The month I was called Al

Once upon a time, when I worked at a marketing agency, my boss, who always referred to me as amanda, starting calling me AL in his email correspondence.

At first I thought it was just a simple error. A brain bubble, if you will. Because it was quite clear that my name was not Albert, or Alfred, or Aldo, or Alonzo, or Al Borland, or Alchemy (although I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to that last one).

But the mistake continued. And it got to the point where not only was I AL in email correspondence, but I became AL when he wanted to visit my desk to ask a question and AL when he greeted me upon entering the conference room.

I laughed it off, of course, because I am nothing if not a good sport (and highly aware of when I may be missing the big picture), but this activity continued for the better part of a month or so until it dawned on me...

The dawning occurred after a mass email went out, in which my boss not only referred to me as AL, but my coworkers Dennis B. and Erin A. as DB and EA.

So AL wasn’t a short form of Aldous or Alma. AL were my new initials. (Without the periods, of course. Because we know how tiresome periods can be when sending off quick emails). I just hadn’t realized it yet.

All of my assumptions of him being funny or mischievous or cryptic couldn’t have been farther from the truth. He was merely being accurate.

While I was left with the sudden realization that I’d be suck with a man’s name for my initials for the rest of my life.

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.

the benefits of married life

Come to find out, I do the dishes whilst standing on one foot.

I realized this when a precariously-placed glass glass fell from the drying rack, bounced off the countertop and shattered on the floor at my feet. Or, I should say foot. Because while one of my feet was planted firmly on the ground (in fear of little glass bits trickling underneath it), the other was up in the air.

I was stranded. On one foot. One bare foot, I might add.

But then, my husband’s superhero theme music began playing.

He whooshed in, dustpan and broom in hand, rested my raised foot on a chair, and began collecting and sweeping the glass shards that threatened my life.

As soon as the floor was safe, he swooshed out and resumed his disguise as an avid video game player with selective hearing.

All this to say, if you are thinking of placing a very breakable glass glass precariously on the drying rack, don’t. Simply walk away while walking is still an option.

But, if you DO place a very breakable glass glass precariously on the drying rack, only do so when your husband is present and only if he has superhero theme music. Otherwise you may have to navigate the glass shard minefield alone.

And you will fail, my friend. You will fail.

Luedeke (LEED-uh-key)

As you may or may not remember, depending on whether you’ve been a follower of this blog from the near-beginning, the whole post-marriage name change thing was very difficult for me. Very, very difficult.

It could have been because I was going through some sort of identity crisis.

It could also have been a fear of life-long commitment.

Or maybe it stemmed from the stress that comes when transitioning from one weird-looking and impossible-to-pronounce last name to an even more weird-looking and impossible-to-pronounce last name.

My vote is on the latter.

I had spent my whole life coming to terms with “Heinsch” as a last name. I knew all of its trouble-spots, and was armed with the right word equivalents should I have to spell it over the phone (s as in sam, c as in church). I knew what to expect should someone attempt to say it without help. I also knew it was 100% without a shadow of a doubt German and if you could pronounce Heineken or Heinz, you could pronounce Heinsch.

Luedeke, on the other hand … let’s just say the best pronunciation guide I was ever given went like:

“Luedeke. Like you LEAD A KEY TO THE DOOR.”

Lead a key to the door? It definitely wasn't the kind of must-have information I'd envisioned sharing with clients, co-workers and, sometime down the road, fame permitting, Wikipedia.

So, after over a year of living with Luedeke, I think I finally have a solution.

“Whoa!” the person will say, looking at my business card or driver’s license or debit card. “How do you pronounce that?”

And then, calling upon my European heritage and knack for languages, I’ll spit it back to them in a thick Russian-German-Norwegian accent, slightly altered, of course, for believability.

And suddenly, instead of being hard to pronounce and weird-looking, it’ll be very European and cool. And I’ll be exotic and possibly even a spy who has spent ten years encoding super-secrets within websites!

And people will not feel sorry for me or apologize. They’ll be envious.

where we live

We live in a second-floor apartment.

It was built in the 1940’s.

It is full of asbestos.

It feels like a bomb shelter.

It has cement walls covered by plaster and paint.

Our bathroom sink has two faucets. Our toilet doesn’t have a tank.

The heat comes through radiators and the air through window units.

The windows tilt open. They don’t all have screens.

The blinds are made of metal.

There are not enough electrical outlets.

We live on the south side of town.

We park in a parking lot. It doesn’t always get plowed in the winter.

There is an outdoor basketball court adjacent to the parking lot.

Guys shoot hoops there nearly every night, weather permitting. Black guys or white guys. Sometimes both.

There is a Vietnam vet who lives in a house nearby. He claims ‘they’re coming’ and sits up in his attic, listening to radio frequencies.

There is a coffee shop a block away. Guys who wear skinny jeans work there. The types with bangs in their eyes.

There is a church across the street with an empty bell tower.

If you spend enough time in the apartment during the day, you will hear a car accident on the street below. Then, you can run to the window to see if you need to call 9-1-1.

You’ll also hear sirens every few hours.

And people yelling.

And sometimes domestic disputes at 3 in the morning.

And really loud Mexican music at 2 in the morning. (But this will go away as soon as the traffic light turns green).

Generally the hours between 4 and 6 are docile. But then morning traffic starts again.

And the street below is busy busy busy.

If you keep the blinds open at night, the street lamps will keep you up.

If you leave them closed, it’s pitch black.

We dream of packing up and moving to some suburban two-story. With a yard and a fence and a cul-de-sac. It could be on a lake. Or framed by mountains. It could come complete with a pond. Or the American Dream.

It's inevitable, almost. That transition to permanency.

But I can't help but feel that once we're there I'll be bored out of my mind.

This Morning - as depicted by my classical literature self

It just so happened that the time I was to get up this morning was also the time Tad was to be leaving for work.

And, it just so happened that when I groggily awoke five minutes before my alarm and turned to see Tad still sound asleep, I realized that something was horribly wrong.

“Tad,” I said probably a bit too harshly, “you’re supposed to leave, like, now.”

A flurry of covers and sheets. A moment of aimless wandering. A few “Arghs” and “Grrrs”. The morning had begun.

Though I lay in bed and contemplated his demise for a moment or two, I eventually got up to help him make it to work within a somewhat decent time frame. What can I say? The loving warmth of a bed is a temptation few are able to overcome.

I made his sandwich, leaving him to the intricacies of finding pants. And a shirt! And socks! And his toothbrush! And all seemed to be going along smoothly until more huffing and puffing told me something was amiss.

Alas, the ring was amiss, for it was missing.

Thirty seconds were wasted on locating the ring, but not in vain! For we all know the dangers of going to a place of employment without proper marital status identification (though a recent study showed that women are more likely to pursue the man with a ring …)

And it just so happened that he was out the door in good time and made it to work in time for the time clock to round in such a way that no one would know the truth.

And it just so happened that because of the morning’s events I, too, arrived on time for work, which isn’t generally a problem for me but can be from time to time and definitely is if you consider three minutes after the expected arrival time to be an example of tardiness. (It's a very consistent three minutes, I must say).

Funny how that is.

A Lot of Rambling Just to Say I DON'T WANT TO DO MY TAXES

There is no easy way to broach this subject. No way of getting around looking like an irresponsible freak. Yet, I believe this is something we need to discuss. Because I have only recently uncovered my fear of filling out forms, and I'd just like to take some time to talk about it. It's only after talking that the healing can begin, right?

So a few months back Tad and I bought a KitchenAid Mixer. It was a big purchase, but we knew it would get used (a lot) and we ran into a very nice deal. Something like a 20% off coupon plus a $30 mail-in rebate. Score! So, we bought it.

And the days turned to weeks and suddenly the rebate had expired without us cashing in. I, of course, get blamed for this (though I am not the only one who knows how to address an envelope), but pshhh. What does it matter. It's just $30, right?

Then, at the end of last year, we were to use up all the money in our Flexible Spending Account, otherwise it would be eaten by the mean and evil insurance company. So, I stocked up on ibuprofen and Maalox and even bought a brace for Tad's wrist (for work).

And the days turned to weeks which turned to months and now I'm not sure if my claims notice will get there in time.

Most recently, tax season looms. Now, I have been historically terrible at taxes. I swear if I ever get promoted to some big-time government position, WATCH OUT TABLOIDS AND FOX NEWS, because I will definitely cause some hefty scandal with all my tax evasions and form FAILS and lies! Oh, the lies I will tell as I deny that I know anything about messing up my taxes...oh, the lies.

But anyway, the days will turn to weeks and before we know it it will be April 14 and I'll be scrambling to make copies of our W2's and figure out how in the world I'm supposed to PAY TAXES ON MY BUSINESS (????), and I'll get it in just before the Post Office closes on April 15 with my fingers crossed and my prayer going something like, "God, please make it just as hard for the IRS people to get a hold of us in our apartment as it is for the UPS guy to deliver a package. Amen."

So all this to say that I believe I have a deep-seated fear of forms and form-filling-out-ness. ESPECIALLY when it involves numbers. There's just something about it...something about how you have to be exactly right. No room for error. No chance you can just 'make it up'. That totally irks me. Because I was not a math/science kid in school. I didn't know the perfectly right answers. I just knew answers that sounded good. Knew how to make them sound good.

Which is how I got 6 out of 8 points on this one Physical Geography question in college that had like three different things you were supposed to do to indicate air and wind and high pressure on a US map and all I did was put an "H" on Chicago. Didn't even touch the other components of the question.

My reasoning? It was my favorite city.
The truth? Chicago happens to be a main area of high pressure air currents (or something like that).

See? I prefer flying by the seat of my pants. None of this black and white/right and wrong garbage. None of these forms with numbers.

Why can't taxes include a written essay?

An Epic Act of Laziness

As Tad gathers in his arms the pile of Amanda's laundry that has been sitting in the living room chair for a week:

Amanda: Oh wait.
Tad: Wait what?
Amanda: That stuff is clean. Let me find a bin or something to put it in.
Tad: Ooookkkkk?
Amanda: So it doesn't get mixed with the . . . or . . . I suppose I could just fold it and put it away.

Valentine.

After watching a sitcom in which the boyfriend got the girlfriend every cliche Valentine's gift he could think of just because it was his first Valentine's day while in a relationship, I turned to Tad.

"You got me that Spongebob our first Valentine's together," I said, referencing the small, plush toy that now sits on our bookcase. We had only been dating a month, so the gift was quite appropriate.

"Yup," Tad said, smiling.



Then, he added, "And I never got you anything since."

Sad, but true. I was just happy to know that my inability to recall subsequent years' V-day gifts wasn't a sign of relationship apathy. It was simply a reflection of the truth.

Exploding Hands for the New Year

"Look what I got at work!"

A bowl full of mini cheeseball, crackers, and a champagne bottle party popper.

"And I'm giving it to you," he said, handing me the bowl.

Needless to say, the cheeseball was gone within seconds. But the popper...

"YOU do it," I said, handing it to him.

"What? Why?"

"I've never done it before."

"Well, that's why YOU should do it."

"But . . . but I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"I'm scared I'll explode my hand."

"You can't explode your hand, Amanda. It's impossible."

"Oh."

But I changed the topic anyway.

**FAST FORWARD TWELVE HOURS**

"Ten, Nine, Eight . . ."

We were at a New Year's party with friends, watching the countdown on the television while the host and hostess frantically passed out party favors in anticipation for 2010.

Their main favor of choice: champagne bottle poppers. They tossed me one.

"Seven, Six, Five . . ."

I gripped the string, ready to pull.

"Four, Three, Two, One, Happy New Year!!!!"

Poppers popped all around me. And, impressively, hands were kept in tact. So, boldly I pulled the string.

Fire. Lots of fire.

A burning sensation shot across my palm as a heap of colored string landed in my lap.

"Ow," I said quietly, and sent Tad an evil glare that went unnoticed.

I had succeeded in exploding my hand.

My flaw? I had ignorantly held the popper with the neck of the bottle pointed out and the base gripped tightly in my hand.

I now know that it is in fact the base of the bottle that blows off and NOT the top. Apparently, this is common knowledge. (Although I insist it makes absolutely no sense, considering that it is the cork of a champagne bottle that is most likely to go haywire).

Huff.

I told Tad what happened later when we were home. He shook his head at me. He may have laughed.

I continue to defy his reality.

Sorry, I'm Married

During my 1.5 year stint as a steakhouse waitress, I managed to acquire one whole phone number. Well, 1 and a half if you count the 16 year-old who insisted on handing me his seven digits while his absolutely mortified mother tried to convince him that I was way too old for him, therefore making the blossoming relationship illegal (and me almost a predator!).

And it was a good thing she talked some sense into him, because let me tell you I was ready to hand in my apron and run off to Mexico with the kid right then and there if he asked me to.

The REAL phone number was scribbled on the back of a receipt. And, if I remember correctly, the tip was about 10%. Scoff. Mutter. Scoff, scoff.

Sure, there were times when I preyed upon unsuspecting males, but I had a definite type. Worn Chuck Taylors, mousy hair, black t-shirts, optional acne, metal-studded leather belts. You know, the sort of single teenager who didn't know if he wanted to be a rockstar or play Halo for the rest of his life. He was my victim. Especially if he came out in groups of three or more.

Alls I had to do was be really really mean and sarcastic, while showing my love through endlessly abundant complementary rolls.

They'd each pay for their $10 or $12 meal with a twenty and tell me to keep the change. And I'd come away from that table with thirty or so dollars.

It was beautiful. And shameless. And quite lucrative.

So this evening, as I walked to my car from Cold Stone (had to cash in on my complementary birthday sundae!), I almost didn't hear the guy call from across the parking lot.

"Excuse me."

Walk, walk.

"Excuse me."

I turned around, ready to say "No, you can't use my phone", or "No, I can't give you a ride" but instead he said this,

"Can I have your phone number?"

Uh. "Sorry," I said, "I'm married."

And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I felt like I was lying to the guy. And I suddenly wished I'd have accompanied it with a "I'm sure you're a nice guy, but . . ." or a "you know, I hate to say this, I really do, but . . ." because somehow those sorts of intros make it seem less like I'm lying (and scared! and annoyed!) and more like had things been different, the guy would have had a fighting chance.

And then I realized that the New Year is days away and the schmuck probably just needed a date.

Well, he certainly has a few things to learn about choosing your prey.

Theological Warfare

"Why did you break up with him?" I asked my friend.

"Well, there were some major issues. He was 35, for one," she answered.

"Mmm."

"And he also didn't believe we are born with a sin nature."

Some couples struggle with theological differences. Tad and I like to joke about ours. I mean the whole Calvinist / Free Will thing is way too easy to make fun of.

At one point the other day, Tad busted out with this crazy G-R-A-C-E acronym (God's Riches At Christ's Expense) and expected me to identify. I had no idea what he was doing. Or saying. This was way beyond WWJD or FROG. I had never heard it before in my life.

He was astonished.

“Sorry, but we weren’t all about Grace and Mercy like you Baptists,” was my response.

“Oh, that’s right,” Tad said, “You were all about losing your salvation.”

“No, no,” I corrected, “We were all about . . .”

I threw my head back and in my best Mel Gibson/Braveheart voice yelled:

Freeeeedom!!!

Because I knew topping off the discussion with a war-hero, action movie reference would make me a shoe-in for the win.

Honeymoon's Over: Day 237

Him: Do you still like our Christmas tree?

Her: Yeah, do you?

Him: Yeah. I'll like it even more when I add a few additional ornaments.

Her: Nope.

Him: Yeah, it'll be awesome.

Her: Nope, there's no room.

Him: I'll sneak them on when you don't know so that you won't notice.

Her: Oh, I'll notice.

Him: I'm not so sure. Well, maybe only the ones that make noises when you turn the lights on.

Her: Then I guess I'll have to put your action figures in weird poses*.
*Overly effeminate or childlike stances that are strikingly unmasculine

Him: Nooooooooooooooooo!

Her: Yes.

Him: That's not proportional.

Her: That's very proportional.

Unsolved Mysteries: Modern Warfare 2

At 20:45:00, Tad, decked out in full camo, left to sit outside of GameStop in anticipation of the release of Modern Warfare 2 at midnight.

Friends and family are left with these questions:

1) Why is it that Tad, who must routinely be reminded to shower, did so without coercion for tonight's big event?
2) When did said event become enough reason for him to take off an entire day of work?
3) How is it that he will be able to tolerate standing in line for three hours to get this game when standing in line at Wal-Mart for ten minutes is out of the question?
4) Where exactly has the money come from to pay for his XBox Live subscription, considering neither his wife nor friends passed him funds.

And lastly,
5) How long before his wife is annoyed at some aspect of the game and demands that he play it quietly or minimally when present?

If you, or anyone you know has information that could lead to toward answers to these questions, comment in the box on the screen. Or, if you do not see the box on your screen, click on "comments".

Until next time on Unsolved Mysteries.

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Snack, Cracker, Pop!

What is a delicious snack that is neither too healthy nor too fattening?

Applesauce on Ritz crackers.

I kid you not. It reminds me of apple butter, tastes sweet but substantive, and who doesn't like the buttery freshness of Ritz crackers?!

Ah, buttery fresh. I am reminded of a few weeks ago when I picked up a box of Ritz Toppers to have with my tuna salad at work. After a few days, when I had run out of the topping, I brought the crackers home at Tad's request. I'd surmise the box was about half full. Probably more.

They were polished of within a day.

"Tad! Those were my snacks!"

"I couldn't stop! They were so buttery fresh!!"

If he only were brave enough to try them with applesauce...

The Worker

One of the saddest things I see on a near-daily basis is an older man, probably in his 50's or 60's, who stands on the corner of Clinton and Rudisill with a cardboard Little Caesar's Hot N Ready sign in his hands. He paces the corner, sign held out but not up. A hat shields his eyes.

Tad said he saw this man on a bicycle, once. Riding toward the restaurant, his visible work attire giving away his intended destination. He didn't try to hide it. He didn't cover it up.

I don't know who this guy is, what he's been through or why he's now operating as a minimum wage employee. I can only imagine he's a recent layoff victim--a factory worker through and through who's been forced to try his hand at what may seem beneath him. Yet he doesn't give up. He doesn't give in. He keeps on, shift after shift. And every time I see him, I wonder at his determination to make it. To get through whatever it is that has put him on that corner. To come out victorious.

For us, it's a constant reminder that others have it much worse than we do. And we can complain about Tad's unemployment and my hopelessly broken down Volkswagen and how we can't spend money on this and that, but at the end of the day neither of us is holding a sign on a street corner at 55 years of age.

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.

Desperate Housewife - Part 3 (of infinite) - Toilet Paper FAIL

The toilet paper I recently purchased is neither soft nor plentiful. What is this? I thought toilet paper was to be one or the other (with only a privileged few able to afford rolls with both attributes).

Gah! Even the Wal-mart stuff I used to buy in my waitressing days was better than this stuff. And to think, we now have to suffer through 24 rolls because I was trying to be all economical and frugal and middle-aged housewife.

Silly, silly me.

Chicken Pizza

Here's what we had for dinner:

Homemade chicken pizza

Chicken, green pepper, onion, mozzarella cheese--what more could you ask for? For sauce, we used some spaghetti sauce we had lying around. For crust, we used Jiffy's boxed crust. It's like 84 cents.

According to Tad, he's the Cheese Master and I'm the Crust Master. He's really good at shredding cheese and I'm really good at making the dough a perfect circle.


The best thing about homemade pizza is you can pile on as much of your toppings as you want. The worst thing is the dough is really really sticky which makes kneading it not as fun as it should be. Lots of flour is required--and it will most likely get on your shirt.

One of these days I'll make my own crust from scratch. But you just can't beat 84 cents.

Desperate Housewife - Part 2 (of infinite)

Confession 2:

I am up to my ears in laundry--I am literally wading through it as we speak. My laundry collection is so vast I could clothe a small country of women sizes 14 to 4. And . . . I will continue to put it off.

When 8pm rolls around and I've finally gotten to that point of the day where I can do whatever the heck I choose, the last thing on my list is "Begin working on the five hundred loads of laundry you have strewn across your bedroom floor". . .

. . . mostly because:

- I do not like journeying to the basement of the apartment complex in the night (it's a really long walk)
- I do not like carrying/dragging a million pounds of laundry with me
- I do not like having to return to said dungeon multiple times in one night
- I do not like folding laundry
- The laundry will just end up right back where it started because I do not have a dresser (admittedly, though, it'll be clean)

It took an act of Tad to sort through it all and get me to the point where I started thinking about actually doing laundry. But now I realize I have no fewer than 7 loads ahead of me.

That's what? . . . a million and one pieces of clothing that I possess in sizes 4 to 14? My eco footprint is sounding more like an eco grand canyon.

And yet I have nothing to wear.

To which Tad would reply: You have a million things to wear.

To which I would reply: Yeah, but nothing sounds good.

Or, depending on how much time elapses before I begin laundry season: Yeah, but nothings clean.




I am ashamed of this.