Pine needles in my underpants

My blog has been a bit spastic lately. I’ve changed its appearance several times this week, trying out a variety of looks and styles until settling on this one, and I’ve finally come up with a name. The boring “Amanda Haines” title was simply a placeholder while I waited for something creative to percolate.  It’s just taken me longer than I expected.

So, let me explain the new look and the new name.

First, the photo above is one I took while hiking with my stepmom Betsy in the hills south of Medford, Ore., last January. It was a great day and we caught a beautiful view. I love this photo. Plus, I grew up in that area and it reminds me of being a moody, creative teenager.

Second, the new name is one I’ve been cooking up in my brain for the past few weeks. It stems from an actual experience I had while running south of Eatonville. I got home and found a pine needle in my underpants. I have no idea how it got there, but it was a fantastic and unexpected surprise. Life often feels like having a pine needle in your underpants. It’s kinda funny. Kinda strange. And always unpredictable.

Plus, I think “underpants” is my favorite word of all time. It’s so wonderfully childish. Anything is funny when it has the word “underpants” attached to it. For example, “mass casualties” sounds awful, but “mass underpants casualties” sounds like a story I want to hear. (Maybe I should write that story? Hmmm.)

Let me know what you think of the changes.

Sometimes, a gal just needs to make a list. Here’s mine.

Things I Love Right Now

• CSI: I tend to run five to seven years behind in movies and TV, and this is a perfect example. I only recently discovered this show and I’m hopelessly addicted. Luckily, it’s in syndication and can be found on almost any channel around the clock. I love how disgusting and graphic it is, and how it kinda makes me barfy if I’m eating and watching at the same time.

• Solitaire: I’m not talking about that newfangled solitaire on the computer. I’m talking about real solitaire with real cards and no auto-shuffle. It’s very relaxing and makes me feel like a really boring Don Draper. Of course, like my grandma, I play until I win every night.

• Spray cheese: I got this for my dogs’ kongs (dog people know what a kong is), but I’ve been taking hits off it. As shameful as it is to admit, spray cheese is a strange and wonderful invention. I have no idea how it works or why it doesn’t need refrigeration, but a couple squirts on my dirty ol’ finger is darn tasty.

• Eggnog: I’m lactose-intolerant, but eggnog is totally worth the pain. Thank goodness I live alone.

• Anne Rice: I’m rereading her vampire books and loving them all over again. I read these as a teenager and, surprisingly, they really stand the test of time. Rice is a very gifted writer and escaping into an alternate reality is incredibly satisfying. (As a sidenote, I actually went to an Anne Rice book signing in college. She wore a weird wig like the one Rick James wore in the Superfreak video. It had gold braids in it and everything. She was nice, but kinda weird. I loved it!)

• “All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down:” This is a Hank Williams Jr. song circa 1984. I’ve heard it twice in two days and I could hear it a million more times and never be tired of it. It’s rolling through my head right now. I love it. Hank Williams Jr. turned out some good stuff back in the day (before he got all Monday Night Football). If you haven’t heard the tune, check it out.

More later, I’m sure!

This Veterans Day feels harder than any other I can remember. The tragedy at Fort Hood and the spate of shootings in the week since, combined with the loss of so many of our Fort Lewis soldiers since the summer, has made today a difficult day. There have been so many lives lost and families destroyed, just in the past two weeks, that it’s hard to sit at my desk on this day and not feel that it’s a betrayal of what this holiday is supposed to mean.

To be honest, Veterans Day has never been on my list of “real holidays.” I have no family or friends in the military, and the two wars we’re fighting have touched me in no direct way. I’ve lost no one. I’ve missed no one. I’m very thankful for that.

However, not having that direct connection has made it difficult to understand the challenges our soldiers and their families face every day. I can’t imagine what it’s like in Afghanistan or Iraq right now or how horrible it must be to spend months, even years, away from a spouse or children. I can’t imagine being in such a dangerous place, knowing I might never come back. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose close friends in battle or not to know if the next road might be lined with bombs. I can try to understand, but the true reality of those situations is beyond my experience.

But, our soldiers are facing all of those things right now. That such brave people exist is truly remarkable. I couldn’t do it and I’m in awe of anyone who can. So, to all the soldiers out there and to all of their families, I’m sending a heartfelt thanks. Thanks for all the hard work you’ve done and continue to do. Thanks for volunteering your body and your heart so that the rest of us can go about the nonsense of our ordinary lives. Thanks for your sacrifice. Thanks for your strength. Thanks for your courage.

Most weeks, I shuffle along, get my work done, and feel pretty good about the whole thing. This week, however, I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday. It honestly feels like I’ve done about two weeks worth of work in the past three days, and I’m wiped.

When this happens, I have a surefire solution: sappy movies and hokey crafts.

So, this weekend, I’ll be making fleece dog beds for my car (I want my boys to be warm and comfy on car trips) and decorating my pumpkin for the bookstore contest next week. I’ll also be digging out some of the sappiest movies in my collection, the ones that make me “ugly cry” no matter how many times I watch them. It may be a girl thing, but watching tragic, romantic, painful movies indulges the part of me that’s feeling icky, and usually peps me up for the coming week.

Here are some of my favorites:

• Legends of the Fall: This movie has everything. Sweeping landscapes. Family drama. A gorgeous heroine with perfectly imperfect hair. And, Brad Pitt. The story is gutting and emotional, but so beautifully done. I love it.

• Out of Africa: An oldie but goodie that makes me want to move to Africa and fight off lions with a bullwhip. Plus, young Robert Redford is a can’t-miss.

• The Way We Were: Just thinking of Robert Redford launched me into this wonderful movie, which is universally loved by loud-mouthed, less than gorgeous women everywhere. Anyone who has loved deeply and lost will understand how incredible this movie is. Ahhh, Hubble.

• Jude: This lesser-known Kate Winslet gem is an adaptation of Thomas Hardy’s novel, Jude the Obscure, the most painful story ever written. I love Thomas Hardy and this movie is very well done. I cried. A lot.

If you’ve had the sort of week I’ve had and you’re looking to let it all out with a good cry, these are all good places to start. Please post your favorites in the comments section. I’m always looking for new tear-jerkers!

Earlier this week, a passing mention of LeVar Burton speaking at a Twitter conference in LA launched me into hours of anguish, as I compulsively sang the theme song to the PBS classic, “Reading Rainbow.” You know the song, right? “Butterfly in the sky, I can go twice as high. Take a look, it’s in a book, a reading rainbow…”

Needless to say, my coworkers now hate me.

The “Reading Rainbow” theme is one of those catchy songs that is impossible to forget. We all have a few that get us going. Here are some of mine:

• “Copa Cabana” by Barry Manilow: “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl…” I sometimes modify the lyrics of this classic to “His name was Barley, he was a schnauzer” to give my poor dog a thrill…because, of course, he understands English. This tune is painfully addictive and the lyrics are pure cornball. Just like Barry, actually.

• The “WKRP in Cincinnati” theme: I never actually watched the show, but the song is one of my all-time favorites. It’s a great song, but once it settles into my brain, it could be days or weeks before it moves on. “Baby, if you’ve ever wondered, wondered whatever became of me, I’m living on the air in Cincinnati, Cincinnati WKRP…” It’s gold!

• “Dirty Work” by Steely Dan: I blame this song for ruining at least one long-term romantic relationship. Love cannot survive when one person is shuffling about the house singing, in a bad falsetto, “I’m a fool to do your dirty work, oh yeah. I don’t want to do your dirty work, no more.” I blame myself for that one. I know almost none of the lyrics outside the ridiculous chorus, but once it goes on repeat, it can’t be stopped.

What songs drive you to madness? Please share in the comments section. Share the pain!

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with being a bridesmaid. I love the idea of wearing a floofy dress, walking down an aisle, and serving as a backdrop when someone else makes a dramatic, life-changing commitment to someone else. Unfortunately, I have almost no female friends and, the few I do have, always have other friends they like better than me. So, it came as a total surprise recently when my friend Kathy asked me to be in her wedding.

I must preface this by saying that Kathy picked someone else to be her bridesmaid first. Luckily for me, however, the Original Bridesmaid snapped her Achilles tendon while playing tennis and was not able to fulfill her bridesmaid duties. So, just three weeks before the wedding, Kathy asked me to step in as her replacement.

After jumping up and down, screaming, I demurely said yes. Finally, I was called up to the Big Show.

I spent three weeks preparing for this wedding. I cut down on my cheese and ice cream consumption, and I embarked on a personal grooming blitz, attempting to make up for years of feminine neglect. I scrubbed my knees and elbows morning and night, trying to slough off decades of elephant skin. I applied super-strength antiperspirant every night in hopes that it would stop me from ruining my bubblegum pink dress with copious armpit sweat. I also applied self-tanner to my upper arms morning and night to diminish the accumulated damage of five years worth of farmers’ tans.

By the wedding day, I was feeling pretty good. The dress zipped up easily and I felt thinner, tanner, and less crusty than before. I enjoyed the day and had a great time. During the ceremony, I gave a reading and got choked up, but I wasn’t too embarrassed (though several people did come up to me later to tell me how sweet it was….grrr).

I really had fun and I felt not a stitch of self-consciousness…until I scanned through some photos later than night. Though I had felt tan and thin(ner), after consulting the photographic evidence, I realized that I was, in fact, neither tan nor thin. I looked more like a Beluga whale than I’d imagined, and suddenly an event that felt so positive in the experience of it became ugly and tainted.

I haven’t looked at the photos since and, when anyone asks me about them (there are people dying to see me in a bubblegum pink dress, apparently), I simply say that I can’t handle the truth. That’s the truth. I can’t. Occasionally, denial is the only strategy I can muster. Well, denial with an ice cream chaser.

We all have crabby days, some of us even have crabby weeks. But, it’s a rare few of us who can live as Endurance Crabs, muttering under our breath, swearing, and generally making unpleasantness a way of life long term.

I’m well on my way.

Here are a few of the things I’ve been grumbling about so far this week:

• Rolling backpacks — Unless it’s loaded with wet cement, a backpack that measures 12 inches high and 8 inches deep cannot weigh enough to warrant wheels and a handle. And, if you’re 19, pick the damn thing up! You look ridiculous and weak, especially when I can see that it’s partially collapsed and so light it’s hopping over pebbles.

• Self-tanner — After three and a half of weeks of twice-daily applications of self-tanner (to prepare for my stint as a bridesmaid), the low-grade tan I had disappeared in…drumroll…three days. I want my life back!

• Harry Potter/Twilight — I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. I just want to focus on the return of “Mad Men” on Aug. 16…because I know what’s really awesome.

• The Progressive Insurance Lady — The rancor I feel for this annoying woman cannot be measured in actual terms, but I would place it somewhere between Kim Kardashian and Nicholas Cage.

• The Blue Dog Democrats — “Going rogue” didn’t work for Sarah Palin and it doesn’t work for you tools, either. You’re just making us realize you’re a bunch of douches, so stop grubbing for headlines and do some actual work for the American people, not the big corporations.

More to come.

Faithfully,

Amanda “Crab Salad” Haines

The thing about blogging is that there’s no room for my Type A, perfectionist BS.

I literally have five blog posts on my desktop right now. Five. All are about three paragraphs away from being done. Two are about the wedding I was in two weekends ago. One is about my dogs. One is about my mother (yikes!), and one is about my sudden desire to run a bison ranch in Hungry Horse, Montana.

All five were abandoned because the flow wasn’t right.

The flow.

I know that sounds like something a guy wearing a poncho and sandals would say, but it’s the absolute truth. When the flow ain’t right, I can’t write. I don’t even know what “the flow” is, but I feel it and, when it’s off, there’s nothing that can be done to make it right.

However, looking back on these blog posts, they’re actually not bad. Even when the flow was off, the writing wasn’t terrible. They’re certainly no worse than this blog post. In fact, at least one is considerably better (I’ll try to get back and finish it off shortly).

As much as I realize no one is perfect, I not so secretly really want to be perfect. So, I start blog posts I don’t finish. I buy vegetables I don’t eat. I harbor guilt about not flossing every night. It’s ridiculous and self-defeating. In fact, it may be what’s killing the flow.

So, I’m off to finish a real blog post and I guarantee it won’t be perfect. In fact, I bet there will be at least one typo, two clichés, and a mixed metaphor. Hmph!

(Thanks to Jo for the kick in the ass!)

Any morning that starts with an 8-foot pee trail across my living room from a 16-pound schnauzer puppy (whose only talent is to pee undetected while walking across an entire room) is bound to lead to a day that is more than slightly off.

Today is that day.

After scrubbing up the puppy wee (and tearfully begging him to please, please stop weeing in the house, for the love of all things holy), I was five minutes late for work. I scuttled in with wet hair and I may have forgotten deodorant.

Now, I’m in my office listening to Sinead O’Connor and wishing I was 20 again, still in college, full of hope and promise, and truly convinced my life would be incredible. I was certain then that time and age would make me beautiful, successful, finally thin, and incredibly, disgustingly happy. But, as Don Henley and The Eagles said in “Lyin’ Eyes,” “Ain’t it funny how your new life didn’t change things/She’s still the same old girl she used to be.” Amen, brothers.

Do we ever really change? I mean, I’m certainly crabbier than I was at 20. I worry more. I feel less sure of myself, but more willing to speak. But, am I fundamentally a different person? If I met 20-year-old me today, would I recognize her? Would I like her?

Sometimes, I feel exactly the same and I get sad when I realize how much is different and how much of my life is already gone. I miss hope and my younger willingness to imagine and have faith in better tomorrows and years down the road. Is it possible I am still those things underneath so much acquired crabbiness? Do I have to cheat on my rich, elderly husband, as in The Eagles song, to get the original me back? (Note: I don’t have a husband, rich, elderly or otherwise…that was a joke.)

I’m afraid these are too many questions for a Thursday afternoon. I have miles to go and promises to keep, and bean salad to eat. Sing it, Sinead. Sigh.

At a trip to the vet yesterday afternoon, I was waiting in the lobby when I overheard the two gals behind the desk having a conversation. The one girl, who was in her early 20s and had a clichéd rockabilly style with blunt dark bangs, heavy eyeliner, and red lipstick, announced that it was Grilled Cheese Tuesday. The other gal laughed and questioned the designation, and the first girl explained she and her boyfriend had decided that July was their Grilled Cheese Month and every Tuesday, they would have grilled cheese.

The conversation was strange because I’d mentioned earlier that day that my life was distinctly lacking grilled cheese. In fact, life got harder when I stopped eating grilled cheese on a semi-regular basis. Now, whether this has to do with becoming a grownup or it’s directly related to a declining rate of grilled cheese, I noticed the correlation and vowed to eat more grilled cheese. (You know how important self-improvement is to me and, if it takes eating grilled cheese, damn it, I’ll do it!)

The conversation also caused me realize that designating fun, special months for yourself seems like a very worthwhile thing to do. Too often, life is caught up in repetition (wake up, walk dogs, gym, work, walk dogs, sleep, repeat, repeat, repeat), but perhaps if each month were made special in some simple way, there would be more to look forward to each week. For example, if I knew that every Tuesday in July, I’d go down to Shari’s for a grilled cheese, every non-Tuesday would be spent looking forward to Tuesday. And, each Tuesday would be fun and full of grilled cheese. Then in August, I could celebrate another of my favorite things, like maybe Hula Hoop Tuesday or Tetherball Tuesday or Care Bears Movie II Tuesday.

Perhaps the others days wouldn’t be so hard.

Rockabilly chick might have been on to something life-changing. I’ll keep y’all posted.