Showing posts with label I wish I was making this up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I wish I was making this up. Show all posts

Double Dreams! 

Sunday, May 8, 2011 - Posted by Amanda Bast
You may have seen this video:



And possibly this newer one:




Now there is a man who really loves what he does.


How about you and me don some khakis and learn a brand new dance?

Keeping the double dreams alive,

Amanda

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The Frog Effect 

Monday, April 18, 2011 - Posted by Amanda Bast
I never went to summer camp because we were (and still are) a cottage family. We didn't need organized activities to have fun. We made our own.

Most of my cottage memories were forged with my neighbours. They're the kind of neighbours that everyone wishes they had. Certain aspects of my life are sitcom-y , and this is no exception. We met our neighbours when I was nine and instantly felt like we'd known each other forever. We share a driveway opening. We have a little path from one property to another. We used to have a homemade basketball court between our two properties. We have a firepit that is exactly halfway between grass (them) and sand (us). We share tools. We share toys. We get groceries for each other. We accompany each other to the dump and the hardware store. We have coffee every afternoon. Even our dogs (the original golden retrievers and now their new retriever and our little black evil thing) are friends. But that's really not the point of this post.

One of our favourite cottage past times was frog catching. It was never an activity that we planned to do; it was always one that started when someone happened across a frog. And then another. And another. Before we knew it, the neighbour girls and I had a huge bucket of frogs with which we taunted my squeamish older brothers. I'm not going to tell you exactly what we did with the frogs so as not to upset some of my more uh, sensitive readers, but I can assure you that the frogs loved flying through the air us.

For my birthday one summer, my neighbours gave me a pair of frog earrings wrapped in a new frog catcher net. It was silly and I loved it. It was our little summer inside joke. The next summer I got something else froggy. Somewhere in there my family gave me a few frog items. The frog theme started to catch on*. My friends started getting me frog stuff. My family bought more. I started buying more. Pretty soon everything I owned was green or had a frog on it.

The debacle reached its breaking point on my 16th birthday. A boy who liked me bought me a frog statue. A  foot-tall-flecked-with-gold-and-pretending-to-be-a-ballerina STATUE. It was in a position that looked like it required chiropractic assistance. The thing was hideous. It lasted two days on display until it retired to my closet. Needless to say, he was off my list of potential suitors. Another gentleman in high school went the frog route as well. I wasn't impressed. Frogs do not pass the gift test**.

I did not want frog things anymore. Nor did I like frog things all that much. Sure they were cute and silly at first, but now I couldn't go into my room without feeling their beady little froggy eyes staring me down. It was unsettling. My room, once a safe haven dotted with a frog here and there had become something straight out of Exodus 7.

I call this the Frog Effect.

The FE is never intentional. It's usually innocent. Harmless, really. It starts off slow, gradually building up speed until somewhere along the track it races out of control and completely derails at your 16th birthday party. You will know that the FE has taken hold of you when you're in a situation that requires pleasantries, but all you can think about is whether or not you remembered to pick up Listerine at the grocery store today because you'll need its taste bud burning power after throwing up in your mouth a little bit. It's wretched, I know.

Consider this your warning. Don't let the Frog Effect take hold of you and your loved ones.


Have you ever experienced the Frog Effect?




*oh how pun!
**If that hint was too subtle for you, here's another: DON'T GIVE ME FROG CRAP.

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Texting after an enormous amount of coffee 

Monday, April 11, 2011 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Me: Did you ever know that you’re my hero?

Him: No...I did not :)

Me: You’re everything I would like to be.

Him: Except a man of course :p haha

Me: I can fly higher than an eagle

Me: Because...

Him: Alrigh who has your phone/what are you quoting

Me: YOU ARE THE WIND BENEATH MY WINGS!

Him: Youre out of control

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Weird Crap That Freaks Amanda Out - Volume 5 

Wednesday, January 19, 2011 - Posted by Amanda Bast
It is winter here in Canada. And with winter comes a multitude of things. Winter is cold. Winter is gross. Winter is generally irritating if you drive a vehicle. But winter is pretty (I'll give it that much).

I can usually handle the cold. Wait, this is a giant lie. I am constantly cold even in the summer, and winter just puts me over the edge. But it doesn't freak me out. I have accepted the fact that I am always cold. I have invested in an electric blanket, we own several fireplaces, I wear fuzzy socks, I use a Snuggie and I usually have a human furnace hanging around who is happy to sit on my feet. I can handle the cold.

I have also accepted the fact that owning a vehicle in the winter is irritating. The brushing off of snow, always seeming to be low on wiper fluid, the ice cold steering wheel and the slip sliding about the road. Yesterday morning my brand new baby even had a wee bit of difficulty starting right away (sitting all weekend in minus 23 degrees Celsius will do that to you, I guess). It's irritating. But I can handle it.

But then there is the worst part of winter. The part that I have difficulties even writing about. The part that makes me yell and complain and carry on and make really awful faces. The worst part of winter happens when I go to get dressed for outside. I put on my hat. I put on my scarf. I zip up my coat. I put on my boots. I go to tie up my boots and encounter the evilest of all evil winter things.

WET BOOT LACES.

I yell, I complain, I grunt, I do a "ew this is gross" dance. I cannot handle wet boot laces. This is the part of winter that puts me over the edge. I must clarify. If I have been outside in the snow and my laces are wet, I am not bothered by it. Newly wet laces are acceptable. It's the ones that have sat in the dirty puddle of boot tray sin that send me over the edge. The dirty snow water has been soaking its evil throughout the laces just for me to grab and coat my hands in disgusting. I don't like the feeling of it. I don't like the smell of it. I don't like the way the water shoots out of the soaked laces and hits me in the face. It makes me want to move far away to a magical land where sopping wet boot laces don't exist.

The other day I said something mildly insulting to my mother and her retort: "Watch it or I'll make your boot laces wet!" This is such a problem for me that it can now be used against me. I admit that I have a problem. A rather weird problem, too. I have tried tucking my laces into my boots, but somehow they still escape to hang out in a puddle. I need help. Probably more than I'm willing to admit. But I still need help.

How do I fix this winter-long problem?

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A Letter 

Tuesday, December 28, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Dear Gastro,

You may remember me writing a letter to your partner in crime, Swine Flu. Well now, you get your own letter. Don't you feel special? As I write this, I am laying alone in the dark with my computer screen dimmed as low as it can go. This is your fault.

Last week you attacked my brother and sister-in-law, forcing me into single parenthood for four days with the care of my niece. You ripped them to shreds. Then, THEN you attacked the little baby herself! How dare you! You deprived me of sleep during my holidays and I will not forgive you for it. Was that not enough for you?

On Boxing Day I felt a little off and I had the chills. Anyone who knows me will say, but Amanda, you always have the chills. This is true, but these were the deep down to the core, nothing could shake these chills not even homemade soup kind of chills. As the night progressed, I had a visit with my Grandparents (during which I managed to get my Grandma to say "hooters" many times...you have overshadowed this special memory), and had a nice little Skype session. And then you showed up. You brought me to my knees almost instantly. The chills turned into shivers and my usual fainty feeling I get when I'm sick had me lying on the bathroom floor in a very short period of time.

Then opened the floodgates of homemade soup hell.

You kept me up all night with your fever, chills and vomiting and I begged for mercy over and over. You were relentless all through the night. I woke up with extreme dizziness that nothing could touch. I spent lots of time on the bathroom floor, whimpering. Never in my life did I need to know that a blueberry muffin has that much effect on colour. But I do know that now, with no thanks to you. And that was only round one.

Then you attacked my parents. My poor little mother couldn't move from her bed. I was forced to make my own tea. My dear father shivered. Shivered! I have never seen this man shiver in my life! This is a guy who can go outside in the dead of winter wearing pajama pants and not be affected one bit. You had him yelling for a pair of socks! Unbelievable! You also hit my other brother and sister in law at about the same time. You've wiped out our entire family. ARE YOU SATISFIED?!

And then came round two of your attack. More vomiting, this time accompanied with extreme ribcage pain. My sister in law the ER nurse explained it as dehydration, but I think it was you digging your evil claws right in there, with some sort of sadistic tickling trick. The pain was excruciating. They made me drink no name Gatorade. And ginger ale! And popsicles! I am so tired of natural and artificial flavours and really intense dyes. Someone please get me a dill pickle or something!

I haven't even begun talking about the migraine. Yes I classify it as migraine status when it feels like the whole room is yelling in your ear. I writhed under a pillow for a good hour saying "make it stop!" until my father finally made the clock stop ticking. I have a better understanding of Captain Hook. But guess what, I'm not a pirate, nor do I want to understand why it is painful to hear a clock ticking. I haven't done anything for the past two days besides sit. And occasionally doze. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BORING THAT IS? No, you don't. Because this whole time I bet you've been stroking your evil little cat (think: Inspector Gadget) and laughing maliciously.

You also forced me to cancel many plans with some dear friends. Friends who normally live in Boston and Winnipeg. BOSTON AND WINNIPEG. Those are not day trips! I miss these people! They are two of my very best friends and I'm not sure when I will see them next. Also, my other friend just had a baby! A baby! I can't see sweet little Sylvan in this condition! You are depriving me of my best friends AND A BABY. Though I am rather upset about the crap you've put me through the past couple of days, I haven't even reached my biggest complaint. You, Gastro, destroyed my streak.

MY FOURTEEN YEAR STREAK.

Until you came along, the last time I tossed my metaphorical cookies was when I was nine years old and had eaten bad buckwheat pancakes at the trailer. YOU BROKE MY RECORD. I can no longer brag about the fact that I have been puke-free since the 90s. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS? What will I talk about during those "well I've never..." conversations when people try and out-do each other. I HAVE NOTHING LEFT. A broken fourteen year streak means nothing. Shame on you, Gastro, SHAME ON YOU.

Consider this a giant internet middle finger.

Hate and funky coloured vomit,

Amanda

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Tradition 

Saturday, December 11, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Now that we're gearing up for Christmas, I thought I'd share some of our family's traditions. I don't know if you can even call it tradition, in the ah, traditional sense of the term - I'd say it's more "weird crap we do every year at Christmas". But since we do it every year, it's tradition.

The Tree:
At the beginning of December, Mom starts asking Dad to put up the tree. She starts early because it takes awhile to actually get the job done. The day he finally decides to bring it out of the basement, there is lots of complaining and gnashing of teeth. After it is set up, he usually exclaims, "That's fifteen minutes I'll never get back!" and then he naps. Mom and I decorate the tree alone. Except this year I napped too.

Carols:
Throughout the year, when my father is in a good mood, he sings. Loudly. He also walks heavily (we call him Stompy). He is a human hymn book and likes to stomp around while singing hymn #465. At Christmastime, he switches to Winter Wonderland. Only Winter Wonderland. You'll hear him puttering in the basement, just belting it out. Except he doesn't know all the lyrics so it sounds like this: "In the meadow we can hmmammgmmahhhhuuuuum haaaa, and pretend that haaamhaahhhuummmha haaaaaa!" We also change the word "conspire" to "perspire" in our family because really, it's logical.

The Sniper:
We have this bizarre-o looking snowman that we got as a gift. He is wearing a toque and has long hair. If this snowman were real, you would find him in the sketchy part of town. We like to hide him in places to scare members of the family. Last winter, he started appearing in places along with lolcat-style notes (I iz in ur dresser, stealin' yer joolz). He has been in my car wearing mittens. He has been placed to fall out of cupboards when the door opens. He has been in hanging plants. He has been in the fridge and the freezer. He is currently in the china cabinet (after I wrote this, I found him in my pajamas). One of the rules of the Sniper snowman: Do not talk about Sniper snowman. Just re-hide and move on.

Napkin Rings:
One Christmas, my mother bought 18 matching snowman napkin rings. She wants them to keep mysteriously multiplying as more members of the family are added. If  my brothers and sisters-in-law only have two children each, that leaves me with 7 napkin rings to fill with a husband and children. SEVEN. That is a lot of napkin rings. I feel pressure whenever I see all those tiny snowman with holes in their stomachs. Their little beady eyes are intimidating.

Christmas Crackers:
You know those things? That have the little popper in them? There is a tiny toy, a joke and a paper hat inside? We always have those and it's a family rule to wear the paper hats at dinner. We also wear birthday hats every time we have a birthday dinner.

"Stockings":
We do real stockings on Christmas day, but then there are the things my grandparents refer to as stockings. They used to be in grocery bags, but now they've downsized to empty instant oatmeal boxes. There used to be juice boxes, chips and Avon chapstick in our stockings (it was like they just forgot to unpack their groceries and brought them to family Christmas instead). Now in the oatmeal boxes, there is a card and enormous amounts of one type of candy. Two Christmases ago I got Lifesavers. I think I just ate my last one a couple of weeks ago. My brothers get gum. My dad and uncle get peanuts. My mom and aunt get napkins. It's the same every year and it's something I look forward to, just because it makes me giggle.

Ornaments:
Even though they're tacky and falling apart, we still insist on putting out some decorations that we made in preschool. One is a homemade snow globe. The "snow" is pistachio shells. I think that's what they're supposed to be. Either that or in Santa world pistachios are so giant, they are running out of giant pistachio shell storage, so they just put them wherever. Tiny pistachio world Santa is turning yellow. Another craft is made from a plastic pint that strawberries come in. Last but not least, there are the ornaments with our pictures on them. They are made from tin lids from concentrated orange juice cans. My only explanation for these ornaments is that we are Mennonite*. Mennos are thrifty.

Stockings:
The real, non grocery bag kind. This is my favourite part about Christmas because I would prefer to get many tiny things as opposed to one big thing. This isn't a weird tradition, but I have to tell the stocking story regardless. When I was younger with the help of a friend, I made each member of my family a stocking. It took all year long and no one in my family knew. At the time I had an awesome miniature Schnauzer named Zoe. Naturally, Zoe was on my stocking and I loved it. Now that Zoe is no longer, I still have a miniature Schnauzer on my stocking. Except now it looks like Sassie. The evil dog from the depths. On my happiest Christmas memory. She ruins everything.

What kind of weird crap does your family do over the holidays?

Editor's Note: I was in the basement minding my own beeswax when I heard my parents busting a gut upstairs. This wasn't regular laughter, this was high pitched, can't breathe, Dad would be stomping his foot if Bean wasn't over and napping laughter. They were reading this entry. They verify that it's all true. I feel rather proud of myself because the only time I can remember making them laugh this hard was the other week when I was pouring water into a glass in sporadic intervals and said, "Hey guys, it sounds like I have a prostate problem!"

*No, we do not wear bonnets. Anymore.

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Weird Crap That Freaks Amanda Out - Volume 4 

Saturday, December 4, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
 Things that taste like grape freak me out. I hesitate to even call this "grape" flavour. Grapes, I like. Grape juice, I also like. Artificial grape flavoured stuff, I most definitely do not. Let's not call them grape flavoured, ok? They are purple flavoured things.

I have this extremely vivid memory from when I was maybe 5 or 6. I was sitting on my bunk in the back room of our trailer*. I had some ailment that required Tylenol. There were two Childrens' chewable Tylenol tablets sitting on the table in front of me. I remember staring at them hoping they would either shrink or just go directly through my bellybutton and into my stomach. I nibbled one and gagged. Purple flavour.

That night I learned to swallow pills.

Ever since then, the taste and even the smell of purple things make my stomach turn. If I'm at a function and someone has been drinking grape Crush I find it difficult to talk to them. I can smell it on their breath and it sends shivers down my spine. Worse than knowingly ingesting purple flavour is ingesting it thinking it will taste like something else. I find Starburst jellybeans incredibly deceiving. There are black jellybeans in that bag but they taste like PURPLE. I go for black, and I taste PURPLE.  This is terrifying. This is also why I don't eat Skittles in the dark. I don't trust candy that has purple mixed into it.

If I find that I have purple flavour in my mouth, you will either see me spit it out (if appropriate) or chew, swallow and chase it with anything other than purple. There will also be gagging and possibly yelling involved (it will most likely be supremely girly in nature "ew ew ew ew!"). I'm telling you, it's traumatic and I most definitely cause a scene. If I weed out the purple beforehand, it will either be thrown at someone (again, if appropriate) or given to a purple-loving friend (who of course is not sitting right beside me breathing purple-breath into my face).

A list of purple things to avoid: Skittles**, gumdrops, jellybeans, bubble gum, Jell-o, Kool Aid, grape Crush, suckers, medicine, freezies, popsicles, Nerds, and grape drink (grape juice is to grape drink as orange juice is to Sunny D***),

Yes, I know this is strange and like always, I have come to terms with it. I am comfortable with letting my freak flag fly. My name is Amanda, and I don't like purple things. I hope we can still be friends. If you eat all the purple Skittles, we can be best friends. Just don't breathe on me afterward, mmkay?



*Like, the summer vacation kind of trailer, not the plastic-flamingos-tacky-lights-really-thick-glasses-on-a-guy-named-Bubbles-tornado-through-the-trailer-park kind of trailer. Just to clarify.
 **Original Fruit only. Tropical is safe.
***Fun Sunny D fact: it contains vegetable oil! Yay!

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Stunned Silence 

Thursday, December 2, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
I promised myself that I wasn't going to post today, but then I came across something that I had to blog about. I don't even know how to preface this.

Watch this video:



I'm sorry, WHAT? Is this a joke? This is a parody, right? Semi-homemade cooking? It must be a joke. It's a pretty good one too! I mean come on! Take a look at this piece of fine comedy:



Haha, oh Sandra Lee, you're a funny lady. You're doing that on purpose. A cake for Kwanzaa. With pumpkin seeds and huge ugly candles. Oh ho ho, too funny. What? You mean there is MORE? WOW!!!!



Who are the geniuses behind this comedy? Google google.


Wait.


What?


This...?


I...ummmm.



Uh..


Look at this.


Yeah.


Hold on.


You mean to tell me that this is real? These aren't just genius sketches? She has a show? And all she does is ICE STORE BOUGHT CAKES? You mean to tell me that the average person needs a SHOW to tell them these things? Has our culture turned so much to convenience that we need step by step instructions on how to spread one thing onto another thing? Can we really not accomplish this task independently? Whoa whoa, and the ICE CREAM POTATO??!!! That's real too? You made a vegetable out of ice cream? No. No one will eat that. It's weird. I don't care if it tastes delicious, it looks like it should taste like a different kind of delicious. Have you ever tried eating straight up cocoa powder? That crap is nasty. That's not  how you treat ice cream! That. Uh. I see there are many more videos. There has to be, because it's on the FOOD NETWORK. WHAT? I'm just...I don't even know what to do. I.....wow.

If I keep thinking about this I'm going to be huddled in a corner humming God Bless America soon. And I'm Canadian. There is only one thing that can save this post.

The Bean.

This picture just screams: "Hiiiii Aunt Tootie!"



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Paraphrase of a Dinnertime Conversation 

Wednesday, November 10, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Note before you read: Barb is our cleaning lady and consequently my mother's favourite person.

Mom: I want to see Jan Arden in concert.

Me: Really? Since when do you like her? Name one of her songs.

Mom: Um...well...she's funny!

Me: Why would you go see her in concert if you don't even know any of her music?

Mom: BUT SHE'S FUNNY!

Dad: Ask Barb, I bet she'd go with you.

(Dad and I laugh)

Mom: Hey, what's that called again? Baking and waking?

Me: Wake and bake. It's Monday, so Mom is going to clean before Barb cleans.

(Dad and I laugh)

Dad: Barb is your mother's best friend.

(Dad and I laugh)

Mom: I get a massage in the afternoon now so I don't smell it any more.

Me: Jan Arden?

Mom: Noooo, the university students smoking pot!

This makes about as much sense to you as it does to me. I love you, Mommy.

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Define Success? 

Monday, August 2, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Awhile ago Thomas and I bought a horrible-on-purpose birthday cake for our friend Tom Brown. I then sent the picture into Cake Wrecks. And look at this: 1000+ comments generated because we're cheap.

I feel as though I have accomplished something even though I really haven't. Kind of like the time at the university with the bathrooms and the aprons. I can just picture my next job interview:

"So, tell us about some of your proudest accomplishments to date."

"Well, one time I sent and email and now people at Subway don't wear their aprons while they pee. Oh! And I sent a picture of something stupid that I bought into a website and they posted it."

Yes my friends, I'm totally landing that job. Shabam.

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Weird Crap That Freaks Amanda Out - Volume 2 

Saturday, February 20, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Last night I was with a friend, and the two of us were primping for a night out. While I was searching through her iTunes for some funk music, she was getting herself ready. She mentioned that she had a burn on her arm, and I turned around to look. Just as I turned around, she ripped off her band-aid.

I almost threw up.

It wasn't the burn that caused me troubles, it was the band-aid. They are absolutely disgusting. The thought of skin being pulled by adhesive, and some little hairs getting yanked out in the process gives me the heebie jeebies. I think this quirk of mine stems from the large amount of time I've spent in hospitals and blood clinics. I can sit and watch the needle prick into my skin, the blood being drained out of my veins and then see all of the vials of my blood but smack a band-aid on me and I'm done.

Woozy. Fainty. Nauseous.

I've argued with nurses in an effort to convince them to let me go without a band-aid. Some of them refuse and tell me it's against the rules, plus you'll get blood on your sweater. I don't give a flying poop, I don't want an awful stickery thing on the delicate inside of my elbow. It just doesn't seem right. I will avoid the mark of the band-aid at any cost.

There is something else gross about used and discarded band-aids. Like the ones you find floating in pools. Or the ones that are dangling by one sticky thread off of the scabbed knees of kindergarten kids. Then there is that gummy black ring that they leave on your skin that can only be removed with baby oil and excessive scrubbing. If something sticks to your skin that badly, it shouldn't be there in the first place.

In conclusion, band-aids are nasty. I'm going to go have a shower and hope I don't scrape my knees anytime soon.

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Weird Crap That Freaks Amanda Out - Volume 1 

Monday, February 15, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
In today's installment of Weird Crap That Freaks Amanda Out (WCTFAO), we will be discussing Thrift and/or Antique Stores. This may seem a little odd, but I would like to remind you that this is called Weird Crap That Freaks Amanda Out, not Stuff That Freaks Out Quite A Few People, Not Just Amanda. So excuse me for being weird.

You might be saying, but Amanda, I know you love Value Village, and that is most definitely a thrift store. And you are right, I do love the Village of Value. For the most part. I must explain what kinds of stores I mean. These stores are usually found in bizarre and mostly sketchy locations (side roads in Bruce County or on Lancaster St in Kitchener). They are most likely tiny and very dusty. They are over crowed with things claiming to be antiques, but are nothing more than old dishes that you could find in your grandparents' basements. I really love old dishes, and I am thrilled that I inherited my grandmother's full set of fine china, and some of her crystal (lead! whoo!), but something just feels "off" to me if there are incomplete sets of numerous styles of dishes all mashed into one incoherent display. There is no continuity, just a mish mash of old crap that no one wants any more. Where are the rest of the dishes in the set? Did you break them all? Do you have a personal vendetta against that one lonely bread and butter plate? What did it ever do to you? For this reason, the dish and old-crap-that-no-one-wants-anymore section of Value Village freaks me out.

Stores that really freak me out usually have toys. Not new, fun toys, but old half-dead creepy toys. Like dolls with stained dresses and hair that was chopped off by some scissor happy four year old. They are those dolls that when you lay them down, their eyes close, but since they are so old, only one eye closes and the other one stays partially open just to look and you and be creepy. Honestly, who wants to buy an old doll that some strange child drooled on? To me it just feels like left over happy memories. No one wants the doll anymore. What happened to the original owner? Why don't they want their precious dolly anymore? And WHY oh WHY do they feel they need to try and sell it to an old person with an affinity for half-rotten old toys? Creepy, right?

Next, these stores have a distinctive odour to them. That old musty, moth ball-y gross smell. What IS that smell, and how come it all thrift/antique stores smell the same? I would like to know the answer to this question. Actually, maybe it would just be better to leave it a mystery. Maybe I'm weird, or maybe I'm just sensitive to smell.

Another characteristic of these stores is bound to make me look completely insane. This is something that I can't describe entirely, but I will try. When I walk in, I feel a little claustrophobic. I feel this eerie sense of...unfinished business? and it makes me want to pull up my shirt or scarf to cover the back of my exposed neck. I keep by hands folded tightly and drawn into my chest until the ordeal is over. Maybe it's because of all of the dirt, maybe it's because it's full of other peoples stuff...left over and discarded. Creepy, I tell you. Mighty creepy.

I love old things, I really do. I also love stumbling across something really unique and unusual. Much to my dismay, this event is likely to occur in some of these creepy stores. So for the most part, I think I can bear the creep-factor. That about concludes the first volume of WCTFAO. I realize that I may appear to be completely deranged, but I'm ok with that. Leave a comment if you feel the same. I hope you'll still be my friend.

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Props to my mother for finding this gem 

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Our Daily Bread Devotional for January 19, 2010:

"NEVER SATISFIED BUT ALWAYS CONTENT

Tiger Woods is clearly the greatest golfer of his generation. His ability to perform under pressure and win is becoming legendary. Yet what motivates Woods is not just winning, it's his passion for excellence. Despite his great success, Tiger has repeatedly refined his swing in an ongoing effort to improve his game and be a better golfer. His desire for excellence leaves him never satisfied."

Notice that the online version of January 19th has been changed. Nice work, ODB.

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wedding bells! 

Tuesday, July 28, 2009 - Posted by Amanda Bast
The other day, during our outside time, a few of my preschool girls helped me plan my wedding. These are their suggestions:

I will wear a white dress.
I will have three bridesmaids, and three groomsmen.
The bridesmaids will wear bright pink dresses.
We will carry white, pink, yellow and purple flowers.
The groomsmen will wear black suits with gray and pink striped ties.

I will walk down the aisle to either Ballerina music, or The Wheels On the Bus.

For dinner, we will eat chicken, rice, broccoli, carrots and beans.
For dessert, we will eat strawberry cupcakes and vanilla pudding.

The overall plan sounds really quite marvelous, and I was impressed by their wedding planning skills and flair. They even did my hair and make up for me. I'm totally set for my big day.

The only setback is that my groom-t0-be is three years old.

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Squeezy Baby 

Tuesday, March 24, 2009 - Posted by Amanda Bast
This morning I thought I saw a large iguana-type thing on the other side of the chain link fence. I had visions of the massive reptilian eating the dog and me alive, so I weighed my options: go and save the dog, or run from the big stripey iguana and leave Sass to defend her poor little self. As my brain thought about fighting or flighting, my eyes came to the realization that I was actually looking at a cat. A nice furry cat.

I am very close to graduation and the "real world" and I think it's starting to get to me.

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because our rendition wasn't good (bad?) enough 

Wednesday, March 11, 2009 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Kirk and I went to see Stars in Decemeber, which was beyond phenomenal. Unfortunately, GENTLEMAN REG opened for them. You may have heard us singing "The Boyfriend Song" at some point in time. If you want to hear this song in its full glory, look up the real music video, but just don't watch it because it is nothing short of disturbing. I refuse to post it. I will however, post a live version:



Sorry if his voice made your ears bleed.

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Attack! 

Tuesday, February 10, 2009 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Our little schnauzer puppy is relatively normal in terms of puppy standards. She runs and bounces around the house, thinks everything is a toy and acts like a little black furry Hoover, picking up any little piece of anything that looks good enough to eat. This basically means anything within her reach. This morning she was delighted with a piece of cellophane. Yum.

She really only has one bizarre, um, quirk, we'll call it. She hates the drying rack. It's plastic coated metal wire rack that can be folded up and stored in the closet. I'm not sure what it did to her, but it must have been pretty serious. Observe:

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weekly weirdo awards 

Monday, November 3, 2008 - Posted by Amanda Bast
Honorable mention: CHYM FM. They play Amy Winehouse songs, and consequently, my mother sings them.

Third place: Woman at Bioped. I arrived 13 minutes early for my 9:30 appointment today, and she arrived 10 minutes after I did for her 9:00 appointment. I went in first, and got some huge massive stink eye from her because....she was nearly half an hour late and I was on time? Hmm.

Second place: Laundry lady. On Halloween, Kirk, Dave and I knocked on a woman's door and asked her if she had any non-perishable food to donate to the Food Bank. She said yes, and returned with a half-used bottle of Tide.

And the winner is....

The lady down the street who asked my mother if she could smell Sassie's puppy breath. She did smell her and loved it, apparently.

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