Tinkle Tinkle

        Know what sucks?  Public restrooms.  Well, for females at least. Guys have it easy.  They can pee any place they desire.  Outside on the tree in the backyard, in a potted plant, in an alley; it makes no difference really. (Not that I am saying it’s ok.)  But, we women are forced into nasty over used and under cleaned facilities.  Call me a bathroom snob, but very few public restrooms are up to par for my dainty booty!  Sometimes you walk in and everything is dripping wet!  It’s like you’ve stumbled upon a cave!  They are dank, dark, smelly, and just plain gross!  But alas, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

        First, is the task of locating the cleanest stall, assuming that you have a choice.  Some people kick each door in; however, I choose to gingerly push them with one finger.  While holding my breath, I survey the stall.  I’m looking for an empty bowl with zero signs of leftover poo, no TP on the floor but plenty on the roll, no signs of womanhood halfway hanging out of the trash, ideally a dry floor and no piddle on the seat.  Once I’ve made my choice, I take a breath.  Not a whiff, just a closed mouth (ALWAYS closed mouth) breath.  If I didn’t nearly pass out and my eyes didn’t water, I enter the stall.

        Now, this is an entire issue of its own!  It must have been a skinny man that was the inventor of bathroom stalls.  Firstly, the doors typically open inward.  This may seem like no big deal, except the door opens within two inches of the toilet seat.  Dumb.  That means that I need to either squeeze between the wall and the toilet seat (naturally, only if there is no smeared remnants of poo or boogers or whatever the hell people wipe all over bathroom walls!), or do the Toilet Seat Straddle.  The TSS, as we will call it, means you must bear hug your belongings, spread your legs wide enough to clear the seat, bend your knees and shimmy, shake, or walk your way into the stall like you are playing Operation, except instead of just getting a buzz for touching the sides, you get a flesh eating bacteria or herpes!  Once you completely enter the stall you can reach around and push the door closed using your foot (ideally, but requires a level 2 skill set of the TSS) or by using your hand or clothing covered booty.  Then you do the TSS in reverse!  What makes that all even more fun?  Winter.  A bulky coat, boots, and a guaranteed wet floor, seriously a good time!

       Once I’ve hung my items on the hook (God, I hope there’s a hook!) I begin the “Protection of the Nether Reigon” portion of potty time.  There are undoubtedly germs swarming the throne.  So protection is a priority.  First option is seat covers.  Usually provided in-stall.  I very carefully pull one out, taking extra caution on the sides to avoid rippage.  Then cautiously rip the perforations to open the seat of the liner.  I carefully place the liner on the seat and pray to all of the Gods that it stays put!  If there are no seat covers, then I have to employ a little bathroom arts and crafts and make one.  I will rip off strips of toilet paper and, with careful precision and order, I set them on the seat covering all surfaces.  Once the germ barrier is complete, I pray.  Always pray.  This is where I will quickly drop my drawers and double check that nothing has moved.  Cause frequently, one of two things will happen… 1) The toilet auto flushes. Or 2) A mysterious breeze comes along and blows away my cover.  As maddening as this is, I will repeat the entire process until I win.

*Side Note:  I have noticed, mostly in airports actually, that there is now a toilet seat that is equipped with a liner.  Basically when the toilet is flushed the liner replaces itself.  There is a machine of sorts on the back of the seat and the liner will roll into it and come out the other side.  Like it’s one continuous liner that in some way gets sanitized in the machine.       And I don’t trust it.       As a child of the modern world, I know how technology can go haywire.  How do we know that the sanitizer part of the machine is working?  Like the machine can rotate the liner in and out but what if the sanitizer portion malfunctions?  How would we ever know? I understand the concept, and kudos for going green, but I still think it is too risky for my caboose.

        Now it’s time to sit.  Or hover.  I typically prefer the hover method.  First, it’s a bonus leg workout.  Second, it avoids the hazards of sitting.  What hazards, you ask?  Well, as previously indicated, you could lose the liner and your precious flesh will land on the same seat that everyone else as peed and pooed on today.  Also, sitting brings you closer to the water.  This means when the auto-flusher flushes, your nether regions are subject to the fearful and dreaded backsplash!  Ew!!  Made worse by the level of bathroom cleanliness and/or whatever waste you’ve contributed to the bowl.  Ugh!  I feel sick just thinking about this catastrophe!  Finally, and almost as bad as backsplash, is a loose toilet seat.  This is most problematic when you shift on the seat to wipe, or whatever, and some booty or thigh meat gets caught all up under the seat.  It is literally the toilet seat biting you!  You will bleed, scream, and cry all in one movement.  Let’s not forget that now you have an OPEN WOUND in GERMTOWN!  UGH!   Anyway, the point here is to hover.  Sit when you need to but hover when you can.

        As a female, there is no shaking it off.  I must use the paper and wipe.  First of all, another design flaw of the potty stall, is the placement of the toilet paper roll holders.  They are almost on the floor.  In. Every. Single. Bathroom!  I have to bend waaay down (triggering the flippin auto-flusher) and do hand yoga to get up and under the holder to grasp the paper.  Seriously, this could be an Olympic sport and I’d like to think I would place well in my weight division.  Then I’ve gotta carefully pull the roll and hope that I manage to get more than a square at a time.  I feel more proud of myself for getting a 3 or more square section than I do for passing my college finals.  Mostly, it seems that public restrooms have rough transparent TP that rips off in small pieces.  It then becomes about getting a pile of pieces together that is large enough to do the job.  Alas, this cheap excuse for TP does a terrible job of cleaning up.  It slips faster than a roofie in a college bar and collects zero particles along the way.   After a few concentrated wiping efforts, I flush.

        I will not be one of those rude bathroom trolls that leave my “bidness” in the bowl for the next user to stumble upon.  So I gather my belongings and ensure the auto-flusher flushed.  If the toilet is manual, than I raise a leg and kick the button or lever.  I have seen some questionable residue on them and will NOT flush the toilet by hand.  Before I do that, however, I do the TSS to open the door and get out of the stall.  I fear a strong backsplash with the height capabilities to hit my face.   I think that holding my breath with a grimace helps somehow.  So I will stretch into the stall enough to flush then quickly and swiftly exit the stall.  After this, I wash up.

        I try to make this an easy task.  I look for a sink that is not covered in standing water.  Cause my foodie physique may touch the counter top and it’s not very attractive to have a water stain across the mid-section.  Not to mention, I don’t need to draw any extra attention to my soft body type.   I look for a dispenser that appears to have soap and then place my belongings in-between my legs.  I roll up my sleeves and turn the water on.  (Two things – why, for the love of God, do so many bathrooms lack hot water??  And what is the deal with the push faucets??)   I lather up and scrub partially up my arms cause germs are gross.  And then waddle, while still holding my stuff with my thighs, to the dryers or towels.  If I can pick, I choose towels.  I did a research project in school once and the blowers harbor bacteria that blows out onto your hand when they are activated.  So towels.  Then I grab my stuff and prep for my exit.  On the way to the door I grab a paper towel or two and use them as a barrier on the door handle if the door opens in.  If there is not a close trash can, I will hold open the door with my foot, take a leap back with my other foot, and then use my middle school H.O.R.S.E. skills to make the towel into the basket.  Easy peasy.  Not.

        Public places are gross.  I don’t think that janitors clean them like I would clean my home.  And one too many 20-20 shows have engrained suspicion and horror into my brain.  But at the end of the day, my bladder only holds so much.  And worse yet, my Crohn’s likes to come out and play whenever the hell it feels like it.  So, yeah.

I'm back!

Oh friends!  I am so sorry I have left you high and dry.  I have had several people contact me demanding more blogs. 
First let me say THANK YOU SOOO MUCH!!  I appreciate your support and encouragement, always!

Secondly, I am just returning from almost 3 weeks of vacation.  In sunny SoCal!  I flew out to visit my family and friends for a feel good vacay. And - It. Was. GLORIOUS!

I ate so much food and drank so much drank and laughed all the laughs and cried when I left.  I was long over due for both a vacation and seeing my family and spending time with my sisters!

I have a couple blogs in the works and will get something up soon.  I PROMISE!

For now, please enjoy these pictures from my vacay!

 

 

We saw Finding Dory at the El Capitan!

 

In-N-Out right off the plan!  Yes, please!

Day trip with my momma!

 

Hollywood Blvd.



Fresh Fruit!

                                       

Canvas painting with my dad and niece!

Loving some one-on-one with my beautiful niece!

 

Checked out some art museums

 

DISNEYLAND!

The BEACH!!

My sisters, my best friends.

 

Simple Life in a Busy World

        I work in a large hospital and see hundreds of people every day.  They come from all over to receive care in a hospital that is specialized in many, many fields.  For lots of those patients, coming here is an event.  This is a larger city than most of the Podunk towns they come from.  This hospital  employs more people that the total number of residents (and livestock) that typically live in those small home towns.  For many people its an unknown far advanced place that scares the bejeezus out of them!

        I am currently covering a vacation and that has placed me at a desk right off a set of elevators.  I am in an area in the hospital that is unique, as in the entire floor is locked off from everything else.  This is done as a safety measure given that we are in the business of birth up here.  Since people like to steal other people's babies, we make that difficult by secluding ourselves.  (Let it be known, to my knowledge, this has NEVER happened or truly been attempted - ie; I have never had to tackle anyone, though I have wanted to shank a cray-cray a time or two.)  This is a safety measure to make families feel safe after media has famed a couple baby-napping events.  And no, not napping like a siesta, napping like a five-finger discount.  (Also, we have other top secret security measures, so if you think you are ever gonna try something you better be wearing your clean underwear that day and I will also advise you to have all your final affairs in order.  I won't go into the details of my training with Sifu Whoopass and the CIA.)

        Anyway, this vacation coverage puts me in a highly visible spot.  I see troves of people walk off the elevator and instantly find themselves lost.  They point to signs and argue with each other quietly.  As I listen to them blame each other for getting turned around, I always offer to help.  Some people are too prideful and will tell me they know where they are going (yeeahh-oook).  Others will shamefully brave a smile and come to me for help.  They sometimes will tell me the room number that they are looking for (cause I know where all 2 billion rooms are in this place) or simply tell me the service they are trying to find (again cause I am a talking human directory).  Sometimes I can help them find their loved ones with a few phone calls or a patient name and my trusty computer. 

        My favorite is when they insist that someone is here that is not in fact here.  I will verify the name and service, and maybe the reason the patient is admitted, and still come up empty.  I then will suggest surrounding hospitals. That seems to be the ticket to how-dare-you-tell-me-I-am-wrong-ville.  Its a feat to get parked and into this hospital, so to be at the completely wrong hospital would even make Mother Theresa angry.   However, I do kinda love the inner victory when they get on the phone and righteously call the person they are looking for. They will complain that I don't know what I am talking about and ask them to verify where they are. Then that person informs them that they are at the wrong hospital. In my head I do a little jig and if they were really feisty, when the elevator doors close as they leave, I get up and grunt while doing one-arm push-ups on the desk.  (Not really, but I pretend that I am BA enough to get away with it.)

        Anyway, today a good old Iowa farmer got off the elevator.  And when I say farmer, I mean he all but rode his John Deere tractor to my desk.  He was a big man.  Wearing the classic plaid button up under his denim overalls (bibs as they are known around these parts), and a green, sweat stained, very loved, DuPont Pioneer cap. (I had to google that logo.)  His boots housed the soil from the land he spends his days working and his body swayed when he walked in a way that proves he's used it to its full potential.

        He takes a few steps off the elevator (which I refer to as the L cause it sounds swanky. "Java House? Take the L to F1."   "The Atrium?  Take the L to D7."  Side note - our elevators are in alphabet order - Elevator A, Elevator B, so on and so forth - so Java is at Elevator F floor 1).  He has a quick look around before he spots me.  Takes his hat off and rubs his old calloused farmers hands across his head attempting to fix his hat hair. "Scuse me ma'am, I think I may have found myself some kinda lost."
     "Well, you got lost in a good place cause I can help you!"   He chuckles.
     "Well, I'm not mighty shore 'bout that'n.  Yous yuppies o'er here shore like fixin big buildin's."
     "Yes, sir, we do!  A lot of people get lost around here.  Even I do!  But let me see if I can help you find what you are looking for."
     "You mean to tell me thad a young lady like you ain't have no fancy mo-bile phone with them finder on it?  You young folk shudn't be gettin lost.  Yous got that techno-ology yous always usin." He and I both are kinda laughing.  "You are right!  But believe it or not that fancy technology fails us some times and we still find ourselves lost.  Especially in a big ol confusing hospital like this one!"
     "Alrighty than, why don you see if you can tell me where da waitin room is."
     "Sure!  Are you waiting for a baby to be born?"
     "Nooooo ho ho ho," He laughs out a hearty no.  At this point he is so dang adorable I am just delighted and kinda laugh along with him.  "I shore ain't a waitin on no baby!  My boy is havin a surgery today.  An dey toad me I needed to take this'n elevator to 6.  I'm on 6, ain't I?"
     "Yes, sir, you are but I think  you wanna be on 6th over by elevator H."
     "Weeell, I'll be!  Shore ain't fixin to be takin a rugrat home!"  I tell him how to get to over to the waiting room he is looking for.  As he is waiting for the L to come take him to his destination, I let out a yawn.  He smiles and waves as he is telling me that a young lady shouldn't work so hard and that I good man should be doing that work for me. (I WISH!)  I smile and wave back as I am answering a call light.

        After a couple hours, and several more opportunities to play Super Finder, the L dings.  I look up and out walks my cute old farmer.  I ask him if he took the wrong elevator again.  He said no.  He told me he knew where he was headed this time.  In his hands he held two cups of coffee.  He slowly made his way to my desk and out stretched an arm offering me a cup.  While doing so he says, "My boy is out of the surgery but they ain't lettin me see um til he wakes up and them nurses say I can.  I figured by now yous be good n tired and I better be bringin you somethin to help.  Here ya are, (he squints to look at my id badge) Amber."  I thanked for his kind gesture and set the coffee on my desk.  He asks me if it would be a bother if he stayed in the area a little bit. Of course, I couldn't say no!

        He took a chair from the waiting room next door that I directed him to, and set it out a ways from my desk.  He took a seat and crossed leg over his knee than began to sip his coffee.  I help a few people and trade hellos to others as they busy about their days.  He then mentions that I haven't touched my coffee.  Weeeeellllll, you see, between you and I, I am a coffee snob.  I like espresso, soy milk, half flavors, no chocolate, and the lid and sleeve properly lined up with the seam of the cup.  See?  Snob.  The cup sitting in front of me has no sleeve (cause the farmers calloused hands probably have no feeling left in them!) and it's burnt, stale, black, hospital coffee. I raise it to my lips and plug the hole of the lid with my tongue as I pretend to have taken a sip.  He smiles with approval.

        Over the course of about 30 minutes, he spoke to me with his shaky old man voice and told me about his son, grandkids, farm, and wife.  He told me stories about raising pigs and cutting tails and nuts off of them when they were born and how that keeps them alive.  (I'm seriously slightly disturbed and I think he only told me those details to get the city girl reaction out of me.)  He watched me help several people in between our delightful visit.  He grunts and stretches himself out of the chair.  After returning it to its spot he slowly sways himself to my desk.  He rests on his knuckles against my desk and says to me, "Ms. Amber, yous been great company.  You are a purdy young lady and some good ole boy will be lucky to claim ya.  (I told him I was chronically single when he noted the lack of jewelry adorning my "I'm taken" finger.)  I been watchin ya with all those people and yous nice to everyone one of them.  Takes someone real special to be good with people like that'n.  That there's why I raise hogs. (He chuckles deeply).  I hope'n you don't mind me sayin so, but yous got a special heart and will make someone a real kinda happy someday."  I thanked him for his kind and gentle words and off he went taking the L to his son.

        I have thought so much about him.  It was so nice to be complimented like that.  But more so it was just nice to have a complete stranger find comfort in visiting and sharing his life with me.  He reminded me so much of my grandpa that as soon as the doors on the L closed my eyes teared.  I miss my grandpa so much and lots of these simple farmers that venture into the city remind me of him.  Today this farmer taught me more than the birth and life of pigs, he taught me to take time out for people.  Life is so busy and we don't take the time to just visit with each other.  We are caught up in our own lives that we forget how to be human and communicate with others.  He was a complete stranger and to him I was just a "yuppie" but he took time and came back to me.  I was on his mind and he took it upon himself to bring me gross hospital coffee and conversation.  Even when I was busy he quietly waited and then continued on in back and forth conversation.

        It is times like these that I am thankful that I am in good ole Iowa!  I am pretty sure that the same interaction would not have occurred in Los Angeles.  I'm certainly not saying that someone wouldn't have stopped to be kind.  But it's not every day that someone goes completely out of their way (and spends $2 on pricy crappy hospital coffee) to make someone else's day.

        So, tonight, where ever my farmer friend and his son are, I hope they are safe, happy, and healthy.  His kindness and gentle soul have left a lasting impression on my heart.  Be kind, my friends.

It Takes Only One

        So, I wasn't going to write on this subject because it is so very controversial, and because people on all sides are very passionate.  But I write.  I write when my heart feels out of balance or when my brain is flooded.  The events of our nation in this critical time makes me ache all over.  So here we go.  This is raw.  Just as it is coming from my brain to the tips of my fingers.  I have so much to say and wont be able to get it all out.  Please use the comments here to discuss, share, and support.

        First, let me start by saying that I am white.  Well, I'm pink.  I vary shades of pink, dependent on the weather, my mood, and my clothes.  I grew up in the Los Angeles area with my mom, my dad, two sisters, a few dogs, and a couple cats.  We grew up fairly poor.  We didn't have the best of everything, but we had what we needed.  Nana was our sitter and was as Hispanic as they come.  We grew up with her children and in her culture.  (My dad can tell stories of my grandma watching us play and wondering if we used some kind of code to communicate.  We were playing in Spanish.)

        My parents were friends with many people.  I remember how taboo it was to others, but how normal it was for us, to love our good friends, Dennis and Dennis, a gay couple (yes, same name). They were like uncles to my sisters and I and there was never ever a question of their love for each other or for us.  In fact, I didn't even know it was taboo until I was older.

        My parents' best friends were an interracial, black and white, couple who were each other's Best Mans and Made of Honors.  Their kids were our best friends. I grew up speaking Spanish with the neighborhood kids and chasing after ice cream trucks and the Mexican treat truck for Pelon and Mango Chili lollipops. 

        That was my life. And maybe having that as my foundation makes it hard for me to understand the hate that so many people display today.  I remember learning about slavery and the holocaust and losing sleep at night cause I was so hurt by the hurt people went through.  Even though it was a time well before my own, I was ashamed and hurt by the actions carried out by people that were profiled as "white."  I am white.  That meant that my ancestors were mean people.  That was such a difficult realization for me.  My dad did me well by talking to me about how wrong those things were and how much we have grown and changed from that.  He often used Sam and Susan (the interracial couple) as an example of the better world we lived in and how color made no difference.  He would talk openly and honestly to me about the hatred that once plagued our world and reminded me that if I was a good person, and I looked at hearts and minds and not skin or religion, that I would continue to contribute to a good world.  Like Gandhi taught us, it only takes one person to change the world.

        When we got a little older, my dad would take us out to a Chumash reservation regularly.  We would participate in ceremonies with the Chumash that included singing, dancing, and sweat lodges.  We ran around the all over the mountain sides barefoot with the other children.  We thought nothing of their "funny" names, like Red Sun and Turtle Hawk, or the lack of clothing and influx of beads and feathers.  We made a plate from each and every meal to offer to Mother Nature and took blessings from all six directions; the north, east, south, west, the heavens, and the earth.  We sang songs for rain and bears, and learned to honor the earth as well as our brother and sisters. 

        I wish everyone had the opportunity to live the childhood I did.  I was raised around so many people and so many opportunities without losing sight of what was in my heart.  My parents taught me to love.  I was surrounded by color, culture, and differences.  I never knew anything else.

        Maybe it was the lack of technology, or the since of mutual respect, but I never saw or experienced the hate that I do today.  I feel like we have taken our rights to an extreme level and our expressions have become loud and unforgiving.  We profile and separate ourselves as victims of our own society.  We are entitled.  And we are gaining nothing for it.

        I am not sure when it started, but I remember seeing the beating of Rodney King and think that is when we became victims of ourselves.  People were raged and riots were started in the name of race and police brutality.  There were fires, vandalism, and lots of violence.  And for eternity people reference that when they feel their rights violated or their race threatened.  It was viewed as a white on black crime.  I think that many people just assumed that they would end up like Mr. King, just cause of their skin color.   So they began to resist.  With the assumption of a beat down coming people started to fight back.  And so, the police needed to increase force.  What was once fists and batons used to subdue a feisty individual have become tasers and beanbag shooters and most recently a robot.

        We have stopped listening to the law.  And since we are all victims, we have to record it all for evidence.  And now we have internet.  So we stream our run-ins with the law as a way to gain support and to "out" the crooked cops.  And we share it, over and over and over.  We anger the masses with clips and assumptions.  But, truth talk, we RARELY get the whole picture.  Without lying or bending the truth we can tell a story with only parts.  So, we can show the aftermath of a cop shooting or the middle of a take down, and tell or assume any story that occurred before the video started and, of course, after the recording stops.  As we share that, more and more people get angry and feel victimized. 

        Here's the thing - we live in a country with rules, with laws.  As citizens (and anyone who chooses to be in our country), we are to obey them.  When we make the CHOICE not to obey them, there are consequences.  It doesn't matter what color or religion or sex you are, you are still supposed to follow the rules.  When you are asked to show your hands or to step out of your car and you flat out refuse, what is the authority supposed to assume?  That you are joking?  Just having a bad day?  Guess what?  They don't.  They assume that you have a no good reason for your defiance and will do whatever it takes to protect their own lives and the lives of the community they have vowed to protect and serve.  When you fight back, expect them to not only fight back, but to win.  They are the law.  You are not.

        People die in the hands of the law every day.  People fight and resist every day.  Color doesn't matter.  And we need to stop making that a thing.  Black lives do matter, but so do white lives, Indian lives, brown lives, pink lives, and so forth.  The fact that we even have to declare that any lives matter shows how much is wrong with our society.

        We need to STOP being victims.  We need to follow the law and when we don't, we need to help ourselves by being obedient.  I am not saying that the cops are always right. And I am not saying that hate/race crimes don't occur.  What I am saying is that we need to stop victimizing ourselves and start following the law.  We need to learn from our past and move forward.  We are a well blended society and to begin to separate ourselves into racial or religious groups now would be a shame for all that we have overcome and fought for. 

     We are all humans and we will forever live amongst each other.  There is no where else to go.  If we are gonna make this work we need to stop the hatred and find a common ground.  Or we will quickly kill ourselves off and that will be the end of the human race.  All due to selfishness.  Do yourself a favor and don't be the cause of your own hurt and demise.

First Dates

        It is assumed (by me) that if you are reading this blog than you have had, at the very least, one first date in your lifetime.  Or you could be like me and have had "a few."  Basically, I have become a pro at first dates.  Like, I don't stress about what to wear, what to order, what to say, or whether or not to shave my legs.  I just tell them where I want to go (cause I'm selfish like that) and just make sure I show up on time - ish.  Sure I do my hair and take a fresh shower, but at this point in the game, I am just looking for a good first impression, the rest will work itself out.

        Now, typically I will meet them at the chosen location, rather than having them come to my house and give up my safe spot.  I'm not looking for any stalkers.  Cause let's be honest, I totally stalker prey.  Anyway, I choose places that I don't get to have too often.  Locally owned and populated without being loud and distracting.  (Bonus points if the waitresses are old and exhausted.)  I like to show up like RIGHT on time or a couple minutes after.  I HATE sitting there waiting on someone you haven't met.  I never know what to be doing.  Do you check Facebook? Do you take your turn on that word game you're playing and risk that they walk into you with your nose in your phone?  Do you look at a menu and risk being ready waaay before them and get hangry as they slowly narrow their options?  I don't need the extra stress of being early, I would rather be the one that walks up to that person.  Also if I get stood up, the whole restaurant wont have to look at me with pity and judgy eyes.  Been there, done that.

        Then the moment comes where you do find each other.  Aca-awkard.  Do you do the "nice to meet you" with the business handshake?  Do ya hug?  Do ya let him kiss your cheek?  (Cause if he tries to kiss my lips I will bite him.)  (Side note- once a guy kissed my hand.  It was so weird.  I mean I get the gesture of chivalry but then he didn't even open the door and instead walk in ahead of me.  Also this isn't the 1800's and you are not a knight and I am not a wench.) Anyway, this is where the traditional dance of "I'll move in, oh, no, wait, yes, oops, crap, what are we doing" happens.  As soon as that dance is over we quickly file that into the "Let's pretend that didn't happen" file and wait for the short term memory shredders come along and recycle that one.

        It's time to be seated.  Now I judge him based on his preference of a booth or a table, bar side or dining.  If he wants to get to know me and have a chat, he's better off not picking the bar, cause if he starts to look beyond me to watch the tv, we are gonna be done.  Am I too picky?  I feel like that should be First-Date-Common-Courtesy. 

        Then we order beverages.  As the woman, I (should) go first, and I usually I'll order water and tell them I am not sure what I want.  This gives me the time to feel out my date's drink intentions and order accordingly.  This is also the time that I totally judge how he treats the server. I have worked that job, and let me tell you something - it is one of the most physically demanding, dirty, underpaid, and under appreciated jobs out there.  If anyone I am with ever treats the server poorly, I will call them out on it right there and may possibly throw a drink.  Respect your server people, respect.  (Even when they suck, you have no clue what's going on in the kitchen or at another table.)
Moving on, this is also a time that I am judging their choice of attire.

        See, I picked the place and already know what I want, so while he is scanning the menu, I have the time to scan him.  I look at what he is wearing (most recent date wore a Hawkeye shit that was silk printed off center and my OCD was sending all kinds of  "Mayday" signals!  I had to fight myself to let to go.  I almost I just had him take off his shirt, but - moobs.)  I also check out his arms, hands, and nails.  They need to look like you at least tried to clean up.   That being said, I actually kinda like calloused large hands.  I like seeing that he uses his hands and his body in a strong manly kind of way.  Skinny girly fingers that sit at a desk or video game all day, don't do it for me.  I notice his hair (or lack thereof) and see that he washed up or not.  These are important.  If he doesn't take the time to look nice on the first date, then he never will.

        We all know I can talk.  And talk.  And talk.  But I like some conversation.  As in, he says things and then I say things, rinse and repeat.  We can talk about the weather, his mom, his truck, my job, music, that dumb thing he did, that dumb thing I did, and even politics* and religion. Just don't sit there and stare.  And for the love of God, don't let me do all the talking!

*All my dating profiles (wow, I sound desperate.) clearly state my political standpoint.  So we can talk politics but if we are on opposing sides of major political candidates, we are just wasting time.  There is NO WAY, especially in an election year, we can make it work.  I'm just not that nice and he is clearly too ignorant.  (This does not hold true for my friends.  While I may not like your choice, you aren't trying to get into my pants, so I can handle being flexible about your political choices.  Though, I will likely try and sway you at some point.  Or we can just not talk about politics.)

        I always show up to the first date prepared to cover my half of the bill.  You just never know.  I have only once been asked to split the bill on a "date" and just need to be prepared for the next feminist that wants me to hold my own.  But this is also the most difficult part of a date for me.  Solely cause I want to know what he tips.  However, I think it's rude to ask him.  I consider myself a generous tipper in most situations and I think lots of people look at tips like they are "giving" away money or that it's "extra" money for the server.  It's not.  It's their paycheck.  I have no room in my life for crappy tippers.

        Then the walk out.  Ugh.  I hate my car.  Most guys are gentleman enough to want to take you to your car.  If the date went well, then I am embarrassed that my car will be the deal breaker.  If it went poorly, then I don't want them to know what I drive or jot down my plate (i.e; stalker prey).   This is also where they all say, "well, I had a great time," and offer a second date or maybe a call.  And this is where I have to be the most honest - do I really want a second date or for this person to call me again?  I hate that people struggle to be honest about their feelings when they begin to date and I refuse to be that person.  I don't want to lead someone on, cause it wastes time on both sides.  And it's a waste of someone's feelings.  It's just dumb.  So if I had a good time, naturally, I am excited about the proposition.  If it was terrible, I am either wanting to give him a second chance (has yet to be proven successful) and will do it again, or I will just tell him that I don't think it's a good idea.

        This is also the time that some of guys might try to lay down a first kiss.... That can almost be a whole different blog!  My theory, don't ruin a good first date with a poor attempt at a kiss.  Be bold and confident in that kiss or don't do it at all.  Cause a great date can become an instant deal breaker with a sloppy kiss.  Period.

        I'm chronically single.  Sometimes I wish that I wasn't.  Frankly, dating is hard.  And at my age, it seems all the good ones are taken or turned. It would be nice to have a date to weddings and events, someone to watch a movie with and to "Netflix and Chill," and someone to kill creatures around the house.  Of course, there are days where being single is awesome.  Mostly, cause I don't have to shave my legs and I can wear comfy panties and fart in my bed.  And of course I could totally do without the awkward first dates.  But, truth be told, I will go on several more disaster dates to find that right one.  

Premiere Blog!

        After many requests, suggestions, begging, groveling, and nudges, I have decided to please the masses and begin a blog.  Please hold your applaud and excitement, until the end of this statement.  Just kidding!  Get excited! 

        I enjoy writing.  But only when, how, and what I want.  This makes me a poor student but a fabulous Facebooker!  I'm hoping to please a larger audience with the trappings of my life by blogging.  Blogging - that's such a funny word. Anyway, plan on typical "Amber" type posts.  The ones that I write freely and honestly.  Expect some laughs, maybe a few tears (could be from laughs or heart strings, only time will tell.), a good chunk of errors, and lots of bold honest writings.  I will give you something new at least weekly.  More when I have lots on my mind or when one of those notable "things" happen in my life.  It will be raw as I share my world with you but, in return, I want you to share with me.  To keep me motivated, honest, and accountable, I would love for your continued feedback and support. You know, write things in the comments and such!

        So, it's my turn to beg you now - imagine me on my knees, outside in the sweltering heat, on a asphalt sidewalk, offering you a house-trained puppy, and a crisp hundy.  As the sweat is dripping off my brow and deep into "no-no" zones, tears stream steadily from my eyes, I beg you to subscribe, like, follow, and share.  Help me make this a fun journey!

        Whelp, that's it boys and girls!  Welcome to my blog!