How To Feel

Before I begin, let me take a moment to say a big huge slobbery THANK YOU to everyone who has left nice comments or sent me email or poured their heart out or shared their story or made funny faces or distracted me with shiny objects or let me vent all over their inbox or just "been there" for me over the last week. THANK. YOU. Without you and the ability to translate my freak-outs into words on this site, I am sure I would be even worse. And that's a scary-ass fucking thought. So thank you. (Yes, YOU.)

And to the raging asshats who did the complete opposite and said mean things? STFU. I don't share everything on this site, so you don't know the fucking HALF of what I'm struggling with and how dare you diagnose what "my problem" is based on two or three euphimistic posts. In the words of a very wise woman: Shut up and then shut up some more, asshole.

Also, get your roots done.

Whee. That felt nice.

Speaking of feelings (FEEEEEELINGS), I think it's time that I officially announced that this site has drunk the Garden State/Zach Braff Kool-Aid and is damn happy about it. I saw the film a couple weeks ago, and it was already whipping up Big Fat Greek Wedding-type hysteria and I had to sit in the very first row of the theater because we dared to arrive during the opening credits.

And that's how I know my love for Zach Braff is real and meant to be, because his nose looked HUGE from the first row. And yet my love goes on for him. Him and his giant-ass nose.

(He also made me the most kick-ass mix CD ever. Just for me, for my very own. He had Sarcomical send it to me though, just so the paparazzi wouldn't find out about our perfect love and bother me. Thanks Zach. And thanks Melissa, Zach and I owe you one.)

If you haven't seen the film, you really should. I'm sure I'm not the only person who will tell you that. Not everyone loves it -- it's your typical low-budget indie where not a lot happens over a vague timeline riddled with plot holes and all the characters talk a lot. This is true. But it's also a lovely little film about an overmedicated generation who have been raised not to feel anything except focus and control over our emotions. The main character was incorrectly put on medication in his childhood and goes off them cold turkey after his mother's funeral.

Certainly not my story. Lord no. Medicate me to the gills, doc, please. Up that dosage, bitch.

But the struggle is to keep feeling. Anything. Zoloft is advertised with a cute little cartoon blob who is all frowny and sad and then with a little pill he's happy and bouncy with all the other blobs. Birds sing and bunnies hop and la la la. Everyone who's got the blues or the mean reds thinks that maybe a couple months on Zoloft will perk them up.  Feeling shy? Paxil!  Hey guys! Wellbutrin will make you happy and not take away your erection!

And these drugs do help people. I've been on Effexor, Zoloft, Lexapro, Klonopin and Trileptal, with varying degrees of success (and failure) on each. Right now I'm banking on Wellbutrin and Risperdal to be my ticket back to real life.

But these drugs can hurt. The side effects will boggle and scramble your mind. You shake, you oversleep, you tick and you drink gallons of water. You throw up when you start a new one and you throw up when you go off it. Your brain buzzes and zaps as the synapses adjust. Your head hurts and your vision blurs.

You can go numb, both physically and emotionally. I don't want that. It's okay to feel stuff. Not every emotion is going to lead to panic or despair. Sometimes being sad or scared is just part of life, though. Where's the line?

Garden State articulated this message well. (Better than all mah booshit ramblin' here, anyway.) And while I'm not advocating that we all go confront our vertigo by screaming into a gaping chasm in the rain while balanced precariously on construction equipment, I am constantly reminding myself how to feel things. How not to curl under the covers and drool and stare and pop pills each time an emotion sweeps over me.

Gee, Amy, you've taken an awful long time to get to the damn point here.

I know, I know, I'm sorry. I meant to write a short introdution to a list of 10 Things It Is Okay That I Am Feeling and got carried away.

Oh my God, there's still a whole list?

Yes.

Damn, you're self-absorbed and also boring now.

So I've been told.

I'm not reading you anymore! Wah. Write about being drunk again!

Shut up before I bitchslap you, peasant. Go get me a soda.

Yessum.

AND NOW...

10 Things It Is Okay That I Am Feeling

1. It is okay to be sad that the dry cleaners could not get the red pen stain out of my favorite blue sweater.

2. It is okay to cry when your wonderful husband makes you coffee in the morning because you are so tired all the time and he wants you to not crash the car on the way to work, and because it's about YOU and not so much about him loving his car that much.

3. It is okay to be hurt when people say mean things.

4. It is also okay to call them names if it helps you not obsess on the mean things.

5. It is okay to eat candy for dinner.

6. It is okay to bury your face in your cat's fat belly and think that heaven is not made of clouds, but of warm furry cat bellies.

7. It is okay if THIS all but breaks your heart with the love and the squee.

8. It is okay to want to watch hours and hours of cartoons.

9. It is okay to giggle hysterically over seeing THIS on your morning commute.

10. It is okay to love a man, a cat and a wee dog more than your own life and to find all your happiness in the moments when you're all piled together on the couch, eating candy for dinner and watching cartoons.

Amy Gets An "F"

Well then.

When I said I'd be back "tomorrow," I obviously had some pretty high hopes for my weekend, none of which included spending the majority of it in a panicking panicked ball of panic.

And when I said I'd be back with "the funny," I was obviously on crack.

At some point last week, I began to suspect that my meds were not working. I was right. They failed in a spectacular fashion.

Insert your own damned clever crash-related metaphor here, for my brain is muddy.

I swing wildly between why-even-try-anymore-depressive lethargy and manic, holy-shit-I'm-going-to-have-a-seizure-or-heart-attack-or-tumor-like-thing-and-die panic attacks. I hyperventilate and tremble and then my legs give out and I curl up in the fetal position and stare into space for hours. I lock and relock doors. I pace and jitter and nervous tic and cry because my puppy is not eating enough and is going to die. Jason is going to get sick of babysitting his wife because he's afraid I'll hurt myself and leave me for someone healthy. Or at least someone who will put her clothes away and not cry about it, for the love of God.

Then there are moments where everything is fine. I make jokes and smile and remember to unplug the iron. But then It starts all over again.

I would definitely say that the meds are not working.

I'm at home now, counting the hours until I see my doctor again, dozing off in between sentences, praying that I'll have the strength to drag myself out of bed and out the door when the time comes.

Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe tomorrow will be the day that I'll be back with the funny.

Maybe tomorrow.

Freak Out

No post today, obviously. Am too busy having a heaving all-about-me panic attack over this entry.

 

I'm not that sick. And yet I'm sicker than that. Oh my God. Help.

(Will be back tomorrow with the funny and the whatnot. Must go walk howling dog now and make smiley face at neighbors.)

Wednesday Advice Smackdown & Also Other Random Things

Due to a shortage of questions and an overabundance of dog pictures, this week's advice column is kind of a mess. Or maybe just a jumble. Or even better, a potpurri of fragrant Amalah deliciousness.

If you hate it, it's your own damn fault for not sending me clever advice-type questions. The address is advice[at]amalah.com. Or amy[at]amalah.com. Or amalah[at]gmail.com. It really doesn't matter, because they all go to the same inbox, because I'm clever like that. Also sneaky and probably up to something.

Anyway, pick a damn address and send some damn questions for next week. Or no treats for you. Go in your crate and think about what you've done.

How my new meds are supposed to make me feel: Happy! Joy! Life is joyous and full of promise! Also bunnies and sunshine!

How my new meds actually make me feel: Lfjhdlfsodfu. Despair. Hate. Anfdlue. And also zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Oh Mighty Amalah,

My husband suggested that tonight we clean & organize our house. We live in a small apartment and it makes sense to keep clutter low. We both like a clean home and I was telling him yesterday how crowded it was starting to feel at home.

But Amalah, it is FRIDAY. It is the end of the week. I said yes to him, but I really don't want to do much (er, anything). I've worked all week. He's worked at home all week. I'm tired. He has energy. And it's FRIDAY. Hello? Friday? The day for which (and certainly on which) margaritas were made. Not that I'd have a margarita anyways, since I'm being "good", whatever the hell that means.

Why did I say yes? Why can't this be a Monday chore? Oh yeah, Mondays are bad enough. Okay, so a never chore? How about never? Help me, Amalah. It's Friday and I have a hot date with a cardboard box.

Sincerely,
Stupid Organizing Yes-Person

And now it is Wednesday. Which means your advice came too late. Which kind of means there’s no point in me even GIVING advice. Which means I can sleep a little bit. Because DAYUM, I am tired.

I’m taking seven pills a day. That’s a lot. That’s like (stares at hands, tries to count) THIS MANY (holds up nine fingers, which is close enough). I should not give advice. I should not be at work. I should not DRIVE. I should not have eaten two Krispy Kremes this morning, particularly the one with the cream filling.

Rgf.lidhxcjmv’zx;lcvjlnXJN Bnhr

WHAT? Sorry. Head hit the keyboard there. Anyway. Back to your question.

Definitely do not agree to organize on a Friday night ever again. That is just wrong. Also stop with this “being good” nonsense and make yourself a damn margarita. Crank up some music, put on some cute men’s tighty-whiteys and one of his collared shirts and dance around with your drink. In 10 minutes your husband will declare you so totally adorable and realize that you are just too cute to be kept in on a Friday night. Or he will just want to sleep with you. Either way, it probably beats cleaning.

SOME RANDOM JOURNALCON LEFTOVERS:

Where the fuck is that fucking box of Cheezits that I bought at 7-11 with Coleen and Martha and then never saw again? Snobby snack-stealing WHORES.

Although Ceiba did pee on the carpet in their hotel room, so I guess maybe I owe them some Cheezits. Especially since we were all a little drunk and I thought that mopping up the pee with some Kleenex was adequate. I am sorry for this. I am also sorry for anyone who stays in room 610 at the Helix from now on, because you are totally going to be stepping in dog pee every time you leave the bathroom.

Because I am SURE the hotel steam cleans the carpet regularly. I am SURE.

Amy -

I think that I may be a Snobby Whore.  Is it wrong if I think I want to embrace it, rather than feel bad about it?  I mean, I am practically the hottest chick on the internet (besides you, that is). You saw my boobs in that shirt.  Hot!

-Whorey McSnobberson

---------------------

I put my cats on Catster last week (catster.com).  Is this venturing too far into Crazy Cat Lady territory?  Or is this still in the realm of, "that's cute, and kind of cool"?

-Little Miss Hairball

---------------------------

I've got this half-marathon in 4 months that I'm theoretically training for.  However, I'm too damn lazy to actually get off my ass and run.  Can I employ the "if you can dream it, you can do it" school of thought here and finish the race in record time without actually running between now and then?

-Lazy Dawnie

Look at Dawnie, monopolizing the advice column! But you know how many other questions I got this week? ONE. Lazy bitches. So Dawnie gets to be treated like an Internet Rock Star and see her name in lights and get her questions answered to the delight of dozens.

1) Yes, I believe the Post-JCon Fingers of Drama were being pointed in your general direction, you snobby, snobby redheaded whore. But I would embrace it. I think it suits you. Like that one shirt you borrowed that was all about the cleavage. You should have stolen that shirt.

But which is worse, getting called a snobby whore or having your poor, defenseless rat dog get called a seizing, brown, bald hamster with taped ears? (Trance: I kid! I love! It’s all okay! But still! Wah.)

2) You are The Crazy. Yes. Max is not on Catster and Ceiba is not on Dogster. Possibly because they’ve caught a bit of the Snobby Whore from me. Or because Ceiba actually belongs on Hamsterstererer.com instead. HA!

3) Yes. You should also drink more and eat more Cheezits and then just buy a pair of really cute and complicated running shoes. They will basically run the race for you. And then also never sign up for shit like that again, because it is also The Crazy.

Speaking of Ceiba, we took the bandages off her ears. I’d had enough of them. It was the most traumatic thing I have ever done. This ear clipping business? Wrong. Must end. To knowingly put a puppy through that? Evil. Should take a rolled-up newspaper to your hind end and beat the shit out you.

Anyway. Her ears still don’t look like they’re “supposed” to, but I’d be damned if I was going to re-tape them and then fucking RIP TAPE AND STICKY FOAM OFF MY PUPPY’S EAR HAIR EVER AGAIN. So blah. This is Ceiba now. She’s goofy and floppy.

Will someone please, please write this memo for me? It's very, very important, and I have no idea what to do except copy and paste the VP's original email and expand on that. Is that cheating?

Loave and Heifers,
Downward Spiral Hussy Whore

No. And also yes. Enjoy those Cheezits, bitch.

LIVE ON PAY-PER-VIEW: MAX VS. CEIBA

It's getting better. Max is not stepping up with the alpha-male shit and Ceiba won't stop with the "play with me! play with me! hi! hi! hello! play with me!"-bouncy shit, so we still have a long way to go. But there's been some progress.

Max: What the fuck are you doing here? This is my lap, you skinny bitch.

Ceiba: Ears itch. Will peee cAt. Buzz!

Max: Your mother was a hamster!

Max: Okay, I'll take him down, you go after the girl with the camera. Then we shall rule all!

Ceiba: Sleep. Zzz. Play wiTH socks! yay for Baby!

Max: God I hate you.

Max: Don't you let that Taco Bell dog get any closer.

Ceiba: Where food? Nap. ThEN poop.

Max: Well, okay. I'm pretty tired.

Ceiba: Squee.

The Wrath of Con, Part II

OK, OK. Let's get this JournalCon post done and over and over and done with so I can get back to talking about my dog. And myself. My pretty, pretty self.

Verdict on JCon: Yay.

Mostly because I spent all my time hanging out with these clowns:

SNOBBY WHORES ARE WE. But we are merry snobby whores, so you can just suck on it.

We also brought Ceiba, who was not a snobby whore but was merely a lap whore. Was way more popular than me.

Left to right, top row then the bottom, just like reading a damn book:
1) The happy yet rather ragged-looking family. Amy's doing that weird squinty eye thing she does when drunk.
2) The amazing Dawnie.
3) The amazing Martha and also the amazing Chickie's amazing husband who is, as you may have heard, amazing.
4) Chickie and the Chicklet, who shall be mine, because I waaaaaant her.
5) The babies vie for the title of Official Mascot of JournalCon, or at least a comfortable spot to lie down on.
6) Cute puppy photo or shameless attempt to see up my skirt? You be the judge.

I pussed out and slept a lot, for I am a pussy who gets cranky without sleep.

But oh, there was much silliness and much mingling and much meeting of the loavely people.

From left to right:

1. Rebekah and Coleen, who totally make me want to dye my hair red so I can be cool.
2. Dawnie, Molly and Rebekah, who are all totally not posing for my camera, but for someone else's, but I took the picture anyway because I wanted to pretend that I hang wit them and am cool.
3. Coleen posing at Maggie Moo's fantabulous shop of ice creamery and crazy ice cream servers, with perhaps the greatest motivational phrase a woman can hear: Something had to be done, and Maggie was just the heifer to do it. True dat.

And I'm seriously mad that these are all my pictures. I didn't get pictures of all the other people who I shall obsessively stalk and maybe marry someday.

(Here come the shout-outs.)

(Watch out.)

(You might want to leave now.)

Loave and make out sessions to Chiara and Kate and Kalamity and Pratt and Booger and Mo Pie and Lovinglav and Pineapple Girl and everybody else who I met and people I didn't because I was stricken with a major attack of The Shy almost the whole time because y'all are too SMART and it indimidated me, for I am dumb.

(Oh, and I read this entry at the reading, and I am told it went over well. There was a MICROPHONE. I was not prepared for a microphone. I think my hands shook. I probably looked like a drug addict. I also did not wear a bra and that room was COLD. Shit. I was going to read one of the Many Loves essays, but Jebus. If you had HEARD some of the smart/funny stuff other people were reading? You would have totally applauded my choice to stay in my little puddle of sophomoric humor where I belong.)

 

The Wrath of Con

This is where my JournalCon Aftermath post is supposed to go. It is not here yet. It is probably still drunk or something.

It might still be waiting for karaoke to start. Snobby whore.

In the meantime, Coleen and Martha drew some Judith Light fan art for you. Please enjoy.

I love my friends. Couple of drunk bitches. Also snobby whores. AND simple alcoholics.

(Yeah, the actual JCon post will be a lot like this. You might want to check back in on Wednesday if you want to stay out of squee-range.)

The JournalCon Freak-Out Post

OH MY GOD. JOURNALCON IS TODAY. TODAY.

I SHOULD BE THERE NOW BUT AM GOING TO BE LATE BECAUSE I MUST WORK AND ALSO FREAK OUT A LITTLE.

ALSO CAPS LOCK.

Okay. Will try to calm down. Will just take a look at the things on my to-do list:

1. Get swag.
2. Get extra-special swag for extra-special people.
3. Let hotel know we are bringing a dog.
4. Get haircut.
5. Paint toenails.
6. Wax eyebrows.
7. Lose 5 pounds.
8. Buy booze.
9. Buy booze that I will not drink until JCon.
10. Buy cigarettes. For other people. Really.
11. Buy pepper spray in case any of y'all are The Crazies.
12. Grow long, healthy and beautiful fingernails.
13. Get prescriptions filled.
14. Pack.
15. Repack.
16. Pack for dog.
17. Repack for dog.
18. Heap love and praise and adoration on cat.
19. Be at hospitality suite at 6:30 p.m. to be nice to attendees.
20. Learn how to be nice.
21. Select entry(s) to read at the Invited Reading Panel For Invited Important People
22. Not obsess on the incorrectness of entry(s) because it should be entry(ies) but that isn't right either.
23. Practice reading entr(ies) in mirror.
24. Get new non-stupid-sounding voice.
25. Write the most brilliant and funny entry ever to read at panel.

So. I have gotten my hair cut today. I can cross that one off.

HOLY SHIT.

I have been reading through my archives and have come to the conclusion that all my entries? SUCK. Why didn't anyone TELL ME all my entries sucked? I really should have been made aware.

Please, for the loave of GOD: If anybody is reading this who is NOT driving/flying/unicycling to JCon right now? Pleeeeeaaase find me a good entry to read out loud. One with no pictures and hopefully some coherance. At least a little. Tell me your favorite entry and I will loave you and squeeze you and call you George and will totally send you some of the non-existent swag that I forgot to get made for JCon.

 

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

In which I do not talk about my dog at ALL, not even her pooping habits, except to point out that I now say "poop" instead of "shit" because my puppy is an innocent, darling little girl who will not learn that sort of language from me, except for when I said "fucking bitch in a blanket" to her this morning when she pooped on the floor.

Ahem. Got a question? Send it to advice@amalah.com and I will maybe answer it next week, because I have to go home and not curse at my dog some more.

Dearest Queen,

I am in need of a job.  Preferably one that pays piles of money, and involves sitting at a desk with a computer so that I can spend most of my day blogging.  However, my resume doesn't seem to be evincing much interest in spite of my overpriced education and all those Real Jobs I once held before giving it all up so that my kids could tell me all day long how mean I am.

What is the ideal job for me, and how do I get it?  Once my dream position is landed, I promise to buy pretty shoes in your honor.

Signed,
Monster Network Just Doesn't Understand Me

(Whining about why this column took so long to get posted today? Please to all blame this question in all its hard thinkiness.)

Job hunting suuuuucks. I would lie. I would pad your resume to the gills and then get your readers to cover for you and be fake references. I will say you worked for my company and that we all loved you and were sad when you left to pursue that dictatorship opportunity in the Caribbean but we understood and even have your picture hanging up in the break room and talk about you all the time and then maybe I could work up some fake tears.

Also, Photoshop yourself onto a stamp and use it to mail out resumes. That'll impress them. Especially if you're wearing a tiara of some kind on it.

Actually, the country of Mordovia might actually put you on a real stamp. They don't seem to have very high standards.

Dear Amalah,

From reading your blog…journal…publishing revolution thing…I can see that you are a productive member of society who gets up and goes to work all the time.  And it even seems that you manage to talk to your coworkers!  Talk to them…like they are actually people or something!

So my question to you, Queen of Everything, is this.  How exactly can I get over my inherent contempt of my coworkers and begin thinking of them as actual real people instead of socially inept engineers who kind of scare me a little?  How can I begin looking at the fact that I share a cubicle with three other people as a joy, instead of an incredible waste of my Master's degree?

And barring a solution to any of that, where exactly should I try to hide all of their bodies?

Sincerely,
Merryweather

This is a tough one. I have nothing but contempt for 87.25% of my coworkers (one person is .75% tolerable), but I? Have an office. With a door. And walls. These keep the peons out. And drown out their insufferable yapping.

I have soft mood lighting so people who walk by think my office is dark and keep on walking. I am regularly told how "quiet and industrious" I am because I never, ever leave my office, except to pee and grunt at people in the coffee maker area. But they just think I am busy and important, which I am, to the entire Internet population who hang on my every word. La.

I have worked in cube farms though, so let me try to remember what it was like.

Okay no. Horrible memories just flashed before my eyes. It just got very cold in here and I very much need a flask. And a cigarette. And why am I clutching my letter opener like a knife and making stabbing motions towards the hallway?

(And how can I type if I’m doing that? Talent! That’s how.)

Fucking cubicle bitches. Loud talkers and people with body odor and colds and that one guy who uses his speakerphone all the time, for every damn call…it’s like an episode of Seinfeld without all the funny. And you never, ever get to break for commercials.

So advice for you? Six cement blocks and the Schuylkill River.

Dear Amalah,

I am in love. He is perfect. And funny. And? He has a BLOG. Which he uses as a tool to write me love letters. Letters that he signs, "Peace and oh yes, love as well. ZB" As you can see, this is true freaking love. You will soon be able to buy us fabulous presents at PotteryBarn and Crate&Barrel for our wonderful wedding (invite's in the mail).

But? The internet is open to the public and his blog (which is written ONLY to me) can be viewed by just about anyone. And many of these nobodies have decided that they are in love with him as well. And they comment. Today? 540+ comments. Obviously this is unacceptable, as he is MINE. So, here's my question to you, should I show up at their homes and kick each of their individual asses? OR Should I post a comment telling all these wannabes to get their own and leave him to me? Help.

Sincerely,
The girl who could totally kick Natalie Portman's ass.

But could you kick MY ass? Because you will so have to. Because I loave Zach Braff. Yes. I even said I loaved him on my “Loaving” sidebar thingie earlier this week. (He told me it was okay to change it to the Snarkywood plug because he’s so proud of me and wants the entire world to go see how funny and smart his future wife is.)

Oh, and Jason Bateman? Soooo two weeks ago. It’s all about the ZachBraffigans around here now.

Oh, and this morning? I honestly used “Garden State” as a verb. Or maybe an adverb. Basically, I told Jason (who understands my love and will not stand in the way of my happiness) that I was a little concerned that my new Crazy Pills were making me “go all Garden State today.” 

Haa. Am brilliant. Don’t steal that.

Because Zach wrote Garden State just for me. No one else. Even though hundreds of bazillions of people are rushing out to see it and dumping all sorts of pathetic, slobbery praise all over it, I’m the only one who gets the movie and all its Braffy goodness.

So, you know, step off.

(CALL ME ZACH BABY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.)

Ceiba Compleat

Holy crap. I have a DOG. How did this happen?

I’m still not really sure. Prior discussions of a dog have always gone like this:

Amy: Wah. Am bored. Want a dog.

Jason: Will you wake up on the weekends to walk it?

Amy: No. No I will not.

Jason: Then I don’t think we should get a dog.

Amy: Okay. Let’s go buy me new shoes instead.

Why Ceiba?

But then, you know, shit happened. It’s been a bad summer. When I looked at Jason all teary and blue and said, “I want a dog,” a few weeks ago, he didn’t ask about waking up on the weekends. He thought it over for a few moments and said, “We should get a dog.”

So we started looking. Our requirements were as follows:

1.  Dog must be smaller than Max so Max will not get his fat precious ass kicked.
2.  Dog must not be poofy, puffy or sheddy.
3.  Dog must not yap yap yap all the livelong day.
4.  Dog must be a girl as Amy has dog-penis issues.
5.  Dog must be insufferably adorable and delicious.

Right before we left for Miami, we submitted some applications to adopt some homeless dogs. Some puppies that had been abandoned. A little poodle/Italian greyhound mutt. A miniature pinscher named Chula who had been hit by a car and now has three legs.

We were all ready to come home from vacation and go get our puppy. Except we were turned down. By SHELTERS. We were turned down because we didn’t have a fenced-in yard.

Let me tell you, there are few blows to the ego that are worse than being told you are not good enough to care for a three-legged dog by an animal shelter. So on Sunday we gave up and started calling breeders because Amy wanted a puppy and wanted a puppy NOW ALREADY. Ceiba belonged to a woman who bred show dogs and had just been deemed too small to compete. Whatever.

Her tail and ears were clipped, which is the breed standard for show dogs, and it makes me sad. I’m sure her tail and ears were perfect and adorable before. But I’m glad she’s ours now and she’ll just be a scrappy little puppy instead of a show dog.

Why “Ceiba?”

The breeder named her Mimi. She kept making some joke about “Minimize Me” being her full name and we laughed even though We Did Not Get It.

My family already has two pets named Max and cats named Maizie, Mollie, Maggie, Misty and Maddie. No more M names. NO. MORE.

We went through about a dozen names on Sunday and none of them were “it.” We wanted something that was “us.” Max was named after Jim Carrey’s kid in Liar, Liar, because we LOVED Jim Carrey, back before he got pretentious. So we were going through all the miscellaneous crap on the TiVo, looking for inspiration.

Amy: Roxie from Chicago?

Jason: Smeagol? Arwen?

Amy: No Lord of the Rings names. We are not that lame. Rory from Gilmore Girls?

Jason: Look, you got your wimpy little dog. Don’t push it.

Amy: Anything from South Park?

Jason: Mr. Hankey?

Amy: HAAAAAAA. She looks like a turd too.

In the end, we went with food. Anyone who knows my husband and me knows that eating out is probably the one thing we love more than drinking, but mostly because it involves drinking. “Ceiba” is a really great restaurant in D.C. It’s the scene of the infamous middle-aged drunk people making out and licking faces incident. (Click HERE and HERE for the story and the pictures.)

It’s also some kind of tree…or something. But she was really named after our love of mojitos.

Why Ceiba, Why??

In the last 48 hours, I have become singularly obsessed with my dog’s bathroom functions. Jason and I have not had a single conversation that did not revolve around Ceiba’s bladder since Sunday night. I have seriously called him just to report on her poop. Where she pooped, what she pooped and how I reacted to the poop.

Poop poop poop.

She was litter-box trained…at some point. She’s a little rusty now. We had big plans for eschewing the litter and getting her to go outside, but within a day we were back to applauding her for peeing sort of on a training mat that was kind of next to the litter. Yay Ceiba!

But she’s trying so hard to please us and is remarkably well-behaved. She’s responding to “no” and her name and wants to be held and praised all the time. She wants to play with Max.  Max wants her to die. So…there’s still that to deal with.

But we have supplies! Crates! Clickers! Toys! A Puppies For Dummies book! That is too advanced for us and makes me cry in frustration because I am going to TOTALLY FUCK UP THIS DOG.

Like yesterday? She tried to jump off my lap. I tried to grab her because she's clutzy and delicate and not supposed to jump off things for a few more months because her bones are so wee. All I ended up doing was sort of tripping her in mid-air and she crashed to the floor. On her head. She started to wail and howl, so I wailed and howled. Jason came running and I shrieked that I broke our puppy and oh my god, etc.

She was just fine. As was I. After a stiff drink, anyway.

I just love her so damn much already. Am so bringing her to JournalCon because my heart breaks whenever I leave her. And my heart melts when she looks at me and I laugh when she kisses my face and I've had a big goofy smile on my face ever since we brought her home.

I'm really glad we got our dog.

Why You Came: Ceiba Pictures

My camera cannot keep up with the Thunderbolt Of Puppilicious Energy That Is The Ceiba, so these aren't great. She's not quite so demonic looking. Or so blurry. I'd actually describe her as sharp. Crisp even. But here they are.

THE PATHETIC USE OF BANDWIDTH PUPPY DOG ALBUM

Return of the Smile

Hi. Guess what we did on Sunday.

This is Ceiba. (SAY-bah.) Everybody say hi to Ceiba and tell her she's pretty. You can tell her she looks like a rat, but only if you do it affectionately.

She's a four-month-old Miniature Pinscher. Wee. WEE. Four pounds. Won't get much bigger. Will fit in your freaking pocket. Paging Paris Hilton and etc.

Her ears are taped for cosmetic reasons...in a week or so they'll stick straight up like a Doberman's. Whatever. Stupid. The breeder did it. The breeder was a tad Best-In-Show-type scary.

Breeder: Blah blah blah pedigree champions purebred blah

Us: We do not care. Give us cute puppy. Squishy.

Breeder: Dog show!

Also? She uses a litter box. A. LITTER. BOX. We're still doing the whole crate-training-housebreaking process, because we like to make things difficult. Also, cleaning up pee is fun! For the whole family!

And it's really hard to focus on your own personal drama hell and mental funkitude when there are PUPPY BLADDER CONTROL ISSUES at hand. I mean, I have priorities. For real.