I just got 'Bucked.

I am all about self-humiliation. I think a day without humiliating myself is a day wasted. However, I do not like humiliating other people. My friends will tell you that I will go to great lengths to make people laugh (e.g. pink 80's prom dress, blow up dolls as birthday presents, Taylor Swift-covered walls, singing really bad karaoke songs, etc. etc.) but I am horrified - HORRIFIED - when someone else is embarassed in public. That's why I can't watch shows like "The Real World" and "Big Brother," because those people are so constantly embarassing. If I am forced to watch, I usually put my hands over my face like a kid watching a scary movie. In summary, me embarassing myself=hilarious...me embarassing other people=uncomfortable and shameful.

All of this to say that some people enjoy embarassing other people, especially when they know more about a subject than you. Like when I talk to some people in the medical profession and I explain the surgery I had on my knee. This is how I usually describe it: "My knee kept popping everytime I bent and then straightened it after sitting for a while, so the doc went in and snipped the tendon thingy that holds my knee cap in place so that it would be a little more fluid in movement and it worked! No more pain!" Now, if you just read that, you could probably understand exactly what the surgery entailed, no? I mean, Forrest Gump could understand that. But certain medical professionals feel the need to say, "Oh, you mean a Lateral Release." Now, I could give the person the benefit of the doubt that they thought I actually wanted to know what the procedure was called and therefore were informing me so that in future conversations I could use two words instead of the incredibly long phrase should the subject ever come up again. But since I am a cynical bitch, I am going to assume that they were just trying to embarass the shit out of me. What good did correcting me in front of other people do other than feed your giant ego because you knew a technical term? I mean in my line of work, if someone says "I will get you the measurements and the info on color and size and all that," I don't snidely say, "Oh, you mean the specs." I would kick myself in the balls (figuratively) if I ever did that to someone.

The worst of these offenders are the employees at Starbucks. I visit The 'Bucks far too often. I can't help it...I am addicted to freshly blended, over-priced espresso beverages in pleasantly colored brown and green cups. It reminds me of my time in the Girls Scouts, I guess. I usually order one of three things when I go to The 'Bucks because I am a creature of habit and fear change. For this study, we will only examine the behavior of the employees at the 'Bucks across from Vanderbilt (it figures). So, I walk up to order and already I am nervous because I want to get the terminology correct because there are people behind me and if I get it wrong I will just die. Plus? I like for cashiers/servers to ask me as few questions as possible (like, "How would you like that cooked?" or "What two sides would you like with that?") because it makes me feel smarter (small pleasures, people...work with me). Being the 'Bucks regular that I am I know that ordering usually goes like this: 1) size, 2) type of milk (nonfat, 2%, etc.), 3) no foam or no whip, 4) syrup flavor if applicable, 5) name of drink (latte, mocha, etc). This particular time it happens to be about 150 degrees outside, so I opt for an iced version of my favorite beverage, the nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte. While standing in line, I have been going through my order in my head so that when presented with snooty cashier, I can get it right and experience my own sense of smug satisfaction. Finally, it is my turn. "Can I get a grande, nonfat, sugar-free vanilla latte, iced please?" Perfection, Amanda. You nailed that shit. Everyone is looking at you like you are the hero that just hit a home run with the bases loaded and two outs. You are the Barry Bonds of Starbucks, my friend. After taking the order, cashier dude usually yells the order to drink-maker dude and drink-maker dude repeats it to make sure he gets it right. Good system, small margin for error. "I need an ICED grande SKINNY VANILLA LATTE please." Motherfucker!! I thought I had this. Who knew that the word "iced" should go before size? No one told me this. Here I stand embarassed in front of all of the Vandy doctors in their scrubs and Vandy students with their laptops and trust funds because I didn't know that "iced" goes first and their is a fucking nickname for my beverage of choice. Cashier dude looks at me with which I can only assume is an eat-shit smirk. Drink-maker dude follows protocol by repeating "ICED GRANDE SKINNY VANILLA LATTE???" Sonofabitch, YES! Shit, do you have to say it that loud? To make matters worse, drink-maker dude tacks this on to the end: "Do you want whip cream?" Fuck me! I said the drink wrong AND I got a follow up question. I am so embarassed right now that I want to curl up in the fetal position and rock back and forth repeating "There's no place like home," over and over again. And then..."So we've got an iced grande NO WHIP skinny vanilla latte." Kill me now. I give him my money, defeated. I can never show my face in this Starbucks again. Damn them for making me feel inferior! I grab my drink and run off to the little side station to get a napkin. I pull out a pen and write on the napkin: NOTE TO SELF: ICED GRANDE NO WHIP SKINNY VANILLA LATTE...DUMBASS. I have to study this for the next time I visit the 'Bucks...at a completely different location, of course. Hey, you live and you learn, right? And you learn that addictions will make you put yourself in humiliating situations over and over again.

Now if you will excuse me, I have some studying to do before tomorrow morning's Starbucks run...

Journalistic integrity.

I have a confession to make. I suck at journaling. I have always wanted to journal, and have always marveled at those who do so consistently, but it has never caught on with me. My bookcase contains about 10 journals of all shapes and sizes that have about a month's worth of writing in them usually starting on January 1 (did I mention that I suck at New Year's resolutions too?). It's not that writing down my thoughts at the end of the day is time consuming or oppressive, it's just that I, well, don't think my life is interesting enough to keep writing about. Sure, I could write about where I ate for lunch that day or a new wine that I tried or whatever, but will I really care about those things 20 years from now when I look back and read them? Plus, what if I become famous someday and long after I pass away, they find my lost diaries and want to publish them until they realize that the general public does not want to read "Today I ate asparagus and it made my pee smell." Then people will laugh at me and realize that I wasn't really as talented as they thought I was and didn't deserve to be famous after all. And I just don't want to put my two adopted African children through that.

That being said, I made a vow to myself to journal every day of my trip to the mountains, mostly because I had some mental shit that I had to work out and I thought that writing my thoughts out on paper might help me work through it. I did not count, however, on my mom bringing about 15 different bottles of wine and letting the sweet elixir flow like the nectar of the gods. And since I did most of my writing at night, the entries turned into something a little more entertaining than feelings, analyzing, emotions and other worthlessness. Highlights below.

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Day One
Woke up late (awesome). Did some yoga a la DVD to become one with my inner zen. Apparently my inner zen is just as cynical as my outer zen because the woman on the DVD just might be the most annoying person ever. I try to concentrate on my breathing but the bags under her eyes are distracting. I am so fucking zen right now. Ohmmmm.

Gym. Old people on treadmills. Classic episodes of "American Gladiators" on the TV. Sweet! Old person switches the TV to Fox News. Shit. Crazy rich old people with all of their money and conservative fake news. Shower time!

Craft fair. Man, people sure do make a lot of crap and call it "art." Among the paintings of bears and deer and some pottery that looks like someone pooped it out, I find a necklace that is actually pretty cool and pretty cheap. Score! One of these days I am going to cut branches off trees, paint them different colors, glue them on a canvas, slap a $100 price tag on it and go to a craft fair and sell the shit. I could clean up.

Nighttime. Pre-dinner cocktails with mom on the porch. We talk…and talk…and talk. We process some stuff from my childhood and from her marriage to my dad, which include details about gross stuff and I throw up a little in my mouth. But then I wash it down with pinot grigio. Cut to two hours later. We are drunk and have totally forgotten to cook dinner. Oops. We agree to go the new restaurant down the street that has beer, which is remarkable only because it used to be a dry county until this year. Score one for the drunks! I like when my mom drinks because she laughs at her own jokes and cusses. Through our conversations I know that she is completely in every way my mother. And I am definitely her daughter.

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Day Two

Breakfast. Yoga. Shopping in nearby town of Highlands. I find a store that has half-priced Lucky Brand Jeans but not my size, which convinces me that the mountain gods hate me. I return to the condo defeated.

Time to hike! I want to hike by myself to clear the cobwebs from my mind and find clarity at the top of a mountain. Four miles of straight uphill later – with an amazing view of the valley I solve problems, make commitments, find my smile and come to a place that is familiar and warm. It's nice. After about an hour, I make my way back down the mountain. Suddenly I feel like someone has just stabbed me in my heel. I look down and swat off a very large, ugly bug. The pain shoots up my leg and I immediately think I am going to die on this mountain. I start hobbling down the trail, going quickly because I don't know how much longer I will have until I faint and hit my head on a rock. "I will die on this mountain," I think to myself. Dramatic? Perhaps. Possible? Maybe. It happens. My ankle swells up like Kirstie Alley on a post-Jenny Craig bender. Before I know it, I make it to the bottom. I have lived to hike another day. When I get back to the condo, I prop my foot up and pour myself a glass of wine and raise my glass. To the bug that bit me and made me realize how precious life is – I hope he died a slow painful death choking on my blood. Cheers!

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Day Three
Dad and Jeff arrived today. We go hiking at Whiteside Mountain. We split up – mom and I go up the uphill part, and the pussies, I mean the boys, go up the more gradual trail. We cross at the top. Mom and I make it to the bottom where Jeff is waiting. No sign of dad. We wait. And wait. I wonder if dad got bit by the same kind of bug I did yesterday and has fainted for real. He finally makes it down. It's wine-thirty, bitches! Let's go!

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Day Four
(blank)

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Day Five
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Day Six
(blank)

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Day Seven
Shit. Old dog, new tricks. Better make room on the bookshelf.