weeell, look what time the weather is!

So today, I went to work. And I was fulfilling my normal function as a topping robot when all of a sudden, a couple shows up. They are old, probably in their seventies. And I don't pay much attention except to notice that they want a large pizza so I can go grab a crust from the walk-in. And then I came out of the walk-in.

And I noticed that this woman was not wearing a shirt.

She was wearing shorts and a sports bra. Not wearing a shirt.

Now, this fact is wrong on so many levels.
1. Bras are not meant to be worn as shirts.  They go under shirts. ( Aren't you required to know that before you turn 5?)I don't care if Ashley wore one on that one group date. It doesn't count. Put a freaking shirt on.

2. This bra was not part of a work-out ensemble. AKA she was wearing jeans, had her hair curled, and was wearing lipstick. She had obviously not come from the gym, or any place where such attire could be remotely normal. Umm, what?

3. This lady was old. And the sistas weren't looking so good, if you know what I mean. Like, she probably should have had a bra on under the bra for all the good it was doing.Cause if you just decide not to wear a shirt, you still gotta wear something that fits.

So we hurry and make her pizza, Dallas finishes ringing them up, and they leave. We are standing there, being topping robots, and I say, "Soooo...."
And Dallas replies, "Yeah. I didn't want to say anything. But I'm glad someone else noticed."
Me: "I feel wierd about that. Kind of writhing in awkwardness."
Dallas: "Yep"

I suppose it takes all kinds of exhibitionist old ladies to eat the world's supply of pizza, right?

Harry who?

normally the answer to this question is: Ron. But after that movie/end of my magical childhood, I have a new question.

Ron who? The answer is Neville.


Yeah. I can't use spoilers or anything, cause here in the blogosphere, people might send me hate mail, and I would cry. But sheesh, in case you are the one person out there who wasn't sitting in a movie theatre this morning, go see Neville. Sure, the triplets were good. But that special place in my heart for the almost squib we know and love grew about four sizes somewhere around two this morning.

Also, in celebration of a week of Potterness, I thought this was really funny.

Never judge someone by their adolescence.

Addendum to the Face bashing stuff

As my good friend Julie just reminded me, there is yet another face bashing incident that perhaps beats all the rest. I don't know how I left it out before. ( maybe that damage we talked about?)

There was this one time at Justin's house. I was outside and in a hurry to get inside. And there was a screen door in the way. And this was a moment when I was remarkably unobservant. And I maybe kinda smushed the screen door with my face. I still meet Justin's relatives and they say, "Aren't you the one who broke the screen with her nose?"

mmm hmmm. That'd be me.

Watch the Pupils, Folks

Most everyone who knows me could tell you that I've had my fair share of clutzy moments. I'm not exactly the Queen of Poise. In fact, as a fifth grader I was given the classroom title of "Most likely to trip on her own feet." Of course, this may have had something to do with the fact that I was five feet tall with size ten feet. I'm surprised no one called me clowny. But I digress.

A new trend has recently been drawn to my attention. Up until about half an hour ago, I was unaware that I have a certain tendency towards hitting myself in the face with hard, unyielding objects. Now, as I sit nursing the side of my head that I just smacked with the bathroom door, I realize that some of these are pretty good stories. Which leads us to a round of...

TOP FIVE HEAD BASHING INCIDENTS!

Head Basher #1.
About two days ago, I was mowing my sister's lawn, minding my own business, the usual. After emptying the bag, I headed back through the gate to the back yard to commence mowing. As I swung the gate open, I caught my temple on the metal latch sticking out.  Dumb. Dizzy. The works.

Head Basher # 2
When I was a wee child, we put sod in our backyard. Previous to this was substantial effort involving clearing and leveling the whole place. One of the last days when we were almost done, I foolishly stepped on a rake someone had left tong side up. Now this was no ordinary rake. It's heavy duty. Like, still taller than me even though its been a good fifteen years. The thing beaned me in the head pretty solidly, and I remember crying even harder when I saw the lump.  Although it probably wasn't, it seemed to be about as big as my actual head.

Head Basher # 3
Once upon a time, in a land called Taylorsville High School, there was a little passageway in between the stage and the hallway. One day, as we gathered in the Drama room to leave for a show up at the U, I remembered that I had left my bag on stage. I ran in to get it, and somehow missed Schmid, who was locking up the dressing room. When I came from the stage into this little mini-hall, it was dark and the doors were closed. But I knew where the door was, so I forged ahead recklessly. The bag and half my body made it out the door safely. The other half of my body, including my face, ran into the brick wall. There was blood. There was crying. There was humiliation. Ah, the stage!

Head Basher # 4
Once more we visit the stage at good old T-ville. It was my senior year. I was a production manager for our musical, Les Miserables, and we were all at work call one merry Saturday morning. I was in a tearing hurry on my way to the dressing room on the other side of the stage, in the midst of some project. I was sort of jogging, but also looking behind my shoulder calling a question at someone. It started with "Do you know where the gaff tape got put?" and ended on the floor feeling like someone had smacked me in the head with a 2x4. In reality, the fly rails were down while people tied backdrops up on them, and I ran into one. There was a big lump for that one, too. And it was bad enough that Justin checked my pupils every half hour the rest of the day. Cause I really am dumb enough to walk into a steel pole hanging at face level.

And last but not least, and probably best.....

Head Basher # 5!
I have a small nephew. He is adorable, and has yet to master the art of knocking. Conveniently, I have yet to master the art of locking the door. This is a deadly combination. One day, Matthew was over being babysat, and I was getting in the shower. I forgot to lock the door, and Matthew forgot to knock. So he comes in. Here I am, sans clothing. The first reflex is naturally to cover up, so I jumped in the shower as fast as I could. We have those shower doors on a track, though, the kind that come off. My desperate leap into the shower was overshot a bit, and I hit my head on the track, knocking the door off, and knocking myself out. Next thing I know, I am laying in the tub with the glass doors on top of me. My mother is standing over me crying, and Matthew  is standing over me (again, sans clothing) yelling "Aunty, that was so loud!

The thing that worries me is that these accidents all bashed the right half of my face, a fact I am increasingly aware of as I sit with an ice pack to my throbbing head. The fact that these accidents also happen with increasing frequency makes me wonder if there could be some sort of residual damage over in that right half.  What do you think?

I think I should never work construction.

Romanticism, Idealism, and Geek squad all rolled into a cheese ball

Once upon a time, as a young naive sophomore who had no notion of societal values and the ways in which they are institutionalized within culture, or the ways in which these values and institutions  impact my own life and actions, I listened in awe and fascination as my AP World History Teacher taught me more in one class than I have ever learned in three others combined.

Kreuger taught World History, and he did a dang good job of it. But he is a man of many talents, and whether it was in the curriculum or no, he taught Sociology, Politics, Architecture, Writing, Language, Government, and so many other things I knew basically nothing about.  His class was a freaking whirlwind of information filled with kids trying to stay awake and write it all down. And I clearly remember him telling us one day that our current information based culture was the product of nationalism, post-industrial values, and mercantilism. (All of which makes perfect sense if you think about it). He then followed by telling us that our society is training its children for office jobs.

"Well, do you think it's a coincedence they make you sit in desks at specific tasks eight hours a day for twelve years?  You are being socialized into office drones! It's all because of the child labor laws! You need grown up-workers? Take the kids and structure the crap out of 'em!"

Kreuger liked to rant about things like this, mostly because so many of us were having our eyes opened to the simple fact that things aren't always the way they seemed last week. He told things how they were. He stripped things down to the bare essentials and made jokes about it until we were laughing on the floor. He told us stories of his days traveling the world while bartending whenever he felt like staying someplace for a while. He told us about seeing a man in Turkey walking down the street bleeding to death from the stump where his hand lately resided. He told us about that one airport where they hang signs saying that here is the place where they hang drug dealers. He described seppuku in gruesome detail. He told us about  dream times and Aborigine tribes in Australia and challenged us in no small subtle way to ask questions about why we believed the things we believed and did the things we did. 

My little brain was new to such concepts. I wasn't used to questioning things. In addition to drilling me until I could whip out an AP essay that scores a nine in ten minutes flat, Kreuger taught me to question, and to see the patterns in the big picture. Patterns and predictability are rooted in the world's history. For instance. A society's values and goals can be assessed by treatment of it's children, as expressed in the structuring idea. Here's a cool one. Watch all of history. Take a group of people. Stomp on them. Kill them. Enslave them. Separate them from their families. They'll usually take it. But take away their food and you're a goner. It all happens the same way. These are the kinds of patterns that get you nines on the test.  While I don't write AP Essays anymore as a general rule, I question everyday. That's what life is about, really.

My favorite English professor taught me once that all writing is an argument. This idea is true, but incomplete. All writing is an argument for the writer's view, and a question about everyone else's. The best literature presents an idea, says, "Here's what I think. What do you think?" My favorite High school English teacher taught that all Literature belongs not only to the world of snobbish academia, but to everyone, because it isn't answers, it's questions. We, as a human race, have to be able to question in order to thrive. It's one of the things that separates of from all other forms of life. We can come up with out own answers and keep asking questions. This is what I love about being human! I get to question the crap out of everything that enters my brain. That is what makes us alive.

Here comes some more geek squad to finish off the point:
"Need Input!" = "Number Five, Alive!"

P.S. If you don't get the movie reference,  you are fired.

I hate EVERYTHING in the world, but most of all, I HATE....

(name that play for the prize)

that I want to go on a walk but I feel too gross to get up. So here I am, blogging again.
(And no one comments. I can track your pageviews, I know someone is reading!)

Now to go contrary to the title, there are three things that I really like. And now I am going to vent about it. Buckle up.

1. swears. People say that swears do not make you feel better. To that, I say bull honky. Or, you know, bull whatever. Also, I do not necessarily mind other people's swears. Here's the catch. I know with the rational part of my brain that swearing is bad. I should not like to swear. I should not. With the emotional half of my brain, I really like the dopamine my brain releases when I swear, but I feel slightly guilty for not feeling guilty about it. Problem? Yes. That, my friends, is what you call complicated internal conflict. Girl style.

2. diet coke. I want an IV.

3. Mail. I like getting it, and I like sending it. But sometimes I am a scatterbrained person. and I lose things. And I have lost my stamps. They have fallen off the planet. they must have, because I have looked everywhere but in that black hole that makes my socks disappear. Black hole, I would like my stamps back. I have missionaries to write! Step off, jerk!

I don't really hate everything in the world, I just really like The Curious Savage, and I am feeling dramatic like Miss Paddy. Tomorrow I'll be Fairy Mae and write a blog begging for attention and approval.

the air conditioner has croaked

swears are being drowned in the midst of gallons of water and koolaid ice cubes.

Sometimes I think insanity is more sane than society. And so I choose to embrace oddities of character.

My best friend, a good human named Justin Banks, told me once that one of the things he likes best about me is my quirks. Apparently, I am amusing. Since that point, I have felt oddly justified in the fact that my quirks are some of the things I like best about myself as well.

Quirks that I like about myself, including but not limited to:

1. I feel that things are more valuable, lovable, and worthwhile if they are slightly broken. Like that hair brush that hasn't had a handle for three years or the  mp3 player with the broken screen so that I am the only one who can use it, or those cars who make funky noises whilst accelerating. Even people. People, like objects, are sometimes less interesting the closer they get to perfection and consistency.

2. I can't stand it when people put their faces near my neck. It doesn't make sense. But sense or no, if you put your face near my neck I will either:
   a) drop to the floor, maybe taking you with me
   b) quit hugging you and rub my neck to get rid of the sensation, even if this is offensive
        (or, if I like you a lot)
   c) put my ear on my shoulder so as to form a barrier without offending you

3. I have a whole list of life dreams which is filled with mostly nonsensical things like eating from a hotdog stand in a big city, walking all the way around an island, tailing someone in a taxi, going dancing, planting a flower garden to match a floral patterned outfit so that I can lay in the middle of it, owning a prada bag, you know...

4. I love taking walks in the middle of the night, preferably in a cemetery. Logan has a nice cemetery, and also a nice big empty road on the way home that basically screams "WALK DOWN THE MIDDLE OF ME!"  I generally obey.

5. I can sleep anywhere, and I do. I feel that hard surfaces are so much more nap-worthy than the world gives credit for. I've taken naps on the auditorium floor, on top of the steel countertop and the grill at Brighton, and on the sidewalk in front of the house. Also on the kitchen counter on days when the parental units are absent.

6. I am a very Mormon girl. Some would say prudish and closeminded. But I love Metallica. A lot. Lullabyes are great, and Orion is better. Thank you, Alex.

7. I very rarely wear matching socks. (Taylorsvillians. Mr. Schmid once made fun of me for color coding my feet so I could remember left and right. This coming from the man who wears one shoe.) I also wear holey sock, usually until my mom throws them away. I feel fine about both these facts. I also feel fine, and generally amused, that it drives my family crazy.

8. I name stuff. Mostly cars. But I also have a tree named Henderson, and a saga of phones whose names all started with J. Jedediah is saved for my first car. My textbook for AP World History was named Jeruzabel. I have this theory called: If you ackowledge an object's personality, it will serve you better and more faithfully. (It is quite possible that I have read too much harry potter. next I'll be bonding with my wand)

9. I really, really, like canned peas. Also spinach.

On a scale from "mildly annoying" to "I'm gonna maim you with your own credit card"

Most people who buy pizza fall somewhere to the less extreme side, but there is the occasional customer who scores up on the less pleasant but far more interesting side. The stories I could tell! (and I'm going to. brace yourselves.)

- There is the family who regularly comes in and argues about which pizzas to buy. During this process, they yell, let kids loose behind the make lines while we chase them out again, block the counter where everyone else is trying to order pizza, and interrupt at least three other people in mid sentence so they can ask me if I have more coupons for them*. On a good day, it takes them ten minutes. On a bad day, well, let's not talk about it. 

- The woman who flirts with Kevin. Good thing he is married and also oblivious.
" She was flirting with me? what?"
"Uhh, she was rubbing your arm."

- That one guy who who puts out his cigarette on the brick outside the door and then orders pizza with his still slightly smoking cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Only when the old lady with the oxygen tank came in and I turned my eye daggers* up from simmer to scorching level did he take a hint and get out. 

- The ones who don't know how EBT cards work.
"My husband took the card, but I have the pin number. Is that okay?"
"I have to have the card to charge it to the card."
"Why? I have the pin number."
" Sorry, I have to swipe the card or the pin doesn't do anything."
Sweeping out angrily. "Fine. If you won't do it."
I wonder, does she really think it's a matter of "won't"?
If you don't have the card, I. can't. charge it to the card.

- The woman who pays with money she retrieves from between her boobs every time. Be it cash, card, or coupon, her method of payment is unfailingly warm and moist. She thinks she is all sneaky about it, too. Even if you turn around and pretend to be looking at the menu, it's hard to hide that you're fishing around in there. And if your cup size is double E, I'd say it is impossible.  But I've learned to keep my gloves on when she pays for pizza, so it's okay.

*Collectively, all the people who try to get you to discount their pizza without coupons, or yell at me because I don't have coupons to give out at the register, I can't stand.  You wouldn't believe how many people have asked me if they can use my employee discount. Seriously.

*while I am required to speak politely and act accommodatingly to all customers, there are, thankfully, no guidelines on eye daggers. 

Contemplative

Ahem. As most of you probably don't remember, I have a cousin whose name is also Amy. This is a situation which, over the years, has led to huge piles of confusion and, in turn, huge piles of nicknames whose sole purpose is to differentiate between "the amys". Thus, Little Amy. Thus, the blog title.

So my twin Amy Robinson got married last week. Which means that I am now the only Amy Robinson. She deserted me and defected to Trent land, the twitterpated traitor. In the land of Robinson, I stand alone, which is a new feeling. But the wierd feeling isn't the sudden sole ownership of my name, I suppose. I am the only girl in the family left who has not yet ventured into the land of marriage and stuff. Which is fine. I'm alright with a few more years before taking my turn at making my family puke with my newlywed bliss. But they all seem to have left me and crossed a threshold I can't really approach quite yet. It seems to throw emphasis on the whole situation where I am sort of free to do anything I want in this wide world, and no one really gets to tell me yes or no. It's my own show, no co-anchors demanding a part in the decision making.

This is a scary prospect. When I was younger, I would make insane plans for things I would do and see when I reached the very spot I am in now. And now I'm there. And I am pretty sure that I underestimated the level of difficulty to be overcome if one wants to go adventuring across the country. And the whole 'amy getting married' thing probably makes no sense to anyone else. But it seems like that small occurence just smacked me in the face and said, " You are the only Amy Robinson. Go do something with your name. Surprise everyone, including you."

My response is mostly just a loud gulp as I contemplate the terror that comes with absolute freedom. Three a.m. is really a terrifying time. Midnight the witching hour? bull honky. Three a.m. finds me awake and clueless, the possibilities soaring ahead of me. Does anyone else feel like all your plans for the future, those things you fantasized about when  you were nine years old, suddenly taunt you with their unreachableness? But still, the future keeps coming, good and yet filled with nothing you planned.

Is it good enough? Or do you keep going until it includes some of those nine-year-old dreams? That terror that comes with freedom- is it terror at the prospect of  not getting the future I wanted, or is it getting it that I am afraid of?I don't know. It's something to think about at three a.m.