The Pink Bike

     She took her foot off the petal using it a break as her sneaker skidded across the gravel. She sat on one of the most beautiful bicycles I had ever seen pink with flowers on it and a little white basket on the front absolutely stunning.
     I was new to the bicycle game, a novice only learning how a few weeks before to ride without training wheels but I knew quality craftsmanship when I saw it.
     We weren't necessarily friends, this girl and I, just kids from the same neighborhood who were aware of each other. Two girls of similar ages who may speak to one another in passing, but that was the depth of our relationship.
    I took the trip around her bike to examine the tires and shiny pink frame in envy. I didn't have a bike, it was in the works but things were tight and I had to wait until my parents could afford it. I had however, learned how to ride on a neighbor's boring old boy bike, but this was more my style.
Upon seeing me salivate, she said, "Do you want to ride it?"
 I was touched this was an honor only for the closest of friends and we were practically strangers. I was also very excited, I had the ability but was without vehicle to transport myself, so like a student driver I took any opportunity to become mobile.
     In my neighborhood growing up, my house was an island with a circle drive around our acre in a half lot surrounding it was a gravel road and all the other neighbors sitting on the other side of the road as crudely shown here:

     It's hard to say just how many times I made my way around that circle in the coming years but on the pink bike I was sure that this would be my proudest. So without knee pads, elbow pads, or any kind of helmet, child safety was not on our radar yet, I took off on the bike.
     My excitement tapered off as I rounded the front of my house to realize that I had forgotten my height again.
A common thing for this time in my life, I constantly forgot that I was the size of a full grown adult and this bike was set up for a much shorter (average) size girl.

     My knees would come up to my ears with each rotation of the pedals as I shakily balanced the handle bars, upon review I should have just got off and walked the bike back to the owner but this was my first time on a girl bike and I wanted to make it work.

    I did become more comfortable, half way around the gravel road able to slowly build speed. I probably looked like an old circus act with the bear riding the bike but I felt so cool.

    I came around the corner to see the girl waiting patiently for her bike when I realized that it was going to be hard to stop, what with my legs all tangled up in front of me also stopping would not be a strong skill on my recent biking résumé.
     So I attempted to get my leg down in time to stop the bike but my long frame couldn't compete with the bike's short frame and I came crashing down on the gravel, in a skirt straight on my left knee.
     The girl was kind checking on me to make sure I was okay, I assured her I was because I didn't want her to see me cry and I had not assessed the wound that I was sure much worse than any small scrape I had in the past.
    I looked at her face as it paled and her eyes widen as she asked again,"Are you sure your okay" ?
     Hot tears stung the corners of my eyes as I still avoided eye contact with my knee and through clenched lips I agreed, "Mmm hmm, I'm going to go inside now and get cleaned up."
     Unsure and marveling at my composure she agreed and took off towards her house, as I limped into my home to shut the door and look down at my knee.
     There is no easy way to say what I saw, it wasn't any small injury like I had had in the past this was like something from a movie that I wasn't allowed to watch.
     So as the color drained from my face, like the neighbor girls had, I did what any kid would do in this situation. I opened my mouth and cried for my mom as loud as I could.
     The tears flowed as I thought about the amputation that would surely come from this wound where my knee cap use to be.
     Now being an over dramatic child, this is where my memory tends to take a back seat to my theatrics,more so than usual this could be interpreted differently by parties involved.
    I screamed and I cried as I explained the horror of what had happened to me just moments before.
     To which my mom, dried her hands from the dishes she had been washing examined my knee just slightly closer and said, "Go clean it up in the bathroom."
    I assumed my mom would rush my to the hospital as we weeped over my crushed future in dancing, not that I had one but it was off the table completely now, and my mom was as cool as a cucumber.

     As I picked gravel out of my knee, my mom gave me an old towel to contain the blood told me to hold it there for a little bit and went back to the dishes.

    I was stunned, I had never saw this much blood at one time and she acted like it was completely normal for her daughter's knee to split open. 

    As I waited and regained my composure, I thought maybe I was out of order on this and decided to check again. 

    With the blood subsided I saw the bone exposed, I screamed, as a fresh round of tears flooded my eyes.

     From the kitchen, my mom continued to do the dishes, we better have company, presidential company because I saw no other reason for her deep desire to get those dishes so clean. 

     "Don't look at it, it's going to be fine." She said from the kitchen. 

     Her complacency did waiver slightly as I showed it off to friends and family and they spoke of stitches.
     In her defense, I have to reiterate I was, and can still be, a tad over dramatic and I wouldn't have such a cool scar!
-Amber

     

Over my head

    There are some moments in your life that happen, just to humble you. Things that happen just to remind you that you are human and made up of flaws and mistakes.

     Like when you call your teacher mom in school or a boy finds out you like him, or you flash your underpants to the majority of your school and their families.

     What's that? That last one seems pretty specific? Well let's talk about that shall we?

    It was the fall of my fifth grade year in school, we had only been back for less than a month but my classmates and I were, in our minds, invincible.

    For years we had put our time in as the underclassmen. We have looked at the fifth graders of years past as the mature adults that we assumed they were, but now, it was our turn.

     I, myself felt superior in many ways. I was a big kid. Nearly six foot tall at this point, I saw the fear in the eyes of these younger children and while I would never hurt anyone, I'd be lying if I didn't say it felt good.

     Not only was I one of the tallest kids (I had a close run with a boy named Kyle in the fourth grade) but I was also now one of the oldest. I had it good. I might as well be eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge.

    So the school decided to throw a fall fest, complete with hayride and carnival games and this was quite a big deal for our school.

    In the area, that I grew up we were pretty secluded. There was a bar, an auto shop, and the school and that was it. So those of us who were lucky enough to live by the school played on the playground and every so often we would ride our bikes to the bar and bang on the kitchen door until someone would answer so we could buy candy bars and pop without going in.

    So a fall fest, gave all of us something to do and we could hardly contain our excitement.

     My sisters and I went and we all split up with our friends going to each teacher to play whatever carnival games they provided, we got our faces painted, and watched as others bobbed for apples. Over all, it was a good day until the hay ride.

     Up until that day I loved hay rides, being from Indiana, there is a great joy found in sitting on top of bales of hay in a trailer pulled by a tractor.

     Again, I have to emphasize this fall fest was a really big deal. Every time that tractor went around the school it was filled with not only children but bored adults who had nothing else to do. I watched as many people fought to get on and off that trailer as my friends and I approached it.

     I tried to convince them that I would just wait for them at the drop off but they insisted, so I quickly climbed on so not to be stampeded, and sat cramped as we circled around the school property.     

     If I were writing a review I don't feel that this hayride would receive high marks. It was okay and all but we circled around the school that's it. I know, I set my expectations to high, but come on get the tractor out on the highway, let's put some miles on this puppy!

     At the end everyone exited quickly as the new trip rushed to get on board. I tried to get to the back to exit off but before I could the trailer was loaded with more people so I helplessly shrugged towards my friends. Apparently I was going on another trip.

    I was not any more impressed with the hayride, the second time around and had little desire to be stuck on this trailer for the rest of the day so as I passed the highlight of the trip my classroom window I planned my escape.  

     As everyone else rushed to the back and fought the next swarm of hay-riders, I rushed towards the trailer hitch where I would step off.

    I placed my foot on the hitch but my other foot didn't quite make it. The next few seconds in time went past me in slow motion as I fell towards the ground hitting my head on the trailer hitch and my dress... went over my head.

     The wise mature reputation I believed I had earned flew away right with my dress which was over my head.

    I began to cry, sure my head hurt but, I have to say it again. My dress. Over. My. Head.

     How many people saw? I'm sure most people on the trailer preparing for their riveting ride around the school and those who have just enjoyed said trip.

    Those playing games nearby, the hay ride was the main attraction so my display was on main display.

    I didn't want to just change schools, I wanted to move to Albuquerque, and change my name or something. Maybe I could become the crazy mole person who flashed everyone then burrowed under the school's playground. Yes, the second one! I'd become a legend, the children would leave their left overs at lunch and I would take them when they weren't looking and leave unique rocks or interesting trash in return. Why couldn't I think of this all those years ago, retrospect you know?

     Anyway, as I sat against the swing set my teacher was at my side with her children. My poor teacher just trying to enjoy the fall fest with her family and one of her students performed a failing somersault that she must attend to.

    Adults were asking me questions. Are you ok? Do you know your name?

Why did they need to know my name? Did they forget? I was sure my name was around the entire school yard at this point. 

     It was all overwhelming. So many faces in my face. My teacher’s daughter had general concern on her face. "Her tears are washing off her face paint." 

     Great another big concern for my day, not only were my 'day of the week' undergarments displayed for the majority of my social group, but now my face paint was washing off.

    Somehow I recovered. I assume I was just oblivious and pretended not to hear the hushed gossip with my name involved. 

     It's amazing how these things can become a thing of the past. I was sure that I could never recover from that, and even now it's not a highlight of my past. 

     I did recover however, now if only I can remember this as I've gotten older.     

     Embarrassment, anger, and sadness all awful emotions associated with those memories that sear themselves in your brain.

     We make it our past. It's possible, and if only we can hold our hopes up high above our heads as we trudge through those awful moments, we soon will have just fuzzy memories that we recovered from. 

    So my fifth grade life ending embarrassment is a part of my past that I made it through but I did live and learn I mostly avoid hayrides and never with a dress on. 

-Amber

It's Only a Year, Right?

     Most New Year’s resolutions are broken by the end of January, according to a Google search that I didn't bother to click on and research.
     This year Paula and I decided to set some resolutions. More specifically me, Paula joined the insanity with time.

     At first it was no soda for the year. Then I started to feel guilty. I would hardly drink pop (I'm from Indiana we say that here) my parents had it at their house and I would drink one or when we went out to eat. It just wasn't difficult to give it up for me.
     Then we said no sweets until my birthday. Not sugar, I am too lazy and poor to get things like sugar free ketchup and take it out of my meals, just no sweets. Now this is a high mountain to climb. For me to go three days without chocolate was a challenge. I love chocolate.

     Paula once got blizzards for us from Dairy Queen and she ordered me a chocolate extreme. I asked for it to be made with chocolate ice cream. The kid making it was amazed, as Paula waited in the drive thru he muttered under his breath, "That's way too much chocolate." But it wasn't, judgmental ice cream maker, it was perfect.

     So I agree to this challenge and my birthday was at the end of February so it was within reach. Then my ghost, Coburn said, "Why not go the whole year?"
     I thought about it; Why not go the whole year? Coburn is good for that? More on that in my previous blog post. So with the exception of my birthday and Paula's because she joined in we are going... all year with....with...no sweets. No brownies, cookies, ice cream, pie, all things that make life on Earth so great.

     So I took a small step with pop, then a giant leap with the sweets, and then just jumped off the cliff with no coffee.
     No coercing from anyone, no one even suggested it. I just had a moment of insanity and have stuck it out.
    
     I miss coffee. I crave coffee. I don't know why it's bothering me so much, on average, I would have one to two cups a week but take it away from me and I am a nicotine addict looking for a fix.
     I will walk past someone drinking it and just close my eyes and let the peace wash over me as that beautiful aroma fills my nostrils. My mouth will begin to water as I imagine taking that warm cup to my lips and slowly sipping that delicious heavenly nectar. I can hardly go on Instagram as all the teenage girls flood my feed with their drink of choice. (Is there a discount given if you take pictures of your coffee?)

    I have seen changes in my life, since starting these goals. I don't miss pop, and have no desire of having any more after this year. The thought of drinking it makes me a little nauseated. I will have sweets but I don't see myself having it as often as I did before. Coffee, I think I may have a cup waiting for me on New Year's Eve.
    I have reoccurring dreams too, they are all different but all end the same. I will end up where there is a cinnamon roll and without even considering it, I'll eat it and realize I wasn't supposed to and feel so guilty only to wake up and find it wasn't true.

    It hasn't been easy, mostly explaining the difference between no sweets and no sugar. I do not want your sugar free sweets thank you.

    I don't expect these changes to help me drop off a ton of weight, but I do hope they will lead me in making real changes in my life. At the end of year, I hope to say I met my goal and that makes me feel good. I constantly want to better myself, and having goals, and meeting them is a perfect way to do so.
So I have 267 days left before I can drink a cup of coffee with a donut or something , but I look at it this way I will always have pizza!
-Amber

Somebody Oughta Testify

     For today's post, I'm going to tell a story. A story that may make me vulnerable, that will have a sadder vibe to it, but all good stories do at one point or another. Don't worry; it will end on a happier note. It also may be a little longer than usual, but it's a story that must be told.

    Once there was a girl, a girl who was much taller than the other girls. A girl named Amber. 
Amber's growth spurts also weren't like the other children's. Where they would get them in small doses, Amber would get saturated in an Olympic sized pool of growth spurts. 
    Enormous growth spurts caused for an enormous appetite. This combined with a slow metabolism made for a rough way of life for Amber. She was more than just a chubby kid she was an orange living amongst the blueberries. 

    Amber was aware that this was an issue, but she didn't realize how much of an issue this was to everyone else.

    The children in her school had many things to say for someone who strayed too far away from their normal scale, but there were also some adults who were close to her that had opinions on what was wrong with Amber, instead of telling her anything that was right.

    Amber was painfully shy, only speaking to those outside her family when directly addressed. She was terrified of those around her and what their opinions of her could be, afraid to do anything that might draw attention to her. 
    "What-if's" crippled her. What if they laugh at her? What if they don't like her? What if they are talking about her when she's not around?

     She made few new friends throughout school because, what if they thought about her like those other people did?
    Unfortunately, when you're an orange living amongst blueberries it's hard to blend in and that's all Amber wanted. 
    She wanted to disappear so all the negative comments would disappear too. She tried her hardest to be invisible, she kept her head down when walking in the halls, she only spoke when being spoken to, and she would sit in the back of her class. This wasn't the greatest plan but Amber wanted everyone to forget that she was even there. 

    After sometime it seemed like it was working, no one talked to Amber. She had friends but they didn't expect much from her, which was fine since she wasn't offering much in return. 
    Amber went to church her entire life, but it was mostly out of obligation. The kids there didn't make fun of her but Amber had gotten comfortable with being invisible so she continued to keep her head down and not speak until she had to. So she followed them around until she worried she was annoying them and broke off to be by herself.
    She felt alone and where before she pretended to disappear. Now she really wanted to. She felt like there was something wrong with her. 
    These feelings grew and she believed there was no hope. This was just the hand she had been dealt and there was nothing left for life to offer her. 
    These thoughts clouded over any good thought that came into her mind. Soon she had new what-if's. What if she just refused to get out of bed? What if she never existed? What if she was dead?

     Amber contemplated killing herself, it would be easier. Some would miss her but over all she would be free and in way she felt like they would be too.
    She was up late one night, her family all asleep. She considered raiding the medicine cabinet, taking as many pills as she could and it would all be over.
     Before taking action she began to cry, and felt a freedom come over her. Things were bad right now but they would get better. She didn't know why but she knew it.
     Not too long after that night, she was at church. There was a guest preacher at the church that day, and he invited Amber to pray.

     Up until now, altar calls were synonymous with third world torture. She knew that she would feel better if she went down there, but people would pray with her and she would cry and what if her nose started running?  She instead decided to duck out during altar call to hide in the bathroom.
     But this day, the man knew how she felt; he didn't have to say it. He asked her to come pray at the altar, and she couldn't say no. She was still terrified of what everyone would think, but she was also overcome by sadness and hopelessness and she needed a way out.
    She began to pray, and soon she felt that feeling again. Everything was going to be all right, she felt hope peace and joy all at once. It was overwhelming and she stopped praying.
    Amber found out that what she was feeling was the Holy Ghost. She had heard it spoke about many times in church. She had lost count of how many times she heard about Acts chapter two and how after Jesus had died on a cross his followers had gathered to pray and they were praying like they had never prayed before all of a sudden it felt like a rushing mighty wind  swept into their church. That's what Amber was feeling.
    She may not have gotten it that morning, but she wasn't about to give up. That night at church, she came in determined to leave with the Holy Ghost. After the pastor had preached she went to the altar and began to pray and soon she was speaking in other tongues just like the initial outpouring of the Holy Ghost that fell in Acts.

    Something changed in Amber that night. She felt free, she felt happy, but most of all she didn't care as much what others thought about her. It was Christmas and her birthday all wrapped up in one and no one could take that kind of happiness away.
She had been searching for this kind of connection all her life, and it was available to her the whole time.
    Something changes in you when you stop caring what people think. Not only did Amber have an easier time making friends, she was able to show who she really was. Not always so shy and quiet, but also someone who was able to share her creativity and sense of humor with those around her without being so inhabited. Sure they still thought she was weird but it was different now because she was different now. A Holy Ghost filled orange amongst blueberries.


    So I'm going to throw you a real shocker but that story was about me. I know right?!
    I know my audience, I know that most of you know me, but God has given me a passion to write and not sharing my testimony on this platform makes me feel like a fraud.
    I am still a work in progress, it bugs me how much I need to meet others approval. It doesn't cause me to shut down any longer but it still affects me. I'm also still losing weight, I've come a long way from where I was but I have an even longer path before me and I'm taking it much more seriously this time around.
    This isn't my usual post but don’t worry I have more to come.  Since this blog is about me, how could I not add the biggest part of me, I never want to forget where I come from and I know the Lord has so much more in store.
-Amber

My Ghost

     I was born in 1985, a year for the greats. Not only did the world get to be graced with humble ol' me but it was the year for Dairy Queen Blizzards and more importantly Super Mario Brothers.
     Video games were, I say with adult regret, a big part of my childhood. Super Mario Brothers were at the top of my list. Those two Italian plumbers hold a special place in my heart. Many beautiful summer days were wasted with them, but I especially loved Mario Kart.

     I raced any willing able bodied human who would have me but, as they lost interest it was usually myself versus the computer.
     After my interest would fade with the computer I would go to time trials where I could race a ghost.

     A ghost is a replay of my personal best time, a faded version of my chosen driver who went before me.  The ghost version could push me to try just a little harder and do just a little better to beat my previous score and that's exactly what I strived for.
     In my life I am not a competitive person, if I win great, if I don't maybe next time. I didn't have any skill for athletics or excel in academics. Mostly I was a participant award type of kid. I was content with this. It's good in the sense that I am not a sore loser but it's bad in the sense that I settle for mediocrity.
     For the most part I have taken life as it comes. It is what it is. When it comes to my true nature, I don't strive for more than where I am at. But with my ghost in Mario Kart, I could try just a little bit harder to do better than the time before.


     It's a good feeling; thankfully I have a ghost when it comes to real life as well. Someone who helps me to try just a little bit harder, to give just a little more effort to reach more of my potential.
     My family has helped shape in mold me into the person I am today, but in recent years another lead character in the story of Amber would be Coburn.
     The quote goes, "You are known by the company you keep." I'm happy to say with Coburn I think I am doing very well.


     Coburn is my best friend, a fellow nerd and book enthusiast, but also my partner in crime. He is quite a few years younger than me but I can honestly say he is beyond his years and I admire and look up to him.
     Any task that is set before him, he comes at with enthusiasm and joy, making it look effortless. Unlike a healthy portion of people his age he has a good head on his shoulders and knows how to make good choices, he knows what he wants out of life and he will do all he can to reach the best version of that.
     I have known him for fifteen years and we've been closer for probably the last five, and we can be similar when it comes to most things, but unlike me, Coburn is competitive.
    He loves to compete and tries his hardest. If ever we are in a position where there is time to kill, he will find something to entertain himself like making a house of cards and will not stop until he is satisfied with the results.

     This is what makes him my ghost. He has pushed me, sometimes almost literally, to try a little harder. Always encouraging me to not stay the same but strive for better.
     I am an introvert through and through; I freak out when it comes time for me to be put in the spot light. I would much rather hold it for someone else.
     A few years ago, Coburn and I became co-youth leaders for our church with this came some responsibilities. We would both teach the youth class, (ok I have been teaching the younger kids for years), we would be responsible for the youth at events, (expected, but a little more of a challenge. I have walked away and found some of them on the roof before they are hard to contain), finally we would BOTH have to speak at youth services. (Umm what?!)
     I assumed Coburn would speak, he gets a hold of a microphone and words flow like soft serve ice cream from the machine. It's amazing. I, on the other hand forget how to human.
     So every time it comes time for me to speak I can always count on Coburn to calm me down like a member of the jumper squad talking someone off a ledge.
     It's not that I don't want to do it; it's that I feel like I will mess it up somehow and without fail he is always there for me. My right hand man.


     He is the reason that this blog exists. He convinced me to start it, and even if it doesn't go anywhere I am tremendously happy for an outlet. As he's reading over this, I know he's checking for mistakes to help me as he always does.
     He is also (shameless plug alert) the reason PeculiarPeople46350 our YouTube channel (search us) exists. For years I have made skits for church (subscribe) Coburn suggested we make a channel and so I write the videos and he edit's them. (Seriously Subscribe!)
     I am afraid to put myself out there and any form but I am so thankful for a friend who sees more than what I am comfortable with.
     So this week I just wanted to give a shout out to my best friend, my ghost. Thanks for making me a better version of myself. You matter to me!
LOVE!
Amber

Weird Al Weirdo

    I am a nerd. Not in the I will only respond if you speak to me in elvish kind of way, but I tend to enjoy things that only a select number of people around me do. Nerds.
    It's just who I am. I could say I love Star Wars but I feel that doesn't give it enough justice. I am a big fan of Doctor Who, I am also a big Nintendo fan and I love reading. One of the greatest days of my life is when a friend took me to Barnes and Noble.
    I wear glasses, have allergies, and I'm extremely uncoordinated. I'm such a nerd I'm a stereotype.
     Most teenagers are obsessed with some piece of pop culture. They love their favorite shows, movies, and bands passionately. This is a love that you can't find just anywhere, when they say they love some thing they REALLY love it, for that moment.

     So what was one of my moments? What does a nerdy teenage girl freak out about? Weird Al. You heard right. I was a huge Weird Al fan.

    Weird Al was always around growing up. I can remember my babysitter watching MTV, constantly. (Seriously, she loved it. Is it a requirement to only watch this and talk shows?) In between Guns N' Roses and Salt N' Peppa, we would sometimes get the pleasure of Weird Al's Gangsta Paradise or Fat coming on tv and I was mesmerized. 

     A few years down the road we were taught in our computer class, how to search things on the Internet. (Do kids need to be taught that anymore?) Weird Al was the first thing I searched on the Internet by myself. I wanted to know as much as I could about him.

     Most Girls my age were "fan girling", before it was a thing, over Nsync or Backstreet Boys. Weird Al was my Timberlake. I mean, I wasn't drawing his name in hearts on my school planner but, if he asked to adopt me I would gladly pack a bag.
He was so talented and so...weird. Taking top hit songs, changing the lyrics to something about food usually and adding some accordion. I loved it!

   
    When I was 14, my mom was working at Wal-Mart as a department manager. They had a contest for the stores whoever sold the most of his newest cd's he would stop at their store to have a pizza party and sign autograph's. My mom's store won. So Weird Al would be coming to my town.

    Little did my mom know what she was doing when she, in passing, told me that Weird Al was coming to her store. 

    To say I freaked out would be the perfect definition of an understatement. I literally screamed. I can't think of any other time in my life that I screamed out of excitement. I've screamed out of fear and anger sure, but joy, that was new. I even surprised myself.
    Teenagers experience their emotions at a much higher intensity, and being the first teenager in my family all of us must have been really confused. I know I was confused when the scream came out, but the rest of them just stared blankly in response. I assume thinking, "Something must be wrong she can't be screaming over a middle aged accordion player."
    After my mother realized that I was not in need of medical attention, she informed me that it would be a few weeks away, but I could go with her.


    What a bitter sweet moment this would be for me. I was going to meet Weird Al Yankovic, I assumed that this would have to be the greatest day of my life. How would any other day top that day?
     I had almost every one of his cd's, I sang a long with the lyrics until those around me hated it. Which most of them did already, he's an artist of an acquired taste.
     I didn't expect my peers around me to understand how great this was, but I did expect them to understand how great this was to me. I tried to make it relateable comparing it to their favorite boy band member but they just couldn't see the comparison. I had one fellow nerd freaking out with me in one of my classes but overall, my classmates were unimpressed.
     My spirits, however, would not be dampened. As it grew closer I could barely contain myself. My mom advised me not to get my hopes up that I would probably only get to see him for a moment. But a moment was a lot longer than what I had currently had as far as face to face interaction with Weird Al.


     I day dreamed how it would go. He would see me right away, which could be true since I was more than likely the tallest 14 year old in the store. When my turn came to get my autographed signed he would see that there was something special about me and would only want to sit with me and share a pizza. We would share stories and the secret to his frizz free hair, and then my wit would overcome him and he would ask me to leave school to become his writing partner.

   Finally the day came. The peak of the mountain for me, or so I thought. I arrived at the store with my mom who had no interest and meeting Weird Al and asked if I would mind if she just picked up a few things.
    I found this absurd, of course she was meeting a bonafide celebrity and she was just going to go buy paper towels?!

     I told her it was fine, it would probably be for the better. Now he wouldn't feel obligated to have her join us at his table while we ate pizza.
So I stood in the crowd waiting for him to come in, with my disposable camera (I feel old) and insert from the cd for him to sign. Then the back doors open and in walked Mr. Yankovic, hawaiian shirt and all.

    He was led to the table, and that's when it hit me. I couldn't talk to Weird Al! He's Weird Al! I can't even talk to the boy I like in school, I barely spoke at all! In my excitement I forgot that I was a deeply shy introvert who would rather be punched in the face than even consider asking my teacher a question in class. How would I talk to Weird Al?
    A little bit of an anxiety attack rose up within me. What was I going to do? Just a feet away from me stood one of the greatest people, in my humble nerd opinion at the time, that ever graced this planet and I was terrified to get anywhere near him.
    The line moved tortuously slow, as I considered my options I could run crying to my mommy in the paper products aisle, or I could woman up. 

     Sure, every other social situation in the past has ended awkwardly but maybe this time it would be different. I had to find out either way.
   My turn came, I walked up to the table to Mr. Weird Albert Yankovic himself and he smiled.

Al: Hello

Amber: (too quickly) Hi

...

Al: (says something to me that I can't coherently make out over the blood pulsing in my ears)

Amber: (laughs)

(What if he asked something like "How are you?" and I am just nervously standing there laughing at him)

....

Al: Do you want me to sign that for you?

Amber: Oh yeah, yeah yeah

     He signs my cd insert on the side with the titles of his songs instead of his picture as I had hoped but only because I handed it to him this way since I was being a creep and staring at him. I thanked him and sat at a table staring at him replaying the conversation over in my mind and eating pizza.
     My chance to meet the man who made hits like Gump, Like a Surgeon, and The Saga Begins and I probably creeped him out. Do I Creep You Out is also another song by Weird Al from a few years down the road. I hope there is no collation.

Reasons Why Weird Al probably thought I was Weird:

1) I knew I wouldn't be able to take pictures once I met him, so I just took them from behind people in line.

2) I'm pretty sure I spent the whole time staring at him.
3) I meet the man and he tries to make conversation with me even though I probably looked like I had a bomb wired to my chest, and I just laugh. I laughed... like only a creep would do.
4) After the interaction is over I silently stare at him and eat my pizza. Life tip: never stare at people while you are eating food. It's very unsettling.

     I hope that our Wal Mart was the last stop for him, I don't think I would sleep well after our encounter.

     The pictures above are real, and I've misplaced the autograph or I'd share that too. 

     While I still have a fondness for the Polka Master, the intensity has cooled with what little maturity I have allowed to seep in. Unfortunately, the social awkwardness is still very much present.

-Amber 

The Shirtless Axe Murderer

    Sometimes we come to a place in our life that we know; we are here for a purpose. There is something happening here that will be important at some time in my life. Maybe I don't see at the time but I know that one day it would all be clear.
    I feel this way about a job I use to have. I was the midnight night auditor for a hotel. A job with people I loved but as any of you who have worked the midnight shift can attest, it brings out some unusual clientele. I had some crazy stuff happened while I worked there, and I would tell my manager about it and she would always say. "Why does this only happen with you?"
    I wondered this myself but I now know it was for my love of stories and God was providing me with material.

     So on one particular night it was quiet. I had maybe one check-in all night long so I did what I did every slow night back then and turned my mind off completely in front of Netflix when the guest phone rang.
    The guest phone where customers would usual ask for amenities to be delivered or directions to the nearest restaurant, or to make conversation because I was the only person in the whole place awake but this phone call was not one of those usual phone calls.

Amber: Front desk.

Lady Guest: (panicked) Umm Hello, I think someone is trying to break into my room.

This is followed by a loud banging on the door that I can hear through the phone

Amber:...

Lady Guest: It's a shirtless man, banging on my door! What should I do, I'm not sure where my husband is, and I have my children in here with me?!

So you call the front desk?! Call the police lady!!

Amber: I'll call the police right away.

    So I grab the phone for the outside line and ran into the closet declaring to God and myself that I would not leave until the cop slid his badge under the door.
    As I waited, my heart pounding through my chest, fear of a potential murder taking place just feet away from me, I begin to let my imagination run wild. Who was down that hallway? Why was he shirtless? Was this his m.o.?He was just some half naked axe wielding homicidal maniac breaking into hotels to prey upon families on vacation.
    I heard the phone ring again? What if that was him? What if he had broken into the room and he was coming for me next?
    I reminded myself that I was the one in charge and would have to stop crying in the closet and bravely answer the phone, shirtless axe murderer or not.

Amber: ... Hello?

Lady Guest: Never mind, it was my husband he sleep walks every now and again and most have locked himself out. (Laughs) Isn't that funny?

Amber: mmm-hmm well I'm going to call the cops now and tell them not to come.

    Are you kidding me?! I was literally shaking like a chihuahua because she misplaced her sleep walking husband?! Why would that not be her first assumption?!
     I tried to play this out in my head after I called the police with much embarrassment to call off the potential S.W.A.T. team mere minutes from my hotel, what was going through her mind.

*bang bang bang*

Lady Guest- Oh My! What was that? Where is my husband?

*bang bang bang*

Lady Guest- Ok Myself, my kids, everyone is accounted for, except my husband of several years. I'll just get a quick peak.

*sees shirtless husband through peep hole, who must be wearing some kind of mask he picked up while sleep walking to explain why she can't recognize the man who she had married and had children with.*

Lady Guest- So, there is a crazy man outside my door , built like my husband who often sleep walks and is unaccounted for from my previous census. My children and I are in potential danger, from the knocking shirtless axe murderer with the luchador mask (author's note: It's my blog and I am allowed to speculate.) standing on the other side of the door. I must take action, and there is only one person for the job. The front desk lady! She who provides me with extra towels, pillows, and those little bottles of shampoo, she will protect me and my helpless children. Don't worry children! *picks up the phone* our answer is on the way!

    I can't be too upset though, I was up front assuming things on my own. The lady guest and I were both convinced we were not going to make it out alive.
    I spent the rest of the night trying to calm down and was sure to thank God, for sparing innocent lives from imaginary harm that day.
-Amber

Case study number 001- Drunk Teething Baby

     A few weeks ago, I spoke about the advantages of being the oldest child, but there are also many drawbacks.
     Up until this point, there have only been 2 adults living in the house. Two young adults who would learn from the results formed by you, case study number 001, just how to cohabitate with a small child.

     They would learn that, all though they were mobile and able to get from point A to point B, case studies at a young age would not be able to follow and would need to be assisted by the young researchers. My parental researchers realized this after they locked me in the back seat of a car with the keys a few days after I was born.
     They would learn that all though the responsibility was great, it was okay to allow the case study, once mobile and has some years in the research lab, to go out with other case studies in recreation. I was to be in the house when the street light came on as a child and I had a curfew that was strictly enforced. By the time case study number 003 came around they were so tired they had no idea where she was half the time.
     As time would go on and they took on more case studies, it would become easier but that first one... Case study number 001 would have to go through some issues both mentally and physically. No example is better equipped for this blog than the first and only time I was drunk.

     Now in my family, on both sides, there are a lot of home remedies and beliefs.
    One summer I went to my grandmother's house, and I got a cold so she gave me home made cold medicine and told me to go right to bed because I would get sleepy. I barely made it to the bed before I passed out for several hours. I don't know all that was in that medicine but one of the main ingredients was not made for a preteen's consumption.

     So when I was a teething baby my parents were at a loss on how to help me. So they went to the researchers that had more experience on case studies than they did their parents.
    My grandmother advised my father to give me some bourbon, and knowing that she had raised 5 children on her own he asked no questions.
    So, at six months old, my father gave me a shot of bourbon to sooth the pain of my protruding teeth. Only to find out later that he was to rub some bourbon on my gums.
What happens to a drunken baby? Are they fun to be around? I mean, I assume that this isn't the norm for most families.

    As in most instances in my life, I didn't find out about this until I was at least 18 years old. Here I had gone my whole life thinking I had never had a drink (aside from relatives convincing me to try a sip at a young age and the special cold medicine from grandma) much less been drunk. I come from a very Christian family, it hadn’t once occurred to me to ask my parents if they got me plastered before I could walk.
     So after celebrating with Dad I was told I passed out.
     Now came the time for my parents to put their research into action. My protectors, my guardians, looked at their poor drunk baby and decided that the best possible outcome was to have me "just sleep it off".

    So I did... for 16 hours! Waking up with what I assume was a major baby hang over.
    So was my life as case study number 001, trial and error. There may have been some physiological damage, but over all I'm relatively normal. Payback has come with all the times I have told this story. Love you Parental Researchers!
-Amber

Sick Day

     So post number three what story do I tell? I am feeling pretty gross today. I want to get in my bed and live there like Charlie's Grandpa from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I don't get sick very often and that's great now as a grown adult but was not so great as a kid. If I wanted to stay home and take part in the greatness that was Price is Right and all shows Cartoon Network, back where good quality cartoons could be played almost 24/7, then I had to fake it.

     Now I know it's not the right thing to do, and I don't promote lying but I was a kid who saw an opportunity and would take advantage of it when I could.
     The only thing is I tried to take advantage a lot, like a lot a lot. So much so, if I was actually as sick as when I said I was, I'd definitely have been hospitalized.
    I would perform my heart out, groaning grabbing the wall for support as I hobbled out of room. Looking at my mother with big glassy eyes as I croaked in my weakest voice, "Mommy, I think I am sick."  You always had to say mommy, it signaled her motherly brain to help her offspring in need.

    Like I said before, my mom is a hard worker and she didn't support the idea of staying home just to stay home. So she followed it with, "Have you checked your temperature?"

     This is what had me lose many battles. I would try to think hot thoughts deserts, beaches, and so forth. Once a friend told me, that her sister put the thermometer on a light bulb to raise her temperature. Not only did it not work for me but I broke the thermometer when my temperature stuck at like 900 degrees.
 
      So when the thermometer let me down again, mom would say, "You are going to school".
But then my fake illness would take a turn for the worse. With the prospect of school, I had now come to meet death's door. Moaning, groaning, and crying until mom got mad or gave in, it was hardly the latter.

     But I was a stubborn child, and I would go to school and put on an equally dazzling performance for the nurse who was at first big fan but soon caught on too.

     So, much like the Boy who Cried Wolf I too had to pay for my wicked ways.
    One day in fourth grade I woke up completely miserable. The phrase 'I feel like I have been hit by a truck' was made for me that day. Not only did the driver hit me but had a personal vendetta and backed up and tried again.

     I hobbled out of my room just as before, and followed the script "I'm sick." "Do you have a temperature?"
    I weakly made it to the bathroom cabinet knowing this time the thermometer would work in my favor. I was convinced that I had contracted some weird exotic avian flu and my temperature would be off the charts but no, it was hardly above average.

     So I pleaded with my mom weakly but she shot me down frustrated with my most recent attempts from less than a few weeks before and demanded that I get ready for school.
I used as much energy as I could muster as I went to spend my final hours with my class mates. I looked around my room, should I write a will? Stacy and Paula obviously couldn't have my toys; I would give them to my best friend Sam or be buried with them.
    I wasn't mad at my mother, I felt sorry for her, she would be so sad when she received the news that her eldest child had died of the exotic avian flu at school. "If only I would have let her stay home and watch Price is Right." She would cry to TV reporters, but there would be no way for me to comfort her since I was now walking with Jesus.

    As I walked to the bus stop, I would pray if I could just vomit. (Being as I'm speaking about being sick for most of this blog I don't want to write vomit continuously so from now on vomit will be referred to as tossing cookies. Paints a better picture I think.)

    So any way, if I could just toss my cookies, but I've always had a strong stomach and a tight hold to my cookies. Cookies being tossed shows all those around you just how you are feeling, but like my temperature my cookies were not working in my favor.

    I went to school and pleaded with my teacher to let me go to the nurse. She too had been versed in my ways and would only let me go at bathroom break.

    So time had passed and now I was sure my temperature had rose. I went to the nurses office who probably did all she could to contain her eye roll.
    I waited patiently for the thermometer to redeem itself, ours at home had to be broken but these were disposable old school ones with the red stuff inside they were legit.
   "It's normal Amber; you need to go back to class." She said.

    With teary eyes and a saddened heart, I walked the long road back to my class. How could I not be sick, I had the exotic avian flu, I had no time for this. I needed to live life to its fullest in my limited time I had left. There was nothing I could do; the "man" was working against me.

   I walked into my class where my teacher was lecturing. I met the eyes of a few of my classmates who were hopeful for me. There is an equal amount of joy and envy when your fellow inmates, I mean classmates get to go home. But I could only shake my head lightly, in my injustice.

    I sat at my desk, how did I get back to my comfy bed?  How would I be freed from this prison?
My teacher was now standing in front of me talking about something, I'm sure it was relevant when it hit me… my cookies were ready to fly.

     I am not an extrovert at all, drawing attention to myself was the last thing I wanted, but I also didn't want to share with my class my cookie tossing abilities. So I quietly at first tried to get her attention
"Umm, excuse me."
 Nothing.
"Excuse me."
Again nothing, but I'm sure she heard me. I raised my hand.
"Yes, Amber?" She said, I could hear the annoyance rising in her voice.
"May I go to the bathroom, please?" I said in my most polite voice.
"Amber, we just went to the bathroom."
"I know, but I went to the nurse’s office. I think I'm going to be sick."
Now she could not hide her irritation, "You are fine Amber; you are not going to be sick."
I was, much like love when you know you know…you know. But how was I going to convince her? My window was closing the cookies they were a-rumblin.
I quietly freaked out, could I run past her? I'm not one to fight the power what if she chased me? What if she didn't, how would she know that the cookies had been tossed?

     There was no more time to think something had to be done, and quickly. With the teacher still standing in front of me, I ran to the trash can.
    And uproariously with great force I tossed my cookies. I tossed them as if it was confetti in a parade and I was the grand marshal. I tossed them like I was professional cookie-tosser Olympian and I was determined for the gold.

    Coincidently, I also had a big audience of fourth graders who in disgust cried "Ew!" in unison.
But I didn't care I turned to my teacher and with the mostly satisfied weak smile I said, "I told you I was sick!"
When my mom came to pick me up from school, I walked proudly out to the car for I was untouchable. I was the sick fourth grader with exotic avian flu and had placed gold and cookie tossing.
-Amber

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A Trip to McDonalds

    When you are the eldest sibling, a responsibility is placed on your shoulders, to help guide and lead the younger offspring into productive members of society.
    They too, trust you and depend on you to help mold their plyable minds to be just like you.
    As the eldest of three girls, all I have to say is, my poor sisters. I have story after story where I would use my creativity as an outlet to just torment them for no other reason than because I could.
     Stacy always had it bad, next in line and three years apart, Stacy and I would fight, and was a constant target for my abuse.
     My mother tells the story of how just a few days out of the hospital, Mom was changing Stacy's diaper with me right by her side when she had a phone call. Now these are the days before cordless phones and she had to step out of the room for just a moment, only to come back and see Stacy coated in baby powder and the empty container placed in my hands.
    Fast forward two years, Stacy now a toddler and my mom almost full term with our youngest sister Paula and completely miserable and exhausted.
      My mom who, I believe, to this day is  part of a social experiement to see how long a human can work before being institutionalized, and preparing to give birth soon. She was a super hero by all rights.
    She had just recently cleaned the house for the 15 minutes before Stacy and I trashed it like a couple of rock stars in a 5 star hotel. And was in the mood for a much needed rest. So she placed a lawn chair on the front lawn, and had the keys in the ignition of our station wagon, the vehicle of choice for most of my childhood, and listened to music as we played in the yard.
    I asked if I could play house in the car with Stacy, and in my mother's half comatose state she agreed, I believe if only for the brief moment of peace and quiet.
    So, I corralled my 2 year old sister into her car seat, to which she happily agreed. Obivously as the older sister she should be completely safe in my care.
     I went around to the driver seat and began to mimick my mother. I would turn the wheel back and forth and say the key phrases that all adults would use to insure the car ride went properly.
     "Don't think I won't come back there!" " Have you ever heard of a turn signal?!" "If you say mom one more time..."

     "Where should we go?" I finally asked Stacy knowing her broken toddler response would be the same as mine.
    "McDonald's!" We would yell in unision. McDonald's was the tangiable Disney land for us lower class children growing up in Indiana. The happiest place of Earth in the 90's where you could get french fries, toys with your meal, and play in the ball pit. The ball pit filled with plastic balls and possible urine from the other children before you.

Something children of today with their nutritional happy meals and ball pit free McDonald's will never get to experience.
    So I began our imaginary treck but became bored with the limited left and right turns I could make with the steering wheel, and decided to take another page from my mom's book and use the lever on the side of the wheel, moving it all the way over to little "N".
     I should take the time, in this part of my story, to make you readers aware that our house at the time sat on a hilltop. Our driveway consisted of two concrete runways for the tires, leading up to the side of our house.
    How impressed Stacy must have been by her big sister who was able to get the car to actually move just like our parents as we began to desend down our driveway.
    My mom who had been resting peacefully up until this point in her lawn chair, looked up to see her two daughters heading out on their very first road trip together.
   She bolted out of her chair and with my almost fully formed fetus sister Paula in tow came waddling/ running after us.
    I panicked. I was not prepared for this as a newly self proclaimed adult. Stacy also sensing my distress begin to cry.
    Mom waddling side to side screamed, "HIT THE BRAKE, HIT THE BRAKE!"

    To which I too screamed in reply, "WHAT'S A BREAK?!"
    We were down now in the street a car, only a few feet behind us. As mom had finally caught up with us.
    "It's the one on the left, hit the pedal on the left!" She yelled over Stacy's wailing in the back seat.
    I slammed down on the brake as hard as I could, just half a second before hitting our neighbors car.
    I scrambled out of the car and back up the hill, prolonging the pain that would soon meet my back side, and watched as my mother effortlessly drove the car back in place all the while never breaking her death stare with me.
    Allthough I had placed all 3 of our lives in danger, one of whom had not made it out of the womb, and the punishment was not something I would look back on with cherished memories. I can look back fondly on the first time I drove, and had quite a story for school the next day.

-Amber

The Modest Amazon: or female line backer

     What is a great blog name? In doing my research, I knew this was a vital detail in making a blog. It needed to be something eye catching, something to draw readers in.

     The experts said the same thing, I needed a theme and I needed to use that theme to come up with a catchy blog name. This is great advice but, it doesn't work for me.

     My theme: Me. Write what you know right? I just wanted to place to express myself and share entertaining stories. So what about the name? If my theme is me what do I call my blog?

     Like most little girls growing up in late 80's early 90's if asked who my favorite super hero was, without hesitation I would say Wonder Woman. For two very important reasons: first, she was the only female super hero I knew existed, but more importantly, I owned a pair of her underoos and had to in turn support her.

     As I grew older I learned that Wonder Woman and I had more in common than our under garments. She was a six feet tall Amazon. An Amazon stood, on average, about six foot two.

     At 6'2" I am also built like an Amazon, or a bear, or a female line-backer. I've always been big and tall. In preschool I was 4'11". In fourth grade I was 5'11", I know this because I remember thinking what comes next 5'12'? 

    A larger than average lady, I could be an Amazon. Upon further research I found out that this could be where our similarities end. Amazon's were female warriors from Greek mythology, who were usually depicted with very little clothing.

    I don't consider myself a warrior. Warriors don't cry when someone dies in the book they're reading. They don't turn into a pile of mush from cute babies or pictures of otters. I've never saw wonder woman knitting. All though she should, maybe make herself a shawl or something. She has got to be cold.

   In the typical sense of the word, I don't consider myself a warrior. I don't see myself, going into battle any time soon but, for those I love? I would protect them any way I know how. I would be terrified but if they needed me to I would be there in a heartbeat.

     So am I an Amazon, no. I'm no female warrior, but will I fight for the things I love? Absolutely! All while wearing an appropriate amount of clothing. Hence the name The Modest Amazon. 

   Don't worry they'll get better

-Amber