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Navel-gazing therein.

I am living proof that even the most quick-tongued individuals take lots of time to think. I sometimes think I'm too pensive for my own earthly good. So when I disappear for a few weeks, it's not because I've fallen into a hole somewhere as some emails have suggested (although the drama of that is rather appealing in some sick, twisted, Aubrey Seiler-type way); it's due to a number of reasons. These reasons could include but are not limited to: bread-winning, mental exhaustion, having nothing nice to say and therefore not saying it at all, distaste for certain commenters, disgruntledness with people who would rather worship political position rhetoric than think or act like Christians, time spent thinking, and most importantly, having a life. Personally, I have never had a problem with the "having something to say" part. In fact, I have written lists upon lists of topics that I may never ever get a chance to address in this forum. My problem is not a bad one to have, I suppose, but it generally consists of me having so much to say that sometimes, it's just easier not to say it. Does that make sense? Probably not.

Read on.

I sometimes think life would be better if I just didn't care so much about all this. Don't be fooled by my fashion rants and penchant for making fun of rappers who can't rap. As many a reader has reminded me, this blogging thing is a very serious endeavor. I've taken on the burden to ensure this joint runs in the spirit of excellence I'd like to be attached to my name. While that yoke should be easy, I am a procrastinating perfectionist, which is the worst kind of procrastinator. Simply put: I'm not out to shoot blanks.

Do you ever wish you had a secretary for your life? Nothing fancy, just someone who can call in sick to meetings, organize my closet, read the books I wish I had to time to read, remember all the birthdays of everyone who will hate me when I forget, tell me where to show up every day, allocate my time, and organize and answer email. In fact, I would pay big money just for that last one. The condition of my inbox(es) are is horrendous. Note to self: cancel all NAACP Google news alerts.

I've found the hardest part of adulthood not to be paying bills or buying property, but instead managing time and the lack thereof. This is code for learning how to effectively say "no."

In about three days I will be 24 years-old and I'm feeling just a little bit anxious about the whole thing. I can't imagine how I'll feel when I turn 50. One of my best and worst qualities is that I set ridiculous standards for myself every year. Don't get me wrong, as a fan of life, you'd be hard-pressed to convince me that the number 24 isn't about to be made "the new black" because I'm associated with it. Don't hate. You should love your number too. And despite what Sir Robert "doesn't have the sense his momma gave him" Kelly may say, age is more than a number. So around this time every year, I get very pensive and retreat into my pathetic shell, only to emerge a few weeks later with the mantra, "Get yourself together, Ambra."

In an unexpected turn of events, the publishers have come knocking and I really never thought I'd say it, but I think it's time to write a book. As terrifying as that sounds, I think I am going to explode if I don't. Five years ago, as a timid college drop-out, the thought first struck me and I began writing what has to be one my most horrible pieces of literature. Back then, I wasn't even close to being ready. Today, I am, and now my mind is just spinning.

Why I am sharing this here, I do not know. I sat down at my laptop and this is what came out. I guess I thought you should be the first to know. No; this doesn't mean I'm giving up my weblog. That would just be too easy.

I guess I say all this to say: Thanks for getting me to this point. You simply have no idea.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link | Comments { 34 }

 

This site has been sporadically updated, I know. I am one busy girl. As an aside, do you know that it is near impossible for me to read, write, or say the word "sporadically" without conjuring lines from the movie, "Clueless?" If you've seen it, you understand. I'm not going to say much more on that since there is a small part of me that remains somewhat embarrassed by the fact that I've actually watched that movie. Ah the power of the film industry. I digress.

A reader emailed me last week, requesting more "What Ambra is up to/A day in the life" type posts. Not sure I'm willing to go there, but I will tell you this: I take a plethora of vitamins every day (as we all should) and they are easier on the stomach when taken with food. A few minutes ago, I didn't have any food near me save a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. So I grabbed a doughnut and ate it with my vitamins. Tell me that is not funny.

I think I am going to spend a great deal of next week, publicly responding to email Dear Abbey style. From abortion to spanking to Kanye West, my inbox this week has seen some interesting stuff. Why not share it with the world? (Anonymously of course) If you have a request, shoot it my way. I'd be glad to offer my perspective. That is, unless I don't have one.

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Since the time I came into common sense, I've had alternative views on "dating." That is to say: with a few exceptions, I generally think it stinks. I'll go one step farther to say that today's methods of "hit it and quit it" rendezvous are partly to blame for the ubiquitous nature of unhealthy marriages in America.

That said, there are some personal tenets of male/female relationships that I'm finding less than common amongst some of my peers. For one, as a woman, I don't "pursue" men. And trust me; I know this is not the common belief system because I have a 17-year-old athlete brother (who if he weren't related to me, and a minor, I would consider a very fine specimen). I see the way the floozy skank jezebels fling themselves at him. Remind me to write about how we're raising a generation of underage bootylicious prostitutes.

When I was growing up, my parents barely let my sister and I even call a guy, let alone ask one out. If a guy wanted in, he had to come correct. To some it sounds extreme, but I'm still young and I've never been pregnant, so I guess it worked. More importantly, there was a principle there that's stuck with me throughout my life: some may go for self-promotion, but it's best to let others pursue you on your own merits. I've taken the same approach to blogging. Plus, when it comes to issues of courtship, engagement and marriage, I guess I'm just old-fashioned. The wedding night's better that way.

Sounds simple enough, but we must never underestimate the complexity of the male mind. And let's just be honest here. If you're a woman and you're breathing, chances are you've been hit on. I don't care what you look like. Every woman has at one point or another, endured the ridiculosity* of what passes for 21st century chivalry.

While most of my guy friends have informed me that I can be "intimidating" at times (seriously people, I'm only 5'2"), it seems there is a certain cross segment of the male population that has absolutely no shame. You know the ones. They pick their wedgies in front of you and try to pick up married women. So it is with that "have you no shame?" sentiment that I kick-off the growing list I shall dub The Nykola.com Men's Guide for How to Never Ever (Ever) Get a Woman. Feel free to add:

Continue reading "The Requisite Monthly Rant: How Not to Get a Wife">>>

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The Bay Area is a trip. I arrived in Santa Clara and barely stepped out of my rental car before I got into an argument with protesters. It figures.

I've been in Northern California for most of the week for work, but since the conference is in Santa Clara, I switched hotels today in order to be closer and so that I can more effectively roll out of bed and into my clothes in the morning. Whenever I travel and hotel accommodations are necessary, I prefer to stay at the Westin. Call me bourgeoisie, call me whatever you want, but I don't like having to guess if the hotel room I'm walking into will look and smell like it rents by the hour.

The Westin is a member of the Starwood Hotel chain, which is apparently being boycotted by some workers and some trustafarians who've burdened themselves with the cause of the disgruntled workers. A little googling has shown me that this same group has issue with Wal-Mart, which automatically puts them on my bad list (even though I can't stand Wal-Mart.)

I pulled up to my hotel, only to be greeted by two white (but tanned), hapless, college students, handing out propaganda. They gave me a flier which I decided I'd least glance at to see what had their panties in a punch. That was, until I walked through the doors and heard them yelling behind my back, "They don't deserve your money...You need to go somewhere else!" Since I don't do well with being yelled at, I made a mental note of their idiocy and quietly checked into my room.

Continue reading "It Starts">>>

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Despite my persistent contention that the internet is full of strange people (myself not included), and despite some readers who consistently feel the need to inform me of my "alleged stupidity" in the most abrasive possible ways, I have to concede that I have a great group of readers.

I've never once asked anyone to donate to this site because I'd do this for free. Heck, I do! Around Christmas time, I even had a reader suggest that I post a link to my Amazon.com wish list so people can bless me. Amazing. Around 6 months ago via some prodding, I threw up a paypal link in a non-obvious place. One of my first donations came from Glenn Reynolds. Instapundit himself. I felt like such a dink (made that word up) because if anyone should be donating to anyone, it should've been me giving to Mr. Instapundit. Nevertheless, I continued to be humbled by the great amount of supporters I've met by way of my blog.

I use that long introduction to say that with the help of all of you, some $1200+ was raised in less than three days for my sister Amelia's mission trip to Peru. I am floored, and I thank you all (even the person who said their donation was a veiled attempt at my hand in marriage). Anyone who knows me well knows that I would die for my family. Next to God, they are the most important thing to me. And when people extend gratitude to a member of my family, by default, that gratitude is extended to me.

I can't list of all the names because most donations came through the organization and I don't know who you are, but of those few I know I will name. Forgive me if I forget anyone.

Thank yous to: Tony Pierce, Diana D., Avery S., Denise C., Glenn W., Devon H., Christine C., Alison J., Dave T., Robert H. John N., Garvel N., Benjamin H., Christopher N., and many more.

Internet, I salute you, and I give you hug.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link | Comments { 2 }

 

While driving in downtown Seattle last week, I saw a curious message illegally spray-painted on the side of a popular building. In bold red letters it read, "Work is slavery." Imagine that. All this time I was mislead in my thinking that the slaves were freed a long time ago. The tag on the graffiti indicated the message had been left by our resident anarchists--the same people responsible for massive amounts of damage to downtown Seattle during WTO protests, and most likely individuals who by some turn of events (including but not limited to the possession of a trust fund, large quantities of marijuana in the bloodstream, or privilege beyond belief) do not have to work.

Granted, on most days I pay little if any attention to those who espouse a philosophy rooted in a disdain of all forms of authority (nationalists included). The "work is slavery" campaign, however, caught my attention because it is American misconception #5,672 (right next to "It's not good to judge" and "Money is evil").

For starters, in order to even remotely embrace the notion that earning money by working would cause some type of burden, requires a fundamental misunderstanding of what exactly human beings should be doing on the earth. Moreover, it suggests that Americans are terribly spoiled. If having to work in order to earn money is our biggest problem, we are leagues ahead of half the world.

That said, the distinction too infrequently made is that "working" and "having job" are not synonymous concepts. "Work" is a function of making ourselves productive. It has no end date or retirement options. It doesn't always pay what it deserves, but it is a lifelong endeavor. Having a "job," on the other hand, is temporal and doesn't always necessitate productivity; it just requires that we show up. For some people, having a "job" is an aspect of their work. In many cases, however, you'll find people in "jobs" that have little or nothing to do with their purpose, passion or happiness.

Thanks to a realistic upbringing, there is a good segment of the American population that has mastered the reality that if you don't work; you don't eat. They sit behind desks, they dry clean clothes, and they even deliver pizzas, even if only for a season. There are also those who've broken free from the shackles of this "work/eat" reality and resorted to begging, panhandling, and holding up sob story signs that rarely include the phrase "will work" but always manage to toss in the requisite "God Bless You." The irony of it all.

"Work," in short, is the act of human beings taking care of the earth. "Work" may look a number of different ways, but rest assured, contrary to what the "Simpsons" may tell us, no human was created to just sit around and waste space. Otherwise, the earth would be full of animals--not people. Intelligent design? You bet.

Continue reading "Created to Work">>>

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We've all heard the popular adage that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover. For the most part, I wholeheartedly agree. Everyone we encounter won't come packaged the way we'd expect, so we can't just saunter through life always making surface determinations about people. Yet, even in the most literal sense, that "saying" only means so much when you browse the several hundred shelves of your local Barnes & Noble. There I challenge you to find a coverless book. Instead, you'll find aisles of glossy book jackets with specialized fonts and eye-capturing images. Why? Because despite the fact that the cover gives absolutely no indication of excellence, insight or profundity, human nature is more inclined to think so based on what we initially see. Simply put: the average buyer's attention is both gained and informed by a well-designed book cover.

As it's illustrated in the tangible, so it is with us. A recent USA Today article reported on a study into how appearance affects the size of one's paycheck. This one's a doosie:

What a waste of a discrimination complaint. Apparently it's too much to ask that an exercise instructor be in shape. As a side note, I might add that nearly every physical education instructor I had from elementary school on up was both overweight and a lesbian, how about you?

Continue reading "Judging the Book">>>

Posted in Life | Permanent Link | Comments { 12 }

 

You know it's a small world when you're standing in the airport security line, preparing to be frisked when a reader of your blog yells to you from across the barrier, "Hey! Are you flying to the Blogher Conference today?" Whoa. Running into a reader would be a first for me. Today's lesson: you never know who's watching.

Speaking of which, while sitting in the Montego Bay Airport, my sister and I watched in horror as a girl ate two consecutive boogers without so much as an ounce of shame. Ah to be young and not care who's watching. What is it about kids that makes them want to eat hardened phlegm? No one teaches them to do this. They certainly aren't emulating the behavior of their parents (most of the time). Is there some special sense common to 6-year-olds that automatically activates the booger appetite? Food for thought (no pun intended).

To those who were concerned, we caught the tail end of Hurricane Emily (although I'm sure some would prefer it named "Hurricane Shantika"). All is well (for us at least), the folks in Mexico seem to be experiencing more difficulties. Nevertheless, I'm back in the states, and a vacation was just what the doctor ordered. I missed nykola.com. Updates to follow. There is SO much to talk about.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link | Comments { 12 }

 

It doesn't take much to excite me. Shoe shopping, a book, bacon, a day-off, a buffet, a pedicure--it's the little things in life that get me going. Up until yesterday, I thought I was a pretty cool person. I mean, I dress myself fairly well, I've never been known to wear highwaters, I have a life outside of the Internet, and I can even go a few days without checking my email. I'd also add that I don't like Star Wars, Star Trek, or Star _ _ _ _ (insert nerdy science fiction show). I can't even see "Revenge of the Sith" because there is a high probability that I would fall asleep. Plus, I do not know what a "Sith" is, nor do I care. My cool factor is way up there guys, I'm telling you. Nerd isn't it my vocabulary. Up until now, I have resisted the title "nerd" because I am oh so much cooler than that.

Okay so yes I designed my website by myself and can quote you nearly every product Apple has ever launched, dates included. Yes I salivate in the Powerbook section of the Apple store, I think "pretty" is an acceptable adjective for peripherals. I even know what peripheral means. And yes I have been known to surf the web in the bathroom, and I even get laptopstomach once in awhile (for those who don't know, "laptopstomach" as I've coined it, is when you fall asleep in bed with your laptop on your stomach and wake up with a giant red mark where your battery pack has burned you.) It's happened to me more than once.

Yesterday however, sitting in a small room in a meeting, on a beanbag chair with Sergey Brin sitting on my left, while we're having casual conversation and I thought to myself, "Self, you are WAYYYY too excited right now. But it's Sergey Brin! Brin! Brin!"

And then it hit me: I am a nerd.

Savor it guys, because you will never hear or read me say it again.

Posted in Life | Permanent Link | Comments { 20 }

 

You know you're busy when you consider jury duty a "vacation" from the normal stresses of life. In a wonderful turn of events, it seems I wasn't picked as a juror in the three-week civil trial for which I was called. I never stood a chance. I'm all for fulfilling civic duties, but I find it odd that jury summons always seem to come at the most inconvenient times. Then again, last I checked, there's never a good time.

I'm beginning to re-think this whole "being an adult" thing. It's highly overrated. Oh what I would give to have somebody blow my nose, pick out my clothes, and tell me when to go to bed. There are days (few and far between) when I've even considered climbing back into the womb. At least then I'd be warm and have plenty of time for napping. Isn't it amazing how you grow up rebelling against the concept of "naps," and grow old wishing the traditional workday included mandatory naptime? I think I've figured it out. Naps (among other things) are wasted on the youth.

Those ungrateful wretches.

I often wonder the exact time the line between childhood and adulthood is officially crossed. Does it happen when you get your first bill in the mail? When you have your first child? When you buy your first piece of property? Too often we sit back, waiting for adulthood to happen to us. Meanwhile, it already "is." I have friends who are married with children and still can't believe God actually let them procreate. No matter who I talk to, it seems most people have moments of feeling completely unqualified for the task at hand.

Continue reading "Voir Dire">>>

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