WanderingAmylessly 2.0

Quoting my husband: Oh joyous day. It isn't even noon and already Amy has crashed her bike and I've run my cell phone through the washing machine. Putting the most positive spin possible on the morning's events, at least I came through my mishap -- an absolutely ungraceful flight from my bike into a drainage ditch -- with no broken bones or major lacerations. And hey, I rode 22 miles today. All you Tour de Francers beware. I'm in it to win it. (Or some such competitive cliché.) As for Tim's phone, we made a quick, desperate call to our friend Tom, who confirmed what we'd immediately scrambled to learn online from the hordes of others who've unceremoniously immersed their phones in bathtubs, toilets, sinks, bodies of water and, in at least one sad case, a pitcher of beer -- whatever you do, DON'T TURN ON THE PHONE. Instead, we took out the battery, dunked the phone in rubbing alcohol (advice from those helpful hordes who blog their techie tips), dried it

Wanna kill a few minutes and do something mindless and admittedly pointless? Take a quiz . I personally think this assessment of me is way off. In fact I take offense -- I am a fabulous cook. And low maintenance? Are you kidding?? You Are Cereal Playful and lighthearted, breakfast is likely your favorite meal of the day. (In fact, you're probably the type who sneaks cereal as a midnight snack.) Your culinary skills are probably a bit lacking... and you are a sucker for junk food. Some people accuse you of eating like a kid, but you prefer to think of yourself as low maintenance. What Kind of Breakfast Are You?

For the latest example of how awesome a photographer my husband is, check out his trip-to-St-Louis photos at Crooked Horizons . And while I'm at it, I'd like to subject you all to a BDA. That'd be - Blogosphere Display of Affection. Avert your eyes if you wish. Mmwwwaaahhh. T, that's for you. For being a terrific father, attentive husband, funny guy, talented artist, and best best friend a girl could ask for. That's all. I'm done. You can stop making those gagging noises.

Thanks to my 10-years-younger-than-me niece for keeping me at least a decade younger and ever-so-slightly cool. Or hip. Or with it. Or whatever's the current lingo. Brianne introduced me to this indie rock group, Rilo Kiley, a while back. For those of you stuck in the '80s, the band's lead singer is Jenny Lewis, who played Hannah in the movie Troop Beverly Hills . The video I'm featuring is "Frug," a song with sparklingly repetitive lyrics guaranteed to stick themselves like superglue to your gray matter.

I've decided to switch group therapy programs. The decision didn't cause quite the level of anxiety, fear, guilt, depression that one might think it would, given the mental and emotional deficiencies that got me into the group in the first place. Frankly, I just can't stand the current group of crazies. They make me, well, CRAZIER. These people live their lives around their illness. It's as though their mental illness defines who they are. It is their soul. It is their best friend. It is the center of their universe. Many of them cannot have meaningful interpersonal relationships because the illness is all-consuming. Some cannot hold regular jobs. Others cannot drive. Some who are older than me still live with their parents. One person has a job -- but it is a job as a speaker for a mental health advocacy group. My mental illness WILL NOT run my life. I won't let it. I want to live in spite of it -- TO spite it, in fact. So sitting in a room with a bunch of other pe

It started with a rasp. It moved to a scratchy wheeze. It developed into a bark. And now I sound like I chain smoke three packs a day, watching Jerry Springer in my mu-mu in the trailer park with my pit bull Cletus, swigging Old Style. I'm sure it's quite an attractive and pleasant sound for folks who call to yell at me about how the information they're required to give me is none of my damn business. A few of them have laughed at my scratching and squawking. Hey, whatever makes them a little bit happier. A quick trip to the doc this morning revealed an upper respiratory infection with fever and netted some cough syrup -- but not the good stuff, I knew you'd wonder -- and a few suggested home remedies, including my personal favorite: the warm salt water gargle. Yummo, and a fun spectator sport, to boot. I wanted her to tell me, "There's no way you can work. You must go home, take a hot steamy shower, crawl in bed and sleep for three days." No such luck. My

We're still debating the relative safety of this particular summer activity. I'm wondering just how smart it is to say, "Here kiddo, take this large heavy object and heave it into the air as far and as fast as you can." Perhaps later in the summer, you'll be treated to the blog about our trip to the ER for Concussion 101 and Sutures for Dummies. For now, you get some of Tim's terrific photography:

I wanted to stay in bed. The alarm went off at 4:50 a.m., screaming at me to get my lazy butt out of bed and head to the gym. But the tickle in my throat yesterday turned into a full-fledged soreness overnight, and to put it plainly, I felt simply too sad and sorry for myself to get up. Then I heard my therapist's voice in my head (as I often do...I joke to her that I thought she was supposed to be helping nuts like me get the voices OUT of my head), telling me: "Just get up. Doesn't matter how you feel. Just get up and move." So I did. I pulled on shorts and a sweatshirt, grabbed Maggie's leash, and headed out for a trail walk. Not sure why I didn't head for a spin class or weightlifting circuit, but something seemed not-quite-right about exercising indoors when it was 50 degrees and cloudless, with the sun sliding up past the horizon. We headed south on the trail, with Mags marking her territory and chasing after critters lower on the food chain than she, an

I figured, with all the time that has passed, that this was inevitable. Still hurts like hell to get it. That little glimmer of hope has been blown to bits. I am writing to inform you that the position has been offered to and accepted by another applicant. We appreciate your interest and hope you keep us in mind for future positions should they become available. I wish you the very best in your current position and hope you enjoy success all future endeavors.

Well, the world's making a bit of progress, from what I've been reading in the headlines lately. First, the California Supreme Court struck down a ban on homosexual unions as unconstitutional -- clearing the way for same-sex marriages. Then today, I read that the gay Iranian student who faced deportation from the UK and feared execution in Iran has been granted asylum by Britain. Face it, they're here to stay. (One guy noted: we're here, we're queer, buy us a beer. Cosmos taste better, but they don't rhyme.) So get yerself educated. Go here . Or here . Or here .

...who's looking for better days... This is my new favorite version of this song. Listen to the lyrics. "I smile up to the sky, I know I'll be alright." Wishing you smiles and a whole boatload of sunshine.

After a week of beautiful days behind us, I think it's safe to say we're headed down the highway to Summer 2008. Inspired by the sun, the warm breezes, pearly pink polish and a silver ring on my toes, and a sassy short pixie haircut, I treated myself to a few new iTunes downloads today. I'm well on my way to a most-excellent start-of-summer playlist. Here's a sampling: Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield (We Are All) Innocent by Our Lady Peace I Love Rock 'N' Roll by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts In the Summertime by Mungo Jerry I Drove All Night by Cyndi Lauper Who Says You Can't Go Home by Bon Jovi and Jennifer Nettles 4 Minutes by Madonna, featuring Justin Timberlake Treasure by Papercranes Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves Tainted Love by Soft Cell Blue Savannah by Erasure And I end with a number that H and I heard on the car radio this morning. H said, "Turn it up" and I exclaimed, "Wow, who is that? That's an awes

I don't know whether it was the fact we were up past 11 p.m., or whether it was because it's Friday, or whether what we were looking at was just that damn funny, but I'm not sure Tim and I ever laughed as hard as we did tonight when we ran across this site featuring T-shirt sayings. I'm almost positive it was a "you had to be there" moment (or 20 minutes, actually...one-third of an hour spent laughing at shirts such as the one with Shakespeare's face that says "prose before hos"). My favorite had to be this one.

I'd like to take this opportunity to talk about...turkey bacon. We of the Weight Watchers throng know well the merits of turkey bacon. It has virtually no calories and no fat grams per slice. As my son noted this morning it also bears no resemblance to actual bacon. Or any sort of edible bird part, for that matter. As Henry was gnawing off a piece of the pinkish-tinted strip, I came to the conclusion that it looks a whole lot more like a strawberry-flavored fruit roll-up than a piece of fatty fried pork. And it tastes a bit like eating salty smoked sole-of-your-shoe. With road grit. Here comes the interactive portion of my blog for the week -- write to me. Tell me your thoughts about turkey bacon. Are there other foods you consume that you've had a similar reaction to? I found a book I'm going to put on my to-read list on GoodReads: "If it's not food, don't eat it!" by Kelly Hayford . Probably a good rule of thumb. Until I actually get to read it, I'll

There's something poignantly fitting about me getting back my old clarinet earlier this year, the one I played all through my elementary, junior high and high school years. After I graduated, I passed the horn on to my niece, who went on to be a much more gifted and talented musician than I could ever hope to be. She even outgrew the inexpensive model and upgraded to a more high quality version, taking it on an international music tour with her band group. I'd actually thought she'd traded in my horn, to knock down the price tag on her new one. Then, I was given an extra-special birthday-Christmas combo gift -- my niece, sister and brother-in-law told me they were giving the clarinet back to me. They spent more money than the clarinet was even worth to have the corks and pads replaced, have it completely refurbished, and equipped with a music holder, assortment of cleaning materials, and several fine-quality reeds. I finally received the fully restored, shiny black-and-silv

You may have noticed that I've stopped writing about Dancing With The Stars. Mostly because I've stopped watching it. Mostly because the thrill is gone. I must point out, though, that two of the three people I predicted would make it to the final round are, indeed, in the running for the infamous "mirror-ball trophy." They are Olympic gold-medal-winning figure skater Kristi Yamaguchi and NFL star Jason Taylor. The third is latin heartthrob Cristian de la Fuenta who, you may remember, I thought was hot hot hot but not not not likely to garner votes. Was I wrong. In fact, the guy is almost Jordanesque in that he has performed through the searing pain of a torn tendon in his arm. Double-in-fact, he got his best scores of the season the week after his partner nearly ripped his arm in two at the elbow. Last night, the gal I was secretly pulling for got the boot. Tony-award-winning Marissa Jaret Winokur, a bubbly, beautiful, full-figured bundle of talent, kept smiling even

We all know that children do not have a sense of humor. Or, rather, that children do not have a quality sense of humor. This was illustrated by Henry's new obsession for which I take full responsibility: why did the chicken cross the road? You'll be delighted to know that the chicken was not at all lonely in its endeavor. It was joined, crossing the road to get to the other side, by a bike, a fence, a dog, a house and some other assorted objects of which I failed to take adequate note. Henry begged and begged. Do another joke, he said. Say another one. Tim shared this one. He may have actually made it up on the spot. He's a wit, that way. (And no. He did not share it with the little ears.) Q: How many Mormon Missionaries does it take to screw in a lightbulb? A: Missionaries don't screw.

Why is it that when you'd give up a few digits -- or a limb, or gosh, you never really use that left ear for much -- to hang out with Brad Pitt, the only man that keeps showing up at your door looks a lot like ...THIS guy on the right. It seems to be the same with my career aspirations right now. I'm hardcore wooing the search committee at the University, seriously close to begging for that editorial job in a way that might involve skywriting or painting my desperate plea for employment on the side of a large public transit vehicle. Or both. Yet I hear nothing. More of the same. We're still choosing the best candidate, they tell me. I did hear from a friend that there were 95 applicants and was told by this friend, in not so many words, that it was amazing I actually got an interview at all, with the sheer volume of similarly desperate and destitute writer/editor types out there. Meanwhile, on the call center front, I was offered an advance in my status. From "Temp&quo

Lullaby By The Dixie Chicks They didn't have you where I come from Never knew the best was yet to come Life began when I saw your face And I hear your laugh like a serenade How long do you want to be loved Is forever enough, is forever enough How long do you want to be loved Is forever enough Cause I'm never, never giving you up I slip in bed when you're asleep To hold you close and feel your breath on me Tomorrow there'll be so much to do So tonight I'll drift in a dream with you How long do you want to be loved Is forever enough, is forever enough How long do you want to be loved Is forever enough Cause I'm never, never giving you up As you wander through this troubled world In search of all things beautiful You can close your eyes when you're miles away And hear my voice like a serenade How long do you want to be loved Is forever enough, is forever enough How long do you want to be loved Is forever enough Cause I'm never, never giving you up How long

Eyes wide, mouths agape, we say nothing in the moment. Later, Tim puts voice to my thoughts: "I cannot believe we are allowing our spazzy 4-year-old to walk around handling actual flaming fire in a public building." He did well, though, serving for the first time as chalice lighter at our Unitarian Universalist Society service. Nothing caught on fire that wasn't supposed to. He didn't stand in front of everyone and pick his nose or utter a profanity. In fact, he grinned eagerly and adorably -- and even before he did his duty, he realized the significance of it by acknowledging, "My tummy feels really funny." A preschooler's first brush with butterflies. It was a special Mother's Day service, with three families participating in a "child dedication," or as some might describe it -- the wacky UU cult version of a baptism. What might distinguish it as a UU event? Well, there's no sprinkling of water. And, in today's case, two of the th

Some woman announced her latest pregnancy on NBC's Today Show in anticipation of Sunday's Mother's Day celebrations. Big woo, you say? It is when this pregnancy will be her 16th. Michelle Duggar and her husband, Jim Bob (keep that name in mind...you might know where this story is going) from Arkansas (yep), have 17 natural children, ranging in age from 20 years to 9 months. Included in the mix are 10 boys and seven girls — Joshua, twins Jana and John-David, Jill, Jessa, Jinger, Joseph, Josiah, Joy-Anna, twins Jedidiah and Jeremiah, Jason, James, Justin, Jackson, Johannah and baby Jennifer, who arrived last Aug. 2. Jeezuz. Dad's a former state legislator; both mom and dad are real estate agents. NBC says they claim their family is debt-free, with the entire bunch helping to build their 7,000-square-foot home in Tontitown. And they are enriched by a devout faith in their religion, an evangelical Christian movement called Quiverful. More commonly known by its motto: "

Click here for the evidence, folks.

A few days ago, Tim meticulously spread some sort of super-potent grass fertilizer/all-powerful-deadly weed killer on our grass. So strong, in fact, we kept the kid and the dog off it, taking both for walks in the nearby woodsy wetlands -- braving the hordes of blood-sucking ticks -- to keep them from wallowing in the poison. So where are dad and son now? Henry's in the backyard, plucking dandelion after dandelion and blowing their white fluffy seeds from here to the Chicago 'burbs. Tim's following him around with the camera, capturing every adorable moment of his spreading of the sinister germinating seedlets. I can feel the evil eye of our neighbors glaring right now. That is, neighbors from every house except the foreclosure. That yard looks a hundred times worse than ours. I guess that's who we'll blame it on.

Could someone please tell me how to get rid of this five-stars rate-my-post crap that suddenly appeared at the end of each of my blog posts? I do not need anon-e-moose feedback like that. Especially in my current mood. If you don't like my blog, don't read it. If you disagree with what I have to say, post a comment with your opinion. I don't need lurkers passing judgment.

I'm firmly of the opinion that no news is very, very bad news indeed. If I had to guess, I'd say there's a 99.89 percent chance I am not the candidate the committee chose to fill the vacant editorial position. Now, I guess MY choice would be one or more of the following (don't take this the wrong way, Tim) favorite men in my life -- Ben & Jerry, Jack Daniel, Captain Morgan, etc. I'm beyond bummed. And to make matters worse, I made a lesbian cry today. I actually had to inform a woman that, according to the eligibility guidelines of her insurance, she could not carry medical insurance on her domestic partner's two children. I wanted to tell her that I thought her insurance provider sucked and that the rules were unfair and discriminatory and that I thought she was awesome and I was proud of her and her parter for being brave and standing up to get equal rights from her employer. That's what I WANTED to say, but because the calls are recorded and because I

Sitting at breakfast this morning, H ran his finger along the crack in the table where the leaf is, looked at me and said... Mommy, would you please smaller-up the table sometime? It's too big.

My Rock Star name ( first pet & current car ) Bitsy Civic My Gangsta name ( fave ice cream & fave cookie ) Moose Tracks Snickerdoodle My "fly girl" name ( first initial of first name & first three letters of last name ) Asch My detective name ( fave color & fave zoo animal ) Blue Giraffe My Soap Opera name ( middle name & birth city ) Irene Wichita My Star Wars name ( first three letters of your last name, first two letters of your first name ) Scham My Superhero name ( second favorite color & favorite drink with "The" in front ) The Red Sumatra My Porn Star name ( second pet's name & mother's maiden name ) Buffy Burns My Nascar name ( first names of your grandfathers ) Zello Lehman My lounge singer name ( your fave perfume & your favorite candybar ) Lauren Reese My witness protection name ( mother's and father's middle names ) Irene Dale

Remember all the hocus-pocus superstitious voodoo hullabaloo I was conjuring a few days ago, in preparation for my job interview? Do you think Chinese fortune cookies fall into that category? Because if they do, I think this might be a sign: Be prepared to accept a wondrous opportunity in the days ahead! Of course, I'm not sure how much of my future I'll stake on a piece of paper in a stale cookie from Panda Express in the mall food court. Just in case the message isn't in reference to what I hope it is, maybe I should go buy a PowerBall ticket and use the lucky numbers that were printed on the paper below the fortune. I could definitely prepare to accept the title multi-millionaire as a wondrous opportunity.

Henry spent much of last night thrashing around in bed. And woke up with a sore throat and fever. The good news -- it's not strep. The bad news, it's a virus that will have to run its course, taking its own sweet time. The badder news, the fever that had disappeared during the day was back, and higher, at bedtime tonight. So Tim -- the one of us who has a real job with real benefits and real sick days to take -- stayed home with him. While I went to call center hell and had people tell me to go "F" myself. (Technically, it was the woman in the cube next to me who was the recipient of that particular epithet, but I was on the receiving end of several quite similar sentiments.) Then the dog puked. And Tim picked a tick off himself after a walk on the trail near our house. This afternoon, I found out my therapist doesn't have any appointment times available for me until at least June. The house is a mess, I couldn't get my lazy butt to the gym today, and we were