What's up Aiken?

Today's post title comes from perhaps the funniest spam subject line ever. I've been getting them all damn week...penis enlargement pill spam with subject lines like, "loser with a small penis" or "could you be any smaller?"

Today's variant: what's up aiken

If that was intentional? Brilliant. If I had a penis, perhaps I would actually read the email. But I don't so I won't. Meh.

Anyway, I'm getting ready to leave on my loooong car drive, just as soon as my dear, sweet, put-upon assistant gets to the office. From a funeral. Her grandmother's funeral.

Yes, I believe of the Top Ten Shittiest Things Your Evil Boss Can Do, guilting you into coming to work after your grandmother's funeral has GOT to rank pretty highly.

(Ok, I exaggerate, she offered. She'd rather be in the office than at a funeral reception all day. So it wasn't my idea. Although I probably shouldn't have jumped at her offer like a kid near a big pile of birthday presents. Yeah.)

So I'm all set for the drive. I've moderated my liquid intake, eaten a lovely and kind-on-the-stomach lunch, and gone to the bookstore for some books-on-tape so I won't get all lonesome. I got David Sedaris, because he's fucking funny, and Garrison Keillor, because I'm fucking old.

No, actually I blame the Garrison Keillor on Chris, who is going to see his radio show tonight, and who got me all nostalgic about reading Lake Wobegon Days for the first time. Before reading that book? I only wrote deep and serious stories. They were shit. All dark and "symbolic" and whatnot. But after reading Keillor, I realized that all my hilarious running commentary that I just never quit with? Could like, be written down, published and declared brilliant by The New York Times. It was a shocking revelation to me.

In fact, so profound was the impact that a couple years later, upon discovering that Mr. Keillor (I call him Gary, but y'all need to learn you some respect) wrote an advice column (coincidence?) for Salon.com and had an actual real life email address, I sent him the only fan letter I have ever written.

(Well, sort of. I did write to New Kids On the Block when I was 11, but that was only to complain of the gratutious use of the word "hell" on a song on the Step By Step album. They never wrote back but I was pursued by solicitations to join the fan club for years afterwards.)

Anyway, Mr. Keillor wrote back, told me "my very kind note" cheered him up immensely, as he was traveling and stuck in a hotel with a very bad cold. He said he enjoyed my writing style and thought my idea of writing a collection of stories about the Metrorail and its passengers sounded like a great idea. Then he said, "Good luck finishing that book."

Still haven't finished it, of course, but I still have the email. Very nice man, that Mr. Keillor. Above average, you might say.

Hate.

HAAAATTTTEEEEE. Haaaaaaaaattttttttttttteeeeeee.

That's directed at no one person or no one thing in particular. Just a nice, general feeling of loathiness.

I'm tired. I'm still (STILL) on Vegas time. I've had a headache for four days straight now. Unbelievable deadlines at work. Memorial Day weekend traffic started on Tuesday. Clomid. Cicadas. Crazy Haiku Smackdown drama.

(Yes, really.)

(But don't even ask. Seriously.)

Anyway, I need to pack tonight because I'm driving to Philadelphia tomorrow night. Like every other idiot in the whole blessed world. Months and months ago, I bought Phillies tickets for my dad and I, which is cool. I did not flip the calendar page, however, to realize that I bought tickets for EFFING MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND. This is not cool. But what can you do? Welcome to Bigdumbassmoronville, population: you and seventy million...cars.

And here I sit, staring into space, wondering what the hell I planned to write about a whole 10 minutes ago, because I have completely forgotten.

Something about...hate? Maybe?

Shut Up, It's Still Wednesday For 2 More Hours

Dudes, I am sooooo tired right now. So you know how I always say you should probably do the opposite of whatever I say? I mean it this time. Except for what I just said about doing the opposite of what I said. Don't do the opposite of that. Or maybe you should.

In other words, the advice column will be fairly short this week.

Dear Amalah,

First I want to say that I wish you were around when I was growing up, because Dear Abby and Ann Landers were on crack (but just part of the time). You ROCK!

There is a supervisor where I work who wears an nauseatingly obscene amount of cologne. The stench is so strong that you can smell him before he gets out of his car. I believe his odor of choice is "Smell me and die but don't forget that I'm a REAL MAN" by Pepe LePew. He must marinate himself in it! Dogs wail, plants wilt and paint peels in his wake. However, the upswing is that you can smell him before you see him. That gives you time to get off the internet and look like you're doing REAL work.

My problem is that because "Mr. Stinky" is my supervisor I'm not sure how to approach him with this dilemma. Do you have any ideas on how I can get him to kick it down a notch or two? I'm afraid that I'll get fired if I hose him down. Plus the nausea, nose pinching and running in the other direction are interfering with my job performance.

-Nauseas Nelly

Ah yes. Those stinkpots with their crap colognes. From where I sit, you've got three options:

1) For his next birthday, give him a bottle of nice, inoffensive cologne. I suggest Marc Jacobs or something by Ralph Lauren. Tamper with the spritzer so it only pumps the sheerest, lightest mist.

2) Be honest. From a substantial distance, sniff the air and try to identify the cologne (although refrain from calling it Eau de Skunkbutt or something). Tell him that cologne is not to be smelled from that kind of range. Recite the gospel of Kyan: Spray, Delay, and Walk Away. Oh Kyan.

3) Give in to the nausea and puke on his shoes. Tell him you're pregnant and extremely sensitive to smells and any cologne (ANY!) will cause you to vomit on the wearer. Then be pregnant for like, ever. Men don't know, so you'll be good.

Amy,

Hi. I'm serioulsy how wondering how I could get a job like you have? I work in the "glamorous" world of newspaper copy editing/design. A job with sane hours (NOT 4 p.m. to midnight, Wednesday-Thursday off) sounds really good right now.

Help, SG

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

(wipes tear)

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

How to get a job like mine? Hmm, let's think. First, bend over. Second, grab your ankles. Third...okay, okay. I kid. My job definitely sounds better than yours.

And you sound a lot like me. I started out in college thinking I'd do journalism/reporting/copy editing/somesuch. Although really? The image I had of journalism? Was not quite right. I think I may have had journalism mixed up with being a Saturday Night Live staff writer. Or head writer even.

But I pursued it. At Penn State I got a great job as a reporter at the Daily Collegian, a totally amazing college paper. If you were any good, it could be a fast track to The Washington Post or The New York Times. I was thrilled. I met the editor-in-chief and I swear to god, I totally eyed her up and was all, "Move over, bitch." Delightful.

My first assignment was a story on some student body president at some satellite campus who was promising to shave his head if students raised some obscene amount of money for THON, a mostly-Greek-sponsored 48-hour dance marathon for charity. Um, whoo? I couldn't get the guy on the phone. I kept calling and leaving messages with his pothead roommate and getting more and more irritated with the bizarre long-distance code procedure the Collegian's offices used. Reporters weren't allowed to use their own phones to talk to sources, so I could only give Pothead Longhair the newsroom phone number. Which meant calling and then sitting. I hated both the calling and the sitting. I hated the newsroom.

Two weeks later, I still hadn't written the story. I emailed my editor and told her my dad was sick and I'd be spending weekends at home all semester and quit. And I was shaken. I wasn't willing to pay my dues. I didn't want to be a reporter. I didn't want Saturday deadlines or a reporting beat of Chamber of Commerce committee meetings.

So I changed my mind and my major. I got an internship at a non-profit educational publishing company in the classified ads department. It paid actual cash money. It was copy-editing and proofreading and scary telephone sales. It was boring. But it meant I had all the great resume buzzwords: publishing, editing, business writing, marketing, direct mail, blah blah talkyspeak.

So after a year I started applying to every job in sight. I got a job as an editorial assistant with a financial newsletter publishers. About nine months later Jason talked me into coming with him to a start-up company as a technical writer, a decision I would come to intensely regret, as it led me to three of the suckiest, crappiest, tamponiest jobs I have ever held.

The first company basically locked all its employees out one morning, the second changed my title every four weeks and eventually laid me off. The third...well, it's too awful to speak of, really. I took it in a state of "oh my god my severance has run out and unemployment doesn't pay for shit and mortgage mortgage mortgage" and regretted it immediately. I actually CRIED in the BATHROOM on MULTIPLE OCCASIONS at that job. (HELPFUL HINT #1: If you are going on crying jags at your job? You need to QUIT. Seriously.)

But then my old boss from the newsletter publisher emailed me. (HELPFUL HINT #2: Stay friends with as many old bosses and coworkers as possible.) There was an editorial opening. Would I be interested?

It took five days for the background check and whatnot to clear, and the day it did? I packed up my desk and walked the FUCK OUT. It was terrifying, but only because that job had made me feel SO TRAPPED and SO WORTHLESS that I thought the petty executives would like, hunt me down and call my new company and make them fire me or something. It's like battered employee syndrome.

And here we are now, almost three years later.

So for S.G., she of the shitty hours and soul-sucking late night copy desk, there's just one thing to say: Keep looking. Move on. Don't be afraid to quit and job hop and make mistakes and apply repeatedly for the same dream job even though you've been rejected three times already. We've all had shittastic jobs, but it all works out.

Usually. I mean, some people are just stupid and have to stay in their shittastic jobs, because no other company would ever hire them. Like many, many, MANY people I personally work with. Gah. But that's not you. I can tell.

Dear Amy,

I read in the news that SODA is now causing cancer. Dude, I drink so many cans of Diet Pepsi (sorry Diet Coke lovers, er loavers), a day. Is it true? Am I going to die?

Or is soda the New Scare? Like the Olsen Twins.

Love, Lauren

Yes, probably.

Besides, what the fuck doesn't cause cancer these days? Raw fooding, possibly, unless you get the radishes that are all tainted with pesticides and then there's the big Radish Scare of 2004 but even untainted organic radishes taste like shit raw.

Unless you're the Olsen Twins, who don't eat ever. Because they really, really want and need to stay little girls for so many reasons and never grow up, but all the damn raw radishes in the world ain't gonna stop that train wreck.

Dear Amalah,

My husband just started phase I of the South Beach Diet, which means no carbs, sugar, fruit or alcohol of any kind for two weeks. I'm trying to be supportive and not audibly moan over delicious, delicious baked goods or eat sugar right out of the sugar bowl, but does it make me a bad wife to drink in front of him? Or just an alcoholic?

Love, Amalah

Bitch, it took you two vodkas just to get through this column, so your question is kind of moot at this point, isn't it?

Enjoy being fat while he loses weight. And then enjoy starting phase I after he's already moved on to phase II and gets your bratty ass back big-time.

Want good quality free advice for a nominal fee? Have you always dreamed of seeing your name in lights? Then send all your real and made-up problems to amy[at]amalah.com. Now with 43% less judging!

Slight Delay in Programming

Many insincere apologies, but today's Wednesday Advice Smackdown post will not be available until sometime this evening. Besides being shitstormingly busy at work today, I also left the majority of questions on my laptop at home. So d'oh.

Speaking of the New Hotness Grand Duchess Carmichael Judith Light Machine, I have discovered that she is capable of ripping my TiVo'd shows from the TiVo and onto DVDs. Oh my god. All I need is to buy some connector whatzit video capture thingie (yes, that's seriously what it's called). And then burn, baby, burn.

In other news, Jason bought me these. Possibly as part of a Bring Back the Cherries Theme campaign of some sort. What do y'all think? Time for a revamp? Time to see what the Judith Light Machine is capable of, graphics-wise? (And no, I will NOT incorporate a picture of my ass in those panties, so I don't even wanna hear it.)

Anyway. Advice column tonight. Tell your friends. Spread the word. Set your TiVos.

Attention Internet: Amy is Alive. Alive!

Look! An update! Update! Update! Update!

So I am happy to report that I am not dead, maimed, depressed, on hiatus, kidnapped or eaten by zombies. I did have a killer attack of writer's block though, followed up with a secondary infection of work. Work work work. Because believe it or not, I'm vaguely important at work and many important tasks depend on me. Like whining about things and the occasional memo.

I wanted to update today, and even started writing an entry when the power went out. (And because that entry is lost forever? It was probably the funniest and most brilliant entry ever, never to be repeated.) But for real, I mean the power went OUT. Total blackness. Turns out some drunk construction worker drove a tractor into a transponder/transformer/transexual or something and knocked out the entire power grid. Poof.

So we all waited around for awhile. I retrieved my soup from the microwave and tried to think of non-electrical ways to heat it up. I discussed last Sunday's whacking on the Sopranos. (Verdict: sad!) I texted some peeps I know. I carried out my recycling and inventoried my pens by the light of my cellphone. Finally it started to get hella hot so they sent us all home.

(I told TiVo to record Young Frankenstein, and I have ended up with two hours of infomercials. And not even good ones, like Proactiv. Stupid ones, like Body By Jake. That guy is creeeeeepy.)

So now I'm at home, although I seriously did more work at home this afternoon than like, ever. I'm all diligent and stuff.

(Reno 911 is coming back. I'm so happy.)

So what else has happened since Friday? Hmm. I recovered from a killer hangover in time to go to a friend's surprise 30th birthday, which was awesome, because he proposed to his girlfriend in front of everybody and it was just all so awwww and nice and sweet. And then we all went out dancing until 2 in the morning. And congratulations for Mike and Jen. Yay!

(28 Days Later is FUCKING SCARY. Bloody zombies and machetes and such. I won't be able to sleep as long as that movie is in my TiVo menu. Delete!)

One not-awesome thing about the surprise party was a pregnant woman who SMOKED and DRANK throughout the whole thing. And I mean pregnant. And I mean smoked. Apparently, she did the same throughout her first two (two!) pregnancies and those kids turned out all right, so what's the big fucking deal, bitch?

I don't believe I have ever fantasized about bitchslapping a woman (a pregnant woman, no less) so hard and so often. Dear Jesus, please explain that one to me because really. Really. Grr.

Anyway. We also bought a new couch this weekend! Look at us, buying furniture! Like grown-ups do sometimes! Here's our pretty new couch, which will be born next Wednesday. I am not planning on natural couchbirth; I have hired a surrogate to deliver it.

Oy. I want to bitchslap MYSELF after that awful metaphor. That's exactly why I haven't been posting. But the next time I got three or four days without updating? There's no need to worry. Jason has my username and password and strict instructions to immediately notify the Internet in the event of my death.

Behold, I am a Genius

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

My grades are in. I got an A in both classes.

And it turns out I DID make them slut finals my bitches. Hardcore bitches. 98% on my Communication & the Law final. NINETY-EIGHT PER-FUCKING-CENT. The professor asked if I was considering a LEGAL CAREER. And THAT is how you make a final yo' bitch, people.

And for the Negotiation & Conflict Management one? 99.5%. I missed a single half point, even though I thought I was making shit up left and right. It was the highest grade IN THE CLASS. Behold! I wrecked the curve and I am FUCKING PROUD OF IT.

As for that last-minute anxiety-dream paper that I had to write in like, six hours, I got an A minus. And I am PISSED about that fucking minus.

But anyway, I'm officially smart and officially all graduated. I skipped commencement (was last Saturday) as Vegas won out over boring speeches and a dorky cap by a very large margin. Too bad I wasn't smart enough to not lose money at blackjack.

Maybe I should take a class. Maybe I should get my Master's. Maybe I should shut up.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Four

Read Parts One, Two and Three right heah.

(Hmm, I’m starting to get into the realm where maybe I should consider making up names for these people. I mean, I know there are septeventy billion Joshes in the world, but I prefer not to get sued by the one out there who knows how to Google and maybe happens to be a big lawyer or something.)

(Although I know for a fact that this Josh is not a big lawyer, because I know how to Google. But more on that later. Plus, Miss Doxie will be my lawyer and she will kick yo’ass to the curb, boy.)

Anyway.

It was sometime during eighth grade that Josh asked me out. And unlike every boy I’d met up to this point, he meant it. He wanted to go OUT. On a DATE. And he CALLED ME. On the TELEPHONE. Swoon.

My parents? Were not too thrilled. Josh was in ninth grade. He looked older than that though. He worked out. His bedroom was actually the entire finished basement of his house. He had a fridge down there. And couches, plural. His own phone line, television, VCR, etc. He was cool, cats. But amazingly, they agreed that we could go out on a date.

As long as they came along. And Josh’s parents came along. (Oh, how I am cringing as I write this. See, here I go: cringe.)

We ate dinner at Friendly’s. I think there are still Friendly’s around, though they seem much more white-trash than I remember them being growing up. But then again, I probably was too. Anyway, at Friendly’s you could get a clown sundae. (Cone for a hat, whipped cream puffs for hair, Reese’s Pieces for a face, and at the bottom of the sundae was a lot of hot fudge and more Reese’s Pieces. Oh my god.)

Of course, I did not order a clown sundae on my date. But I did get ice cream. And French fries. Sigh. How innocent and non-crazy-teenage-girl I was back then.

After Friendly’s we went to a movie. I shit you not: We saw Beethoven. Luckily, we were not required to sit with our parents. AND we were allowed to sit several rows behind them. And there, during Beethoven, with my parents a few rows away, I got my first kiss. And if this weren’t all corny enough, I seriously did see stars and like, leave my body for a few seconds.

So after this, Josh and I kissed at every possible occasion. Behold, there was tongue. We wrote love notes; I borrowed his clothes; it was disgusting. We lurved each other.

Of course, stuff went wrong. He started to bug me. He was needy and emotional. His home life, beyond the awesome basement setup, was pretty awful. Mother Issues of Livia Soprano Proportions. That’s all I’ll say about that. (Except for this: According to Google, Josh now lives in a major city far, far away and works as a personal trainer. Specializing in pregnancy fitness. Yes, really. Read into that what you like.)

He also wore these turquoise madras plaid shorts all the time. Ew. They were so hideous. The church youth group took a trip down to Orlando that summer. (Holy HELL, I just remembered Amy went with me on that trip. So I guess we were still trying to be friends at this point. It definitely wasn’t going well. I distinctly remember fighting the urge to slap her across the face more than once.)

By the end of the trip, they were both working my last nerve. Amy didn’t like Josh and kept ditching me to meet random guys with some other girl. Josh was extra moody and depressive and wore the plaid shorts EVERY OTHER DAY. God. One morning, after being awoken several times by Amy’s hotel escape and re-entry attempts the night before, I decided that maybe I needed to break up with both of them.

I also decided that if Josh wore the plaid shorts that day, I’d take it as a sign to end it right away. Sure enough, he wore them. I finally asked him why the hell he didn’t pack more clothes. But before I got up the nerve to tell him we were over, he went and got himself nearly killed at the beach.

A wave hit him hard and knocked him underwater, where he hit his head or something and didn’t resurface. A lifeguard pulled him out and he was sent to the hospital for neck X-rays. He was fine, but being the distraught girlfriend kind of suited me.

I did break up with him sometime after the trip. For two weeks. He was inconsolable. He called me every day. He cried. He talked about his dad’s gun. He brought a bullet to church. Jason and I discussed our concerns about him. He broke me down and I took him back.

And I was actually very glad that I did, because things were great and so was all the kissing.

Sometime that summer it was decided that he would transfer from public school to my hellish private school. I was not too happy about this. I knew that as soon as a new good-looking guy showed up in our little pond, all the popular girl piranhas would swarm in and I would get dumped.

My classmates thought I was lying when I showed them Josh's picture. No way could a dork like me get a hottie like him. If he came to my school he'd end up wondering the same thing. He swore that would never happen. No one would ever replace me, ever. Ever!

Yeah. It happened. About a week after classes started. He did it over the phone. We both cried and I thought we could work things out. The next day he finalized the heart-ripping-stomping-squooshing by our lockers. Our lockers were practically next to each other. This had been super-exciting on the first day of school, but now I realized that this was going to make my freshman year a living hell.

Next up: Amy goes to hell, in more ways than one.

Ask Amalah Again

This week: five more questions, five more semi-not-answers. I seem to be maxing out the funny at five questions, so if you don't see your question answered, there are a few possibilities as to why:

1) I couldn't think of anything funny right now. I will hold on to your question in case I do later. Check back next week. (And sorry if your question was of the "My hair's on fire, what do I do?" variety. You'll just have to wait.)

2) Your question scared me and I forwarded it on to the cops. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you people?

3) Your question was really hard. I mean, whatever, I'm not getting paid to think that much. Softballs, people. Softballs.

But keep sending your questions! It's not like the question queue is backed up for weeks or anything. I'm just arbitrary and shit. So send send send to amy[at]amalah.com. Subject line: Desperately Seeking Sanity.

So after all that ado, on with today's life-changing advice!

(Confidential to Michael: 1) Yes. 2) There's a 20% tax consequence for all early 401(k) payouts. And I'm not aware of any tax deductions you can claim for hookers. Sorry.)

Vegas: The Photographic Evidence

Well. Go on, then.

Delirium Etc.

Yes, I am back.

We took the red-eye back this morning, so my whole sleeping-eating-not-walking-into-things equilibrium is all kinds of effed up. But let's see if I can recap some Vegas highlights.

Monday through Thursday afternoon: Work. Blah.

Thursday afternoon through yesterday: Fun. Haaaaa.

Jason flew in on Thursday, the workish convention thing ended, I got out of my suit and put on cute clothes, including a fluffy miniskirt that resulted in me being promptly manhandled in the casino by a very drunk and very sunburned shirtless man. It was a drive-by skirting. A crowd of decent-looking yet creepily-overly-involved senior citizens witnessed it and pointed out the skirtlifter to me. Jason marched off to confront him while I was all, "Oh my god, tussle in the casino! No!" But then I got PISSED and reported the jackhole to a nearby security guard who was very bored and very pleased with the prospect of a good skull-cracking. Jason came back laughing -- the guy already had a HUGE gash in his nose where he'd obviously been punched before, and the ladies he was drunkenly trying to mack on were NOT impressed by hearing of his skirt-lifting antics.

The security guard was bummed because the guy was a hotel guest so he couldn't toss him out, but he was sent to his room to get a shirt and...think about what he did...or...something. Fuck. Ing. Ass. Hole.

Anyway. We had tickets to the late Cirque du Soleil show at the Bellagio, which was pretty damn underwhelming. $105 a pop for third-to-last row in the balcony? $28 for two drinks? Lots of...synchronized swimming? What? I want freaks! I want crazy fire-breathing contortionists who throw small people around and then snap them in two. And I want clowns, but not clowns.

But whatever. Everything in Vegas is the equivalent to dumping bags of money out the window. So just enjoy the pretty patterns the bills make while they blow away. I did win $150 twice at slots, which only sort of balanced out what we lost at roulette, blackjack and other slots. Oh well. I also bought awesome clothes and ate what was probably the most amazing meal I have ever eaten here. There was a chocolate tasting platter for dessert. A platter.

We also drank many many (MANY) margaritas at Jimmy Buffett's restaurant, duh, Margaritaville. I also bought one of the two most awesome t-shirts ever there, which I will post a picture of later. Jason bought the other most awesome t-shirt ever, which he is wearing now. And it is awesome.

I actually have a lot of pictures to post, but they'll have to wait. Because I can't find my toothbrush right now, much less the camera.

In other homefront news, the cicadas have arrived and they are VILE, Max is supah-pissed at us, and I forgot my license in my carry-on bag so at dinner the waiter both refused to serve me a martini AND called me ma'am. So ma'am'ed and denied booze at the same time. Congrats, Amy.

And I know I'm forgetting a lot, but I'm tired and would like to go to bed. So photo essay tomorrow, advice column on Wednesday (SEND ME MORE QUESTIONS, you messed-up puppies), and then hopefully the return of The Many Loves of Amalah series. Or else I may simply drown in all my laundry.