Adventures at the Health Department

We took a big adventure to the Health Department last week to pick up a copy of my son's birth certificate. And  because I'm on a maternity leave, a big day is putting on a real bra and changing into some fresh PJ pants, so this trip was especially interesting.

We parked in the front and walked into the building, which housed a clinic. The free clinic, I suppose. We asked the girl at the front desk where we could get his birth certificate.

"OK, walk down the hall, you'll see two doors. Take the right door. Then keep walking down another hallway. The 4th door on your left, go through that. Then keep walking some more. You'll go through the nine circles of hell, through the candy cane forest, look for the signs that say "Birth and Death Certificates". Follow that sign. Walk 4 more miles, then you'll be there."

Well.

We finally reached the Birth/Death Certificates sign and found these lovely and festive Christmas deco:

Merry Christmas! THIS WAY TO YOUR DEATH CERTIFICATE.

How inappropriate is that skeleton dressed as a Santa? I mean, even if you are a fan of Nightmare Before Christmas, wouldn't you think twice about setting up that particular decoration where people are headed to pick up the final reminder of their recent dearly departed.

So we order the birth certificate, which is scarily easy to do. Just show up, pay your $15 and pretend like you're someone's legal guardian or spouse. They didn't' even check a drivers license. A few minutes later it was ready.

"Mrs. Austin?"

Only one problem -- my husband was the one who ordered it. His first name used to be a male name and now is used for many girls, so he gets it a lot and I think it's super rude and presumptive of people. Also in the same "hate hut": when people call me Amber (which is all the time) or think they are too important to remember my name in a business setting because I'm a young looking woman, but those are all complaints for a different day.

"Don't you mean MR. AUSTIN? CLEARLY HE'S A MAN," I smarted off to the lady at the front desk and my husband ushered me out quickly. I can't be let out in public.

We left through a different door and found more adventures.

The Rash Room, y'all. It's for people who need to go to the free clinic but have communicable skin diseases. There is a side door, even, so it's sort of like an exclusive club. 

So there you go, our fun and exciting trip to the health department. 

I need to get out of the house more often.

Baby Blogworthy must not know about "turkey" yet

NOM.

Dearest Ravenous Monster Baby,

You know what tastes really good? Turkey.

 Yes sir, it's one of life's greatest pleasures. Well, not just turkey *per-say*. We've been eating a lot of turkey, me and you, on sandwiches and salads and whatnot since you made eating ham a thing of the past back in April. Since canned tuna is out (which in salad form is Mommy's favorite sandwich toppings and I WILL eat one as soon as you make your grand appearance), my options are ham (puke), turkey and roast beef.

So turkey sandwiches on the regular around these parts, but what I'm talking about is a nice, fat, salty, buttery, cooked-to-perfection hunk of meat that is only found around our house during holidays and the occasional dinner out to Bob Evans. You'll learn someday that Thanksgiving dinner is pretty much the epitome of meals.

Ok, let me put it this way. You know how sometimes Mommy doesn't eat and you get so pissed off and start just kicking the crap out of my insides, but then after you get some nourishment you calm down and fall asleep? Well I hate to break it to you, but guess what? That's pretty unacceptable behavior out here in the real world, especially for grown-people. Except on Thanksgiving.

See, this magical day isn't just about the turkey. It's about stuffing and cranberries and green-bean casserole (the only time green beans are edible in my book) and rolls and mashed potatoes and corn. AND GRAVY. Mercy, the gravy. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I often have an uncontrollable urge to put gravy on everything. It makes all that food I mentioned above taste even better, if that's possible.

So here's how it works: People we love sit down at a table. We are all wearing clothes, so no more nakedness for you (I'm sorry to break that cold, hard fact to you, but I promise it's worth it). We put all this yummy on our plates and then DRENCH it with gravy. Then we eat that and get another plate. Then we dig into desserts -- how could I forget desserts? -- and then the men folk (that's you and Dad) sit in front of the TV and watch a football game, but make it through one possession before falling into what we call a *turkey coma*.

The women-folk don't bother with all that extra stuff -- we just find a couch or bed and go right into our turkey coma nap. This is the best nap of the year, what with the drool and how usually it's a little cool out so it's super comfy and how the belly is super full, so much so that laying down is the only comfortable position. Oh, and how it's a legitimate reason to put on your "comfy pants" instead of pants with buttons, snaps and zippers.

Then after a couple hours in the turkey coma, you wake up and watch more football or a movie, and then raid the fridge. This is usually when Mommy makes a sandwich out of a roll, turkey scraps and stuffing and then dips it in gravy.

And because Thanksgiving is a holiday, us grown-people don't have to go to work. Last year, Mommy and Daddy were both off for a lot of days and stayed up until 3 AM every morning playing video games. We'll probably be up the same kind of hours this year if you are here with us, but for other reasons.

But see, kid, this is where your cooperation comes in to play. You are due on this magical day. However, if you are actually *born* on Thanksgiving day, Mommy and Daddy and Aunt Sis and your grandparents won't get to have this yummy meal. No Turkey. No gravy. No sandwiches dipped in gravy. No nap. Just birthin' you.

Say, you know what would be helpful? You getting here this week! What do you say, bud? Hows about, like, this weekend maybe!? And while you won't be able to actually EAT the turkey, you can definitely smell it and that's one step closer than you would be if you were still in my belly.

But you'll probably be like your Dad and be a pedantic rule follower and say, "oh, no, Mommy, the doctor said November 25, so November 25 it is! Let me just get comfy here and we can wait it out!"

And if that's the case? Fine. Be that way. But just remember that if you miss this Thanksgiving, you'll miss ' wearing a wear a newborn sized pilgrim hat or turkey costume. That'll be your cross to bear.

I love you,
Momma

Wordy & Nerdy

The day I went crazy over a banana

I love bananas.

I eat a banana every day for my mid-morning snack. You know, because of my ravenous monster baby. And although I'd rather eat a hash brown or cookie, I try to stick with healthy stuff while I'm at work. It's so people wont' get all judgy with me.

I'd also like to say that eating this daily banana has kept me from having ridiculously painful evening leg cramps. A little free advice to other pregs out there from me. You're welcome.

(When I typed "cramps", I first spelled it c-r-a-p-s, something else you other pregs are probably intimately familiar with. I almost left it like that.)

Anyway. Bananas.

I got this bunch of bananas at the store the other day. Actually, I almost put them back on the banana shelf because the top two in the bunch were enormous. Like, they made me physically uncomfortable to look at. I'm thinking to myself, that's like a banana and a half -- who can eat a banana that large?

But I brought it to work with me and had to capture the moment for Twitter.

It's as long as my keyboard! I mean seriously!

This is where all y'all who aren't on Twitter are gonna get jealous. My Twat friends saw this picture yesterday. Along with this status.

Then Surferwife got into it. She was the ONLY person who commented on my big banana, and I am ashamed for the rest of you. I thought for sure I'd get some kind of reaction from you closet pervs but whatever. Surferwife is pretty much my main instigator and troublemaker on Twitter. She's like my friend in college that would sit with me and talk the whole time so we'd both get in trouble.

Later I tried to bribe Liz with a gigantic banana into making her response to me her 10,000th Tweet. I was 9,992. But apparently she just doesn't like big bananas.

Later than that, Surferwife told me I was out of control and it was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

So what's the point of this random blog?

1. Bananas are delicious.
2. Sometimes they are too large.
3. If you don't have Twitter or use it regularly, you're seriously missing out on awesome stuff like this.
4. I can make a blog entry out of just about anything, apparently.
5. This post is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S. (What one of you did not have that song already running through your head? We cannot be friends if you didn't.)

I'm sure you sickos have lots to say about this banana post, try to keep your heads out of the gutters as you are responding lest I write a blog about my love of the word "balls".

What's your favorite fruit? Do you have Twitter? Would you like to follow me (it's @amandaaustin). Are you disappointed that I haven't written for, like, a week, and I put up gibberish like this?

My biggest fear has 6 legs

When I was younger, my biggest fear was failure.

I was always worried that I wouldn't be good enough, that I'd be broke, or fired, or dumped. All that equaled failure to me, and it was terrifying.

Then I got dumped. Then I graduated from college, and then graduated from college again with my Masters degree. Then I got married. Then I got laid off. So, once you've experienced a good amount of both successes and failures and realize that it's not the end of the world when you do fail and that you CAN succeed, it's time to get a new biggest fear.

Around that time we moved to Florida, and a terrifying new world opened to me: a world with lots of legs, antennae and pre-historic looking exoskeletons.

The world of roaches.

Now, nothing in this world frightens me as much as cockroaches. Lizards? Love em. Mice? I mean, not my favorite but whatever. Snakes? Please stay away, but I am only mildly scared.

When I see a cockroach, I scream like I'm being stabbed with a butter knife, and it's not just one scream, it's a long, drawn out, "there-is-a-serial-killing-clown-in-our-garage-please-someone-help" scream. I run and slam doors. I refuse to step foot in our garage where they love to chill near the trash can. Sometimes I scream at the thought of them being there. If they are in the house FOR-GET it. I will have a panic attack on your ass, TRUST ME.

Back in WV it seems like we had an ant problem every spring, and as much as they grossed me out, I always sort of felt sorry for them. They were just harmless babies of the insect world, trying to find a delicious meal of cereal or rice to take back to their queen. And good on them for picking up that giant piece of cat food that's 14 billion times their size and carrying it all the way back to their nest.

But cockroaches? To me, cockroaches are a sign of dirty-ness and living in squalor. Cockroaches are scavengers and harbingers of disease.

And they are also apparently all around and COMPLETELY NORMAL. One of my co-workers has them in her mailbox, so when she opens it they scatter and then she reaches in and gets her mail. OVER MY DEAD BODY would I EVER get the mail again. I'd be all, credit card companies, sorry, but you're just going to have to wait for my payment because the cockroaches are currently holding my mail hostage with their tiny little feet and 18 kneecaps. Sick.

Apparently there is nothing you can do -- they are just a part of life down there in the dirty South (is THAT why it's called the dirty South??). I was talking about (what I believe to be) our cockroach infestation and what we were planning on doing to about it and my work friend said, "well good luck with that. Nothing helps. They'll leave in the winter."


O.M.G.

Here is a chart to express my hatred of cockroaches:

TRUE STORY ALERT: This weekend I was home alone, right? And so I was getting ready to shower before bed, took my contacts out, turned the water on and noticed  A GIANT COCKROACH on the wall above the shower. I called my husband and was sobbing about this darn cockroach because what am I supposed to do? It's my biggest fear COME TO LIFE and staring me in the face. I asked him to come home from his conference, but when he told he he couldn't do that, I had him walk me step by step through the process of killing the cockroach dead. It included multiple steps, starting with "throw a magazine at it" and "hit it with a shoe".


Then after I killed it, I put on my glasses and discovered it was actually a beetle.


IT COULD HAVE BEEN A COCKROACH, you guys. You have to be diligent about those nasty things.


According to British researchers at the University of Nottingham's School of Veterinary Medicine and Science, cockroaches could be the key to fending off harmful, drug-resistant bacteria (DO NOT CLICK ON THIS IF YOU ARE TERRIFIED OF COCKROACHES OR GROSSED OUT BY BUGS).

I'm sorry, but e coli is one billion and a half times better than cockroaches.

What is your biggest fear? Do you hate insects? What do you think is worse than cockroaches?

Annie is almost like an action flick

So, have you been wondering where Amanda is? No, I didn't jet off to Bora Bora to date three guys because 1) I'm married 2) I'm not a fame seeking whore and 3) I work for a non-profit. That's definitely not where I've been. I know you're all missing my delightful recap, but the truth is I just didn't have it in me to watch it on my birthday because it sucks the energy right out of my body. I watched the Bachelorette online with my pal JP and I saved our conversation and will post it maybe this weekend. It's good times.

I'm here tonight to drop off some funnies from my dear Husband. The scene: I was sleepy when I got home from work after eating way too much at lunch at the Pizza Hut lunch buffet. After struggling through a pizza coma all afternoon, I needed a resty-poo. When I woke up we went to McDonalds for dinner because my baby? He loves him some Filet of Fish sandwiches. What the heck? What kind of baby did I make? At any rate, after naps I tend to suffer from a little foggy brain, probably exacerbated by all these hormones.

While we're there, the following conversation occurs regarding, hands down, my favorite movie of all time, 1982's Annie, staring Eileen Quinn and the incomparable Albert Finney as Daddy Warbucks.

Me: Davey [Sister's husband] watched Annie with Sis.
Hub: *snickers*
Me: What? He did!
Hub: Yeah...right.
Me: Why wont' you watch with me?
Hub: I don't think I'll like it.
Me: I watch stuff with you that I don't like! Besides, Davey liked it! He said he liked the car chases!
Hub: Car chases, I'm so sure.
Me: *getting angry* What if my only dream in life is for you to watch Annie with me????
Hub: Then I'd say you have a sad life, if that's your biggest dream.
Me: *sigh* [pause] But there *are* car chases.
Hub: *laughs at me*
Me: And thievery and kidnapping. And helicopters. It's veerrrry exciting!
Hub: *head in his hands*
Me: You know what it's like? It's like that movie Taken. *wiggles eyebrows expectantly*
Hub: I'm going to Tweet that you just said Annie is anything like Taken.

So he's not only funny, but he puts up with my nonsense. I think he deserves a medal.

Have you seen Annie? Isn't it the best? On a scale of  1 to 10, how close is it to being like Taken?

Don't steal my idea!!!

Do you ever wish you were somebody like, say, the guy who invented Facebook? I mean he came up with some lame idea to basically stalk girls that he went to school with and now he's a gazillionaire.

Or the coffee kiosk we saw on the Travel Channel show XTREME COFFEE SHOPS where girls serve you coffee dressed in nothing but their underpants. The owner can't believe how successful it's been (as she rolls around in piles of money). One girl, who was wearing a cowboy hat, leather chaps and a cow print bikini, said she is shocked that people just keep coming back. And you guys, the shop is literally in a shed. A shed you can buy and build yourself on some random weekend.

Occasionally I'll come up with an idea, or Hubby and I will come up with an idea together, and think, if only we could make this happen, we'd so make a million dollars. I want to share some ideas with you guys but I have already done the poor man's copyright with them so don't even think about stealing them, and if you do I will hunt you down and then make you be a contestant on the Bachelor. Serious as a heart attack, folks.

Ghost Tours

Spend any time in a tourist town and you'll see one of these ghost tours popping up. Those places are *lousy* with ghost tours already, and they are all more or less the same, but to make ours even better, we came up with the following ideas:

1. Sell bottled water for 75 cents instead of $1 like everybody else.
2. Sell things like "authentic Civil War style bullets" or "rocks like the ones the lady fell into when she jumped". 
3. Sell small flashlights or candles. Oriental Trading Company sells them for $5 per dozen -- that's 41 cents per flashlight. We'll sell them for $1 each and offer it at the beginning of each tour.

We've been on a metric crap ton of ghost tours in our day because we're tremendous suckers and have never once seen a ghost. I mean, hell, half the time you just wander aimlessly listening to ghost stories. We can get those off the internet or from a book.

So let's break it down.

Our costs:

• learning ghost stories from the internet or checking out a book from the library: FREE
• Bottled water: $6 per 24 pack= $6
• Mini-flashlights: $5 per doze x two dozen = $10
• Our time: FREE

Gross profit:

• We'll charge $7 per person x 15 people per group = $105
• Two groups = $210
• Four nights per week = $840

Net profit:

• Supplies = $64 per week
• Profit = $840

TOTAL:  $776 per week
Yearly total: $40,352

The bonus? Each tour lasts 2 hours, so you're only working 4 hours a day for 4 days MINIMUM. I'm just guessing that you'll only be able to get big crowds on the weekends (which is including Thursdays). Add a one tour a day for the rest of the week and you've got at least a couple extra hundred.

Problems with this plan:

• Me no live in a tourist town.
• I'm sort of lazy and like to be in my PJs after 5 pm.

Maybe it can be some creepy, "people who died in their sleep and are now ghosts" tour and PJs will be my costume.

I've got a million more...I'll share another one tomorrow.

It's been awhile -- wanna hear some work stories?

My team has access to the production studio at work, which is much less impressive than it sounds, although the most wonderful, cool, dark and quiet room you'll ever see in your life. Don't think I haven't thought long and hard about napping there on occasion. Anyway, we do some video editing and podcasting there. Our studio is located within a suite that holds our call center, an impressive 5 employees strong. That's right -- we're so awesome we only need 5 people in our call center. 

I was editing some video yesterday and when I walked out one of our call center employees whispers to me to come over to her desk. She's a really nice lady, a little older, always so happy and positive. We work in the same department but not really with one another, but I knew OF her. So I head over to her desk and have the following conversation:

Her: Let me ask you something. Don't you get mad at me, now. [places her hand on my belly] Are you pregnant?

Me: Yes!

Her: I knew it. You're having a girl, aren't you? [as she continues to rub my belly]

Me: Actually no, a boy. We just found out last week.

Her: That's just so wonderful! [tone change to angry] Did that big tall girl have her baby yet?????

Me: [taken aback] um, well, I don't know. Maybe? 

Two things: my belly is not that big, so touching it at this point is still a little more in my personal space than I care for an almost stranger to be. I mean when the baby gets bigger, maybe. But right now, I'll take my belly untouched, please. Also? I don't know what girl she's talking about. Like no clue whatsoever. It was a strange transaction.

_________________________________________

Our little intern, bless his heart, he's 21 years old. It's just precious. I love 21 year olds because they are still filled with goodness and wonder and positivity. They still think liberal arts is a good, strong choice. They like things such as napping and doing projects and going out to bars. They have time for all that stuff.

I gave him a project to help me with this summer -- taking photos of some nurses for our website. He came in with the photos and he's all, look how they all posed and stuff for me. They were really friendly. Another coworker teased him about giving the girls his number and he said, "naw, they were older." Older. Guess what's older to a 21 year old? TWENTY-FIVE. Yeah, the ripe old age of 25. Over the hill, certainly. I mean after the metabolism starts to slow it's all over. 

We all enjoy our intern.

__________________________________________

Not really work related, but since this blog is turning out pretty random anyway, here goes. In the past two weeks, we've had one almost fatal lightening strike in the area and one not really close to be fatal but still scary anyway alligator attack.

The alligator attack was on a researcher who was snorkeling in a river about 30 minutes south of where I live. The alligator was all, Oh, my food delivery is here NOM. And the guy was apparently big and strong and wrassled him off. The guy got a bite on his neck and some cuts and bruises but was OK and would make a full recovery. The alligator was murdered by the Fish and Wildlife people. Let's be clear here -- if you were in your living room and a some terriyaki chicken wings just sauntered in like they owned the placed, kicked up their drummettes and sat a spell, you'd bite them...right? Same with this gator. Dude was swimming in his house! And I'm sure he smelled delicious.  So whatever, I'm over it now but there was a hot second where I was sitting here with tears in my eyes after I found out the alligator was shot.


These two things together make Florida seem like the most terrifying place on the planet.

How many inches is your personal space bubble? How much do you enjoy interns and/or 21 year olds? Are you scared of Florida?

It's a pager. Jealous much?

I spent Memorial Day weekend as the on-call media rep for work. There are four of us who take turns handling any media that calls after hours and on weekends. Typically during those times, we just say, "sorry wrong number". I mean, we say "sorry, call back during office hours", unless it's a big time emergency or something big going on. I've never had to go in on a weekend (knock on this fake wood that is my desk), but I've conducted some phone interviews and answered calls that come in all hours of the night.

During last fall's Swine Flu Epidemic That Was Going To Kill Us All But Turned Out To Be Not That Bad, I got a call at 3 a.m. from a nurse, who'd gotten a call from a reporter. In the middle of the night. Because nobody has anything better to do, little Miss Go-Getter with your early morning/late night beat. It's OK, I'm here to take your call and tell you we can't give you any information and to call the health department. Now I'll just go back to what I was doing before, which was just waiting for more calls.....OR SLEEPING SOUNDLY.

Such is the life of the on-call people.

I can't complain though. It's a pretty easy gig and those types of calls really happen once in a blue moon. And the best part about the on-call rotation is the super special advanced technology we're given to carry out these duties.

A Blackberry, I bet you're thinking.

Think again, my friend. We take it way back, old school, at my place of employment. We rock pagers.Whose pager keep beepin' and beepin'? Mine does, y'all. It's the sweet sound of business being done.

I love two things specifically about my pager:

• It's numeric only -- no letters up in its grill
• One of the beep options is "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head"

Other awesome things about it:

Incorrect date and time because I don't bother changing the time because the battery dies too often.

No back to hold the battery in because I lost it pretty much the first week I had it.

Miscellaneous scratches and dents. Pager services provided by Verizon. My grandparents call it
"VER-iz-on"..ephasis on the VER.

I know what you guys are thinking. "Amanda," you would say, "You do know smart phones are like, 4 cents these days and can do everything, like park your car and brush your teeth. Yet, you carry a pager? Explain." Well not much to explain -- I mean how can you beat the delicious irony of receiving a page and then returning that call using a smart phone. If I had something more advanced, how could I use my pager to make people uber-jealous? I'd have to figure something else out. I mean this pager really just makes my life easier.

Plus, the pager is the only option.

This weekend we were out buying our new kick-ass camera that I took these pager pics with and "Raindrops" starts a'blarin'. I was all, "oh snap! I've got something important to do." We were checking out using my Best Buy card so Hubby said to the salesguy, "Is it OK if I check out using her card? She has a call to make.....for business." Hellz yeah, for business!

When have you last seen a pager in public? Did you have a pager in middle school? Do you think pagers are making a comeback? Should I have made a graph to go along with this post?

Pantry, you're dead to me

Listen, pantry, we need to have a heart-to-heart.

There's a big problem right now in my home, and, well, it's not me, it's you.

 

Evil.

You just hang out in the kitchen all day with your delicious food. Mocking my and my desire to just lose a couple pounds. OK, cookie mix, I hear you. I know it's your goal in life to make me some cookies. You just want to provide a little extra cushion and I get that. "But you love sweets," you say. "And look, I only need to be mixed with one stick of butter and an egg and you have BOTH of those! It's not like you're going to use that stick of butter for anything else, anyway."

Well, cookie mix, I'm sure there are lots more HEALTHY things I can make with that stick of butter, so just screw off, ok?

The same goes for you, too, box of sugary chocolate cereal. Don't you dare hide  back behind the healthy cereal; I know this game far too well. You're trying to get me to forget about you until I'm having a late night moment of weakness, aren't you? Well guess what, I AIN'T FALLING FOR IT.

"Come on, I'm only 100 calories per serving! I'm basically a 100-calorie pack!" But your serving is 3/4 a cup. Know who can be satisfied with 3/4 cup of cereal? PEOPLE WITH WILLPOWER. That's not me, OBVIOUSLY. I pour out 3/4 a cup and next thing you know, BAM a half box of cereal is gone. I will throw you out before you can say "I'm Coocoo for Cocoa puffs!" and don't think I won't.

Who am I kidding, I will not throw anything out.

No, instead I'll fall for your old tricks, brownie mix. "Oh man, I'm almost expired! You might have to throw me away even though you bought me on Publix BOGO a year ago! You probably need to go ahead and bake me so as to not waste food, because that's a punishable offense in this house!" Although logically I realize that it's powdered food. How does powdered food spoil? Who is going to punish me?

You know what will expire? This peach. And it will expire quickly while I'm busy eating my weight in Ritz Peanut Butter Crackers and the fruit flies will get to it. GREAT. Not only have I wasted a perfectly good peach, I also have fruit flies. CURSES ON YOU, RITZ CRACKERS!

Oh, potato chips, you know just when I'm craving something salty. "Woops! Sorry, must have lost my balance from this precarious position stacked on top of all these boxes of dumpling and gravy mixes. I didn't mean to fall right into your hands. But since I'm here...." Since you're here, WHAT, potato chips? Huh? Tell me. Just test my patience because I have had nothing but salads for lunch for weeks and I'm in no mood.

And you can shut your whore mouth, Chips Deluxe Cookies, over there in the cabinet. You might not live in the pantry but this applies as much to you as it does that Warm Delights cake on the second shelf.

And peanut butter, I think you might be the worst. You and your delicious creamy taste and 170 calories for 2 tablespoons. You're ridiculous and I don't have to take this. I will punch you in the throat, peanut butter.

Why is there so much delicious food in the world?