More ADD from Vegas

Y'allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll...

How I have only sort-of missed you so. Today is the first day since Monday that I felt like ponying up the $9.99 per 24 hours for Internet access here at the hotel, as I have been too busy and too drunk to do it AND there was some crazy worm virus running amok at the trade show and hotel early in the week. (Take THAT, capitalism and investment conventions! Some 14-year-old locked in his hotel room while his parents went out and lost his college fund decided to hack Champion Rental Services and destroy all rented computers with a seriously annoying virus.) So I was scared to connect lest the clean and virgin Grand Duchess New Hotness become infected and maybe destroy my perfect FreeCell record.

Also? Did. Not. Care.

And I still really don't. But since I paid for the Internet to look up restaurant reviews, I might as well do something useful like post. So here. Post!

I actually tried to write a post earlier in the week...a guest entry written by the Drunk Guy At Amy's Table during my Important Business Dinner on Tuesday. But it sucked because I was cranky and bitter over being put at his table in the first place, instead of the Table Where The Important People Sat Where Amy Belonged Because She Is Important. But instead? I was at the business dinner equivalent of the kiddie table. So grrr.

But whatever. Jason arrived on Thursday so we could have fun and fun has been had. Lots of drinking and eating and gambling. Rinse, repeat. I won $167 at a slot machine in the Bellagio. We buffeted. We saw Cirque du Soleil (meh) and George Wallace (ha ha HAAAAAAAAA). We drank (at. the. pool.) very early in the morning through very late at night.

We just got back from the Star Trek Extravaganza of Geekitude where we rode the little rides and saw the little characters and drank a little drink that was bigger than my head. It was called the Borg something something and was green and smoked and also? Yooge. $25 worth of booze. I also saw a real-life Borg guy who scared me. A lot. Pictures to come.

Actually, a lot of things on this trip have scared me a lot. The Important Business Dinner bill which cost as much as a very nice car. Also the cost of my Cirque du Soleil tickets. The Cirque du Soleil clowns. The mere existence of that Circus Circus house of horrors down the Strip. These copper-painted people at the Paris hotel that pretend to be statues and then REACH OUT and TOUCH YOU while you walk INNOCENTLY BY and scare the fucking living bejeezus crap out of you. And the women in Vegas who dress without regards to body shape OR the fact that metallic-colored spandex is never a good idea.

Anyway. I'm bored and getting sober so I'm going to post this and be off. Also, shut up, Geraldo. Why are you still on TV? Oh, Jason's fallen asleep or passed out on the remote. Must remedy this. More to come, including Scary Borg Pictures, the guy who lifted up my skirt in the casino, stupid things I have said and done while drunk and more love for George Wallace, the motherfucking Godfather of Comedy and the King of Yo' Momma Jokes. Haaaaa.

Up On the Airplane

(Howdiddly-do from VEGAS, babies. Tons of hilariously mundane things happened to me today, as did some craptacular crappolish things. But I'm tired and desperately need to de-funktify and get all pretty for dinner so I'm just going to post a bunch of random crap I wrote on the plane.)

I can now use approved portable electronic devices. Whee. I cannot, however, get up from my seat for another 20 minutes, since I flew out of Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. (And you MUST call it the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport at all times. It’s like, a federal crime not to.) Everybody must stay in their seat for the 30 minutes after take-off or before landing at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, because the people who live outside the 30-minute diameter around the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport have it coming, frankly.

(Note to self: Don’t let anyone on the airplane see that, ever, as it is Not Funny, Please Come With Me Ma‘am type material.)

I barely got my suitcase zipped this morning as my insistence on bringing my own blowdryer (it’s ionic!) caused some space issues. As did my adorable new makeup bag from Target, which I was also not leaving.

(OW OW OW OW OW. I just bit my tongue and there is blood. In my quest for pop-free ears, I got a little aggressive with the gum chewing. Repeat: OW.)

But I did eventually get my suitcase zipped and made it to the airport in time. I cannot yet say the same for my coworker Rosemary, who may or may not have made our flight. I called her just before boarding started and she was “having all sorts of special bag-related issues.” I hope she made it on, as I need to borrow a dollar for a snack. (Forgot to hit the ATM before boarding. Think the flight attendants would accept Visa for a $2 package of Pringles? Am starving.) I also hope she made it on for non-me-related issues as well.

I hope they give out some freaking pretzels. Oh my god.

And speaking of Survivor, (transitions? what?) what did everybody think of the finale? For once the reunion show was more interesting than the actual last episode, and jeeeezzz those people were all kinds of crazy bitter. And Rob and Amber engaged? Seriously?

(Dammit, the movie is Along Came Polly, which I really wanted to see. I have $1.43. I am pathetic. And now they’re reading the food available for purchase, which is making me so, so hungry.)

Anyway. Survivor. Shut up, Lex. Shut up, Kathy. Shut up, Jerri…oh, ok. Jerri shut up. And then she left. Because the audience booed her for bashing the show and being all, “We are not entertainment! We are HUMAN BEINGS!” This was very moving coming from the girl who’s been on Survivor twice, Blind Date, The Surreal Life and that Bravo show about reality television where she gave her expert opinion about how reality shows were wrong and bad and also? Not so great for that acting career as she originally thought.

So shut up, Jerri. Because of you, I actually agreed with stuff that Richard Hatch and Shii-Ann are saying. And that’s scary and troubling to me.

(Just got up and wandered the plane…Rosemary DID make it on. But she’s asleep so I won’t wake her up to ask for money. Yet.)

Did anyone else go from sort of liking Amber to sort of hating her? I mean, damn, girl is HOT. And now she’s rich. And engaged. And la la la, isn’t she cute and nice and America’s goddamn sweetheart or something. Or was that just me?

(You know, one of the oft-overlooked pleasures of a new laptop is a clean FreeCell record.)

So how long before some Survivor crew member leaks a Rob and Amber sex tape to the Internet? In all greenie night-vision a la Paris Hilton?

“Oh Ambah…Ambah! Yo’ ass! So smokin’! Oh yeeeeah, Ambah! Yaaaawwww!”

Haaaaaa.

(Oh god. I just changed time zones on my computer and now it’s fucking 8:30 in the morning. Noooo, not again! One 8:30 am a day is enough.)

So before they show Along Came Polly, they’re showing an episode of Friends. See? It will never be over. It will never go away. Friends has hijacked the friendly skies and it’s not giving them back.

I’m not sure I’ve ever written while this hungry.

Gah! It’s the episode with Bruce Willis. I love that one. I love him. I hear he’s very good in bed. No idea where I heard that, but I’m believing it with every fiber of my being.

Pretzels!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Didn’t this post sort of have a topic once?)

Error: Memory Overload, Begin Nonsensical Ramblings Now

Done!

Done done done done done!

So while I wouldn't necessarily say I made them slut finals my bitch, I can at least say that I was not made a bitch of.

Which is remarkable, taking into account the breathtaking amount of not-studying I did on Friday night. I mean, I tried. I started. I wrote some definitions of boldface words down in a notebook. And then I read a GQ from three months ago and watched TiVo'd goodness all night. (Confidential to ER: Shut up, ER. Why you make me cry so? I. Don't. Care. About. You. So stop making me cry over one more freaking dead baby. And maybe stop killing so many damn babies.)

I even turned my phone off Friday night so I wouldn't be interrupted. Unfortunately, all this meant was that I missed Coleen's call when she was stranded with a flat tire (and pre-happy hour!) and needed distraction while she waited for a tow truck. Luckily, this meant that I was the recipient of the best voice mail ever, as it was in chapter form. Chapter form! With a narrative arc and everything! I love it and am never deleting it, ever.

Anyway. Today started way early. (Oh shit...it's tomorrow. As in Sunday. So this is Saturday I'm talking 'bout Willis.) Did you know there's a 7 a.m. on the weekends too? I was not aware. Even during the week, 7 a.m. is kind of a snooze alarm grey area. But today started at 7 a.m. with 17 gallons of coffee and much mad rushing. Pencils! Pencil sharpener! Hair clip! Scrap paper! Lip gloss! More pencils!

To look the college student part I even dug out an old backpack. And I packed the four-leaf clover I found on Thursday. And I wore my lucky Care Bear underwear. And everything I own from Tiffany's because that shit has gotta be good luck because it's expensive.

By the time I arrived at the exam site I was fully caffeinated and covered in hives. But I was confident. I walked up to the nearest folding table and took the folder they offered me. The folder that was for the Medical Transcriptionist Conference being held that day in the building that was not the exam building. Well.

The exam building was bedlam. All the layoffs in this area have obviously been a boon for universities with distance and adult learning, as the students outnumbered the proctors by about eleventy billion to one. There were so many lines and people getting knocked out by rogue bookbags that it resembled a Civil War reenactment, only with less beards. After waiting in one line for about 15 minutes I was told that I first needed to wait in another line and get some kind of pink confirmation of exam card. Which by the time I got to the front of that line they were pretty much giving them out willy-nilly to anyone who looked studentish. (I decided to cut right to the willy-nilly for my second exam and just swiped an extra card to bring back later. Yeah, I'm a total rebel.)

My first exam was open book. It was boring and hard and blaaaaah. I was all prepared to have my civil rights trampled on as a student so I left my coffee in the car and raised my hand before going to the bathroom. They did not give a rat's ass, and some people brought an entire goddamn breakfast buffet to the test. You could also totally go to the bathroom and then send someone smarter back in to take your place. Which is what I should have done because this test was all legal talkyspeak and case law stuff and who does the professor think I am? Luckily I found that if all else fails, you can always mention the First Amendment a lot. A. Lot.

The next exam was closed book and I was done by 4 p.m. My hand hurt from all the essays and the retarded way I hold a pen. I somehow managed to puncture my palm with one of my fingernails and bruise the underside of my middle finger.

But anyway. I am done. I think I got at least a B on both tests, which means for all intents and purposes, I've graduated. B.S. in Communications (B.S. because I didn't want to take any more Spanish so I took businessy computery classes instead) with a secondary specialization in English. And it only took me eight years, including three years of doing absolutely nothing.

And oh yes, I am typing this entry on my pretty new laptop that was waiting for me when I got home. I love it so. I think I'm going to make out with it for a little bit after I post this. Her full name is Grand Duchess Carmichael. You can call her GDC for short, or maybe 'Puter once she gets to know you. She's so pretty. Except for the touchpad mouse that doesn't let you tap the pad to click or move the cursor so I keep tap tap tapping away like a monkey. But she has a DVD writer and dozens of ports (ooh, dirty) that I can plug my camera right into (dirtier) and an internal WiFi card and a whole bunch of stuff that I'm scared to touch.

We also went out and spent over $200 on dinner because I'm all gradumacated and smart and not gonna end up in no trailer like these people.

Tomorrow: Packing. Target. 'Puter love.

The Not-Calm Before the Storm

Needless to say, I’ve been busy lately. And I mean busy as in bizzay. (Unless that only refers to busy as in gettin' bizzay. Because that? Not so much.)

Ever since the horrific crapulence of Wednesday night, I've been a wee chicken running around with my damn head cut off. (Dude, the spell-checker totally says crapulence is a word. Is it? Heh.)

Papers, studying, work…I won’t bore you with the details. Instead, I’ll bore y’all with a list! Yay for lists! Yay for no transitions or narrative cohesiveness! Yay for you shutting up about it!

1) I got the paper done. Or, as I like to put it, I made that slut paper my bitch. Which is how I’ve put it to quite a few people, none of whom found it as amusing as me. But I don’t care. Slut paper. Was made. My bitch.

2) The paper probably sucks. But I really don’t care. (Okay, yes. Yes I do care. Because I am a huge nerd who gets beyond worked up over grades. I get hives at the prospect of a B-. Which is really sad, because at 26 years old with a good job that really doesn’t care about my GPA; I should be able to let that 3.7689 or whatever slide a bit without the aforementioned hives. But I cannot. CANNOT!)

3) Every time I made an appearance at yesterday’s (hugely successful and wildly hilarious) Haiku Smackdown, it was because I was staving off a panic attack or an outbreak of hives or simply a murderous rampage. And let me testify to the healing, soothing and centering power of a good haiku. We need to bottle this shit. We’ll make a frigging fortune.

4) I do not know how to spell piece. There. Word just fixed it for me. I always type peice because I am convinced it is one of the i before e exceptions, even though it’s not after c. It’s before c, so therefore…I’m an idiot. Perhaps this post will help me spell it correctly from now on. But it probably won’t because even if I type piece, I’m so used to being wrong that I’ll just switch it back to peice and applaud myself for going against my instincts.

5) My COMM 400 (Communication & the Law, in case you were wondering, which you weren't) professor posted the final exam review, and it sounds like it will be open book. This goes against everything I’ve heard all semester about the final exam, so I’m confused. And I don’t necessarily believe open-book exams are a good thing, especially when there’s a time limit. And I’m also worried that I’m going to show up at the proctored exam site and they’ll be all, "Suuuuure your professor said your exam is open book. Did she also tell you we’d be providing punch and pie while you work on it?"

6) I just realized that I have nothing identifying me as a University of Maryland student. They were supposed to send me an ID card this semester and never did. So what if they don’t let me into my exam site? And just how evil do I think these "they" people really are?

7) Even though I was supposed to study last night, I still watched Survivor and the Friends finale. Because I may be stressed and overworked but goddamn, I am an American and I do not miss my television programs.

8) I haven't watched a new episode of Friends since Survivor moved to the same time slot, and I have a hard time telling all the reruns apart. But when the hell did Jennifer Aniston get those bangs? I have bangs, my friends have bangs, but Jennifer Aniston should not have bangs. Nose size issues I think. Also the whole "Whoops! It's twins!" thing? Please. I repeat: Pleeeeeeaaaase. With extra sarcasm on top.

9) I feel compelled to have 10 things on this list, but I cannot think of something to go here. So let me just say that I’m having a good hair day today, am wearing boots that I could kill you with, and I went to Target over lunch with Sprocketeer. Who is wise and said, "Does Target sell anything that you don’t want?" No. No it does not. I want everything in that store, even the stuff that I don’t really want. When I’m there, I want it. When we do figure out how to bottle the Essence de Haiku? We should totally sell it at Target.

10) I have to go to Vegas next week for a trade show. Poor, poor me. And hopefully rich, rich me. And hopefully Jason will buy me a new laptop as a graduation present so I can take it with me. Because otherwise? This site will pretty much be a ghost town until May 17th. If I do get a shiny new laptop, however, I can pretty much guarantee quite a few drunken posts. So Jason! Buy Amy a laptop! Amalah.com readers are depending on you! Don’t let them down!

Exams start at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Egad. Wish me hive-free luck and expensive graduation gifts.

About Last Night

Right. So if you haven't read my mini-meltdown from earlier, go read it. Now here it is again...in minute by minute super slow motion action. Whee.

6:00 p.m.  Father-in-law calls. Will be in town tonight and wants to take us out for dinner. Hell yes! Leave work, with dry-cleaning that has been hanging on coat hook in office for a week, feeling immensely pleased with self.

6:33  Home. Messy, messy home. Toss dry-cleaning in heap on closet floor, shove all clutter into drawers, closets, etc. Feed poor starving (starving!) yowling cat and change into cute going-out-for-dinner outfit.

6:45  Boot up laptop.

6:55  God this laptop sucks ass.

7:03  Log onto online classroom to check for final exam review shit.

7:04  WHAT. THE. FUCK.

7:05  WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK

7:10  Call Jason in hysterics.

7:11  Jason: “What the FUCK?”

7:13 Sobbing gasping heaving panic attack.

7:13.57999 Flashbacks to every anxiety dream I’ve had about papers I didn’t know about, tests I didn’t study for and classes that I SWORE I DROPPED and what do you MEAN I’m still registered for and have to take a final in and I haven’t been to a single class and why in the world is the class being held in a building that I have to take a train to get to? Oh my god, where is the train station? Run!

7:15 The reality sets in. I have to write an entire bullshit paper TONIGHT and then cram my little ass off tomorrow and Friday. 

7:16 Blog about it.

7:20 Send testy email to COMM 400 professor asking where in sam hill our final exam review stuff is, as (ahem) the final is in TWO FUCKING DAYS.

7:22 Compose death threats to SPCH 426 professor who decides to assign PAPERS the same week as finals. Do not send.

7:25 Spring into mad action. Dig out textbooks from under bed. Print off class notes and assignment description. Google to find some resources to…collaboratively…share…or something.

7:30 Father-in-law arrives. He and Jason head out for dinner at my most favoritest pizza place ever. Warn Jason that he will not be allowed back in the house unless he comes bearing pizza.

7:31 Put bottle of white wine in freezer. Take pint of Ben & Jerry’s out.

7:35 Type name, class section and paper title.

7:40 Eat last of the Doritos Rollitos.

7:41 – 7:59 The lost minutes. No idea what happened here.

8:00 Start writing paper furiously. No time for thinking! Just typing! Big words! Vague meanings!

8:15 Well. That was productive. Time to get the wine out.

8:16 – 8:22 The Battle of the Stubborn Cheap Cork. More almost-tears and almost-need-for-stitches.

8:25 Thesis of paper looks something like this: Cross-cultural conflicts are the result of blah blah self-perceptions colliding with reality and racism prejudice overcoming talkyspeak.

8:35 I like Martha. She’s funny and knows how to bullshit and write papers drunk. Emailing with her almost seems like a total non-waste of precious minutes. It's actually productive!

8:47 Bump font up to Arial 12 pt double spaced. Voila! Three whole pages already.

9:00 Blah blah blah I haven’t a friggin’ clue what shit I’m writing about. But it sounds damn fine.

9:10 Where the fuck is my pizza?

9:18 Four pages. I’m using a hell of a lot of full names and not a lot of pronouns, interestingly enough.

9:30 Pizza! Gimme gimme gimme.

9:31 Now everybody go away so I can finish this shit up.

10:00 Wine is so good. What the hell was I all freaked out about?

10:02 Oh. Right.

10:05 Never going to finish this paper. Never going to have time to study for finals and now 40% of my grade in a class I was SO SURE I was acing hangs in the balance. Hate. Hate.

10:15 I’m not going to have time to haiku tomorrow. Oh my god. The shitival never ends.

10:30 Did I mention how much I like Martha?

10:45 Very hyper and animated all of a sudden. Am saying very funny things to Jason about something that happened earlier today with some asshole who said something assholey to me and I’ve already forgotten what is was. But it was funny!

10:52 Five pages! Huzzah! Anything after this is a bonus. Bonus of crap filler, anyway.

10:56 Time to do the reference & citations page with all the sources that I did not use and did not cite but whatever. Will go through it tomorrow and plug some random footnotes in.

10:57 Martha double dog dares me to use “talkyspeak” in my paper. Find myself actually staring at paper, looking for a place to put it. Decide that maybe it is time to go to bed.

11:03 HOLY LIVING FUCK. The computer just froze up. Did I save? At ALL?

11:04 “Begin physical memory dump.” Oh my god. That doesn’t sound good.

11:07 Please reboot please reboot please reboot

11:10 Please AutoRecover please AutoRecover please please please

11:15 Oh right. I did save it. And emailed it to myself at three different addresses. Definitely time for bed.

11:20 Heh. A timeline blog entry would be hilarious right about now.

12:01 a.m. Good fucking night.

Haiku Smackdown VIII: 'Kuing On Da Bayou

Haiku for White Trash!
And for each 'ku we write, an
Olsen Twin gets fed.

There's a bit of a theme this week, except for the very last picture, which I simply had to include because it's the scariest thing I've ever seen (and thank you very much Buzz). Yes, even scarier than the lady with the cup in her cleavage. Yes, scarier than back-hair man. Yes, I find the Olsen twins THAT FUCKING SCARY.

(IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT: Click here for a bonus picture and sign of the coming apocalypse.)

Oh My God, Holy Shit, & I Am So Screwed

Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god

I have final exams this Saturday. One at 9 a.m. and the other at 2 p.m. They are both essay tests, closed book. I just checked on my classes (they're both online through Univ. of MD) and found out the following:

1) One professor has seen fit to assign a 5-7 page paper. Due on Friday. The day BEFORE finals and the day AFTER tomorrow. This paper? 20% of my grade.

2) The final exam for this class looks to be a BITCH and is another 20% of my grade.

3) The other professor has NOT YET POSTED the final exam review. She wrote "Coming soon, check back later today."  She wrote this YESTERDAY. I have no fucking clue what will be on this exam.

How the hell am I supposed to write a 5-page paper in three evenings? The same three evenings I'm supposed to study for finals? How can I study for a final that I know nothing about? I can't take a day off work because I have a big print deadline on Friday (it's the return of the oft-complained about Worst Eight Pages of Text Ever Written Since the Freaking Dawn of Time) and also? Leaving for Las Vegas on MONDAY MORNING. FOR A WEEK.

And where the HELL are my glasses?

I? Am so incredibly and royally FUCKED.

And now back to your regularly scheduled panic attack...

Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god

Ask Amalah

It's time to take a wee break from the multi-part journey of self-discovery, humilation and hairstyle traumas. Because today? Is the second installment of the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! (And tomorrow? I'll be hosting the Thursday Haiku Smackdown right heah! At this rate, I'll have some kind of Smackdown going on every damn day of the week by Christmas. And the joke will have worn very, very thin.)

If you missed last week's column, the Advice Smackdown works like this: You send all your problems, questions and general bitchery to amy[at]amalah.com with the subject line: "I'm a big four-eyed lame-o and I wear the same stupid sweater everyday." (And bonus points if you have a clue where that quote came from, including who said it in what context and can also recite my OTHER favorite quote from the same episode...er, I mean source.)

And then on Wednesdays I answer your questions with my unique brand of life-affirming, problem-solving, self-exhalting wisdom. And I will link to you and you will be all famous and your existence will be justified. Unless you don't have a site, which in that case, I'm not sure you even technically exist, but I'll still answer your question.

So on with the advice-column-type thing!

Dear Amalah,

I tried out your advice. And now? She has sent out the following e-mail to her list:

Dear Friends,

I have a friend who has a serious problem. See, she believes that Aspartame is responsible for every illness known to mankind as part of a worldwide conspiracy between the Monsanto Corp. and the American Heart Association.

We need to send out as many e-mails as possible to warn people of my friend's craziness. Please forward this to 743 people, as that's how many times my loony friend sent it to me.

Also, she is possibly a lesbian.

CUL8R, Her

Sincerely,
Lauren

See everybody? Living proof that my advice will solve all your problems. Thanks for writing back, Lauren, and I’m glad everything worked out so well. La la la.

Dear Amy,

Every time I meet a beautiful woman to whom I am attracted, I open the conversation by saying something like, "Hey, gorgeous bitch, wanna fuck?" Inevitably, the woman responds with some lame rejection, usually along the lines of "No, thank you so much, I'm a lesbian." In fact, I attended the only Big Ten University at which every coed was allegedly gay during my entire four years. This apparently changed after my graduation. My friends say my approach may be a bit crude. Do you think I need help?

Sincerely,
Lonely in D.C.

Dude, seriously. And I mean, seriously, dude. Have you ever gotten laid in your life? I bet you haven’t, because if you had, you’d understand the many awesome and exciting possibilities that lesbians have to offer.

A Big Ten University where all the girls are gay? Hell, even I’d sell my soul to SallieMae for a semester or two there.

But anyway. Lesbians require a gentler approach. Ask them if they’d like a date for next year’s Earth Day. Call them “Sister” instead of bitch. Think granola and earth mothers and the Indigo Girls. (Which, by sheer coincidence, I currently have every CD of currently in my car, including the newer stuff which I never liked but now I do and I would really like to make out with a girl now because we? Are so empoweringly awesome. Tampon power!)

What?

Oh right. Unless they’re lipstick lesbians, then everything you need to know about having sex with them you can learn from porn. Have fun.

Dear Wise and Wonderful Amy, Queen of Everything and My Personal Hero,

I've got this co-worker that really just chaps my hide, and he needs to go. What's the best way to, ah, Get Rid of Him? And where can I hide the body afterwards? Should I take care of it myself, or would you recommend outsourcing in this situation?

Smooches,
Dawnie

My lawyers have advised me to have absolutely nothing to do with this question, you crazy, crazy bitch.

(Although my advice would have been to frame him for embezzlement or something. Or put lots and lots of porn on his computer. Or if all else fails: two concrete blocks and the Schuylkill River.)

Dear Amalah,

Doxie and I were just talking about JournalCon. Will you (and your crew) be going? My main sentiment is that I would be so terrified (also known as gutless) that I would be the one in the back of the room, hiding behind a plant and chewing on my own face.

Is this paralyzing shyness typical? And...can it be overcome with awards tickets from Southwest airlines and a truckload of Stoli?

Sincerely,
The New Girl

Hell yeah me and my posse will be kickin’ it at JCon! We be all registered and reserved and shit.

And you know what? We’re all super nice. And we love and we accept and we drink. Except for Chris, because he’s our dad.

And we won’t let you hide in the shrubbery chewing on your own face (which, by the way? Sounds like an awesome party trick. I have double-jointed fingers and can bend them in ways your fingers shouldn’t bend. Together, we shall be a HUGE hit.). You will hang with us. And no one else. The Queen has spoken. Mwa.

(Although if anybody, ANYBODY, tries to make me do karaoke? I will kill you.)

And I’ll be checking behind all the plants for YOU, missy.

Dear Amy,

My moron ex-boyfriend (we dated for a little over a year) keeps calling me. Now, I don't answer the phone, but every once in a while he catches me. Last night was one of those occasions. This fool wants us to go to couples counseling! Don't we sort of have to be a couple for that to work? He actually said that he LIKES it when we fight! What the fuck does that even mean?

My question (well, my main question) is this. Short of employing the whole fire-ants-to-the-penis routine, how do I get him to understand that not only do I not love him anymore, I actually sort of hate him? (Yes, I have told him that. It does not sink in.)

Sincerely,
Diana

(Well, you’ve already learned the soothing power of an evil JLB chat room and snarky sidebar quotes that mock him AND his gay ass rickets AND his dickweed manpurse. Also: inside jokes! Haaaa!)

But seriously. This guy is a tool. He is the tooliest tool that ever tooled. The fool tool wants to go to couples counseling, even though you are 1) not a couple, and 2) the toolbelt still has an ONLINE DATING PROFILE up. In which he is CARRYING A PURSE and makes MULTIPLE REFERENCES to his MOTHER. Toooool!!!!!!!

So what to do about this jackhammer? Well, I could get all Dear Abby (who is not now and will never be Ann Landers, sniff) on you and say “clip this column out and show it to him, dear.” But since this is 1) the internet, and 2) something that would probably only encourage the screwdriver, maybe that’s not such a great idea.

So I guess I’d say that if the drillbit calls you again, let him know that it’s officially past desperate and annoying and is now in criminal harassment land. Start recording his messages and get a restraining order. Because you? Do not need this staple gun hex key circular saw kind of crap.

Also maybe get some of your friends to start writing mean things about him on the Internet. That’s always cool.

Dear Amy:

I have a broken foot, and I did almost exactly what the doctor said to do. Now he says it is STILL BROKE. And I have to stay off it for another six weeks. If it's still broken after that, can I beat him with my crutches?

Sincerely,
Gimpy

Yes. For he is stupid and how dare he and etc. etc. What kind of doctor can’t heal a broken foot? And who makes you wear a fugly cast shoe for weeks and weeks? And who didn’t tell you the Vicodin + Advil = Triple Painkiller Fun Happy Surprise Trick?

A crap doctor, that’s what kind. And I don’t mean a gastroenterologist or whatever. (I totally spelled gastroenterologist right on the very first try.) (But I had to retype spelled three times and then again just now.)

I would seriously consider a malpractice suit. Get Miss Doxie to help you sue his ass for gross negligence and interfering with The Hotness.

And for heaven’s sake, really stay off it this time! No foot surgery pre-JCon. And drink a lot of White Russians for calcium power.

Dear Amy,

My three year old son has a speech delay. While his speech therapist insists on working with him on things like numbers, colors, letters, and names, I think that it is critically important to teach him phrases and sayings that will prove meaningful in everyday life. Just this week, my husband and I have taught him to say, "Pull my finger!" "You know what? Chicken butt!" "That's whack!" and "Don't play me for a fool!" Do you have any advice or suggestions as to other things I should be working to get him to say so that he doesn't fall behind the other kids in his age group?

Also, do you consider it appropriate for me to send my baby son to daycare wearing this shirt that says "Daddy drinks because I cry?" I say yes, but my husband says no. Then again, he never has had any fashion sense.

Thanks,
Martha

First of all, let’s all give Martha and her husband a big round of applause, because they? Sound awesome.

Second of all, here are my suggestions for building your son’s vocabulary. I would also be willing to write these up on flash cards for you.

I do not hold truck with clowns.
Don’t kick the baby.
Let your booty glow.
I pity the fool.
Oh my god, they killed Kenny!
Crack is whack.
Step off, bitch.
‘Ku Power
Bring dessert and a waterproof camera.
Love box
Lesbians

Third of all, I think you better let us all where exactly you got that there shirt, because we all need to be buying several hundred of those. For now I shall put mine on the cat, which is really hilarious if you think about it, but not too hard because then Daddy will drink because his wife is crying because her uterus is a fucking barren piece of crap and oh good gravy, she’s putting baby clothes on the cat again.

Dear Amalah,

My wife has gained a substantial amount of weight over the last nine months or so. She’s gained so much that she now wears my clothes. She complains that her hips hurt and her boobs are always sore (duh, they’ve grown four sizes!). She eats at odd hours of the night and pees more frequently than a male dog at a fire hydrant manufacturing facility. I’ve tried to hint nicely that she may need to exercise more and not eat portions equivalent to what a college football team would consume, but my comments appear to go unnoticed. Should I just let this go and hope it works out?

Sincerely,
Buzz (OR possibly Lee. Because I'm confused and the original email is at home and did I mention I'm confused?)

Excellent question. Let me begin by telling a little story:

Jason and I still do the grocery shopping together. Not because we want to be all squooshy and adorable, but because we both distrust the other’s shopping abilities intensely. Jason is slow and deliberate. He will stand in the soup aisle and stare at soup for 20 minutes. He’ll ponder the 99% fat free yogurt vs. 100% fat free yogurt until all the damn yogurt is expired.

I am neither slow nor deliberate. I take that cart and hightail it through the aisles at a breakneck pace. Broccoli! That one looks green! Tomatoes! Eh, they all suck. Look! Grayish chicken!

I’ll be four aisles down getting soda while Jason is still deliberating over marinara sauce, even though I know for a fact that we have seven jars of marinara sauce already at home. Jason’s considered going low-carb about four times before we hit the bread aisle and I’ve already filled the cart with the wrong kind of butter, maraschino cherries for some reason I’ve already forgotten, 200-watt light bulbs, cracked eggs and maybe some expired sausage.

If the store doesn’t have the kind of cheddar cheese crackers I like best? I’ll grab whatever box nearby that sort of uses the same color scheme. Jason will root through the store’s entire inventory of paper towels looking for a specific brand of double-quilted towel in PLAIN WHITE, no PRISSY DESIGNS, thank you very much, and even after a 15-minute search? He’s willing to walk away with NO paper towels and make a special trip to the Giant down the street for them.

And yet he’ll always pick up whatever kind of laundry detergent happens to be on sale, IRREGARDLESS of whether or not it gives me hives, as just about every detergent does except for some allergen-free kind from All. So I point out that the Tide Spring Breeze he’s selected will have me in a hellish itchy agony after two loads, and he sighs, rolls his eyes and goes back to get my All.

And that’s our marriage. It’s great.

Oh! Right. Your question. Well. Perhaps you and Lonely in D.C. should get together and cruise for skinny lesbians.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Three

Or, Church Youth Groups Ruin Young Lives

After seventh grade, you might say that I had it coming. A nice big cosmic slap of karmic retribution across my snooty little backside. In eighth grade, it came.

My school lost its lease at the end of seventh grade. The public school district needed the building back. My school did not really have its act together and didn’t start looking for a new building until like, July. Not surprisingly, that didn’t work out too well and the school closed its doors. (Or, “the school did not reopen its doors” if I’d like to make that sentence a TRIPLE negative. Boy crazy in English class much?)

Amy was sent to a Catholic school in Trenton, N.J. Markthew and his family moved away, I think. Mattark and I were sent to another small Christian school about 25 miles away that my parents really couldn’t afford. A few other random dorks were sent there too—just enough to taint the entire batch of “LBCA transfers” and cause our new classmates to view us as one indistinguishable bloc of Loooosers.

Mattark and I spoke on the phone once or twice over the summer but when school started we didn’t acknowledge each other at all. Whatever. He’d developed a slightly vicious case of acne over the summer anyway. Yeesh.

Not that I was one to talk. I’d joined a church youth group over the summer because I just wasn’t getting enough God at school. About a week before school started, we went on one last beach trip. During a barefoot walk across the beach, I stubbed my toe on some girl’s heel in front of me.

I might as well have kicked a brick wall. Apparently? This girl had feet built like army boots. Reinforced with steel and self-defense mechanisms. Her heel was really and truly super-hard. I know. My toe shattered on impact. Shat. Terred.

But still, a toe, right? Buddy tape it up and it’ll be fine? Not this toe, baby. I needed a whole cast shoe and still walked with a bad limp. I wore this cast shoe on the first of school.

Adding to my debut: wearing jeans for the first time to school and managing to do it all wrong (tight rolls? what?), and (oh, my god) PERMED BANGS.

My rocking big poofy Aqua Net bangs? Had been PERMED by an overzealous hairstylist who insisted that the perm would make them bigger and easier to style. It didn’t. It made them look even more ridiculous than the regular ridiculous style I wore but at least THAT ridiculous style was still considered cool.

So: Permed bangs, the stupidest injury story EVER, post-school-uniform-fashion trauma, plus braces and no boobs to speak of.

Anyway.

I did not meet an Amy at this school. Well, I did, but she was way too cool for me. I met girls with names like Edith who had unhealthy fixations on the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber and teddy bear sweatshirts.

This school was founded by the Mennonites and was in the middle of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania. I think stray cows wandering on the soccer field were a recurring problem. We learned Creationism and Abstinence and had to memorize Bible verses every Monday. They finally let girls wear pants the year I started, although you still had to wear skirts on Wednesday for chapel and OH MY GOSH DARN GOLLY it better be no more than two inches above your knee. There were no dances or sports for girls except field hockey, tennis and cheerleading. You know, ones that you wear skirts for.

(Ok, I’m exaggerating. There was a softball team too. Shut up.)

The school also had a huge clique problem. Probably just like my old school had, but I’d never noticed because I was in one. Huh. Girls were MEAN. Boys were CRUEL. Teachers played favorites and looked the other way. By the end of eighth grade there were about nine girls with eating disorders, two with depression and at least one who cut herself.

(I sure do bring the funny some days, don’t I? Holy hell.)

Amy had no problems at Catholic school. She was French-kissing random boys within weeks and went all Trenton white-girl ghettofabulous with the acrylic nails and the bling. She flashed the nuns and shoplifted hair accessories.

(At this time, Amy Elizabeth exits stage left, never to be seen again but often to be Googled. No luck.)

I focused my social energies on the youth group at church. I made friends with an older girl named Nicole who introduced me to the world of Older Boys. One of these Older Boys? Was named Jason Storch, and oh. My. God. I loved him. He was tall and dark and handsome and funny and nice and cute and smart and cool and omigosh he totally just looked at me. Squee!

Nicole asked him (on the phone, while I hovered nearby in terror) if he’d take me to some banquet thing the youth group was having. People got dressed up and took dates and then sat around and…ate…dinner, or something. I don’t know. It seemed monumentally important at the time.

Anyway, Jason didn’t want to take me. He had a crush on Nicole, who had a crush on Todd, who was dating some total skank who showed up at church wearing belly shirts and ripped jeans. To church! Heavens! To betsy!

Jason didn’t go to the banquet with anybody and that was fine with him because he was cool and mature enough to Not Care About Stupid Shit Like Youth Group Banquets. Oh Jason.

I, of course, was devastated. My life was over! The futility of it all! (Yes, I was in the drama club. Why do you ask?) My boyfriend-attracting-ability had obviously peaked in seventh grade and no boy was ever going to like me again, ever. I was going to die alone, unkissed and unmadeoutwith and probably fat.

Luckily, Jason had a friend named Josh.

Next Up: Josh. Duh.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Two

I saw Mean Girls this weekend. I love Tina Fey. Almost as much as BluePoppy loves Tina Fey. And almost as much as I love Mindy. It must be the glasses.

There’s been a lot of weeping and gnashing of teeth around here lately over the often-unbelievable cruelty of children. Which is true. Kids are ruthless little bastards. Teenage girls are also ruthless little bastards, only with 97% less repentance, remorse and body fat.

I wasn’t really any different. If I’d learned anything from Allison, the Original Queen Bee to my Wannabe, it was how to be a Mean Girl. So after reading Part Two you probably won’t love me so much. But I don’t care because I think the shirt you are wearing is totally ugly. And didn't you just wear it last Thursday? Jesus.

I had absolutely nothing to do with boys for the rest of elementary school. Boys were yicky players of sports who would hit you in the head during dodge ball or grab your crotch as you came down the slide and this was if they LIKED you, so pffft on them.

I transferred to a new school for seventh grade. It was, like every school I went to, a small and very strict Christian school. (The mouth I currently speak with and yes, even kiss my mother with, developed much later. A simple “Oh my God” would get your ass fucking TANNED at these places.)

I met another Amy at this school. She was Amy Elizabeth to my Amy Beth and we? Were totally popular. We were both funny and super-skinny and could do awesome things with our bangs, a curling iron and some Aqua Net.

We created a cartoon character named Elvin Pretzel, an Elvis-like rock star who still lived with his mom and had bad BO but was still “the hottest thing to hit Memphis since Roy Orbison.” We also wrote, composed and recorded a highly-ambitious musical production called “Les Miserables: Elvin Style” and its sequel, “Les Miserables II: The Hunt for Jean Valjean.”

We found each other beyond hysterical. (I have obviously not changed at all.)

We were The Amys. Even though seventh graders were the baby scumbuckets of the school, everybody knew The Amys. We were cute and funny and knew all the best crank calls and could keep a prank going for weeks. (We kept telling everyone about The Best Movie Ever called “Red Rain” that they just HAD to see and we’ve seen it like, five times already and you’ve TOTALLY got to go this weekend, promise? And of course the movie didn’t exist. We just used it as a cover for when we got caught gossiping about somebody. Some girl’s dad was in rehab for cocaine? Oh no, not you. The main character in Red Rain. It’s so sad. You should totally go see it.)

We could also be incredibly, unbelievably and relentlessly mean to other girls. Two in particular. One of which went to Penn State and I recognized. I looked her up in the student directory and emailed her and asked if she was the same girl I went to junior high with, even though I totally knew she was. I was hoping to soothe my conscience and apologize for being such a bitch. Her response: “Nope. Not me.” I definitely deserved that.

Anyway. I’ve digressed to gresses unknown. The point is: I had a friend named Amy.

Sometime before Christmas, Amy was approached by a boy who was friends with a boy who liked me. Did I like him?

Amy and I didn’t talk about boys much. I believe she had a crush on an older boy and I’d long stopped viewing boys as part of my species. (Particularly seventh grade boys. This was during Gulf War I and all the boys thought saying “I scudded” after they farted? Was the funniest thing ever.)

But Amy reported back to me and together we determined that it would be a good move for me to like this boy back. His mother was the band conductor and Amy and I were angling for the banner girl spots in the marching band. He was incredibly smart and bookish but not completely nerdy. He was top-tier honor roll (the school had three honor rolls to distinguish the brilliant from the super-smart from the merely dumb lucky). He had curly blond hair and glasses that were not altogether awful.

I cannot remember his name. It was either Mark or Matthew or something Mish. We’ll just call him Markthew.

Amy scurried back to Markthew’s minion and ta da! A seventh grade “item” was born. We had never spoken before, and really wouldn’t afterwards either. Amy joked that she should have negotiated a dowry.

I was pleased and waited for the making out to begin. The clandestine meetings out behind the gymnasium and the gifts and the whatnot. We said “hi” in the hallway a lot and one time he gave a note to his friend to give to Amy to give to me. He always required two layers of insulation in any relationship dealings.

One time, I sent a message across the proper communication channels that maybe we could sit next to each other in chapel. Amy had already devised a plan of bringing a jacket along to drape over the armrest so we could hold hands. I got a long letter from him explaining why he just couldn’t sit next to me in chapel (ever!) or talk to me in the hallways (EVER!) that didn’t explain anything. But it did talk about how much he liked me and how pretty I was. Swoon!

And then he gave me a Christmas present, live and in person! It was a box of turtles (the candy, not the…oh you know. Shut it.). He delivered it to me just after the bell rang for Christmas break and I was packing up at my locker. He said, “Here.”

I stood up to thank him and realized that I was at least half a foot taller than him. Oh my god.

Amy and I discussed it in much detail over Christmas break.

I’d say stuff like, “I just don’t feel very fulfilled in this relationship. He’s so closed off, you know?”

She’d say things like, “You need to be with someone who appreciates you. I just don’t think he really appreciates you.”

And I’d say, “But I don’t want to hurt him. He’s so sensitive.”

And she’d say, “He’s not taking your feelings into consideration though. He just ignores you and expects you to be happy when you’re doing all the work.”

(Thirteen-year-old girls and Oprah. Bad, bad, bad.)

I also turned 14 and got my first period over Christmas break. I was way too mature for him, obviously. It was time to move on. Adult relationships. Actual talking and kissing. Markthew had to go.

Amy, of course, delivered the news. By the time I’d made my final decision our opinions of him had plummeted. What had we seen in him? He was short and kind of pudgy and he stammered sometimes when he answered in class. He played the clarinet, for fuck’s sake. Plus he hadn’t even attempted to figure out a way that we could possibly arrange to maybe kiss. Totally. Gay.

So Amy marched up to him before homeroom and told him, “Amy doesn’t like you anymore.” And then marched off.

It was a success. Everybody knew by second period. Markthew disappeared. The next day, he wore black and kept telling people that his girlfriend totally "dumped him like trash."

“Girlfriend!” I shrieked when someone reported this to me. “He was scared to death of me the whole time we went out and now I’m his girlfriend? Puh-leeeze.”

It wasn’t long before another person approached me to report that someone else liked me. (Again, he was either Mark or Matthew. Mattark, then.) Since the friend reported directly to me, cutting out the entire buffer layer of Amy, I took this as a good sign. Plus? This guy was tall. Tall!

Mattark talked to me. He called me on the phone. We had absolutely nothing to say, but still. Talking. He walked me to class and sat next to me in chapel EVEN THOUGH we were in separate homerooms and technically supposed to sit with our homerooms. He was a badass. He came over to my house once but my parents kept us under constant watch so there was still no kissing. But he made an attempt and that made me happy.

Meanwhile, Markthew was coming undone. He quit band. (Band!) He mouthed off to a teacher when he didn’t do his homework. Amy and I had to tread lightly around him because of his mother and our upcoming marching band banner girl appearances, but we were still Mean. Amy would randomly tell him I liked him again and then pretend that he was making it up when he mentioned it later. He became a regular character in our comic strips…complete with mouse ears, a tail and a penchant for choosing cheese over females. He got suspended for two days after being heard to say the word “bitch.”

The honor roll for the second semester came out in June. I’d moved up the honor roll to the top tier. Amy cracked the middle tier. Markthew’s name was nowhere to be seen.

“We’ve destroyed him, Aim,” Amy marveled. “Totally destroyed him.”

We both stared at the list for awhile, giggling and feeling immensely pleased with ourselves.

Next up: Amy gets her bitchy ass knocked down a few hundred pegs.