Ask Amalah's Advice, Again, And Other "A" Words

You know how much I love you people? I am writing this column from my DEATHBED. That's right, I am DYING. By the time you read this, I will be DEAD. I will have DIED. (Have I used all tenses of the word "death" yet?)

I went to work today, because I am a Trooper. I also went a wee bit stir crazy yesterday, despite some darn good IM action and the most hilarious phone call from Coleen. (Summary: How are you feeling my darling? Shitty? Okay, let me tell you about my shitty day and make you laugh until you pee a little. Which is not hard with a UTI but still. Loave her.)

Anyway, now? Am dying. Jason's making dinner and I'm moaning softly from the couch. There's another M*A*S*H rerun on. My head hurts so bad the mere use of the word "hurt" is insulting, as it falls so very, very short. It's 77 degrees in here and yet I shiver. Mooooaaaaannnn.

But still, I write. I update. I got tomorrow's Haiku Smackdown post all ready to go. Do you KNOW the kind of photos you end up looking at while you scour the soft white underbelly of the Internet for creepy pics? You see...well, creepier pics.

And now, I answer your stupid questions for that Wednesday Advice thing that I really think only amuses me because they end up being my least-commented-entries. But still, I write. Because I love. And because I've already watched this episode of M*A*S*H.

Dear Amalah,

Many moons ago when I first started reading you I thought you were a cool black chick. Did you used to be Queen Latifah?

Signed, Wrong First Impression

I wish. Have you seen her boobs? I want boobs like that. I would stare at them and make fake hand-cleavage with those puppies all day.

Plus? She seems like she would be a very sassy friend. And I want a sassy friend. One who can get away with being all, "Daaaammmmnnn straight motherfuckah, that's what I'm talkin' bout" with the whole three-snap thing and the "uhh-huh" head shake. You know what I'm talkin' bout.

But no. I cannot get away wit dat. Because I am the whitest white girl in the history of white. Except that I can dance. Seriously! I can! (Thank you, Patrick Swayze and many Friday nights at home along with Jock Jams on a Walkman.)

But other than that? White. Non-sassy. And flat-chested as all get-out.

Dear Amalah,

We need your awesome sense of coolitude to help settle a fight within our cell block.

Which TV high school is fabulouser—Bayside (SBTB) or West Beverly (90210)? Please break scoring down by appropriate category(ies).

Thank you, Viper

Dude, you want to know how delirious I am right now? I totally had to Google "Bayside (SBTB)" because I had NO FUCKING IDEA what you were talking about. And I also mispelled "delirious" five times while typing it. And then I just did it again.

And I am also delerious (oh FUCK IT) because I am about to admit something Truly Shameful. I never watched 90210. Never. I don't believe I have ever watched a single episode all the way through. Except for the one where Tori Spelling lost her virginity because EVERYBODY was going to watch that one and I didn't want to be left out. Plus I was sleeping over at a friend's house so my parents wouldn't know that I was watching a show where people had the S-E-X. And talked about things like C-O-N-D-O-M-S.

So while I am far from an expert, I shall apply my limited knowledge to settle this for you and your cellmates, although I really hope there isn't some kind of "bitch" agreement for the loser.

First of all, if you're talking later years of 90210, you're looking at a Tiffany Amber-Theissan vs. Tiffany Amber-Theissan kind of deal. Which gives both schools a score of -183749326342 to start off with.

90210 recovers slightly because of its non-TAT years (oh my god, TAT, like, for REAL), so I'll give it a score of -134347688 to start.

90210 also scores high because of the easy access to drugs and alcohol. Just about everybody on that show got drunk, coked up, tweaked out or sent to rehab at some point. Although nobody ever jumped off a bridge while on acid and got all brain-damaged like that kid from Degrassi High. But still. Awesome.

Saved By the Bell? Jesus. Zack takes ONE SIP OF ALCOHOL and CRASHES HIS CAR. Pay attention, boys and girls...that's what's called a LIGHTWEIGHT.

And don't even get me started on the S-E-X. Everybody on 90210 pretty much got busy by sophomore year. Sex = Popularity. Awesome. And totally true.

Bayside? No sex. Ever. I'm not sure any of those guys made it past first base. Heavy petting? RUINS LIVES PEOPLE.

So where do we stand? Bayside: -2409803423403009990902937210947. West Beverly: +2

Ok, last but not least, let's talk about the actual schools. Bayside was exactly one hallway long. You got stuck with the same damn locker every year. (Although, I must say, they were very roomy lockers. People stored everything from prom dresses to robots to livestock in those things.) The library did not appear to be well-stocked. The cafeteria seemed pretty cool...except that it also seemed to be the only eating establishment in the tri-state area. Also, if you were one of the 28 students who didn't belong to the unholy TAT/Showgirl/Zack/Mariowhatshisface/TokenBlackGirl/Screeeeech bloc, you were basically mute and spent a lot of time pacing around.

I don't remember much about 90210's actual school, but I think this is a good thing. There was an OUTSIDE. Granted, that outside mostly comprised of a lame-ass bar named after a seed with a dumb alliterative name, but still. The principal's wife didn't deliver her baby in the school hallway with Luke Perry's assistance or anything. There were hospitals and rehab centers for that sort of thing.

Anyway. I think 90210 wins. But what do I know? I never watched Shannen Doherty act until Charmed, so I should probably take away a few million points for that. Also for spelling Shannen with an "e." But that wouldn't be fair or very scientific. And that's what I'm all about.

The Antibiotics of Absurdity

I'm at home today. Sick and sicker. Sinus infection or something and then, just to be twice as loavely, a urinary tract infection. All kinds of special. (And guess which infection I omitted to my boss when I called out this morning, but which he now knows about, because he reads this site? Go on, guess!)

Anyway, many thanks to all my wonderful friends who have kept me amused and distracted by sending funny emails and waving shiny things in front of me. And especially Chris, who not only spent all morning IMing with me, but also provided me with a ready-made entry so I would not have to worry my feverish little head about it.

Be warned: We're very, very weird. And I can't really blame my multiple infections for it.

rudecactus: sorry to hear you're not feeling well :-(

amalahbeth: yeah...it sucks

*** Auto-response from rudecactus: I'm away right now.

amalahbeth: what? where?

rudecactus: oops...I'm here...
rudecactus: not good!

amalahbeth: I still almost went to work, because I'm an idiot. I was driving there and suddenly thought...why the hell am I killing myself to get to work?
amalahbeth: take a sick day dammit!

rudecactus: hell yeah! its only work!

amalahbeth: dude, the next harry potter title has been announced

rudecactus: yeah? what is it?

amalahbeth: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

rudecactus: interesting...have they put a release date to it?

amalahbeth: doesn't look like it

rudecactus: regardless, I bet it involves me being at a bookstore around midnight

amalahbeth: You are a very powerful wizard
amalahbeth: to see into the future like that

rudecactus: I try ;-)
rudecactus: it'll sound like an odd question but we were all discussing it at the office yesterday - have you seen rasputin's penis yet?

amalahbeth: um. what?

rudecactus: Clicky.

amalahbeth: um. ew?

rudecactus: lol ;-) yeah...but still, who'd have known someone would save that?

amalahbeth: do they know if it's really his?

rudecactus: thats what they claim...Elliot was taking about it the other morning and it showed up on Yahoo

amalahbeth: yick
amalahbeth: and also, impressive
amalahbeth: I wonder if Ron Jeremy will have his pickled?

rudecactus: yes...it's no wonder he was popular with Alexandra

amalahbeth: I have watched like, 7 episodes of M*A*S*H today

rudecactus: that's a lot of M*A*S*H
rudecactus: better than tons of saved by the bell episodes though

amalahbeth: i'm on my second ep of Cheers now

rudecactus: better
rudecactus: don't let me catch you watching touched by an angel or anything though

amalahbeth: oh god no
amalahbeth: only classic and reputable sitcoms

rudecactus: just steer clear of the whole PAX network

amalahbeth: but I thought I might watch some services over lunch with that weird pink-haired lady

rudecactus: lol! :-) see if you can find Benny Hinn
rudecactus: he's always amusing

amalahbeth: Benny Hill?
amalahbeth: he's too racy for PAX

rudecactus: no...Hinn or something like that...he's a healer

amalahbeth: ahhh, yes, loave those guys

rudecactus: he brings old people on stage, knocks 'em over and suddenly they're healed

amalahbeth: the POWAH of CHRIST! SMACK!

rudecactus: yeah! it's awesome...and amusing...if it weren't just so horrible
rudecactus: he wears cool white neru jackets too
rudecactus: Behold, the power of Hinn

amalahbeth: welcome to my childhood

rudecactus: yeah, I thought that might hit a little close to home
rudecactus: at least you didn't have ministers spouting racist and elitist humor at you
rudecactus: well, no more elitist than all religion

amalahbeth: *wanders off to go make eggs, which she burns*
rudecactus: *does work, for he is industrious*

amalahbeth: ok, I just went through and reread our conversation thus far, and I'm totally posting.
amalahbeth: it, that is

rudecactus: cool with me! :-)

amalahbeth: we're hilarious. even when we're not really trying...and one of us is delirious
amalahbeth: I mean, we went from harry potter to rasputin's penis to televangelists in one swooping tangent

rudecactus: I know! we're multi-topical!

amalahbeth: by the way, i loave martha more and more every day
amalahbeth: her paris post? had me CRYING. Actual water tears.

rudecactus: I know! and so did one of her visitor's comments - about yelling jambon at taxis

amalahbeth: yes!

rudecactus: that just cracked me up...its what prompted today's post from me

amalahbeth: it is wrong how much I love grits.
amalahbeth: I have eaten two bowls today.

rudecactus: could be worse

rudecactus: could be lard or something

amalahbeth: or veal kidneys

rudecactus: or pig penis

amalahbeth: or Rasputin penis

rudecactus: definitely could be worse

amalahbeth: dammit, I have watched everything on the damn TiVo already. damn, dammit, etc.

rudecactus: oh no!

amalahbeth: time to switch to DVDs I guess
amalahbeth: the standard sick day movies

rudecactus: ahhh!! which are?

amalahbeth: hmmm...Office Space, South Park...maybe Fight Club
amalahbeth: and then A Beautiful Mind or Sleepless in Seattle if I want to take a nap
amalahbeth: or weep, either way

rudecactus: that sounds so sad :-(

amalahbeth: I like me a good weep though
amalahbeth: especially when I'm sick...it releases toxins or something
amalahbeth: but I think I'm in more of a violence mood right now

rudecactus: then in that case break out the big guns like terms of endearment
rudecactus: but violence will work

amalahbeth: I lent Dumb & Dumber to someone and I want it back

rudecactus: that's hardly violent

amalahbeth: no, but it has the best diarrhea scene in the history of cinema

rudecactus: I enjoy just plain stupid...I was one of the three people who liked Ishtar

amalahbeth: I don't think I've ever seen that

rudecactus: a classic, misunderstood movie
rudecactus: with some excellent stupid song lyrics

amalahbeth: would you judge me if I told you I own The Fast & The Furious?

rudecactus: hell no...i've never seen it so I cant judge...looked wonderfully mindless to me though
rudecactus: (and that's a good thing)

amalahbeth: Best Worst Dialogue Ever: Vin Diesel: I live my life a quarter-mile at a time!
amalahbeth: I HOWL at that line everytime.

rudecactus: LOL

amalahbeth: plus: fast cars! furious people!

rudecactus: who'da thunk it?

amalahbeth: i'm never gonna get this entry up if we keep saying funny things

rudecactus: lol! it'll just be that much more good material though...oh...and for an Escheresque twist, hello everyone reading this post!

amalahbeth: Stop it, man! You're BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL! NOOOO!

Adventures in Disposable Income

(In which we are filthy, dirty yuppie sell-outs. Y’all are going to hate me after this post, I know it.)

I kicked off the weekend by spending over $200 on a haircut, highlights and hair products on Friday morning. Gulp.

Friday night, Jason took me and my haircut to LeftBank in Adams Morgan. LeftBank is a new trendy spot...the chef described it as a "wired retro lounge," or something. It's the kind of restaurant where you’ll spend over $100 while sharing a cafeteria-style table with up to four other people. Half the menu is raw/vegan stuff while the rest of the menu explores every culinary fad in the world. The music is loud so you end up shouting at your dinner companion and rolling your eyes at the slobs who dare to ask for a table while wearing JEANS and TENNIS SHOES. I mean, come on. Do they not notice the sea of metrosexuals in here? The Eurotrash and the Manolos? Please. Oh, and all the cups and cocktail glasses are made of fluorescent plastic. Funky!

(Coming Soon to an Amalah.com Near You: The Meathead Incident. There’s a whole other entry from this dinner that must be written, and will be written, I promise.)

After dinner, we could not bear to go home, for we had no air conditioning. A series of pipe bursts on our street knocked out the water supply to our HVAC unit thingie since Monday. It’s been awful. Luckily we ponied up the money for our sleeper sofa so we could sleep downstairs where it’s only 85 degrees instead of our bedroom upstairs where it’s 90.

But still. Hot. Humid. Crankiness. The AC came back on for one glorious evening this week on Thursday, only to be shut off again Friday morning when one of the repaired pipes sprung a leak AGAIN, probably because the District of Columbia is no longer allowed to repair water pipes with, you know, lead and asbestos and stuff. Damn liberals.

On Thursday we cranked up the AC so high we had to sleep under the comforter and I woke up with a little cold. It was wonderful. Our electric bill weeps.

So on Friday, when faced with another sleepless night on the sleeper sofa with the sounds of Wisconsin Avenue blaring through our useless open windows, we did what any couple who routinely spends $100 on a meal of veggie burgers and prosciutto with cantaloupe would do. We called a hotel.

Specifically, the Hotel Helix, future home of JournalCon 2004. We dashed home, packed a bag, filled up seven bowls of water for Max and bolted from our luxury/slumlord condo/sauna.

The hotel was very nice. So was the hotel bar. Also funky and trendy and loud. Except for all the tourists who dared go out to drink at their own hotel in Birkenstocks and athletic socks. But anyway. Lots of Red Bull drinks (which I am so over, frankly) and cocktails garnished with interesting things, like cucumbers.

After spending $11 a cocktail at the lounge, $5 for Maker’s Mark from the room’s minibar seemed really reasonable. And it went well with the complimentary coffee, which we drank at 2 a.m. and then had only decaf for the next morning so we went to the lobby for our free complimentary continental breakfast only to learn that no one ever really said "free" or "complimentary" and we paid $10 for two coffees, one muffin and a croissant.

I also could have done without the hotel bathroom ceiling starting to leak at 7 a.m. in the goddamn morning, and also without the bathroom ceiling starting to just GUSH water at 7:10 a.m. Especially since the dripping water not only woke me up but also made me really, really have to pee, which required trying to sit on the toilet and not get rained on, which was not possible. So I just prayed and prayed that the water was coming from somebody’s shower and not from any other plumbing fixtures.

But waking up early meant that we could get to a certain store that was having a certain big sale right when it opened. (Not-Exactly-Confidential to Zoot, Tjej and Fraulein: Thomas Pink is a store that sells tailored shirts and ties and cufflinks and scarves. All business-like and shit. But so, so beautiful. And expensive. But beautiful!) Jason thought he needed to exchange the black shirt I got him for his birthday, but it turns out he didn’t, because apparently we don’t know anything about men’s dress shirts, because we are trashy New Money. But while we were there we were soon suckered into buying him a matching tie and another shirt with another set of cufflinks.

And then I wandered into the women’s section. And at first I was all, yeah, these are pretty but I never like the way button-down shirts look. And the salesgirl was all, would you like to try on a sample shirt? (Yes, you can only try on samples, as the shirts you buy are all pristine and virgin and folded with so many fasteners they resemble a Chinese puzzle.) And I was all, okay, why not?

And then I tried the shirts on and was all, oh my god.

But even with the sale, the shirts were still pretty damn expensive, so I decided (or Jason glared at me until I decided) that I would only buy one. A classic one. One that would go with all my suits and I could wear all the time. Pink. White. Maybe a light blue.

Somehow I ended up with an eggplant-colored shirt with black and grey stripes and a pair of purple and pink cufflinks which are way more complicated to get on than I thought.

Anyway. After that spending frenzy, we decided to take it easy the rest of the weekend. So Saturday night we saw a movie, which cost us seventy hundred dollars for two tickets and a bottle of water. (We saw The Terminal. Which was sweet and harmless and definitely flawed, but starred Tom Hanks, who washes away a myriad of sins. Oh Tom. Please marry me. I will buy you shirts and fasten your cufflinks.)

After that, we decided to get serious about the not spending any more money. Except that the apartment was still so ho-ot. Too hot to make breakfast on Sunday. So we went out for brunch, which just isn’t brunch unless it includes Bloody Marys. But still, it was only $30 which was a bargain, except that we both clearly remembered a time when $30 was all we had to spend on dinner. On our wedding anniversary.

After brunch, it was time to not spend any more money ever again. Except on things we needed, like toilet paper. Except that once in the drugstore, I realized that I needed a lot of other things, like to try that C2 Coke with half the carbs or whatever, and also some fun lip gloss, because I should be good and not spend $30 on Chanel lip gloss ever again, even though I totally will.

I also decided to finally take control of my life and invest $29.99 in a package of Crest WhiteStrips.

Needless to say, when we realized we needed to hit the regular grocery store later on Sunday, Jason was perfectly happy to leave me at home in the hot apartment and go by himself. But he still bought me a bouquet of roses, because he’s like that.

And that, my friends, is how you spend your entire paycheck in a span of three days. And also why Amalah and Jason need to have a baby or get a hobby like volunteering in a soup kitchen, because this is shameful. But fun.

Plus I’ve already gotten like, five compliments on my shirt and am thinking I could really use a white one. And then I could donate all my cheap ones to the Goodwill or something, lest a huge karmic anvil comes crashing through our roof this week.

It would probably hit our air conditioning.

Amalah's Weekend, In Box and Bag Form

And I barely feel bad about it. Which is to say, not at all.

The 2004 Amalah Awards

The lovely Miss Lauren wrote a very funny post today about made-up awards for herself at work. I immediately decided to steal this idea, and then went a step further and stole her entire first sentence too.

Of course, her post was really funny because Miss Lauren works for her own damn self, while I, you might be surprised to learn, am a slave to the corporate machine. (Those of you with the patience to plod through this post may now smile weakly at that lame little joke. Go on. I’ll wait.)

And I’ve actually gotten awards. Twice. Well, the awards didn’t have my name on them or anything, and technically belong to the author whose publication I edit, but we’re just going to say that he never would have won those awards if it weren’t for his amazing editor.

But. Still. I obviously deserve some more personal recognition. So without further ado, here are the awards I am putting myself in the running for…

The Bart Simpson Memorial Grammar Rodeo Award. While you might not know it from the labyrinth-like sentences I post here, I’m a damn fine copyeditor. While it’s not primarily what I do, I’m always asked to proofread other people’s stuff. (I have somebody to do all my proofreading. Damn, don’t I sound important?) Quite often resumes and cover letters, but that’s not important. What is important is how great I am at catching typos and grammatical errors and punctuation problems and dangling participles. And extra spaces after periods. I’m amazing at finding those. Which is good, because the entire company would probably crumble if we sent out newsletters with incorrect spacing after periods.

Odds of Winning: About 75%, because our full-time copyeditor is better than me, but she’s a lot shorter than me, so I could probably take her in a hand-to-hand combat tiebreaker.

The Oral Fixation Bite-Mark-Free Pen Award. Just once, I would like to not feel a rush of panic when someone asks to borrow a pen. I don’t just chew on my pens occasionally. I freaking gnaw on them. My pens spend more time in my mouth than they do in the pretty little pen holder cup thing on my desk. I keep a pen in my mouth while I type, people, that’s how bad it is. I have a special pen that I just take to meetings, because it's the one I don't like to chew on so it's not all mutilated. But I think if there was an award and maybe a small cash prize, I could improve.

Odds of Winning: Slim to snowball-in-hell.

The Impressive Array of Important Financial Publications Award. I could so win this one. I have a stack of Barron’s in my office that’s over a foot-and-a-half high. I’m swimming in Wall Street Journals. There’s Kiplinger’s, BusinessWeek and some stray copies of the Financial Times. Do I actually subscribe to any of these? Hell no. But if there’s a free trial subscription to be had, I’m on it. And then I never, ever throw any of the issues away. The stack of Barron’s are from January through March, when I had a free three-month subscription. But you’d never notice that unless you look real close, and I won’t let you because I’m stacking the free Wall Street Journals that I'm currently getting on top. I don’t really remembering signing up for a free WSJ subscription…it just started arriving. Which is cool except that I’m afraid it might be a mistake and a bill will arrive any day now. And that would SUCK because I never, ever read any of this crap. It’s boring.

Odds of Winning: 100%, unless there was a reading comprehension quiz of some sort.

Anatomy of a Company Picnic

Or, When Life is an Episode of The Office Just Waiting to Happen
Or, The Longest Entry Ever

Part One: The Memo

We're pleased to invite you and your immediate family or a guest to our upcoming Company Picnic on Wednesday, June 23 from 2:00 p.m. - 7:00 p.m. (Employees are excused from work at 1:30 p.m. to attend the picnic. If you choose not to attend you are expected to remain at work.) The picnic goes on rain or shine. Should the weather be bad (heaven forbid!), there is covered seating available.

There will be numerous activities for all ages including: softball, volleyball, horseshoes, miniature golf, basketball, ping pong, and field games for kids and grown-ups alike! We’re also featuring some new and returning favorites this year. These include a double dump truck slide (new), a horse-drawn hay ride, a moon bounce, remote controlled NASCAR racing, and a bucking mechanical bull - (it was so much fun last year!) We will also enjoy a "fun in the sun" entertainment package from Bristol Sounds Deejays.

In addition to all the fun, you can plan on plenty of good food and beverages. Barbecued chicken and spareribs will be served along with vegetarian baked beans, green salad, corn-on-the-cob, cranberry sauce, pickle chips, applesauce, three-bean salad, rolls w/butter, potato chips and snack cake desserts. In addition to the main course, we will have Nachos available all day. And, if that's not enough, you can save room for individual ice cream treats in the late afternoon.

Beverages -- consisting of soft drinks, beer, wine and coffee -- will be served throughout the day. (Beer and wine will be served only if you have proper I.D. and will be limited to one drink per person per visit. In other words, you can't carry a drink back to your spouse or friend unless they also provide proper I.D.)

Part Two: Resist urge to copyedit memo and tape on HR's door. Grumble about "Nachos" being a proper noun for some reason. Shut up about it. Attempt to RSVP via a fancy online form on the company intranet. Give up, call HR to RSVP. Try not to laugh when asked if my spouse will be attending. Haaa, right. Hang up. Wonder if maybe I should have asked around to see if anyone else is going. Shit. Print out directions to picnic.

Part Three: Forget about picnic completely until Tuesday, June 22 at 4:30 pm. Completely revise work schedule and write many post-its reminding self to bring picnic clothes to work, as they're still making us wear suits in the morning. Print out directions to picnic.

Part Four: P-Day, Zero Hour

9:30ish a.m. Arrive at work, picnic clothes wadded up into wee Coach bag.

9:45 Print out directions to picnic.

10:02 Find out friend cannot go to the picnic after all. Neither can other friend. Other friend still on vacation. Shit.

10:15 Feel small and unpopular.

10:22 Oh right. Work.

10:27 Work work work.

10:30 Am super productive, really. Should get a raise.

10:47 Assistant asks if she can follow me to picnic. Print out directions for her. She seems shocked when I tell her I probably won’t be arriving there promptly at 2 p.m.

11:34 Seriously dude, EVERYBODY is blowing off the picnic. Dude.

11:37 Consider blowing off the picnic.

11:43 Determine that I cannot blow off picnic for the following reasons: I RSVP’d and unless someone picks up my nametag from the sign-in table, I’ll get a stern lecture about how the company paid for my share of Nachos and rolls w/butter and since I wasn’t there the money was wasted and could have gone to poor children and the rolls are all stale now. Also, I do not want to stay at work doing work stuff all day. Also, free beer and wine.

12:00 p.m. Did not bring lunch. Forgot how hard it is to wait for picnic food. Go eat miniature Snickers from office Candy Corner.

12:24 Update sites. All three of them. Lordy.

12:56 Holy crap. Hungry. Eat three Twizzlers and miniature Twix.

1:13 Huzzah! One person is going to picnic. No, two!

1:45 Assistant leaves for picnic. Adorable.

2:26 Get following email from practically last person I know going to picnic: I think I’m gonna bail out on the picnic…you?

2:28 Oh hell no.

2:32 For no real reason, guilt email-sender into coming to picnic, reminding him of that one time he bailed on the Christmas party and then the picnic once I think and shouldn’t we be a better example to poor assistant who has NOT had zeal for life and corporate spirit sucked from her yet?

2:33 Translation: I’m going to be miserable, and I’d like you to join me please, thank you.

2:40 Change into picnic clothes. Shove super-expensive work clothes into wee Coach bag. Shit.

2:42 Print out directions to picnic.

2:44 Leave. Alone. Brave face on. Leave directions on desk.

3:00 Miss turn. Drive two miles out of way before finding place for U-turn.

3:10 Arrive at picnic. It’s sort of raining. Fantastic.

3:15 Dorky name tag? Check.

3:17 Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god I don’t know anyone here. Health publishing side of business outnumbers wealth publishing side by a bajillion to one.

3:18 Holy FUCK, there’s a clown. Named Crackers. Driving around like a crazy person in a little miniature car. Cannot breathe, shaking.

3:19 Debate which looks worse: woefully wandering around looking for familiar faces with or without a beer in hand.

3:20 Beer. Green Wristband of Power. Check. Social anxiety disorder vanishes instantly.

3:22 Assistant! And other people I never talk to but sort of know!

3:30 Picnic organizers keep announcing last call for children’s “field games.” Everyone momentarily perks up upon hearing “ffff-“, but when it’s not “food is served”, everyone dies a little inside. So very hungry.

3:32 The DJ is trying very hard to get people to join in a hula hoop contest. Is honest-to-godly playing the Macarena.

3:34 Damn, there are some serious skanks on the health team.

3:35 Skanks who hula hoop, apparently.

3:37 – 3:50 Beer. And PLEASE MAKE THE CLOWN STOP DRIVING AROUND IN CIRCLES.

3:51 There's white zinfandel from a TAP, for crissakes.

3:54 Try to think of a company activity that DIDN’T involve the Electric Slide. Cannot.

4:00 We’re all getting a little hammered. And a little mean and catty. Somebody Important’s Important Wife? TOTALLY has hair extensions. Please. Hair don't grow that fast, sister.

4:02 Dude, people are wearing those ugly T-shirts they gave out for the cruise last fall. Like dozens of them.

4:03 Discuss with coworkers the varied fates that befell our company T-shirts. Painting, carwash, gave to dog, etc.

4:07 FOOD!

4:15 Fucking food line.

4:18 Panic. Have lost sight of coworkers. Am wandering around with a plate of chicken and baked beans with no place to sit like it’s the high school cafeteria.

4:19 Found them. Cling.

4:20 Why are there no knives?

4:23 Eat barbeque chicken in silence using fingers and cheap plastic fork. Stupid knives.

4:25 Decide there are no knives because of inflatable Moonbounce and mechanical bull ride.

4:27 Notice that the mechanical bull’s inflatable “pen” is decorated with inflatable palm trees. Huh?

4:30 Coworker: “This is where mechanical bulls come to die. They go from Urban Cowboy to country western bars to this. Their agent goes, think CORPORATE, and then here they are, surrounded by inflatable palm trees, terrified that one company will give their employees KNIVES.”

4:31 Me: “Do you have a blog? Because seriously. You should.”

4:34 Important VP is hovering around the exit area. Shit.

4:37 Killing time until VP relocates. Notice there is a rooster graphic on Green Wristband of Power. No one at table gets my “You can’t kill the rooster” reference. Morons.

4:40 Notice graphic of rooster is also on beer cups. Rooster is chasing hen. Heh.

4:42 Funny-as-hell-coworker declares my powers of observation to be superhero-like. Seriously calls me Queen of the Mundane.

4:46 Imagine new site banner with rooster graphic. Heh.

4:48 Fucking clown. Stop it. Stopit stopit.

4:53 Decide to get “snack cake dessert” for road. Maybe two.

4:55 Leave.

4:57 Am free! Free!

5:17 Fucking picnic grounds with the one fucking entrance with the fucking traffic light that lets three fucking cars through at a fucking time.

5:20 Eat cupcakes. Both of them.

6:00 Home. Saved NO TIME by going to picnic. Diet is in ruins. Cannot find scissors to cut Green Wristband of Power off.

6:20 p.m. – 11:15 a.m. Write longest entry ever. Jeez.

Too Much Amalah for Just One Column

You know the drill: You ask, I dance dangerously close to giving actual answers. It's the Wednesday Advice Smackdown here at the site which you are currently looking at. With links! For clicking! And some photos! And more of me me me me than you ever would want.

Dear Amalah, My husband is all in a tizzy because I got a sweet little gmail account thanks to an invite from a blogger. I told him, as soon as I get an invite to give, I'll send it to you. I'm even posting to my secret blogger account just so that it will be active enough that they might give me another invite. But you see? I kinda need TWO gmail accounts. I need one to use for non-blogging people. So - uh - I kinda got an invite and uh - used it for myself. And now? My husband thinks I'm a greedy wench. But I NEEDED it. I NEEDED two. I mean - I don’t want my ex-husband knowing I have a blog. And I don’t want my in-laws knowing about that blog. So I NEEDED another gmail. Also - I dont want to use my real name in my blogging world. So you see? TWO. I need a blogging gmail and a non-blogging gmail. Thats not so unreasonable. Or, am I, in fact, a greedy lil wench?

Signed,
misszoot[at]gmail.com AND name_withheld_because_y’all_are_crazy_stalkers@gmail.com

Miss Zoot is the winner of the non-useful bonus points from last week, as she was the very first to send my shiny new gmail account a question. Pretty! Oh, and because I’m a genius? And because Chris told me how? All mail to amy[at]amalah.com goes to Gmail. As does mail to advice[at]amalah.com, which y’all should totally send mail to, because otherwise the Wednesday Advice Smackdown is going to DIE and GO AWAY FOREVER and perhaps I’ll throw a tantrum and GO AWAY TOO. Wah. Or not.

Anyway. Zoot is a total greedy wench. Just like me, as I am currently sitting on FOUR Gmail invites because I’m thinking I could use another one too. Like with my real name, for important non-blogging business. Of which I have none, but I might someday. And maybe I should get my maiden name too, just in case anyone from high school is sending out random emails to amycorbett@something.com trying to find me to apologize for being such a dick back then. And then I could write back and be all, CHECK IT OUT ASSHOLE. THE WORLD HATES YOU NOW.

And then maybe I should keep one invite for my future child. I could register his or her name and guarantee that they will be the coolest and most wired infant in Gymboree. And when the other mothers start bragging about the APGAR test or when little Courtney-Emma-Lindsey first rolled over, I can be all, “Yes, but is your child on GMAIL yet? No! Oh, what a shame! No one invited them?”

Dear Amalah,

What would you do if a random stranger gave you $1000?

- TJ

Wait, is this an advice question? You need advice? About free money? You SUCK.

Anyway, what would I do with $1,000 from a random stranger? First, I would send most of it to my favorite online journaler who provides me with daily diversions and hours of entertainment for free. Someone who would take that money and blow it on bad, socially irresponsible things like Coach purses and Manolo Blahniks or a Louis Vuitton tank top. Then I would go ahead and send the rest of the money to her anyway, so she could invest some of it in quality growth mutual funds.

Dear Amalah, I love your Web site. You're so smart and funny. Do you mind if we buy you stuff? Is there some sort of "wish list" you might have?

- Viper

I swear to GOD I did not write this question. AND this question was sent to me BEFORE yesterday’s post, the one about all the presents. This person is PSYCHIC. And also in the office across the hall from me. Maybe he’s a spy! Anyway.

Shockingly, I do have a wish list. Stuff I sort of want but won’t buy for myself, because I want other people to buy it for me. A crucial part of my five-step, long-term plan for Amalah.com.

Step One: Start Web site.

Step Two: Gather large and devoted audience.

Step Three: Post wish list repeatedly.

Step Four: Profit.

Step Five: Kool-Aid for all.

Oh! And speaking of presents, here are pictures from Jason’s birthday. There is a huge lapse in time between him opening his gifts and then me taking pictures of my shoes for some reason. It involved much wine, and I wrote all about here.

What, you didn’t know I had a secret double-blogging life? Sorry.

Gifts, Presents and Other Things All About Me

Today is Jason's birthday! Yay for Jason! Just for today, you may refer to him as the King of Everything instead of Mr. Amalah, because there's a difference.

The things I do for him, really.

Actually, the things I don't do for him make a much longer list. For instance, he made breakfast for ME this morning. For ME. On HIS birthday. What? And I think I may have called him a bad name when the alarm went off this morning and he told me to get up.

But this is why he is a 28-year-old grown-up and I am still a 26-year-old child. I've been offering his birthday gifts to him for a week now, but he wanted to wait. And he's still waiting. I asked if he wanted to open them this morning, but he declined. Again, what?

The WORST thing you can do to me is say you have a present for me but I can't have it right now. It's in the mail, you forgot it at home, it's out in the car, you're making me wait for my actual birthday. I don't want to hear it. Hand over that gift, buddy, and it better have fun wrapping paper and bows for me to tear through while squealing a little bit.

But I've always been a little nuts about presents, possibly because my birthday is just two days after Christmas. This is a crap birthday. CRAP. Sure, you always have the day off from school but all your friends are away or busy and can't come to a party. Your birthday cards are usually just leftover Christmas cards. Plus, everyone is broke. Or cheap with the stupid "this is your Christmas AND birthday gift!" line. No, no, no. No.

My friends and family are terrified of my Christmas/Birthday Wrath now. I always get birthday wrapping paper. And real birthday cards. Packages come in the mail saying DO NOT OPEN UNTIL DECEMBER 27TH!!!! to let me know they understand it's two different occasions. (I never listen, but I appreciate the thought.) My friends made an extra point of organizing two get-togethers for us to exchange gifts -- one for Christmas and one just for my birthday. It was very sweet, but I got the sense they were trying to appease me like some angry volcano-god.

Every once in awhile someone still pulls the combo gift thing. And while I certainly wouldn't mind if the combo gift was, say, a flat-screen TV, I tend to get a little peeved at the $50 gift certificates that come with an explanation like: "$25 is for Christmas, $25 if for your Birthday. Have a happy one!!!!!!!"

Gee. Thanks. You really shouldn't have gone to all that trouble. I mean, you did math. Wow.

Anyway. I'm definitely kind of a brat. And Jason is not. Because he's perfect and patient and took me to New York City for my last birthday to see a musical and stay in a really nice hotel and spend a lot of money on Fifth Avenue. AND got me gifts from Sephora, aka Heaven on Earth.

I'm, um, taking him out to dinner. Where we shall destroy our lovely South Beach Diet progress. (Side note: Not likely. Jason's lost OVER 10 POUNDS on it so far and I've lost six without REALLY TRYING. I'm sold. And skinny!)

And in a brilliant burst of creativity, I'm taking him to the same restaurant he took me on the day of my finals. (Side note #2: my diploma came yesterday! It's pretty. But GET THIS: Even though I graduated with a 3.85 GPA, I'm not eligible for cum laude honors, because I transferred to Univ. of MD with less than 45 credit hours to go. BITCHES.)

But I DID get Jason really nice gifts. That I hope he likes. And that he better open soon because I need to see some wrapping paper get ripped up, even if I'm only helping. (Yes, I do that too. Stop being neat! Stop taking so damn long! Open IT!)

And on that note, here's my wish list. Haaa.

Where Am I?

I'm over at The Random Muse, partying down with Lauren and Martha.

It's the first installment (god, what is with me and these series-type things?) of our "Girlfriends' Guide to Fabulousness & Fantasticity." Which is really us posting funny pictures of celebrities and then saying funny things. Funny things that are most often very mean. Because we're like that.

Anyway, we're hilarious. Go check us out.

All the President's Pissed-Off Men

12:31 a.m.

For the past two hours, we've been watching (and enjoying) All the President's Men, a movie which, I am horrified to admit, I'd never seen.

It reminded me of why I wanted to be a journalist, and why I failed so miserably at my attempts to become one. I've read almost all of Woodward and Bernstein's Watergate stories. I seriously have a copy of Post Ombudsman Bill Green's amazing post-Janet Cooke-scandal story (in which both Woodward and Ben Bradlee play major roles) in my desk drawer at work, printed out from LEXIS-NEXUS. And y'all can just shut the proper fuck up about that.

Anyway, the point is that I was enjoying this movie. I was staying awake for this movie. I spotted Meredith Baxter-Birney in this movie. Haaaaah.

So we're at the part right after they fucked up the Halderman angle. They've found out they're being watched and bugged and might maybe get run over by a bus or some such unfortunate "accident." They're undeterred. They're getting back to work. Nixon is being sworn in on the television, and...

*Ding* goes the TiVo.

*Would you like to delete this recording now?* asks the TiVo.

WHAT.

WHAT.

WHAAAAAAAT?

Fucking. HBO. Signature. Got. The. Running. Time. Wrong.

Two hours and ten minutes is NOT the correct running time for All the President's Men. Two hours and 31 minutes...um, is.

So. Grrr to HBO Signature. The movie is replaying at like, 4 a.m. on Monday and I've instructed TiVo, under penalty of being thrown out the window, to not stop recording until at least five hours later. Because God damn it.

And while I know how the story ends, anybody who gives away movie details in comment form prior to Monday at 4 a.m. will be run over by a bus.

(Oh! The humanity! Just as I hit "Post," my Internet died. Completely. Along with my cable and my TiVo signal. Poof. So now I am left with an unpublished tantrum, ranting into the void. At 12:51 a.m. So I have stayed up entirely too late to watch a movie that I can't watch the ending of and to write an entry that I can't post.)

(Holy shit. I bet HBO Signature is monitoring my Internet. They knew what I was trying to post about them and they've shut me down! You will not defeat me HBO!! I will tell the people of your suckitude!! I will stand by my story!!!!)

(I think I might need to sleep now.)