A Post About It

("It" being "The Crazy."  Or in this case, "The Cryptic." It probably won't make a damn lick of sense to you. Blah.)

It has not been a good week and a half.

My meds are being switched and my doses upped. I'm coming off one antidepressant so I can start a new one tomorrow. Hopefully one that will do a bloody damn thing. I'm doubling my dosage of the mood stabilizer that was already kicking my ass pretty convincingly.  I'm "a little ball of nervous tics," as my doctor observed, and am preparing for "four to five days of feeling like total shit." (Also my doctor's eloquent words.)  My head is buzzing, my limbs are trembling, I feel nauseous and tired and am this close to total nuclear meltdown at any given moment.

In the three days since I've been back from Miami, I've managed to wreak absolute havoc in my life and in the lives of several people I care deeply about. Feelings are hurt and wrists are bandaged and I am closer than ever to losing my tenuous grip on reality.

(And how are you? Jesus.)

Right now, I'm feeling an acute sense of loss. My skin is stinging with it and there's a scooped-out portion of my chest that I would very much like back. Decisions had to be made for the sake of my own diminishing sanity. Tough decisions. Smart decisions. Closing doors on certain relationships and refocusing energies on others.

One particular door was closed today and it was The Right Thing to do. On one hand, I feel hopeful. For the first time in awhile. Things will be okay and I will get better.

On the other hand...well, it kind of feels like the other hand was caught in the doorframe when the door slammed shut.

Why does doing The Right Thing have to hurt so damn much?

Amalah: The South Beach Album

I should start a band. That would be a cool album title.

Anyway. Um. Here! Pictures!

The South Beach Photo Album Spectacular Experience

That's all for today, as it took approximately eleventy million hours to upload all these pictures. ELEVENTY MILLION HOURS.

Miami Rhapsody

Back!

Back back back back!

Miami Beach? Lovely. Totally going to get wiped off the face of the earth this weekend by hurricanes, but for the days we were there? Just lovely and sunny and pretty and nice.

I'm tan, except for my scalp, which is totally red, and totally going to peel. Also pretty and nice.

(The ratio of complete-sentences-typed-to-appearances-of-the-word-totally is off the charts already. Totally off the charts.)

So Miami was great. Yes, there are pictures. No, I don't have them today. Although if you scour the Internet you might find one of a topless girl in a blue-and-white-striped bikini who looks just like me, but who totally isn't, because Amy would never go topless in Miami, because Amy would know that the instant her top is off she would have the rotten luck of getting photographed by some perv with a really nice camera. So yes. Or no. I'm confused now.

Tomorrow: Pictures. Today: Barely coherant random thoughts and ramblings that only sort of tell you about our trip. Lucky you!

Take comfort in the fact that I am the sort of person who gets seated in the emergency exit row on planes. Don't you feel safe now? I am totally in control of the situation, people, just as soon as I emerge from the fetal position in the overhead compartment.

You know how you always leave on trips feeling like you've forgotten something? But you just shrug it off because you ALWAYS feel like you've forgotten something, even if you haven't. And if you have? It usually ends up being something silly like lip balm with SPF in it, which you always forget, which is why you own approximately 243 tubes of it.

I remembered the SPF lip balm.

Scene: Miami airport, seconds after getting off the plane

Jason: Max was so mad at us this morning.

Amy: Yeah, he's been mad since he saw the suitcase.

Jason: Poor guy. I wonder if he'll hiss at the neighbors when they stop by to feed him.

Amy: So which key did you give the neighbors?

Jason:

Amy: JASON!

Jason:

Amy: Oh fuck.

Jason: Well, we knew we were forgetting SOMETHING.

(Max is fine, by the way. One of the benefits of condo living means somebody out there has a key to your house at all times. It's like Stupidity Insurance. Stupid people should be required to live in condos. You should have to take a test before you can buy a house.)

I will refrain from making some lame South Beach Diet joke in regards to how we ate while in South Beach. Mostly because I can't really think of one.

I ate a lot of French fries. And lobster. Even though it was Maine lobster and we were technically further away from Maine than we are at home, lobster seems like the thing to eat on vacation.

We also ate at Emeril's restaurant. Shut up. I was kind of giddy when we were there. Shut up again. I did not, however, pick up the salt and pepper and yell "BAM!" over and over. Although I totally would have if I thought of it at the time, because that would have been HILARIOUS.

The waiter at our hotel? Looked so much like Jack Nicholson I was a little frightened. He was nice though. And yet scary.

Scary: Men in thongs.

Scarier: Women in thongs. Because while frankly, most of the men had the buns for the thongs. The women? Not so much.

Scarier II: Topless women. It's never the ones you want to see.

Scariest: Topless women in thongs playing paddleball. Bad naked! BAD NAKED!

Scariest II: Scare and Scarier: Did I seriously just use the word "buns?"

Totally Not Scary: Cute boys making out with each other. My marriage was in no way threatened. The family unit remains intact! Jason did not catch the gay germs! The natural order and balance of the universe is maintained! Humans continue to procreate at an adequate rate! The earth is still spinning on its axis!

Honestly. Also, gay bars have the nicest bathrooms. So there.

Mysteries of the Universe, Part One

In which Amalah confronts the questions of the ages...

What the hell am I banging and bruising my knee on repeatedly? Who is kicking me without my knowledge?

Where did all my red pens go? How do I keep buying and buying red pens and yet never have any?

Is it totally wrong to think the cleaning people are probably stealing my pens?

How can that really be how you spell "debilitating?"  That doesn't look right. I feel like it needs an "h" in there somewhere.

Why has my hair suddenly decided to be curly? When did this happen? My hair has been poker-straight my entire life. In high school I would put it in hot rollers every damn day and would still be lucky to create a wave that lasted longer than the school bus ride. Now? That I decided to embrace the straight hair and got a haircut designed for super-sleek and straight hair? Curly. Wavy. Bendy. I'm not really sure. I do kind of like it, which means it's totally just a humidity fluke and will go away in a week.

How am I going to get my anniversary flowers home tonight? Should I buckle them in?

Why hasn't Jason's anniversary gift arrived? How do I break it to him and not sound like I just waited too long? Because I totally did just wait too long.

How did I end up married to a man who wants to put George W. Bush stickers on my car?

What in the world am I going to wear in Miami?

What time is our flight?

Where are the tickets?

Who's looking after Max?

Jesus Christ, what kind of half-assed travelers are we?

How in the world can my doctor call me an obsessive-compulsive if this is the way I plan my vacations?

Jesus Christ, where ARE THE TICKETS???

Why do so many medications cause "drymouth?"  My tax dollars should be finding a cure for this.

Also "tremor." WTF LEG STOP WITH THE TREMORING.

Why did I eat that old cheese just now?

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Yes, I know it's really Thursday, but it's still Wednesday in my mind.  So I don't want to hear another word about it.

Got it?

Okay, on with the show...

Dear Amalah,

I always feel presumptuous when I put a link to other people's blogs on my own. So I'll ask this time around, may I?

I mean, I know that's how it works. Link to blogs you really like. But my blog has an ego problem, it doesn't feel good enough to link to really good blogs.

Which brings me to my advice needed question. And I wouldn't be terribly disappointed if Special Guest Advice-Giver Guy Dude took my case.

How do I boost my blog's ego?

-Kiraa

OKAY THEN, so now Special Guest Star Advice-Giver Guy Dude is getting REQUESTS. Y'all like him better than me, don't you? I knew it.

Well, he wouldn't know the first thing about boosting blog ego, because he DOESN'T HAVE ONE. And I'll be damned if I let him show off on mine ever again. It's terribly bad for my blog's ego.

Although you may have noticed that my blog has more than enough ego to spare. In fact, it's so damn uppity that it gets a little ruffled when people call it a blog. It's a journal now. Which is different. I can't explain how.  I think it's better though.

Anyway, you could try that. "Oh, I don't blog anymore. I journal. It's just a simple form of self-publishing, really. A way to keep the creative muse active while I wait for my bajillion dollar book deal to come through."

You could also try getting snooty about memes. Roll your eyes at surveys and go "oh, pish-posh" to Quizilla results. Your blog is too good for these trite little shortcuts, right? I mean, your journal. Your outlet to the world. Your voice in the maddening crowd.

Also, get stingy with the blogroll. Resist linking to just anybody and everybody who links to you. They might suck. Do not be afraid to think that they suck.

(Try to link to all your commenters though, because they are lovely, wonderful people with taste and wit and also look so damn pretty today.)

If all this fails, maybe read a Tony Robbins book out loud to your blog. I hear he has really big teeth.

Dear Amalah,

I have  this really cool, really popular blog. I won't say who I am, because I don't want to brag, but my name rhymes with Krill Eatin' and Still Bleatin' and Chill Heatin'. Anyway, I don't know if you've ever been to my site, but it's really cool. It's kinda like Huey Lewis meets Jimmy Stewart. Really accessable and positive, but also some wild fun!!! I'm like the Chicken Soup For The Soul of blogs (which was a really important book, and touched a lot of people's lives, and sold a lot of copies).

I like to put a metophorical arm around my readers and give them the big brother noogie on the head and tell them "I love ya buddy! In a non gay way, heh." Because really edgy humor something you'll find a lot of at my site, if you want to come by and check it out. Kinda like when Steve Martin used to wear that arrow that looked like it was going right through his head. Dude, that was so funny. And cool.

Anyway, I'm a little worried because instead of getting my usual 10,000 hits a day, I've only been getting about 9,900. I'm afraid I may have offended my readers, and I might not win a Bloggie this year. Not that I care about that stuff, because I just have to be who I am ya know? I'm secure in who I am, and if people don't like me for who I am, well I wish them the best.  But if I've alienated anyone I would just be so sad. I mean I am a good guy, and there is nothing whatsoever offensive about my site, if you ever want to check it out.

So do you think I should write an open letter telling my readers that I'm sorry and I really appreciate all their support? Thanks in advance for your help!!!

Wishing you all the coolest experiences life has to offer,
"Kill Cretin"

GOD, YOU ARE SUCH A TOOL. TOOOOOOL.

Let me say this, Guy Whose Name Sounds Like Bil Beaten: Your popularity baffles me. Yes, you were on T.V. once. On That Show Whose Name Sounds Like Bar Check. But it was pretty much accepted that you sucked on it. Nobody liked you. I believe you spawned a lot of fan fiction that mostly involved you dying in many interesting and painful ways.

And now you have this site. This painfully corny and upbeat site that looks like a bunch of kindergarteners did your HTML. And you have a bazillion readers! You have your own category on FARK! What the hell?

So advice? For you? Is to shut up. This is one blog/journal/publishing revolution that will not drink the Gil Geaton Kool-Aid. Blah.

(Sheryl actually wrote that last question. And oh, how I love her for it.)

Dearest, prettiest, Queen of Everything,

I am considering getting a tattoo. Since this will last a lifetime, I want something that will look tasteful now and when I am an eighty-eight year old granny. Do you have any suggestions as to design and placement?

Lovin' You,
One of your "trained seals" (arf,arf,arf)

Oh, the eternal tattoo dilemma. I have two. I still like one. Do the math.

The one I like is a small heart with little flames. The whole thing is about a square inch in size. It's red and yellow and orange and quite cute. Placement? On the ass. Upper part, anyway, the part that (I hope and pray) will remain relatively smooth and unchanged throughout the years. Plus? Totally hidden 99% of the time. Only the tiniest bikini will reveal it in public.

The other one was gotten in a fit of impulsivity, infatuation and maybe a wee bit of intoxication. It's Jason's name. On my lower back. Visible above the waist of low-rise pants and every bikini in the world. I cheaped out on it too so it's not even nice looking. Stupidest. Thing. Ever.

Because now? People come up to me all the time and ask who Jason is. If I'm with Jason they'll go up to him and say shit like, "Heh. I hope you're Jason, right?" HAR. DEE. HAR. SHUT. UP.

So. Names are stupid, even if you DO stay with the person and love them and whatever. Stupid. No names.

I'm trying to figure out what to do with the Jason tattoo. Do I cover it up? Maybe get Jason's name in Hebrew letters inked over it? Try to get a generic Celtic design to cover it? Or do I get it lasered off? Maybe I should post a poll. Or write a Quizilla thingie.

Here's where the question of color comes in. If you get a colored tattoo, they're easier to cover up later if you change your mind. Black ink can only be covered with more black. HOWEVER, black ink is easier to laser off. Colored tattoos take more sessions and can remain visible. (Thanks to Cockeyed.com for all the science.)

Anyway. I will stop talking about myself for one whole damn minute and maybe answer your question. Take a good look at a really, really old woman and note what her arms and stomach and back and legs look like. There's just no good place, really. So put your tattoo somewhere that will remain covered up 100% of the time when you get to that age. Unless you plan to be one of those grannies on daytime talk shows who still wear tube tops and bikinis and whatnot, which in that case, you are gross and I have nothing more to say to you.

Got a question? Preferably one that I can make fun of? And one that doesn't really need an answer because I'm bad at that part? Send it to advice@amalah.com. Now, suckah.

 

Off The Rails

No advice column today. I may postpone it until tomorrow, or it might take a little hiatus and run away with the 'ku.

I've made some light-hearted references to The Crazy and the Brain Doctor and la la la, Amalah's feeling a little blue and stressed.  Prozac is the new Flintstones Vitamin, no big deal, she's FINE. FINE FINE FINE.

Am not fine. Am dirty liar.

I'm not going into details. < insert standard "people in real life read this" boilerplate here > I'm not going to spend a lot of time writing about it. In fact, I'll probably just refer to the whole situation as "It" a lot and gloss over It entirely for weeks at a time. La la la.

But I thought you should know a few things.

1) No advice column today. Check.

2) I am still hilarious when I'm depressed. Sometimes even more so. Please don't leave me. Please don't find someone new. Especially someone younger and prettier. I would cry. Don't walk out that door! I am still talking to you! Baby, don't goooo!

3) I'm more than just depressed. Everybody's depressed. I need to be special...to stand out in the crowd. Am star!  Thus, I have Other Problems besides/in addition to/on top of It. I probably won't talk about Them either.

4) But these Other Problems require some serious mood stabilizers. Which make me feel like shit. Stable shit, but still. Shit.

5) I cannot, under any circumstances, get pregnant while on these drugs. My doctor literally held the prescription over her head and wouldn't hand it to me until I promised promised promised to go back on birth control, cross my heart and hope to not die in a depressed and moody puddle.

6) I will be on these drugs for a minimum of nine months. Nine. Months. Minimum. Ouch. Just...ouch. Right in the heart. The length of a pregnancy. At least. At this rate, my next-door neighbors will have a goddamn softball team by the time I have one. (And yes, it's totally a competition. I have to beat the spread in Vegas. Shut up.)

So. This is where I'm at. Fucked-up ovaries, fucked-up brain, fucked-up plans and now a seriously fucked-up entry that I'll probably regret posting instantly. Luckily I changed the title from the original, which was "Off the Baby Train, On the Crazy Train." I am happy about this, because that? Was awful.

(SIDE NOTE TO ALL REAL-LIFE PEOPLE: You never read this. I don't care if you read this, I'm telling you now, YOU NEVER READ THIS. The first person to walk into my office or whatever who makes a concerned frowny face and asks if I'm okay? Dies. As will anyone else. I do NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOU. Yes, you. Capiche?)

Ain't I a peach? Don't you want to take me shopping and give me big hugs?

Hold Please

Yes, hello, I’m here, alive, semi-well and whatever.

Today is Big Print Deadline Day For The Accursed Eleventy Billion Special Reports Amy Had To Write And Also, Coincidentally, Random Capitalization Of Words Day.

So I’m a wee bit busy. Just. A. Wee. Bit.

So maybe I will be posting some random thoughts and do-dads throughout the day using my Handy Attention Deficit Disorder Gah Gah Gah Banners, or I may not post anything at all.

The one thing I will not do? Which would be the one thing that would totally make the most sense? Is change my template back to actual blogging where you can have multiple entries from one day on the same page, because that would eff up my pretty archives and I make a point not to ever eff up my pretty archives.

Plus I’m stubborn. I switched to the one-entry-a-day format so I would be challenged to write something substantial and/or intelligent every day. (I did not delude myself into thinking those two always went together. Some days? I just write until the screen looks kind of full.  Substantial, yet fluffy and brainless! Like Lindsey Lohan.)

Let the Day Of Crazed Pseudo-Blogging begin!

Um. Well. Maybe not quite yet. I have not had coffee. Do not look at me. I am not ready yet. I cannot perform on demand like this. I AM NOT YOUR MONKEY!

I have a doctor's appointment today at one p.m. Unfortunately, this means I will probably miss most or all of our monthly corporate rah-rah fest meeting thing at noon.  I will miss our financial updates and some bad jokes by managers and exceptional employee awards that I NEVER, EVER GET, NOT ONCE, and also introductions of new employees. So to any new employees being introduced today? I'm sorry, but there's just no way in hell I'm ever going to learn your names. I will try to come up with clever nicknames, like "That Guy With The Hair" or "That Girl With The Ginormous Chest," but that is the best I can promise.

Even if I could attend? I still wouldn't learn your names, so really, no loss.

I will also miss the special recognition of employees who have managed to stay with the company for designated increments of time without getting fired. This is quite an accomplishment, apparently, because these employees are recognized with pins and/or pens and everyone claps politely and then the not-fired person gets to make a speech and thank all the people who did not fire them. Then everyone claps politely again.

It'll be my turn in March, unless I get fired.

I told my boss about my doctor's appointment so he would know I'd probably be missing Rah-Rah Day just in case he was maybe planning to give me an award. His silence indicates that he was not. Maybe next month then.

I will also miss the free pizza afterwards, but it is really some godawful pizza, so whatever.

I so do deserve an award though.

We still have two couches in our living room. STILL.  The reason I didn't just use the Salvation Army was because they claimed they couldn't come get it for two months.  That was...two months ago. Am idiot.

But I'm actually getting used to Old N' Busted completely blocking my path to the kitchen. I may actually be losing weight because of it. It is also a very nice place to dump all your miscellaneous crap because I can cover it up with throw pillows.

Sure is ugly though.

OK, so Corporate Rah-Rah Love Fest Day has been going on for 20 minutes. I'm totally cowering in my office so nobody sees the Girl Who Does Not Love Her Company Because She Needs To See Her Brain Doctor For The Crazy Pills.

I've heard polite clapping break out about four times already.

The pizza is not here but they've laid out all the beverages. Am totally swiping a Coke for the drive. They cannot STOP ME. Am soda NINJA. Nimble like MONKEY.

OK, time to go get medicated. For real. Jeez.

Mmmm...this may sound like crazy talk from the crazy girl but even the most godawful pizza? Tastes pretty good cold.

So I got back from the doctor's and found a whole heap of work on my chair, which was lovely, but also a plain sealed envelope with "Amy" written on it.

Amy thinks: "Holy crap. I DID win an award. And instead of polite clapping it has just been dumped on my chair without ceremony. And I wanted ceremony! Wah."

Amy rethinks: "Holy crap. It's an official reprimand for missing Corporate Rah-Rah Love Fest Fest Day. I have been fired without ceremony and will not get my pin and/or nice pen in March and no polite clapping."

Then I actually opened the envelope, and found that a lovely someone had won a $5 gift certificate for Chipotle in the trivia contest and was giving it to me, The Girl Who Loves Burritos So Much She Just Might Marry Them.

She had known the names of all of Ross' ex-wives on Friends. Which makes me mad, because every time I go to Corporate Rah-Rah Love Fest Day the trivia questions are all about 17th Century Composers Whose Names, When Jumbled Together, Spell Out A Type Of Indigenous Tree Frog Once Featured On An Episode Of NOVA, Also Please Name The Year That Show Aired.

When I don't go? It's fucking questions about Friends. GAH.

THE SPECIAL REPORTS HAVE GONE TO PRINT. I repeat, THE ELEVENTY HUNDRED MILLION REPORTS HAVE GONE TO PRINT AND AS SUCH, ARE GONE FROM MY DESK.

I should steal another soda in celebration. Maybe shake it up and pop it open on somebody like champagne. Like That Guy Wearing That Assy-Looking Shirt. That would be funny.

I really have no idea who he is. But damn. That is an assy shirt.

BEHOLD, THE POWAH OF THE BLOG COMMUNITY

So. Hilldery. A blog y'all should totally be reading and loving if you aren't already. She and I work together. She understands the sorrow of Special Reports, she knows the lameness of Corporate Rah-Rah Love-Fest Day, she feels the pain of the formal business attire dress code.

She just stopped by. Bearing a Coke. That Chris told her to give to me.

What?

Apparently she commented over at his site, and Chris emailed her back, because he is The Good Blogger Who Always Emails His Commenters Unlike Some People, Like, Say, Amalah. And he asked her to bring me a Coke, because my day is sucky.

Sucky in non-public-blog ways too. Sucky and sad ways. Ways that I might talk about. But I might not. Either way, the Coke helped a lot.

Am Soda Ninja Monkey once again.