, I've put together my thoughts on how the world would look if night-lovers ruled over the morning peeps.

And it sounds like a great place.

Work hours would run from:
8pm to 5am
People would generally sleep from:
11am to 6:30pm

1. All work would be done in the darktime hours, leaving small pieces of daytime hours for fun and play. 
2. No one would ever get sunburn. Except for the crazy day birds who would insist on staying out at all hours of the day.
3. You could wear evening makeup to work without feeling too dressed up.
4. No one would ever pressure you to be happy right after you woke up, because the world would be ruled by generally sluggish people such as yourself. More importantly, roommates wouldn't sing at you after you rolled out of bed.
5. You would also never ever have meetings first thing in the evening (which would be your morning). Furthermore, no one would talk to you until after you've had a few hours to acclimate.
6. The hottest part of the day would take place while you're asleep!!!

Well, that's about all I can come up with. It's 12:26 and I'm a bit more tired. I'm having trouble forming cohereent thoughts, which is a good sign.

Guess I'll go read for a bit. Read and hope for the day when I'll be chipper in the morning and sluggish at night and all grown up.

vertically challenged

I’ve shared a bit about my successful prayer life as a child. But just in case you were thinking that I always used my powers for the greater good of mankind, I should probably share with you a few of my less-holy requests.

When I was around 8 or 9, I decided I wanted to be super tall. We’re talking WNBA material (although it wasn’t in existence at the time). Super model material. People-who-cannot-shop-in-regular-stores material. And so, I prayed about it. I asked God to make me 6 feet tall.

God and I must have been pretty tight, because it seemed right after I prayed, I hit a huge growth spurt. By my 12^th or 13^th birthday, I was pushing 5’5”. I was a giant. Inches taller than all of my friends. Beastly almost.

And really really self-conscious.

People started asking me if I was in high school. A few thought I was in college. Adults treated me like one of their own and talked to me at times as though I was in my late teens, early 20s. Don’t get me wrong. I loved people thinking that I was older than I really was. But after awhile, it got annoying (it was probably their surprise at my freakishness that ruined it for me). And the thought of being 6 feet tall wore off. I didn’t want to be strange-looking or age-stealthy. I wanted to be ordinary.

So, around my 14^th birthday, I prayed a second prayer to cancel my first, explaining that I was young and foolish when I had sent up my first request and that 5’7” would be perfectly fine.

My growing came to a screeching halt at 5’6”. I squeaked out another half in by the time I got to college. And that’s where it ended. A half-inch short of my request.

Fitting, I suppose. Considering my neediness with such a non-issue.

But now that I’m older and more confident, I can’t help but wonder … would another inch or two be too much to ask?

heat wave

We’ve been living with practically zero air conditioning for the entire summer. It hasn’t been too bad, really. I mean after all, when playing video games, Tad tends to slip in and out of consciousness anyway. And I? I don’t think of myself as ‘home for the day’ until about 7 or 8pm. And by then, the world outside is just starting to return to quasi-normal temperatures. So yeah, it’s been ok.

But the past few days have not been ok.

Allow me to use haiku to explain this humidity that has suffocated the Midwest over the last week:

Swimming as I walk,

Body bracing for impact.

Asphyxiation.

Multiply that by eight, and you’ll have what we’ve been going through here in landlocked USA.

Last night, after getting home extra late (9:30), I found that I could not move without either 1) breaking into a new sweat, or 2) my hair doubling in size. Enough was enough. It didn’t matter that we were trying to be strong … trying to save our landlord (who happens to be in ministry) the financial burden of supplying us with the 3 window units that are now kaput. All that mattered was being able to sleep through the night. And blow drying your hair without collecting sweat beads on your brow. And cooking a piece of chicken without wondering if you were going to instantaneously combust.

And wouldn’t you know it? The landlord emailed us right back and said he’d be over the next day to take measurements.

So, there we were. 10:30 at night, cleaning like maniacs, because to be quite honest the house hadn’t been touched since before I did a quick trip to the West coast last week.

And though I never knew that folding clothes could work up such a righteous sweat, I will say that it crossed my mind that that night would possibly be one of the last nights I’d have in which the morning resulted in a 5-pound weight loss.

I took advantage of that fact with a 2am bowl of cereal.

that one river in egypt

When I was about 12 years old and we lived in Des Plaines (a house in which planes from O'Hare flew so close that it was like a scene straight out of Mary Poppins), there was this guy who would walk by our house every evening. Sometimes he had candy to give us kids. Sometimes he just walked.

But the most curious thing about him were his feet. And his shoes. His feet and his shoes. His one particular foot was way off. The sole of the shoe was all out on the outside of his foot and when he walked, it was actually the inside wall of his shoe that touched the ground. Not the sole.

We always thought it looked weird. Like he was walking on his ankles and not his feet. And I thanked God that my feet weren't like his.

Fast forward to present day.

The gym in which I work out has a million mirrors. On nearly every wall. This is nice when you want to spy on someone. It is not nice when you happen to look upon your own sweaty reflection.

It was because of these mirrors that I realized wowzers! That left foot of mine is really smashed down. In fact it's so smashed down that it's like that one guy in Des Plaines! That guy with the creepy feet!

I tried to ignore this issue. And when my new running shoes gave me shin aches and a sort lower back, I blamed it on my stride. Or the terrain. Or the fact that I had tried a new treadmill.

This is what is referred to as denial, people. And for months I've pushed through the pain and the aches and the swelling. JUST SO I COULD SAY MY FEET WERE NORMAL.

Well, after a particularly disturbing Facebook conversation in which I found out that my tendons could rupture!, I went and did the fancy thing where you run on a treadmill and an expert video tapes you and analyzes your feet.

I came out of that meeting with this:

My name is Amanda. And I overpronate. It is especially prominent in my left foot.


God? I take back what I said about thanking You for not making my feet like his.

Day Away Salon . . . I'll Be Back

I have written before of my dislike for the hair basin at the salon. Nothing good happens there. Today was no exception.

My salonist was doing a wonderful job of massaging my head, helping me relax and NOT think about how awkward it was to lie with my neck in some sort of porcelain urinal while my head hung over a toilet basin. (Sorry for the descriptors there). And it was working wonderfully.

Her hands moved all along my cranium. Back and forth. Really expert-like and professional. It felt heavenly. Too heavenly. And I got to thinking ...

She does this to maybe 20 heads a day. Massaging out all the stress. Rubbing out all the worry. Pushing away anxiety. Person after person melts beneath her expert hands. Twenty people. Twenty heads. Every day.

It was this thought--this realization that my salonist was some sort of head expert that caused me to have a total (yet silent) freak out. Because one who knows heads so intimately, is also able to know their flaws.

And my head, in all its roundness, is flawed. Majorly flawed.

I found it two, maybe three years ago. This robot/Terminator-like bump on my skull. A bump that if John Connor were present, would result with a gun in my face and a surgical team looking for the answer to how I appeared so lifelike. So human.

Now before you disregard my claim and insist I stop blowing things out of proportion, allow me to describe this alien life-form to you. You see, the bump isn't really a bump, as head bumps go, but instead a perfectly round protrusion that is the exact size of, say a screw head. Yes, you heard right. Jutting out from my skull, covered perfectly by skin and hair is a bump that feels and looks like the top of a screw. Making it seem like my head was pieced together by scientists or some factory worker or maybe even Dr. Frankenstein.

After I first found it, I tried my best to imagine what else it could be. A tumor. A cyst. A random accumulation of iron or similar fancy element. But I always came back to the same conclusion. It was a screw and I was probably a robot. Or a Terminator, if that is your preference.

I've kept this to myself, telling only Tad of my strange possible mechanical past, but today, my salonist discovered my secret. As her hands moved back and forth over my head, there is no doubt in my mind that she felt the screw, realized who (or what) I was, and then made the decision that sealed my fate while I sat/reclined in horror.

She said nothing. Absolutely nothing. No reference to Skynet. No fingers digging in the back of my neck. Not even repetitive rubbing right around the location of the screw. Absolutely nothing. Instead, she nonchalantly moved me over to the barber chair as if I was made of flesh and blood. As if I was just like her.

I was speechless. What was there to say?

The tip did the talking for me.

A Bit About Health and Care and What Happens When the Two Become One

My doctor’s name is Michael Scott. I have never known anything to be as equally awesome and unawesome.

I’ve only visited Michael Scott once. Long, long ago. So, fittingly, I had a freak out moment when I realized that the current calendar year was quickly coming to a close, meaning only one thing:

All that money I had put into health insurance was about to go to waste. Not literally. But figuratively. I had spent an entire year throwing money into a system without taking advantage of its offerings.

So, I scheduled an appointment.

But the thought would not leave me. All that money. And here I am as fit as a fiddle.

And I became enraged. Enraged because the system trapped me. I, along with millions of other policy-holding Americans, throw hundreds if not thousands of dollars into the health insurance pool every year. We do this because we’re terrified not to. We’re terrified that the minute we pass on the offered insurance plan, we’ll find ourselves with purple eyes or a foot growing out of our hand and won’t have the money to get it taken care of let alone the chance to skirt the “preexisting condition” crap.

I got even more angry, thinking about how the relationship is totally one-sided. How I throw money at the insurance companies, trusting that it’s a good investment whether I cash in or not. But do you think they’d take a chance on me in a similar respect? Nope.

So there was my frustration. Knowing I was trapped (and I HATE feeling trapped) in a system that was just screwing me over.

But then I went to see Michael Scott.

Michael Scott is part of a network of clinics all over Fort Wayne called Women’s Health Advantage. And here is what happened….

I showed up at the wrong location. But before you draw any conclusions about me being tossed around from doctor to doctor, parking lot to parking lot, I’ll have you know that it ended up being a wonderful experience.

Women’s Health Advantage has all their files set up ELECTRONICALLY (!). So, when I found out I was in the wrong place, the lady behind the counter simply looked up my file and set me up to meet with a nurse practitioner person (as long as I was okay with that, of course), because she feared that redirecting me to Michael Scott would result in me having to wait a LONG time to see him. He’s a busy man.

So, I accepted the nurse practitioner person. . .

. . . And was done and out of the building in thirty-five minutes.

They didn’t have to go over my past experiences, my family history, my health history. They didn't throw a ton of paperwork at me or roll their eyes or act like I was a bother. They didn’t even have to re-scan my hand to make sure a foot wasn’t there. No, they just handled me as though I had originally scheduled my appointment at THAT location instead of the other one.

All this to say, there are some definite problems with health care. And reform may be the solution. But Tad said something to me a few months ago that I hadn’t experienced until yesterday:

The health care system is fixing itself. We just need to give it time.

I’m okay with that. So long as a foot doesn’t grow out of my hand and I find myself without a Blue Cross or a Blue Shield. (or an Anthem, considering that technically is my provider…not BC/BS).

The Middle Ages - Music

In 20 days, on the 22nd, I will be 26. It's really not that old; I realize this. But each and every day, I'm finding subtle reminders that I'm approaching the "middle ages". A dark, scary time when I'll no longer be the young blond or the girl with the cute jacket. I'll be the middle-aged lady with X number of kids or the mom-ish looking woman who just so happens to have a cute coat therefore making the normally cute coat very un-cute.

This is what happens during the middle ages. The dark ages.

In the past it has been known to throw entire civilizations into a period of unproductive laziness and wandering and so it will do to me . . .

But I digress.

My most recent reminder that I am quite aged occurred when I decided to relive high school by borrowing a certain CD from the library.

My senior year, I took Art 101 as an elective. I am quite impossible at drawing/painting/smudging, but this was the type of class that handed out A's for effort. So as long as I tried my very best, it didn't matter that my sketch of a shoe looked like a giant turd or that my collage of a campfire on the side of a cliff looked like I had taken and cut up actual pieces of pictures of fire and rock (which I had) or that my watercolor of a snowman ended up being my very best work . . . because you don't have to actually paint anything to create snow.... you just leave blank spots. So that was my painting...a big blank spot with a tiny bit of color for shadowing.

It was awesome.

Anyway, during this class period, our teacher played one CD and one CD only.

Sarah Brightman's La Luna.

I loved it. And here, eight years later, I found myself singing the songs over and over to myself, wishing desperately to hear her sweet voice once again. To be moved by her brilliant compositions and modern way of merging pop music with opera.

So, I went out and got the CD from the library.

But what I got was a dose of reality.

It dates me. It dates me big time. Takes me way back to pop-mania only in a really bad heavily-influenced-by-the-90's way.

Tad said it sounds like something that would play during a dance club scene in The Matrix.

For my honor, I had to disagree.

To hear my guilty pleasure, click here. Popups must be enabled.

Words (w-o-R-d-s)

greatful.

judgement.

acknowliging.

In elementary school I was a star speller. Had I gone to public/private school, my workbook would have been full of gold stars. -ible, -able, -ant, -ent. There was no match for my ability. And not only was I precise, I was fast. L i g h t n i n g f a s t. So fast I swear my mother made me repeat myself a few times. e-x-p-e-d-i-t-i-o-u-s. What was that? h-y-p-e-r-s-o-n-i-c.

Part of it was because I was an avid reader. A Nancy Drew book, put away in three hours. An American Girl book in an hour and half. This, of course, in between Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, Alcott's Little Women, and Streatfield's Ballet Shoes. I was insatiable. v-o-r-a-c-i-o-u-s.

The other part was because I was obsessive compulsive. Every word I saw on every sign, every commericial, every brochure, every flyer, I felt compelled to spell. Forced. o-b-l-i-g-e-d. This lasted for a good year or two, and got to the point where I could be heard whispering to myself in rapid tongue, letter after letter after letter. I soon began dividing words in half, finding the middle letter and counting the total number of letters it held.

Scary, I know.

And then, years later, we got a computer. And I met Spell Check. And I love Spell Check. No more dictionaries or asking for help. No more testing out the word on paper to see if it looks right. No more having to know how to spell.

And now . . . my words look like this:

greatful.

judgement.

acknowliging.

A Nightly Hallucination

I awaken, startled, in the night. There is a stenciled portrait of carousel horses on the ceiling above our bed. I bolt upright, staring at it.

"What, what is it?" Tad asks, equally startled.

"There's a pattern on the ceiling that needs to be colored in," I reply, my eyes focused on what now appear to be partially colored ponies.

"Oh, it's okay, I already colored it in," Tad assures me.

"You did?!" The portrait looked far from colored in, but I could have been mistaken.

"No," Tad says. I sense the amusement in his voice. "There's nothing up there."

"Oh," I say, watching the ponies disappear into thin air.

And I iey back down and go to sleep.