The Bad Touch, Singledom, and Terrible Pick-Up Lines.

I am almost certain that the Bible left out a section entitled, “God has a cruel sense of humor – Evidence: One Amber Clark to be born in the year 1987. Hilarity to ensue for general public.” Let’s discuss the reasons while I shall soon be removing myself from the world to become a hermit with Kenneth.


Whenever someone asks me why I am still single I laugh (then I go cry into my Mufasa certified weave in the nearest bathroom) and tell them they should spend 12 hours with me and witness the types of “people” I attract. Honestly, if a fairly normal, single, straight male with all his teeth every approached I would die of shock. I truly posses the bizarre power of being able to attract the most terrifying individual within 50 feet of me and have a completely horrifying experience with them.

Case in point – the romantic interaction I had the other day with a probably homeless, definite meth addict. As I am minding my own business hustling around on break I hear the words “Yo Bitch!” exclaimed from my left. I should have run. I look over to find a dude who has no idea what a shower is, may have had a small rodent living on his head or just really needed a comb, was rocking an open wound on his face and complete lack of teeth. Sexual! This fine, upstanding gentleman then proceeds to grace me with the most Shakespearean love sonnet I have ever heard – “Damn I wanna wife dat ass up, cause you look like you know how to take a dick!”

I will take a hot second for that complete phrase to sink in, I know it took me a good couple minutes to realize what had just been said. I would truly love to know how you assess someone’s D-Taking capabilities. Was this a college course I missed out on? As you can probably assume, I was swept off my feet. We are now betrothed and I am expecting. I’ve decided to name the child 8-Ball. Life has truly taken a turn for the best.


I love football. I am into it, I get aggressive and yell, it is honestly one of my favorite parts of fall. Tragically it also makes me a little broish, a fact which I am willing to accept, unless it begins to interfere with my everyday life. A few Fridays ago, I decided to enjoy some wine on my couch while watching some exhibition games since tragically the season was not upon us while I waited for Shannon to get out of work. The evening managed to plop us in Red Square which is always an awkward experience in and off itself. This night I decided to take it up a notch. A few gin and tonics and tequila shots later I found myself having a hard time seeing as I dance around in a haze. I would just like to state that I also had outdated contacts in and that bar situation is dark and questionable in general. Nevertheless I couldn’t focus on anything. So when a guy came up to me and said “Hey Amber” I turned to be facing some sort of dark, dude shaped blob. I couldn’t tell you if it was Tom Brady, some dude from college or a dementor from Harry Potter. (Side Note – I sincerely apologize to you, whoever you are, should you be reading this.) I proceeded to react to this greeting in perhaps the most butch, masculine maneuver I have ever done. I aggressively grabbed this guys hand, pulled him in as hard as possible in a frat boy hug complete with chest bump. I then proceeded to slap/pat his lower back upper butt area and shout, “Good Game Bro!” Literally as the words exited my mouth I died a little inside. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?! A HEAD COACH FOR THE GIANTS?! Mortifying. I decided dancing away quickly though the crowd was my best exit strategy.


Now for what might be the single most awkward and questionable moment that has ever occurred in my 25 years so far. I am pretty much always injuring my back in some sort of way at work or in my general movements of tripping and falling during everyday life. About a month ago I seriously sent my back into a downward spiral of doom between chasing Kenny, moving fixtures, and falling out of bed. It got to the point where it locked up while I was standing and I literally just fell over and was incapable of moving. Hot, no? Erin’s cat, who I was watching at the time, certainly thought it was hilarious. After being unable to move for about a week I decided enough was enough and I booked a chiropractor apt. Tragically this was all during July 4th weekend (Happy Birthday To Me!) and I could barely get in anywhere. When I finally did get in, I really wish I hadn’t. Before we get started with this little ditty I’m going to give you a little music to really set the mood.

As the exam begins, everything seems normal, no red flags. Miss Chiro asks me to flip over onto my stomach, I do so, and then suddenly everything gets real weird, real quick. Without any words whatsoever she whips down my pants AND underwear in one fell swoop and leaves them around my knees… UMMMMM. Next thing I know massage oil is being poured onto my derriere. Just as her hands start to move around down there I pop my head up and start with, “Um I said my lower back hurt, so it’s about a solid five inches higher then where you currently are so…” I’m interrupted by my head being pushed down and the phrase, “You’re clenching, just relax.” So now that I feel like I’m in the midst of a prison rape scene I can definitely relax. Ah yes just breathe and allow this woman to massage your butt like this is totally acceptable and was what you had in mind the whole time, Amber. Don’t be silly. It usually takes a few G&Ts before anyone is getting their hands on that, let alone with massage oil in a brightly lit room.

“Um really my lower back…”

“Still. Clenching. Relax!”

I decide to just give up and let the non-consenual touching happen. I laid there for about 20 minutes while Miss Chiro hummed, yes HUMMED, and massaged my completely exposed bum. Pretty sure I maintained the clenched position for the rest of the day. Needless to say, I now have no problem making time to drive all the way back to Vergennes to see my actual chiropractor who allows me to keep my clothes on.


Last but certainly not least a few quick tidbits of absolute ridiculousness.

1. While I was at a complete stop at an intersection on Willard, some complete moron lost control of his longboard and leapt off of it vaulting himself into a run, which naturally collided with the side of my poor Mazda quite violently. He chose to act maturely by punching the hood of my car and screaming, “GO FUCK YOURSELF!” before running away. Yes Sir, how dare I leave my car stopped at a stop sign in the way of your acrobatic maneuverings. This is entirely my fault and I should totally go perform sexual actions on myself as punishment. I took just enough time to tell him to blow me before I ran over his precious longboard. Whoops.

2. While in line at the grocery store a small, nerdy practically translucent young man would not stop creeping closer to me. It got to the point where he was literally touching my back with his body. After having just about enough of this, I whip around to lay down the law when he leans in (as if he could even get closer to me, we are practically making out at this point) and whispers with extreme enthusiasm, “After the apocalypse redheads shall inherit the earth. I can only hope you will take me with you. I posses many skills.” I decided that I needed eggs and removed myself from the line. While I am glad to know I will survive the impending reign of zombies, I can’t help but wonder what exactly those video-game perfected skills were.

3. My mom recently called me to inform me that she had found the perfect man for me, the catch? He’s married. Oh ya know, just that small, insignificant detail of marriage, totes NBD. Right as I whip out the classy line of, “Pffft. Realistically what is that wedding ring even for?!” I look up to find hot, married parking attendant staring at me. He grabs his wedding ring, “Excuse me?” Ahhhhhhhhh, why?! I decided that responding by thrusting my phone at him and exclaiming, “HELLO?! I AM ON THE PHONE!” was the most logical and mature way to respond.

4. After having my house broken into, I managed to wind up with the three most ridiculous law enforcement officers ever investigating. There was a lot of pectoral flexing, crack addict jokes and general inappropriateness. The crowning moment of weird was when one of them started off with the line, “Well…I am single and have two cats.” Awkward silence ensues. Was I supposed to respond with, “Well I am single and have a cat so lets do this and take over the world with our brewing cat army!” How does your singledom and cat-owner status pertain to my house invasion again sir?

5. An individual with a lip tattoo recently asked me if he could “do some rails off that Kimmy K ass.” Ah, romance blossoms.


Things I don’t have time for…

My life is full of things I don’t have time for. I’ve decided to address a few topics so in the future the general public will realize I give zero f*cks about said moments and will move forward.


Dear Sirs and Madams of the world. I do not have time for your side eyes or your looks of disgust and horror. For example when I’m on my way to work, have my windows down, and am passionately singing along to Whitesnake or Nicki Minaj and incorporating some impressively excellent car-coreography, I don’t want to look over into the other lane or across the intersection and catch you looking at me like this…

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I do not have time for that.

I also do not have time for judgement when I am minding my own business in the grocery store. If I am texting someone, there is no need for a mouth breathing dude-bro to be leering over my shoulder reading my texts while I peruse the B&J selection. I most certainly do not have time for you to scream out, “OH MY GOD, DID SOMEONE JUST TEXT YOU A PHOTO OF A CAT AND REFER TO IT AS YOUR BOYFRIEND?! AND YOU’RE IN THE ICE CREAM ISLE! SAAAAAAD!”

I don’t have time for your bro-tastic observations, chug another Busch Light.


People seem to love to give me unsolicited advice. It usually pertains to my love life, hair, caffeine consumption and general appearance and of course my usual sunburn once summer finally rolls around. While I’m usually uninterested in the thoughts and musings of the general public, I’m extremely uninterested before 10am and before I have consumed adequate caffeine. For example, if I am in line at Starbucks do not approach me to discuss my sunburnt feet.

“Excuse me Ma’am, but did you realize you have a sunburn on your feet?”

Inner Monologue – “Oh. My. GOD! No I did not realize that! My feet are not overly hot nor do they look like I’m sporting bright red socks with my black flats. What would I have done if you hadn’t pointed this out to me?! YOU SAVED MY LIFE. Side note – If I’m 20 years younger then you, never call me Ma’am.

Actual Response – “Yes. Unfortunately I usually miss one spot when applying sunscreen. (Forced Laugh)

Overly Concerned Sunburn Troll – “Well Sweetheart, has anyone ever told you how dangerous a sunburn is? My goodness, just one can kill you – you will probably wind up with skin cancer. Actually you probably have it now, lurking. I wouldn’t be surprised if you lose your feet after this one.”

I’m sorry…lose my feet? Obviously, skin cancer strikes immediately causing instant necrosis of the skin. OH MY GOD, PASS ME THE ALOE! NOWWWWWW!

“I think my feet will survive, but thanks.”

Actual Response of WebMD specialist – “Ungrateful Whore.”

I don’t have time for your Yahoo Answers health care advice.


I do not have time for you accidentally shove your mattress so hard that it flies over your car and slams my entire body into the sidewalk. I also don’t have time for you to then ask, “Wait, where did it go?” as it slowly crushes the life out of me while my face lurks in some questionable goo on the sidewalk.

I do not have time for you to “trip” while walking on Church St. and proceed to steady yourself by grabbing my chest for a prolonged period of time while you leer at me and say, “Sorry didn’t see you there.” I will make time to slam your instep as I walk away however. Sorry buddy, didn’t see that there.

I do not have time for so many things, like continuing this post when my bed is looking at me so longingly.

Punk’d is coming back – This explains everything….right?

The other night while flipping aimlessly through the channels in between a game I caught a preview for the Biebs punking T-Swift, who knew this show was coming back? I am now completely convinced this explains my entire life up until this very moment, I must be the new season’s finale, right? The ultimate punk? I’ve always held the belief that I am starring in my own private version of The Truman Show, and you have all secretly been laughing at me for years. This is is the only logical explanation I can come up with in regards to my complete joke of a life. Certainly, the average citizen does not live this way? I’m pretty sure Ashton Kutcher, or whoever is now running that mess of a show, and his or her henchmen have set me up for failure numerous times this past month. Allow me to explain my thought process with a quick catch-up of the shenanigans going on in my life recently –

—— If you’ve had the distinct pleasure of driving with me, you know I enjoy listening to some fairly questionable music while zooming around. After re-discovering the wonders of JMac (Jesse McCartney to those not in the know) recently I’ve been conducting my own duet with him for about a week during my daily commute. Yes, I realize that this in and of itself is embarrassing enough, but lets up the level of awkward shall we. Since acquiring a wonderful iPhone, I have been able to do amazing things that were never possible with a flip phone – such as texting the wrong people inappropriate things and I’ve newly discovered the uncomfortable joys of pocket dialing. The other day after viewing my recent calls while heading out of work I tossed my phone on the passenger seat, threw my bag on top of it, popped on some JMac and prepared for a glorious ride home. In the middle of a passionate sing-a-long to Body Language (presented for your viewing pleasure here – ) I reach for my phone to check it – only to find that my phone has in fact pocket dialed and is leaving a voicemail the last person on earth I would ever want to hear me singing to Jesse McCartney at the top of my lungs at 10pm. And that Ladies and Gentleman, is the ultimate way to cock-block yourself, for life.

—— Continuing on the inappropriate music trend, I tend to listen to some sassy tunes in the morning to get me going as well, this led to a rather terrifying encounter the other day. While preparing myself for the day I put on some 80s hair band music. In the heat of the moment I lost myself in the music and broke out some serious singing-into-the-hairbrush moves while busting out Paradise City only to whip around in a serious hair dance move and find a cop and the motorcyclist he had just pulled over, both staring into my window. I reacted maturely by dropping below my window line and proceeding to put on my makeup in the closet, the lighting is clearly much better in there anyways.

—— After packing my lunch all week I forgot one on St. Patricks day and was forced to leave the solitude of the back office to hunt for food amongst the increasingly drunk and surprisingly old public infiltrating the mall. After dodging two elderly, and I mean over the age of 65 easily, couples making out and one kid swaying on the stairs I managed to grab food and figured I was in the clear, how naive. While clutching my Panera bag and attempting to run, not walk, down the escalator an obscenely drunk young man grabbed my hair with enough force to pull me back a step and scream at the top of his lungs, “I FOUND A LEPRECHAUN!!!!! YEEESSSSSSSSS!!” Um, excuse me for one moment sir, but I  am in fact taller then you, am not sporting any sort of facial hair to my knowledge, and do not appear to have a pot of gold – please check your facts before you touch me or my flowing locks again. Additionally later that night, when I made the intelligent decision to get out the line for Rasputins, I mean seriously now, I was puked on by a passerby while walking back to my car and then had to perilously remove my tights in order to drive home. This did not solicit any unwanted attention at all.

—— The other week in City Market I encountered a hipster giving out some completely unsolicited relationship advice. I may have reacted poorly to said advice. Let me give you a little background information on my feelings for hipsters – I detest them, despise them, downright loathe them. Here’s why:

1. Let’s start with the fact that they infiltrated and subsequently proceed to takeover my favorite bar, the Needs, making it nearly insufferable to enjoy. College memories destroyed by pretentious morons who parents usually still pay their rent. Unacceptable.

2. Then there is the whole mindset of “I’m a hipster on a bike. That means my luminous white ass can hang out of my too tiny skinny jeans while I blow through a red light and cut you off, and it’s totally fine. Rules don’t apply to me, I’m a hipster.”

3. You are wearing glasses that you DO NOT NEED to actually see. As someone who suffered numerous years wearing glasses with a plastic frame and massive lenses, and was made fun of for it, I just want to rip them off your face and stomp on them. Don’t worry you can always go buy another pair for $10 at Urban.

4. They always think they are superbly awesome, and you are not. “You should come hear my band, A Mermaid’s Vagina, play sometime. My cat does vocals. It’s a really underground thing, you probably wouldn’t understand it.”

5. Did you dress yourself in the dark in my great grandmother’s closet circa 1980?

6. Handlebar mustaches were left in the 19th century for a reason. Get that thing away from me.

These reasons and oh so many more make me send a side eye to any hipster who dares to be near me. So naturally I was not pleased when one decided to interject himself in my life with some tragically misinformed advice. While I was doing my quick lunch time shopping at the CM I ran into an old acquaintance from college and we had a little catch up at the hot bar during which I was my usual sarcastic self. Eventually he asked me one of my favorite questions – “So, are you seeing anyone special?” Ugh. Seriously? What if I’m seeing someone who happens to be mediocre, or if I’m seeing multiple people and their all special, or if I’m still single and destined to be a crazy old cat lady who talks to them like they are her children. Hint – it’s the last option. All I managed to get out is “Well, no, not at the moment..” before a faux-spectacled, 1990s rainbow wind-breaker wearing hipster douche materialized to add this little gem to the conversation – “You know, you are far to sarcastic to ever actually interest a dude. You’ll be single forever. You should probably just become a lesbian.” Ah ha! This is the answer to all of my problems. How silly of me to be straight! This is when I lost my cool. I turned on him so quick he took a step back, busted out my very best Valley Girl accent and shrieked, “Like, oh my God, you are, like, so right! I am, like, so stupid! I totally keep forgetting to take my lesbian multivitamins! Like, thanks so much!” Luckily, the moron had enough sense to run away from me before things got any worse, unfortunately my college acquaintance did too, and everyone in the general vicinity was staring at me like I was a freak. Pssssh, City Market shoppers – keep your judgements to yourselves.

—— The other day while walking out of the bank I decided to be polite and hold the door for an over the top FC (french canadian) man who happened to be wearing some of the tightest leather pants I have ever seen on an individual. As he walked through the door, he proceeded to place his currently lit cigarette in my hand, wink, and say “This is for you.” I’m sorry? Your half-smoked cigarette, which could have the herp for all I know, is for me? Why thank you, don’t forget to catch me as I swoon with admiration Shakespeare. Seriously.

—— I had a romantic encounter with a pack of dude-bros while leaving Mad Hatter earlier this week. I popped out the door and landed in the middle of a small swarm of Jersey Shore looking wannabes. The seduction started when one of them burped in my face and then slurred at me, “Wanna experience the thunder down under?” Mmmm, yes. People wonder why I’m still single? Honestly, I have no idea when tantalizing tidbits like this are thrown my way daily.

—— For anyone who is not officially hanging on my every witty, charming Facebook status update I will tell you about my disastrous coffee cake baking experience. I decided to bake a coffee cake around 10PM, this is usually the hour when most of my genius ideas strike, for my work meeting the next morning. (Not trying to bribe anyone’s love with carbs or anything, please.) So naturally I got together all the essentials for baking – a disastrous scene of flour and sugar coupled with 90s pop Pandora station and 1 to 3 cocktails. By my third rum concoction I was good to go when Backstreet Boys anthem Everybody blared onto my Mac. Seizing the moment while shaking the coffee cake to fill the pan, I lifted it up and began to sing to it. This is totally normal behavior for those not in the know, everyone who is professional baker obviously serenades the goods, Betty Crocker is a pro at it. Deep into the middle of my singing zone I hear a terrifying noise, someone knocked at the door. Ummmmmm. I look up to see an equally terrified guy my age peeking into my door. Since he spotted me, and we made eye contact I figured there was probably no realistic way to ignore the situation and hide in my room. After gently placing my coffee cake on the counter and shutting off my music I answer the door to find a horrified guy timidly asking if he interrupted anything. Well yes, you clearly interrupted what was supposed to be a beautiful moment between me and a cake, duh. After a quick conversation it was determined he had flown into Burlington to surprise his girlfriend but had gotten lost in Winooski and needed directions. Great, some romantic boyfriend type is chilling on my porch having just witnessed tragically single me, drinking alone and singing to a baked good on a Saturday night. Excellent. Five minutes later Romance is gone with his directions and I was battling a exploding oven. Ah yes, living the life of an average 24 year old … or not.

—— Last but not least there is Mardi Gras weekend. Every year this weekend seems to present a plethora of awkward predicaments for me to endure and evade. Senior year it involved mimosas, scorpion bowls, finding out someone who had once hit on me in a bar was a serial cheater when he was attacked by his girlfriend’s seriously intoxicated friends, and last but not least, dropping $80 on a purse that looks like it is made of human flesh sewn into the shape of a skirt – my Silence of the Lambs purse as it has been henceforth named. The next day was not cute. Knowing what has happened in the past you would think I would be smart enough to simply stay inside with the doors locked, but lets be realistic – when do I ever do anything remotely intelligent?

So I proceeded out to meet my friend Lauren, and had an unfortunate encounter before I even got out of the parking garage. Three fairly intoxicated college bros followed me into the stairwell chattering about “crushing bitches at pong” and some girl named Katie’s “huge cans.” I could already tell this encounter would be full of win at this moment. Now, as many of you know, I am big on personal space. Unless I invite you into my personal space, don’t come into it, especially not aggressively. It won’t end well … for you. So as this pack of bros proceeds to practically piggy backing me on the way down the stairs, I get fed up, and ask them if they want to just go in front of me. They classily respond with, “Na girl, you look good from the back.” First off, proper english you idiots, start using it. I decided its better to simply remove myself from the situation rather then start a small riot in the stairwell, classy not trashy, so I continue to near sprint down the stairs. Next thing I know Bro #1 is sashaying down the stair railings on his hands egged on by Bro #2 and 3. Seriously? Just as I decide I need to pop out onto a random floor to get away from this, Bro #1 in drunken delirium loses his balance and tumbles forward … onto me. We both hit the floor of a public parking garage, who knows what made contact with my body, and he is literally laying on top of me, moaning. Is this real life? It took me nearly a full minute to push too-drunk-to-move Bro #1 off of me. Then I ran like the wind. I have to wonder if the parking attendants have hidden cameras and got to enjoy this entire encounter.

Then as I was leaving later that afternoon before the real madness started two wonderful moments happened. Firstly, someone tried to pee on my leg as I was making my exit. Secondly, someone’s Dad chucked a half-smoked joint onto my car as I was driving by because a police cruiser was coming down the street. Seriously, Sir? You’re over the age of 40 – it’s not really socially acceptable for you to be smoking a joint in the middle of the day, Party Gras or no Party Gras, and it most certainly not cool to chuck it at unsuspecting innocent citizens. Let’s face it, with my life it’s a sheer miracle that officer didn’t actually see this go down and arrest me.

And that sums up my life for the past month. Now you know the ending to this current season of Punk’d! Spoiler Alert! Because really, that has to be the explanation…right? Please, just tell me it is.

Road Rage and Marriage Proposals.

Anyone of you who have actually driven with me know that I have a tendency towards expressing my anger audibly when dealing with moronic driving. Luckily for the general public, I purchased a fancy new car and have been keeping my rage in check so as to not injure my new toy. Yet lately I have been completely unable to control my angst towards crappy drivers. Things began to go poorly after a semi-recent encounter with the Cowardly Lioness.

While minding my own business in the turning lane to Vermont Gas on Shelburne Road I suddenly notice something terrifying – reverse lights. Before I can even react some imbecile in a jacked up subaru has sent her car flying BACKWARDS down a lane in which everyone is at a stand still. I’m sorry, WHAT THE FUCK?! Hello?!?!?! This individual hits me with enough force to shove my car about a foot backwards, leaving a good amount of my oh-so-expensive snow tires on the pavement so needless to say, I am not pleased. As I begin to get out of my car, complete with my “WTF” hands a terrifying creature emerges from the subaru. A creature which can only be described as the Cowardly Lioness.



This woman had the most intense curled, bleached, teased hair I have ever witnessed in real life. It was like the 80s on crack had taken over her head. Literally a halo of crazy. To make everything even more terrifying, her eyes were ringed with at least two inches of navy eyeliner topped with roughly five layers of bright blue eye makeup accented by black lip-liner and a an intensely bright red lipstick. I quite seriously thought that the Wizard of Oz had landed right in my lap.

Before I can even react the Lioness is back in her subaru, fleeing the scene through a red light and hopping on to the interstate as if nothing had happened. Um…… Next thing I know I’m stuck explaining to the officer who showed up what exactly happened. When asked if I saw the person who was driving the vehicle, my response was “Well….she sort of looked like….um….the….Cowardly Lion?” Pretty sure I have never recieved such a judgemental look in all my life. Pfffft.


Ever since this little hit and run life has been increasingly awkward. Here are the highlights:

– While walking down the stairs after grabbing some much needed starbucks, I manage to encounter an older gentleman who was most certainly homeless and missing most of his teeth. He offered me what most women only dream of – marriage. His opener, “Youuuu are sooo beautifuuuul to meeee,” and yes it was sung. It was then followed by this wonderful promise, “I can make you so happy, fufill your richest desires. Just give me your love and home…” Wow, with offers like this, who can believe I’m still single?

– I would like to think it takes a certain skill to pull off this next move. Since my driveway has turned into a sheet of sheer ice, walking to my car has become more like ice skating towards my car. While attempting to manuver to my car the other day I managed to get one foot in the door and then before I could scoot in, the other one shot out from under with me with alarming speed. Next thing I know I have high-kicked one of my legs into my roof and my entire left leg is tucked nicely under the car’s undercarriage all ending in the most intense split action of my life. Managing to wiggle myself out of this situation was certainly enjoyable for the individuals next door.

– While deep in thought, reading my grocerry list at shaws, I suddenly realized I forgot eggs and whirled around quickly to get them. Naturaly I did this without looking and managed to body slam an entire rack of day old cupcakes, cakes, cookies, and other fat kid products. Right as I look up from this caloric temple I’ve made for myself I see one of the hot produce guys giving me a look filled with tude as he walks away. Who wouldn’t want to date a woman who hoards day old baked goods around her feet?

-2012 has been a great year so far, starting off with the flu and an eye infection that has left me stuck wearing my glasses for about 3 weeks. These so called glasses are 5 years old, sporting an outdated perscription, covered in scratches, and stretched out. On top of all that I have no peripheral vision in them what-so-ever. While walking across the street the other day I whipped my head a little to quick trying to scout out whether I could cross the street or not and sent my glasses flying off my face and clattering onto the street. In typical fashion I managed to cause a small traffic back up while down on all fours attempting to locate the missing pieces of junk. Don’t mind me upity drivers honking loudly, just trying to see over here. NBD.

What the heck.

Awkwardness. Sometimes it leaves my life, just long enough for me to begin to breath steadily and not walk around in fear of what may be lurking around the next corner. Then,  just when I let my guard down, WHAP – smacked in the face by some serious awkward. Allow me to elaborate.


A few weeks ago while waiting in line for my coffee I ran into another prime example of why I am so perpetually single. Behind me I hear a grumbly voice clearing which escalates into a cough. I’m thinking, “What the shit is this…” as I turn around. I find myself uncomfortably close to another fellow ginger who is looking at me extremely intently with a leery smile. “Oh this should be good,” I think to myself.

Befor I get the chance to turn around  he launches into this whopper of an opener, “Did you know redheads are a race facing extinction?” There are a lot of things wrong with this statement, but I was too baffled and simply responded with, “Ummm. No?” Here is what ensued.

“Yes, we are a dying breed. Very rare these days.”

“Well there are two of us in the coffee shop, so things can’t be that bad. Haha….”

….Awkward silence complete with intense staring…….

“It’s a rather serious matter.”

“Oh. Er. Sorry.”

“Yes. I have numerous pieces of evidence to validate my claims. Perhaps you would like to get together sometime and look at them.”

“Um, well, you see…”

“We could also talk about the possibility of procreating.”

Yes, the word procreate was involved. At this point I had just about enough of this creeping and leapt into action to order my coffee, then proceeded to relocate myself in between two large beefy, blonde men to assert my non-compliance with the Ginger Hierarchy.


While completing some christmas shopping at Best Buy I decided to fiddle around in the stereo system section. After spending about 3 minutes attempting to figure out how in the heck I was supposed to get sound to come out of one of the systems –  I had even resorted to checking if the speakers were plugged in – I realize it had a mute button. Push this and Voila! Problem solved. Except that I had the volume all the way up to 40 and a terrible top 40 station tuned in. So suddenly the stereo section has turned Best Buy into LMFAO’s personal concert with the line, “TAN MY CHEEKS!” blaring out. In my sheer desperation to shut it off I manage to knock over another system and hit myself in the head with a speaker all while the music blares away. Finally a sales associate comes over, shuts off the system and says, “Ma’am, please try to control yourself.” Well, then. This is when I decided to promptly leave through the small mass of people staring at me.


I decided to do a little retail therapy with the zero spare cash I have this afternoon, so off to Marshall’s I headed in search of a sassy handbag. After listening to a mother – daughter duo have an increasingly high pitched argument about whether a certain bag was “on trend” or not I finally plugged my ipod in. 20 minutes later, under the impression I am completely alone, I’m busting a move to Springsteen’s Dancing in the Dark. Why don’t I just let you listen to this so you can really get a good mental picture of this incident:

So in the middle of busting out a sassy move with a few handbags swinging from my arms, I pop around the corner to find a total DILF shoe shopping with his son. I freeze frame it and manage to smack my face with a bag at the exact moment the kid points at me and goes, “EWWWWWWW!”

HEY! Listen, I know my dance skills may not be the most exotic you’ve seen, and yes my hair was being held up by a rubber band, but STFU kid. Ew to you, you have crumbs from your happy meal still clinging to your jumper. Anyways to top it off the previous viewed DILF, who is now a gross old man, began to laugh. After one death glare of epic proportions that promptly silenced these two fools, I stalked off purse-less. Tragic.


To top it all off I now have a small hive breakout around my mouth which makes it look like I have razor burn. Excellent. If this does not go away by tomorrow I will be calling in sick to life, grabbing my bottle of wine and hiding under my bed until further notice.

Well then…

Let’s talk about why I’m updating this blog. I’ve sustained a serious injury and find myself sitting around with some free time. You might ask “What injury is this and how, pray tell, did it happen?” Well allow me to catch you up.

I have been unable to sleep soundly for the past week. In the middle of the night – say around 3AM – a scratching noise comes from deep within the wall right behind my bed. Since there is a crack in this wall I am perpetually afraid that whatever it is making that noise will suddenly come barreling through this crack and join me in bed. This would not be welcome. On a completely unrelated note  – I have may or may not have been watching copious amounts of horror movies by myself lately.

In a fit of overtired angst I decided to re-arrange my room and place my bed in a position in which I could easily fend off an attack from the “scratcher” While listening to some excellent, high quality, very mature music and dancing around I may have lost control of my mattress and tripped over my desk chair. Naturally I wound up twisted in the desk chair with my mattress on top of me in the most bizarrely contorted position I have ever experienced. In the most attractive way ever, I managed to detangle myself only to find I threw my back out. NBD. That’s fine. I also may have a fat lip due to facial mattress smacking. That’s fine, just one more injury to tack on to my already wounded self.

In addition to these latest events I also have a large bruise on my side – This one stemmed from a literal run-in with the parking garage gate. While quite obviously checking out the rather attractive parking attendant I managed to body check the side of the parking gate so hard I bounced off and hit the concrete. This move is guaranteed to win the men over, trust me. They most certainly will not stare at you like you are on meth and then advise you to watch your step with a look reeking of judgment, oh no.

My calves are looking pretty damn hot too. They’re sporting a hot black and blue splotchy color which is totally in this season. How does one acquire such a high fashion look? Well my method is a sure fire win. My advice – search for your keys in the dark in your seemingly bottomless purse, trip in a small hole and then land with your shins perfectly lined up on the curb. Note – this is for professionals only, many individuals can simply not pull off the timing properly. After you pull off this move, it’s best to celebrate by rolling over onto your back and saying something sophisticated like, “BLOW ME!” right as some college students pass by. Pure class.

To complete my new makeover I also burned my forehead with my straightening iron while staring at Facebook. I truly am looking beautiful these days.

The plan for this weekend? Steal a wheelchair from my former place of work and hit the town. You only look this good for so long. right?

Things I don’t have time for…

This week, I can’t even. Firstly I am sick, tired, and still being pushed around at my current job. This equals one foul mood for Amber. Throw some awkward in there and you are going to get a throwdown, probably in a public arena. Here are the events leading to my scene causing actions this afternoon.


First off, on Sunday I was sniffed in line at Starbucks. Now you may be thinking someone perhaps subtly took a whiff of me in passing. You would be wrong. While waiting in line with my order of 5 coffees I became increasingly aware of an elderly gentleman standing entirely too close to me. I am HUGE on personal space bubbles, especially in public. I in no way want you teetering on your toes within a few mere millimeters of my body breathing down my neck, no sir. Yet I found myself in just such a situation Sunday afternoon. After several repeated small shuffling movements forward to escape Sir Space-Invader, during which he naturally continued to creep up on me, he committed a foul act.

He literally stuck his nose into the back of my neck and inhaled so strongly there was not only an audible noise, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up – yes I realize this may have been out of direct fear. When I whirled around and hissed, “What exactly are you doing?!” He took this opportunity to lean in closer and simply say, “I’m finding a new perfume for my wife.” And that was it. No explanation like, “Hey, I’m just sniffing random women until I find one I like…” or, “I happen to like your perfume, I’m shopping for my wife and was wondering what it’s called…” Oh no, he just left it hanging on that awkward note and staring at me. Luckily at this point it was time for me to order my coffees and then run away.


Follow this up on Monday when I walked into Wal-Mart in rubber shoes with absolutely no sole. Hit a puddle in said shoes, which were already wet from the rain, and promptly went into a slide-tackle worthy of the World Cup to take a small stand of discounted goods. By small stand I mean a large rack of sunscreen in aluminum cans directly in front of the entire section of registers. I suddenly find myself on the ground covered by SPF 60+ for babies in front of what appeared to be thousands of people. I have zero doubts I will shortly be making my appearance here –


Then today it was off to the eye doctors to have my eyes dilated. Here are some words I never like to here when someone is fiddling around with my eyesight – “Oops, oh dear…” Yet these were precisely the words I encountered after apparently the crazy biddie put the wrong drops in my eyes. “Well dear, I seem to have put long lasting drops in your eyes…you’ll be find in the morning. No worries!” I’m sorry, no worries? Actually, yes worries, firstly I can barely function with my pupils dilated, secondly it is 3pm and tomorrow morning is a long way away, thirdly I have shit to do, Dear. UGH! 45 minutes later I emerge with completely numb eyes into a blinding world. Pop into my car check the mirror and let out a small squeak. My pupils have completely taken over my iris and I’m seeing doubles of everything. All I want to do is go home and crawl into bed. However this is not an option.

Last night all hell broke lose, literally, when our kitchen ceiling collapsed due to a leak in the showers plumbing. NBD. That’s fine, I love some good plaster mixed with my coffee, the little moldy flakes also really accentuate my hair style. Naturally this sort of catastrophe necessitates a visit from our maintenance man. The same maintenance man whom I accidentally flashed while discussing previous plumbing issues with while wearing nothing but a towel. I am not interested in re-living this moment and plan to stay as far away from the house as possible while he is there.

In order to avoid an awkward encounter I take my near-blind, massive-pupil self to the Starbucks cafe in Barnes & Noble figuring I’ll do a little pretend reading with a latte in hand. About five minutes into my latte I feel a tap on my shoulder – I look up an attempt to focus in on this human shape next to me. Here’s what I get – “Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to leave, you are making some of the customers here uncomfortable.” Pardon me? (Upon further reflection a girl with massive pupils who kept blinking maniacally, pretending to read, eyes out of focus, and repeatedly dropping her belongings may have put me off as well.) After a significant pause this little ‘Bucks wannabe barista continues with, “We don’t condone whatever behavior you are dabbling in, please remove yourself from this establishment.” Cue freak out.

I near leapt out of my seat with a snapping hand motion proclaiming, “LISTEN HERE! I have had a rough week, my eyes have been over dilated and my ceiling collapsed. Keep your outrageous judgements to yourself!” And with that I attempted to storm out of the door, which I was currently seeing two of.

I return home only to discover no hot water, make another call to the maintenance man, make some awkward chit – chat while fully and properly clothed, and now I will proceed to curl up in bed with a small bottle of wine and one still very dilated pupil. Lookin’ good.