I’m bitter about love. I don’t think I can blame these feelings on experience, however. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t felt bitter, or at least genuinely cynical about it. (Marrieds might want to avoid reading from this point on).

It seems to me that love never turns out the way people expect when they’re swapping rings and spit in the beginning. A lot of times the warm glow of satisfaction is short lived, and before either person realizes what’s happening they’re picking fights and moving farther and farther apart on the bed, until one night someone wordlessly moves to the couch and then they’re having divorce papers with their breakfast. Or, they stay together. And maybe they wouldn’t refer to their marriage as an unhappy one, but they don’t feel the way they did – and I’m not talking about passion. We all know the sex stops eventually, I’m talking about actual love. If they’re lucky, the feeling fades to mutual respect or admiration. If not, the home they worked so hard to create is as quiet as a tomb, and husband and wife sit across from each other at the dinner table forking pasta into their mouths like total strangers. I realize no one aspires to this. People get married with the expectation that they’ll be in love forever, and even though they might not be having sex that long (or maybe they will, thank you Viagra) they’ll still wake up smiling and share a brief kiss before they put their dentures in. I don’t know many people who’ve been that lucky.

It seems to me, it’s safer to be single. When you have no plans to stay together forever, it’s not nearly as disappointing when you sit up in bed at three AM and realize you want the man you slept with two hours earlier to get out of your apartment right now, because you just realized you can’t STAND him.

My point is, I think shorter experiences are better. The other day in the grocery store, I paid the clerk and turned (bundled up in thick layers everywhere, except for my face) loaded down with bags, only to bump into a completely gorgeous stranger. He was tall, with dark eyes, and his smile was wide and warm. It was instant, mutual attraction. You know what I mean, right? When you look at someone and there’s just an immediate, unexplainable spark? So we smiled, and said hello, and he held the door for me. I left. The entire time I was leaving I contemplated going back inside and offering my phone number, or asking for his. But…what if? What if we dated, and fell in love (or lust) and everything went well, and then…boom. One idle afternoon, it all took an abrupt turn for the worst? Because I couldn’t see any other outcome, I kept walking. Now, I have a pleasant, perfectly suspended moment in time. (Which I have to say I’m grateful for – there’s nothing quite like being considered attractive even in mismatched winter gear, with no possible shape, and a definitely possible runny nose because of the cold).

Love, like hard candy, is surprising and sweet when you first taste it, but if you try to bite into it, you get it stuck in your teeth.

IT’S OVER. And I survived! Actually, the best part is, I survived impressively. I didn’t throw up or pee my pants or get murdered messily by the defendant. Although I should confess that after the defense attorney questioned me, I stood up to leave, and our guy was all, ‘ahem, you mind if I ask you a few questions before you go?’ And I was all, UM SURE, fuck. But otherwise it went well, except I think everyone involved could tell I was nervous, because a couple of people went out of their way to tell me I did a good job after it was all said and done. Maybe because when the judge dismissed me I hightailed it out of the courtroom like the roadrunner.

More importantly: It was suggested to me last night over dinner (I went to my friend’s place to help her pack for an upcoming move, and we ended up having dinner at her MIL’s house, and her MIL works at the courthouse) that I should apply for a job in the clerk & recorder’s office that I didn’t even know existed. Evidently I was discussed as someone they think would be great for the job, but let’s ignore the massive swelling of my head for a minute and focus on the tremendous perks:

For starters, it’s a Monday through Friday, eight to five, all weekends and holidays OFF type job, which is pretty much the exact opposite of where I’m working now. It would be mostly filing paperwork and bookkeeping, and I’d be helping them figure out the new motor vehicle system (which evidently was costly but sucks big-time, as are a lot of governmental endeavors). Best of all, I know all of the women working there, and they’re all very nice people, so the work environment would be pleasant. And I forgot to mention, I’d be getting a nice raise – about a buck and a half. So really, this is a big fat golden opportunity, and there are only two things making me hesitate (which, it would be helpful if you guys could call me crazy and side in favor of the new job): a) the office I work in now has been very kind to me, and if I left it would leave them in a serious lurch, and b) the new office is only casual on Fridays, so I’d be forced to buy nice clothes and save my beloved blue jeans for weekends ONLY. WHAT!? I take my comfort seriously! Of course, I try never to turn down any chance at a shopping spree, either…

I’m going to mention the idea at my current office tomorrow, and see what kind of panic/hysteria/unbridled fury it causes. And then maybe go from there? But let’s face it, people, I dreamed about the new position all damn night, so clearly my subconscious has decided for me?

By the way, I hope everyone has a great day…and you could maybe do it on my behalf, because until tomorrow I’m going to be up to my elbows in government paperwork – oh, the joy!

1) I could trip on the way to the stand.
2) I could try to talk like a reasonable human being but end up sounding like a rabid monkey.
3) The defendant could sneak a gun into the courtroom and open fire, killing us all. Of course, this could also be considered an upside because then I could avoid testifying and we would have the satisfaction of telling the smarmy little defense attorney WE TOLD YOU SO.
4) Terrorists could bomb the courtroom (also a potential upside).
5) My carefully applied eye makeup could run in rivers when I start to sweat, therefore giving me freakish raccoon eyes which would horrify everyone so much that I’d have to answer every question eighteen times and then the defendant would still walk away clean because of the massive distraction. WHY did I even wear eye makeup?
6) I could throw up all over the witness stand.
7) I could pass the hell out in front of everyone. (Shameful).
8 ) I might vault over the stand and attack the defense attorney after he states his stretched-beyond-all-belief case, therefore ensuring the next hearing I attend is my own.
9) I could blink and realize that I only THOUGHT I got dressed this morning. I’d be standing in front of the entire courtroom of people NAKED AS A JAY.
10) I could pee my pants while being questioned, at which point I would NEVER stand up again and they would have to bodily drag me from the courtroom with everyone laughing and pointing.
11) I could somehow say the entirely wrong thing (just as I’m sure the defense would love), and in so doing cement the defendant’s clean getaway.
12) I could start giggling hysterically, which I’ve been known to do when I’m very nervous or embarrassed, and wouldn’t that just shoot (HAHA) my credibility all to hell? Oh yes, yes it would. Because usually no matter how hard I try I can’t stop, until I’m too tired to laugh anymore…and that can take a while.

I’m supposed to be at the courthouse in about an hour, and my new mantra is ‘don’t throw up don’t pass out don’t laugh like a damn hyena and for the love of god do NOT pee your pants, amber don’t throw up don’t pass out don’t laugh…’

Wish me luck!

It’s freezing outside, literally. When I walked (yes, walked!) to work this morning just before 8 am, it was forty below zero with wind chill, and actually it still is. FORTY. BELOW. One of the things I love about Montana is that we can have a very mild, almost pleasant December with only one brief instance of fluffy snow and then a month later, winter really kicks in complete with howling wind and snow drifts and frostbite.

The sky is that ice-white color, a color that might be clear if it were any lighter, and looks bitterly cold. There are tiny snow-tornadoes being blown to and fro by the wind, smashing into trees and buildings and then dropping in haphazard piles. Everything else is dead and bare, bereft. It’s the sort of day that makes me long to be home with a cup of hot cocoa, wrapped in my fuzzy orange afghan, reading a good book. It’s the sort of day that makes you really appreciate those lazy summer days with sunshine and sticky sidewalks. All the same, I love winter. If I could, I would kiss Jack Frost for days like these.

I am totally borrowing Tessie’s infamous nervous tummy, people. (Thanks, Tessie). Borrowing in the sense that it feels like I have one of those oh-so-popular exercise balls bouncing around in my stomach like goddamn Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. And I can’t concentrate or sleep or eat without thinking about stupid, evil upcoming TUESDAY.

What happens on Tuesday, you ask? (Or maybe you don’t ask, but I’m TELLING YOU ANYWAY). Remember this? THAT is why my Tuesday is going completely down the drain – and we’re talking a nasty drain, clogged with hair and soap scum, because I have to TESTIFY.

Now, to some of you testifying might not seem like such a big thing. I mean, piece of cake, right? WRONG. That’s a lie, a dirty lie told only by lawyers and crazy people! (Not that lawyers are crazy or anything…COUGH). I would rather suffer a botched (carrot orange) dye job or gain fifty pounds or get frostbite and lose two toes than testify. Nothing makes me as sick and scared as walking up to the damn witness stand and sitting down and then being asked QUESTIONS that I have to answer like an intelligent human being in front of a courtroom full of PEOPLE WHO ARE COUNTING ON ME, and also a few people who want me to fail miserably. Testifying is by far the absolute worst part of my job, no contest.

I have testified twice before – once as a little girl, and once when I was 21, and I remember both times with vivid and painful clarity, and I would really rather NOT do it again. But then some crazy bastard had to shoot at the office, and I was a witness (and almost hit by a random bullet), and now my testimony is supposedly key in putting his ass in jail. UGH. I have to do it, because it’s my job, and it’s the right thing to do. But I am dreading Tuesday to the point where it’s already sucking up almost all of my thought process (as if the blogging about cookies didn’t tip you off) and it’s only Thursday, and how am I going to survive the upcoming FOUR AND A HALF DAYS?

Does anyone know any quick and inexpensive ways to skip the country? I hear Ireland is nice.

December was a good month. I was proud of myself, because despite the heaps and heaps of delicious, mouth-watering food and desserts I managed not to shovel ninety percent (or so – you know how I feel about mathematical calculation) into my mouth. I thought to myself, YES, I beat the holiday food trap, I am free…

And then in January, holy god, I discovered COOKIES. I mean, I knew about cookies, but now it’s like an obsession. There are so many flavors and textures and I was doing SO WELL as far as my weight-loss goals…but now, I am barely holding steady because I have morphed into the goddamn cookie monster and am going out of my WAY for the possibility of cookie-goodness. Help me, someone, PLEASE.

I’m still working out, but instead of helping it’s becoming an excuse for a treat, i.e. “I was on the elliptical for twenty minutes today! I deserve a cookie!”

And I am so sorry, because this topic could not BE anymore boring if I tried, but I feel like maybe if I purge myself in writing somehow the madness will cease. And if any of you are thinking to yourself, get over it, cookies aren’t THAT bad…

Three or four a day probably ARE that bad. I’m just saying.

I’m so sick of the ongoing obsession with food and eating and women’s bodies. Do I have a problem with people wanting to be healthy and fit? No, I do not. I do have a problem with the idea that a woman has to be a size six or less to be attractive, and futhermore, what is WRONG with people? Why are women going to such insane and extreme measures just so they can wear ‘skinny jeans’?

It seems like every time I turn around lately I see or hear something about ‘fat’ or ‘skinny’ or ‘good’ and ‘bad’ foods. Pizza is not a bad food! A whole pizza might not be good for you, but two slices will not add five pounds! Get over it, America. And while I’m ranting, who WANTS to live a pizza-free life anyway? I mean, if you hate pizza, that’s one thing. But never eating something you love so that you can shrink yourself into society’s ideal size? It seems like a sad and empty trade to me.

In case you’re wondering, I’m overweight, although not by a lot. I’m 5’3 and about 145 lbs. I wear a size 8 or 10, depending on the brand. I work out regularly, and I eat mostly healthy food – I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a size six. And I’m actually okay with it.

I know people who spend most of their day thinking about food, or wanting food, or feeling guilty over eating food. About a year ago I went on an extreme diet (no sugar or fat, minimal carbs) and became one of those people, and I drove myself so crazy I had to quit. Oh sure, I lost the extra ten pounds I was desperate to get rid of, but I felt miserable – and I was horrible to be around as a result. If you think PMS is bad now, try denying yourself bread and meet the inner demon-bitch you didn’t know you had.

Somehow food has gone from being delicious and nourishing to being bad, to being something that will make you GAIN WEIGHT, oh god, not the weight! NO!

What I’m saying is, I wish food could be simple again. Something shared between friends, something enjoyed and then forgotten until the next mealtime.

Oh, and personally, I find extra flesh a LOT sexier than protruding bones.

In college I signed up for a film class. I can’t even remember what it was called, but I thought it would be an easy A, and it was. It was also where I met the guy I would pine over for the following five years, and eventually learn to hate.

He was in the Army Reserve, fresh out of boot camp, AND he was a political science major. Warning bells, where were you when I needed you? He was  short and blond, which in my opinion has always equaled two very big strikes against a potential suitor. I could forgive him for being short, because he was taller than me (and he had a terrific butt). I liked him so much I managed to overlook the blond hair, too, which for me is a bigger achievement than you might think.

We started sneaking out of film class to go to Starbucks together, sharing uninhibited conversation along with our mutual caffeine addictions. I remember being so relaxed around him, and amazed at how well the topics flowed from one to the next without any awkward pauses (if you know me,  you know awkward moments in conversations are a cornerstone of my existence).

In no time at all we were coming up with excuses to spend time together. He offered to drive me to school so I didn’t have to take the bus, an offer I was happy with for more reasons than one, since I met a lot of crazy people on the bus. We started watching our film assignments together – I distinctly remember one long afternoon of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (his favorite movie) and Psycho (guess who chose that for her film analysis – and then somehow got a B?). We played tennis at the courts behind his father’s house, a sport I learned to hate because he was so much faster and better at it, and he had zero mercy until the day I ‘accidentally’ hit him in the nuts after a well-aimed power serve. After that he stopped bragging so damn much…actually, now that I’m thinking about it, he stopped asking me to play so much, too.

We went on one official date before I moved back to Montana, on the fourth of July. We went to a carnival and rode the ferris wheel, and he held my hand because I’m petrified of heights but still stupidly climb onto a ferris wheel every time I see one, and then we joined the mob watching fireworks explode over Capital Lake. I remember our knees bumping, and the way my pulse raced, and my total lack of attention for the fireworks. He drove me home, and when he leaned in to kiss me I chickened the hell out and pecked his cheek like he was some kind of TODDLER before dashing up the steps into my apartment. Note: I was still a shy, bumbling virgin at the time.

And then I met the biggest mistake of my life, but I think we’ll save him for another time. So Bootcamp and I went back to being strictly friends, and when I moved we promised to keep in touch.

He went to Iraq shortly after I moved to Montana, but strangely and in spite of all of my assumptions, we DID keep in touch. We wrote letters (actual, hand-written letters) fairly regularly, and his letters got more and more intimate. I showed one to my friend K, and she agreed he was sending love letters. The content couldn’t be mistaken for anything else, trust me. He talked about how he never really appreciated me while he had me (news to me, because I never thought he did ‘have’ me at that point, and he also never acted remotely unappreciative), and how sorry he was that he didn’t just go for it. When he got back from Iraq, I wrote him a letter suggesting that distance wasn’t important, and maybe we should just go for it. Brave of me, since I’m not a make-the-first-move kind of girl. I guess maybe that wouldn’t be considered the first move, though.

We did go for it. He flew into Great Falls in March of that year, on his 22nd birthday. (By the way, I call bullshit on that – he flew in to see me on his birthday, expecting to be all romantic, and NOT expecting sex? MY ASS). We went to dinner at a steak and seafood place, and checked into our hotel, and then went to bar where we had a long discussion about ways to make ‘us’ work.

I was giddy, and not because of the beer. I loved him. Maybe I wasn’t IN love with him (god how I hate distinguishing between the two), but we made each other happy. Or at least I thought we did, because of course after we had champagne and sex (birthday sex for him) he said a lot of things that made me realize he’d achieved his goal, reached the end of the journey, WHATEVER. He was finished with me. I got so pissed I made him drive me home (I had arranged for alternate transportation), 100 miles away, at 4AM, when his flight was scheduled to leave at 9AM that same morning. The silence in the car was uncomfortable and heavy.

That was the beginning and the end, although we still stay in touch as ‘friends’, despite my secretly harboring a need for massive revenge. Sometimes (like tonight) he IMs me and gets all flirty and full of innuendos, and then he pisses me off and I shoot him down and we don’t talk for a couple of months.

I’m so angry at him, because that’s what he does – he acts like he wants me, and makes all sorts of suggestions and promises, and then he NEVER follows through. Except for the one time, and you see how well that went. My sister assures me he was never good enough, and I know she’s right, because the man I want…Well, after that first date, when I dodged and kissed his cheek instead, he would have followed me to the door, knocked, and really kissed me when I opened it.

Admittedly dignity isn’t one of my best things…I’m more of the ‘make an ass of myself to be funny’ type, but still, I wouldn’t normally consider myself stupid. Until now.

I can’t pump my own gas. I can’t DO IT. Every time, every single time I go to get gas, I am at a total loss. It’s demoralizing and wretched, and I face the filling of a gas tank with an unnatural dread. Some of my more common mistakes, to be avoided whenever possible:

It’s important when getting gas to go to the right pump. For instance, if you’re driving a sporty little Saturn, maybe diesel isn’t what you’re looking for. Ahem.

Next, KNOW your gas cap. Some of these stubborn little plastics bastards will not just pop off, no matter how much yanking, twisting, or swearing is involved.

Once you’ve removed the gas cap - by any means necessary – things get complicated. For instance, if your system is similar to the one I have to use, that is to say it involves an electronic charge key instead of a credit card (WHY? everyone can use a credit card!), the issue becomes how to properly insert the key. (And now you’re wondering, well can’t everyone also use a KEY? And the answer to that is an emphatic NO!)

After the light turns green, don’t get too excited - you’re only halfway there, and the rest of the journey is ALL uphill. You must now get the delivery system attached to the car, which is not as easy as it may seem to some of you smug bastards.

Lastly, there is a lever to pull down, to start the actual pumping of the gas. The lever itself looks harmless and not at all tricky, but if you don’t pull it at the appropriate time – AND WHO KNOWS WHEN THAT IS, because I sure don’t -you will be forced to start over with the insertion of the electronic devil key, at which point the partially amused, partially annoyed attendant will take pity on the waiting customers and meander outside to DO IT FOR YOU. Which, honestly, isn’t that what they’re getting PAID for?

Additional (noteworthy?) information: I was very, very (VERY) tired this morning when I went to pump gas. As for all the other times…well, let’s call that ‘tired’ too, shall we?

I hope you all had a happy, exciting new year. Now let’s pretend I made you feel like this blog post isn’t all about me, but of course it IS.

I opted not to go out with a crowd this year, perhaps because although I remember having a lot of fun last year, I don’t remember much else. Instead, I stayed at home with my cat and my sister’s puppy (I’m dog-watching while H honeymoons in Vegas, but before you go fancying me as altruistic it should be known that my motives are purely selfish and being stuck with the runt will get me something completely cool from sin city - I’m thinking DIAMONDS) and watched a movie, which turned out to be a giant suck-fest compared to the first two in the same trilogy. Consider this your warning, Pirates of the Caribbean fans.

Anyway, I was in bed when the ball dropped in my time zone. And then up at 2 AM, on my way downstairs to take some Pepto for my stomachache, except it was worse than I thought because all it took was a capful of medicine to make me spew in my kitchen sink. Gross, right?

So I spent all night as sick as a dog, and had to call in to work on January 1st, and you KNOW what my disgruntled, barely-awake co-worker thought when I called at 5 AM to beg her to cover.

This is what I get for staying home and behaving myself. Next year, I’m going out and kissing every stunned stranger I can get my greedy little hands on.

What did you guys do to ring in the new year? Bonus points for humiliating stories!