It was going to be the best of times.

Okay, so it still ended up being pretty good - just not in the way I'd expected. This morning Beeb and Audrey were going to come over to open Christmas presents and hang out for a few hours, then I was going to go to work and come home and have dinner with my family and open presents. Sounds pretty ideal, huh?

This morning I woke up so cold I could barely function. Why, you might ask? Because the power went out at ten minutes to three. I woke up at about six, only to hear my dad mumbling about it being 37 below outside as he shuffled around the kitchen with nothing but the glow of a flashlight with a dying battery to lead him. That's right. Thirty-seven degrees below zero and us without any electricity. Ah, the joys of the northwoods.

At around 7:30, the power came back on and my sister and I hooted and hollered about the "Christmas miracle." It would take a while for the house to heat up, but it should be warm enough for the kids to come over. Fine, sure, that works out. Angie and I hopped up out of our beds and bounced into the living room, overjoyed at the thought of heat - actual heat - rushing through the inner workings of the house and into our very own rooms. After about ten minutes of rejoicing, the power went off again, and we were left pouting and wondering who did what so out of the Christmas spirit to cause the power to go out again. Bah humbug.

So much for the kids coming over. We decided we'd be real stalker-like and go to THEM instead. A few hours later I began packing my shampoos and body washes with the intention of breaking into my grandma's isolated house to use her shower. As I packed (and as soon as my dad got the generator working), the power flicked back on. (Roughly seven hours, no heat, 37 below outside. Did I mention the cold? And how cold it was?) I immediately jumped in the shower and turned it on and ohhh, the warm, wet heat that covered my body. I probably could have died then and there and been perfectly content.

Once I began to feel like the heat might make me pass out in ecstasy, my sister banged on the door and told me Dad said I couldn't shower yet. Shit. So I stood in the waterless shower, shampoo in my hair, soap in my eyes, wet and shivering like Santa Claus naked on the streets of the North Pole.

That's how my day started. I eventually finished showering and the electricity stayed on and Brody and Audrey are absolutely precious, almost painfully so, even at their own house, and work was fun all by myself, and tonight we put booties on my brother's idiot of a puppy. And what could possibly be better than booties on a stupid, prancing, clumsy mutt?

A very merry Christmas to all of you. You know, if you're into that sort of thing.

It sure it hard to say good-bye to so many people you love in such a short amount of time without knowing when they’ll see them again. Well, it’s not really that I won’t see them again – I probably will relatively soon. The part that bothers me is that I know it will never be the SAME again.

Two and a half years ago, I was somehow lucky enough to fall into the best group of friends I could have ever imagined. Since then, we’ve even managed to gain a couple more outstanding individuals to hike up our coolness factor. Over the past few days, I’ve had to give my finals hugs and try to maintain my composure as I bid farewell to these wonderful people, all of whom have changed me in their own special way. (Yeah, it’s vomit-inducingly sappy, deal with it.) Saying good-bye wasn’t hard. Knowing I won't be going back to them next month is what’s killing me.

I’ve come to think of these folks as my other family, which is basically what they are. They’ve always been there to support me when I’m freaking out about, well, all the pointless stuff I freak out about. They always manage to cheer me up (most of the time without trying) when the seemingly endless cases of PMS pop up month after month. It wrenches my insides to know I’ll never again live with three unique but totally awesome (like, oh my God! So totally awesome!) gals who know all the gruesome details of my life.

I’ll miss the companionship. I’ll miss having some of my favorite people being only a phone call away from visiting, if not in the next room over. I’ll miss the singing…and the dancing…and the drinking. (Those last three always seem to be inter-related.) I’ll miss having people hug me for no reason. Why do we need a reason to hug anyway?! I love hugs, but I wasn’t brought up in a hugging family so there’s a distinct lack of embraces when I’m at home.

I’ll miss Rachel putting random stuff on her head and Nicole streaking by my room and Cassi paintbrushing her cute little ass all over the apartment. I’ll miss Chelsea’s baking and rubbing Brian’s head and talking with Kelly about anything and everything. I’ll continue to miss watching perseverant little Alexis unicycle down the halls of Goldfine C and the sound of Aurora’s uplifting laugh. But most of all, I’ll miss the way I feel when I’m around these people.

The fact of the matter is that Tower sucks and I miss everyone so much that I have unexpected crying jags despite having only left Duluth yesterday. It really IS like having permanent PMS. HOW THE HELL IS A GIRL SUPPOSED TO DEAL WITH PMS PERMEATING EVERY FACET OF HER LIFE?!

I never thought I’d create such great relationships in college, but I sure am thankful I did. I don’t know how many of you guys read this, but thanks for some of the greatest memories of my life.

So that's it. Just like that, I'm a college graduate. Man, why didn't anyone tell me it was going to be this easy to slide on out of here? Growing up I thought I'd have to finish one great, big fuck-you salute for the school before they let me out...like a dissertation for undergrads. I'm glad I was a stupid kid.

On the agenda for tonight is an unhealthy amount of beer (I've been drooling like a Rottweiler at dinner time just thinking about it). Tomorrow I move home, then I work for a few days, celebrate the big holiday with the family, then head to the Cities with my sister on Monday. I'll spend a few days with her, then it's off to Darren's, where I'll have more fun than should be allowed by law. Oh yeah, and I have to apply for some jobs. I keep forgetting about that part.

I think this might be my way of saying there might not be much bloggage in my near future. Be strong through this time, my people, for I will return to you. And don't forget to have some happy flippin' holidays.

My grandma turns 92 years old today. That's old. And now I'm going to tell you about her.

My grandma's name is Vida, which I think is a very pretty name. As I mentioned, she's old. Way old. I suppose it's impressive that she's 92 and still alive, but what's even more impressive is that she's 92, she lives alone in a great big house, she cares for herself completely, and she's probably healthier than both you and I put together (with only our healthiest parts contributing, of course). We're convinced she'll never die, mostly because she really wants to.

A few years back, Gram fell down the stairs. She smacked her head on the wall so hard that she actually cracked it. The wall, not her head. She did, however, receive quite the concussion and her random ramblings following the concussion before she arrived at the hospital have been the object of family jokes ever since. She's really proud of the crack in the wall, too. I brought my (now ex-) boyfriend over there and she showed him the hell her cranium gave that wall like a new mommy showing off her first-born. Did I mention she's deaf and he was from England, so she couldn't understand a word of what he said? The trips to Gram's were always interesting.

About the deaf thing... She says she'd buy hearing aids if she knew she'd live just two more years. Wishful thinking, lady. We'll all die before you do. Just buy the hearing aids.

Now speaking of the need for hearing aids... I called the old lady to wish her a happy birthday today. After shouting into the phone three times that I am AMANDA, PATTI'S DAUGHTER, she said, "Oh, okay! When are you coming to visit again, Norma?" Throughout the entire conversation she thought I was Norma, my 65-year-old uncle's wife. And I just let her think that. It's easier that way, and the yelling was just waking up my roommates.

Last year she broke her ankle going to feed leftovers to the neighbor dog. I went to her house shortly after the accident, where she was walking from the living room to the kitchen with a walker. About half way to the kitchen she muttered, "Ah, to hell with it," tossed the walker aside and hauled ass to the kitchen table to whoop me at rummy.

Like any good grandma, she force feeds. I can't go to her house without having her shove cinnamon rolls and cookies and potica and strudel down my throat. Gotta keep those grandkids fat, you know, with winter here and all. She also force feeds the neighbor dog, Farley, who happens to be a massive idiot of a Saint Bernard.

Last time my sister visited, there was this exchange:

Gram: Look at these eggs! They only cost 19 cents!
Angie: Wow, Gram, that's great.
Gram: Who cares if they're rotten for a price like that!? If they are I'll just feed them to Farley.

Lucky Farley. I think I'll stick with the pastries.

There are just so many great stories and I don't care that you don't care, but this lady just kills me!

My sister and I went over to her house last summer to play cards. She got up to go to the bathroom, and came back giggling and wiping something off her shirt, at which time she announced, quite cheerfully, "I puked!" Then she sat down and kicked our asses at rummy, without another word of the vomit.

Oh goodness. I'm GLAD she'll never die. I know you won't read this, but happy birthday anyway, you old fart.

PMS strikes again. Well, it's actually just MS. But seriously, do I have some sort of disorder? Is PMS a disorder?

I was just listening to some sappy ass country song (first mistake) about this kid and the best day of his life and yada yada yada. Some of you may be familiar with the song. But the first time he told his dad it was the best day of his life was when they were going camping. After I heard that (even though I've heard the song at least a half million times before), I felt an onslaught of tears rush from my tear ducts. What the hell?

I started thinking about going camping with MY dad and how much I enjoy it and how I probably won't get to do it much anymore, if at all. And I started thinking about the road trips that are now just a memory. And I started thinking about how I'm damn near grown up. And good LORD did I cry.

Then...THEN...I started thinking about what's going to happen when my parents die. How fucking MORBID am I? And, if you can believe it, that made me cry even harder. I'm such a bad daughter...why haven't I been nicer to them?

I wish there were some way to naturally and safely persuade the eggs to just stay in there.

In northern Minnesota, there's not a lot to get excited about. So we get excited about weather. I know, I know. How BORING. It really is. It's boring and sad and sometimes it makes me want to pretend I'm from the South instead, where they have MUCH worse things to worry about. But, in all honesty, there's no denying this accent.

The town I grew up in, a town of 500, holds the record for the coldest official temperature in Minnesota - the coldest official temperature east of of the Mississippi River, as a matter of fact - and that is 60 degrees below zero. Now, yes, 60 below is cold, but this happened eight years ago and people still never shut up about it. (So what if I'm one of those people?)

This summer, the psychotic lady who used to serve as the official weather watcher for my town moved away. The only people saddened by her departure were the weather folks, who no longer received their daily phone call from Miss Psychosis, raving about how well her 30-year-old, mentally and physically able (I'm serious), son beat out the one-legged black man in that race at the Special Olympics (I'm still serious). Oh, and the weather. They never hear about the weather anymore. And, sad as it is, people are INTERESTED in the weather in my hometown because it's so ungodly cold.

That and the next town over (it's not even a real town...more like a stupid, little township with a stupid, stupid name [Embarrass]) recorded an unofficial temperature of 64 below around the same time Tower set the record. The debate over the real cold spot has gone on for years and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if there has been some blood shed over it.

On the news they've been whining about how much they miss their Tower weather information, so my dad gave them a call and volunteered to take over. Now, I never imagined this would be such a fiasco. The whole thing is very entertaining to me, but when the weather lovers went to my house to set up the very important weather stuff in the basement and the yard, they said the Pioneer Press wanted to send someone along. For the trip to my dad's basement. To MEET the new weather watcher. It's a good three and a half hour drive to Tower from the Cities. Why, people? WHY?!

Luckily for my old man, the weather lovers wouldn't allow the ride-along. His name will be kept confidential, they said, because if they let it out, he would be "bombarded by the media." Does the media not have anything better to do?!

All this hoopla is making me second-guess my wish to never, ever in a million years be a journalist. My mom says it's too bad I hate journalism and everything it entails because now, she says, I have an "in." Isn't that foolish?

I COULD be a journalist if it involved just talking to my dad about the weather every day. As an added bonus, I could work from home!

In the past six hours I have....

• practiced my bra-unhooking skills on a pillow sporting a push-up bra
  
• witnessed scantily clad women wrestle in an inflatable pool of jell-o
  
• graced the trashiest establishment in Duluth (see above)
  
• watched my friends grind on each other in every combination imaginable (see above)
  
• been hit on by a stranger for the first time in my life
  
• been hit on by said stranger's cousin in front of said cousin's girlfriend (do you see what I'm saying about this place being trashy?)
  
• eaten so much I felt ready pop and ooze soup and crackers and cheese and cornbread and candy and magical hot chocolate all over our very clean apartment, then ate some more
  
• realized how different it is being the sober one (being the sober one kind of sucks)
• visited sweet, little Cassi while she worked on campus after a drink or four (with four drunk friends, which was really the entertaining part)

In the next three days I will...

• head to the Cities with the old man
• deliver Christmas trees
• spend quality time with my sister
• fall in love with three dozen animals at the humane society
• fall in love with three dozen different articles of clothing at the mall
• kiss a boy (and by kissing a boy I mean I get to see Darren!)
• bask in gluttony at Olive Garden

A wonderful weekend to all!

A note to my hair:

Dear Hair,

Stop being such a bitch. If you continue pissing me off as you have in the past couple of weeks, I am going to cut you all off. Is that what you want? Do you want to be SHORTENED? Do you want to bid farewell to your dried out, stringy, appalling brothers and sisters?

Just stop being so stupid. That's all I ask.

Thank you.

Love,
Amanda

Sometimes, when Darren is sleeping peacefully in my bed (until noon), I like to fold laundry and stack it on top of him to see how high I can get it before it tumbles to the floor or he notices, wakes up and gives me that groggy what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you look. I'm not sure why he even bothers with that look anymore. Some questions just can't be answered.

I didn't think I'd make it, but here I almost have!

Surely you know what I'm talking about. Alexis is going to be home soon. And by soon, I mean SOON! At this point it feels like she was a figment of my imagination all along. She was an illusion of the perfect friend that was a danced like a marionette in front of my boggled eyes, only to disappear to Venezuela for the rest of her life. But it wasn't the rest of her life, and it wasn't even the rest of mine, AND SOON SHE'LL BE HOME!

It's been rough without you, dear, and none of us can wait to see your beautiful, smiling face again. I just hope you remember how to speak English.