…But Amanda is Whittier
One of my longest-term relationships, and surely the longest that involved actual cohabitation, was with my college (and several years thereafter) roommate, Amanda Whittier. (not her real name, but one she gave out in bars, so it stuck for a whole lot of people… once on a third date she finally confessed it wasn’t really her name, and the guy demanded to see her ID) Like me back in those days, Amanda was a tart of the first order, and also like me, not given to undue sentimentality about it. ”How did you like so and so,” I’d ask about my latest. ”I try not to get too attached,” came the dismissive reply. She had a wit that left people either doubled over with laughter or gaping in horror, depending of course on what type of person they were. Even though she’s long since settled down and lives with her husband and daughter in upstate NY, she hasn’t changed a bit, and all these years later stories of her exploits and bons mot can still crack up a roomful of people, so why not trot them out for Hag readers?
The key to her brand of humor was not just its astonishing speed and sharp delivery (which might be feigned innocence, mock horror, or grave seriousness, depending….) but because of its certainty to shock the uninitiated, audience reaction was often half the fun. Good comedians work with what they know, so Amanda’s humor often involved sex, which undoubtedly contributed to its universal appeal. ”Wow, you’re tall all over,” probably went over better with an unsuspecting date than, “Not the biggest in the world? Last time I saw one that size, I was changing a diaper.” When we were out late one evening at the apartment of some female friends of ours, one of them said to the other, “Wait for me to walk the dog… you could get raped.” Amanda deadpanned, “Or worse.” One Sunday morning, Amanda and I and our next door neighbor had been having coffee and reading the paper for an hour or so when the toilet unexpectedly flushed down the hall. As Denise and I looked around in shock, Amanda languidly blew out a great cloud of smoke and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you I still have a sailor in there.” She did sometimes worry about her reputation, though, especially after belatedly realizing that a lot of bike messengers seemed to know each other, and talk. That epiphany led to a hastily declared moratorium of sorts until the last month or so before she moved to San Francisco, when Amanda shrewdly decided to make up for lost time, and I woke up to a different bike in the living room every morning.
Shopping with Amanda was, as you’d expect, interesting too, and not just when she was shopping for push-up bras and industrial-grade girdles. ”Butts my size aren’t supposed to be hard,” she remarked skeptically before adding, “I’ll take it.” But even at the Plaid Pantry, when buying things so mundane as a pack of Virginia Slims, which she put in her purse, and a box of Super Plus tampons, which then loomed large on the counter, she remained true to form. ”Do you want a bag for that?” asked the unsuspecting clerk. ”No, I’ll wear them out,” came the curt reply. A bag was quickly produced. As we walked through Safeway once, a can of tuna bizarrely plopped off the shelf as we passed. She turned to me and said in her podunk voice, “You see that fish jump?”
Alas, when she moved to San Francisco, in part to be with her college boyfriend, she met the man who would become her husband and haul her off to the frigid north, 3000 miles away, thus depriving me of many years of laughter and a handy second income, a turnaround that still surprises me to this day. You see, after one wild weekend, things soured with the ex, and as Amanda used to say, “absence makes the tart go wander,” and wander she did, finding two serviceable facsimiles in as many days before meeting The One. On their first night, which obviously must have gone well, he said, “I can’t believe you don’t have a boyfriend.” She replied testily, in her Lina Lamont voice, “Can’t a girl catch her breath?”
That was nearly twenty years ago, and I’m sure that it was nostalgia for those days that made me return back in 2002 to the same high-rise building where Amanda and I had so much fun; when I moved in I immediately reopened the painted-shut milk door, perhaps hoping that someday I’d again come home to find her high heels and stockinged legs hanging out in the hallway as she slept blissfully with her face on the parquet inside. Or maybe she would be there to helpfully rescue any spurned dates of mine I might inadvertently have left locked in the sub-basement garage. Unlikely. But I still have the stories, which if she isn’t careful I might someday tell to her daughter. Or worse.
What a fun woman and friend. When was the last time you heard from her? I would love to hear how her marriage turned out. If she had kids, imagine what they may be like considering the thrill of living with mom.
When I told “Amanda” that my old boyfriend had said that I was his “sexual side”, and the woman he dumped me for was his “intellectual side” she replied, Well goodie for our side!!!
I miss Amanda too…
I was almost going to work that story in, Denise, but I thought it was only funny to people who knew that “goody for our side” was an Etta quote. I also thought of Bernardo and the battle of the tart dresses…. Ah, memories. I forgot to tell Amanda I wrote a blog about her.
I last saw her in 2004, but we still keep in touch via email, and I’m always intending to get out there again. She sent me a picture of her daughter in this year’s Christmas card, and she looks like she might turn out to be a little vixen like Mama. Her husband is a great guy, and they seem to have as good a marriage as most I know.
Sally Bowles. You were living with Sally Bowles. You can’t fool me, Hag.
“I used to have a girlfriend known as Elsie… with whom I shared four sordid rooms in Chelsea….”
I was humming that song to myself this morning as I wrote.
Tom isn’t gonna like this.
Clearly not. He’s still going on on Thursday’s thread. I just compared him to Etta.
Only met her once, briefly in the Hag’s former headquarters in Northwest Portland. She had that certain wit, charm and cuteness combination I am a total sucker for.
Now this is the kind of topic that is so much more fun than politics. Can we talk more about tarts, sex, or worse?
Maybe Tom will come around after all and give us moral guidance
Good morning & happy Sunday. I had to come and quote this crap from MoDo in her column today:
As Greenwald would also insist, the Prez is *NOT* my father – aloof, adoring, affectionate, alert or otherwise. (And that’s just the As)
The Prez is the chief executive (and CIC of the military) but he’s not the Chief Daddy. I want him to execute the law, hire competent people, make informed decisions. I don’t want him to tuck me into bed at night and smooth my hair.
MoDo needs to GROW UP. She’s so infantile.
Have I mentioned today how much I despise that woman? She’s all over this “Spock” thing like it’s smart and original, even though she’s the only one in the world to see the connection. Her column was even worse than usual; irrelevant AND dated. I wish she’d get an abusive boyfriend.
I wish she’d get an abusive boyfriend.
That really made me laugh.
Retzilian, here’s another slice of Dowd’s infantilism:
I can just see the pout on her lips and the stray worry line creasing her pancaked brow.
Are you volunteering, T3? In a weak moment you admitted being attracted to her; if you’ve got a good right hook, you’d be perfect. (Just don’t bring the duct tape and fish bat on the first date…)
You know, maybe I am.
There’s something about that pout of hers …
(but only if she ponies up for the tape–I’ve got my pride to think of)
Oh, she’ll go to that fancy NYC Home Depot and get several rolls, since she hasn’t gotten laid since 1997.
Not to drift too far into the bog of politics (since this post is about nothing but sex) while touching on media analysis, today’s piece in the Times on Roger Ailes contains a short yet revealing look into the self-importance of our journalistic grandees – whether they’re red-haired, red-nailed harridan columnists or portly, balding teevee wizards.
In the Ailes article there is a passage about how a mere few hours after 9-11 the fearless Roger surveyed Fox News HQ, and, like a Minute Rice general at the ramparts, checked with staff about the minimum amount of personnel needed to keep Fox News on air, on the apparent assumption the terrorists were going to hit really important media dens such as the one he headed – like maybe in the next wave.
Roger jumped into his bunker with alacrity that day and we’re all the better for it.
Hats off once again to Helen Thomas.
I saw that. I think most righties are that way…. fearful bullies with an outsized notion of their own importance. Being paid so much doesn’t help, of course.
Another morning laugh:
Values, eh? Lying about taxation, health care, environmental issues, etc., etc.
Parading the likes of O’Reilly, Hannity and the irrepressible Glenn Beck.
If that’s what passes for values and if that’s what Ailes “envisions,” he suffers from diabetic neuropathy, glaucoma, cataracts, myopia and astigmatism all in one.
And what’s this
Too bad the Times’ writer didn’t mention whether Dad was a member of a union.
As usual, Ailes is lying about that values BS. He hightailed out of that rustbelt hellhole first chance he got, and never looked back, except to see if the people there are still dumb.
With the exception of Hannity and some of the bimbos, I don’t think anyone on FOX believes what they say every day.
..makes the tart go wander.
))))
… haul her off to the frigid north, 3000 miles away,….
Hey! I resemble that remark. Are you implying that it’s cold here, or something?
I wish she’d get an abusive boyfriend. or something. More likely an abused (mentally/emotionally) , or at least confused, SO.
I saw that headline ,and couldn’t bring myself to go further . Looks as if I read it (mentally) without having to actually read it. I wonder if MoDo knows that her colleague, Tommy Terrorizem, was dubbed Captain Obvious (aka “The Moustache of Understanding”)long ago.
http://driftglass.blogspot.com/2007/08/stache-that-wouldnt-die.html
( I hope she does, and he does. Fun might ensue.)
OT-
Apparently we aren’t the only ones with a Party-of-God/ Real (fill in nationality here) problem
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/11/world/asia/11malaysia.html?hp
This from a Malaysian political analyst :
“Religion has become a much more useful tool for parties who depend on playing on ethnic divisions,” said Mr. Ooi. “They find it difficult to talk about racial issues but possible to talk about religious issues. We are seeing the result of that political opportunism over the last two decades.”
Yeah, Friedman does often make MoDo seem smart, and humble, too. That’s saying something.
ps ..once on a third date she finally confessed it wasn’t really her name, and the guy demanded to see her ID)
Been there, done that, but it didn’t take me as long to figure it out. Turned out that I was the only one with the real name. Alas, she returned to Plattsburgh ( The frozen left armpit of NYS), never to be heard from again.
^ *right* armpit .- Much worse. (My sister is in the left (Messina) – gets confusing
)
How many armpits can one state have? Oughtn’t one place get to be the ass?