Wednesday Advice Smackdown

SPECIAL HALF-ASSED THURSDAY EDITION!

I know, I KNOW.

I didn't post an advice column yesterday, to the disappointment of dozens.  I was in a long-ass meeting all day at work. (Work! That! Right!) Eight hours long. Both breakfast and lunch were served. (Would an afternoon snack have killed them though?)

I have a New Author at work who I will be editing. Well, I won't be editing HIM, I will be editing stuff he writes. Because clearly I have superior writing and communication skills. He came to the office yesterday so we all had to make a fuss over him and make him feel like a rock star. And in my mind, he IS a rock star, because he likes both James Lileks and South Park. Please do not ask how South Park came up. It just did.

(And it had nothing to do with me doing a Michael Jackson impersonation in front of the New Author. Nothing at all.)

Anyway. I tried to write the entry last night, but I was tapped. Done. Out. Which was a shame, because I got really, really good questions this week. But I just couldn't deliver. A great question about alcohol and drinking games had me ranting about an old bottle of rail-brand blackberry schnapps I found in my booze collection that is so old and sticky you can't get the cap off.

Comedy gold, right? I even started drinking (not the blackberry schnapps), hoping that a drunk advice column would produce some humor.

But instead I just got really tired and fell asleep right after The Apprentice. I made some amusing spelling errors, but that's it.

Anyway, until you little fuckers start paying my bills and supporting my handbag habit, the Wednesday Advice Smackdown may occasionally be pre-empted by work. So calm down, chill and whatnot. And send me some buckets of money.

Here are the two questions I sort of answered last night. I'm posting them only as a cautionary tale to Long Meetings Plus Drinking And Advice-Giving:

Dear Amalah Advice,

I recently started a new online journal at my own domain in August (after jumping around to D*land and LJ and various versions of my domain for three years). I'm finally settled and loving where I am, but I am an attention whore and impatient to boot. I would love to see new readers along with my loyal, terrific moppets who've stayed with me for years. How can I work on my own to get myself more traffic?

Wine and Roses,
Someone Who Should Really Not Fucking Complain About This Sort of Thing.

P.S. If you ever need a DH for Snarkywood, I'm your bitch.

Ahem. Way to veil the hatred that has been growing within your cold, dark heart ever since I told you how many people hit my site every day. Haaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Suck it.

No, seriously. Good question! And I can help!

1) Comment yo' precious little ass off.
2) Don't even waste your time with the blog search engines or huge blog rings. Bah. Stupid.
3) Link to crap. For just a little while. You can get uppity when you've got the reader base to be uppity. In the meantime, link to anyone and everyone who links to you. I know, I know, you probably just threw up in your mouth a little bit. But it works.
4) Search Blogrolling regularly, even though it only sometimes sort of works and see who's linking to you.
5) Fucking update already, brainiac.
6) Pingomatic.com
7) Act like you really don't give a damn if anyone is reading, and like you aren't only journaling until a book deal comes along and brings you buckets of money.
8) Attach yourself to more popular writers like a tenacious little leech and get them to mention you or participate in their hugely popular weekly features like, say, fake advice columns.

(Okay, that's what I wrote last night. Is that not the most boringest thing you've ever read? Do I not suck? Do I deserve to have hits in the multiple thousands every day? Do you like how I'm being all self-deprecating but also bragging about being a total Internet Rock Star?)

(Anyway, I command all of you to go over to Hussified and leave Coleen a pretty comment, because she's needy and feeling unloved. Also needy. And you can totally see a picture of her naked ass if you go there right now.)

Dear Amalah,

I'm planning on having a party in a couple of weeks and need some advice on what kind of alcohol I should have on hand.  I already have your basic vodka, rum, and tequila, and my fridge is always stocked with quality beer. But what if someone wants some sort of crazy drink like a Cosmopolitan or, in light of recent events, a Hurricane?  I don't want to go overboard and buy out the entire liquor store, but I'd like to be able to offer something more than a shot of tequila. (Although, a shot of tequila is quite delicious, as long as you don't go over six shots in a two hour period.  The night can turn very ugly after that.)

This would be a lot easier if everyone would just drink beer, but unfortunately they don't.  So what do you recommend I buy?  Also, is it appropriate to have a beer bong and a game of President & Asshole set up if everyone at the party is between the ages of 24 and 27?  Oh, I have some good questions to ask you about drinking games, but I'll save them for another week.

Thanks a lot,
Sheryl

Okay, I might be feeling my drink a little bit. Haaaaaaaaaa, I totally typed "frink" there.

This question is hard, because it's a tremendous amount of responsibility. Have you ever been to an improperly-stocked party? One that only has cheap California chardonnay and Bud Light in cans? Or bourbon with no mixers? It's horrible. HORRRIBLE.

With an extra "R" even.

So I don't want to think about me being potentially responsible for ruining your party with bad advice. I don't need that kind of stress. Instead, I'm just going to list the contents of my liquor cabinet. And wine rack. And vodka corner in the freezer. And beer shelf in the fridge. Feel free to mimic it or simply shake your head at the horror of my alcoholism.

LIQUOR CABINET WHICH IS REALLY JUST THE SHELF OVER WHERE WE KEEP THE GLASSES:

Beefeater Gin
Crown Royal Whiskey
Some super-expensive 18-year-old scotch that tastes like a cigar
Chivas
Kahlua
Frangelico
Bailey's Irish Cream
Grand Marnier
Godiva Liquor (yeah, I like to spike my coffee, shut up)
Triple Sec
Vermouth
Very very old rail-brand blackberry schnapps
Even older amaretto
Even even older creme de menthe
Barcardi 151
Sake
Jose Cuervo Tequila (mine sworn enemy)
Jim Beam (no longer on speaking terms)
Jack Daniels (fucking asshole)

WINE RACK WHICH HANGS FROM THE CEILING AND IS WAY COOL:

Flowers Pinot Noir, 2001, which was ridiculously expensive and shall never ever be opened.
Columbia Crest Chardonnay, that got a really high rating from Wine Spectator, because we're snooty like that.
Castillo de Something Something, a Spanish chardonnay
Three or four bottles of unidentified Maryland wine bought while inebriated at a local wine festival that I am now too scared to try

VODKA CORNER IN FREEZER, FOR VODKA KEPT ANYWHERE BUT THE FREEZER IS A CRIME AND YOU SHOULD BE ARRESTED:

Skyy
Skyy Melon (ewwwwwwwww. yuck.)
Stoli Orange

BEER SHELF IN FRDIGE:

CUrrently empty, if you can fucking belive that.

So what should you buy? Beer in bottles (a lager and a decent light, like Amstel or Sam Adams), red wine (merlot and cabernet), white wine (chardonnay and pinot grigio), quality vodka, rum, gin, tequila, Irish whiskey, Chambord, triple sec, vermouth, juices (lime and cranberry), Coke, Sprite, tonic water, olives, cherries, lemons, limes and coffee.

(Long section re: blackberry schnapps deleted, because LORD.)

See? How lame was that? A couple typos, but nothing of this caliber. An while that's a decent shopping list, I totally ignored the part of the question about drinking games. Bad fake advice columnist! Bad!

So, Sheryl. Don't have the drinking games set up ahead of time, because your guests will most likely want to pretend that they're at a sophisticated grown-up party. But have all the cups and quarters and whatnot available because after people start hitting your gloriously-stocked bar they'll all drop the act and get goofy.

But NO to the beer bong and to any of those nasty-ass flavored malt beverage things. Those are way too trailer. I mean, you aren't hosting a Britney Spears Wedding.

And that's all I did. Because I fell asleep on the couch and drooled. Because I was BURNED OUT after being super professional all damn day, with the exception of the Michael Jackson moment, which totally DID NOT HAPPEN.

Weddalicious

I met my friend Andie at my first job out of college. The job sucked. Our three-martini-lunches-on-Fridays did not.

We both left the Job Of Suck within two weeks of each other, and have been best friends ever since. Actually more like sisters. Sisters who are alcoholics and can rationalize ANY clothing purchase for the other in minutes.

Andie: Well, I like this skirt, but I just bought that other skirt, plus the shoes, so I probably shouldn't buy this one too.

Amy: But that skirt GOES with the new shoes. That skirt will go with EVERYTHING.

Andie: Really? Even though it's a shade of red I've never actually seen before?

Amy: Yes, and also I'm buying this Hello Kitty underwear and you need to wait in line with me. Then we shall go drink some more.

Andie: Okay then, I'll get the skirt. And maybe that belt too.

This is Andie.

(I am so sorry, baby, but you know I had to post this picture. I mean, COME ON.)

(Andie has a special ringtone on my cellphone. It's "Get Ur Freak On" because we always sing "Get Ur Drink On" on our way to happy hour. Yep. We do.)

Andie got married this weekend. Jim makes her very happy, which makes me very happy.

I was the maid of honor. (Andie said matron of honor, because there was another girl who was technically the unmarried maid of honor, but I said fuck that, we're both maids because I am not ancient.)

I got my dress for $50 on eBay. I know! I suck.

(Christ. Narcissistic much? You will notice there are zero pictures of Jason. Zero. He was there, I swear.)

 

It was a gorgeous wedding and gorgeous weather and Andie looked gorgeous in the dress I was with her when she bought that made me cry when she tried it on. It was the one time she didn't need my help in rationalizing the purchase.

Okay, so this one time Andie and I went to the wedding of a mutual friend from the Job Of Suck together. We drank just a wee bit too much. And by "wee bit" I mean we were completely trashed before the salads were brought out.

Anyway, the waiters stole our cake when we put them down to go pee. We wanted cake. We also wanted to get the attention of this one groomsman who Andie went on a date with and then didn't call her. Or maybe she didn't call him. Either way, it seemed monumentally important at the time. And getting his attention by pretending to be lesbians also seemed like a good idea at the time. We smushed together in this big armchair and proceeded to feed each other bites of cake that we cut from a hunk of cake that was sitting on a table next to us.

We got the groomsman's attention. He came right over to inform us that we were eating the top layer of the wedding cake. The top layer that the bride and groom wanted to save for their one-year anniversary.

Um, d'oh?

So what's worse than eating the top layer of the wedding cake? Well, not much, but eating the bride's cake right off her plate while she's mingling comes in pretty damn close I would say.

(I knew she wouldn't care, but LORD, you should have SEEN the looks I got from nearby tables.)

Doesn't my hair look pretty? We all went to a salon that morning to get our hair done, but it was kind of scary. It was in TinyPodunkville, Pennsylvania and the salon's actual location had been flooded. So we were in a makeshift salon in some house. There was a bathroom, but no sink, so you had to wash your hands in the one shampoo tub.

They also had no hot rollers. NO. HOT. ROLLERS. So you know how they curled my hair? They sprayed it with hairspray and then curled it with a curling iron and then sprayed it again.

THEY SPRAYED IT WITH HAIRSPRAY. AND THEN WRAPPED IT AROUND A HOT CURLING IRON.

People, do you KNOW how bad that is for your hair? Your hair SMOKES when you do that.  Please, for the love of God, don't ever do that to your poor hair.

Luckily, there was no teasing of my hair, because I proclaimed that there would be no teasing. Amy's hair + teasing = rat's nest + scissors - Amy's hair = Amy crying.

But it was all worth it, I think, because my hair was curly and lovely and did. Not. Move. All. Day.

It even stayed put during the White Girl Dancing.

It even looks pretty good in this picture, which I only have a vague memory of taking. (Although I definitely remember the Burger King. Oh my God, that was so good.)

Anyway. Congratulations to Andie and Jim. Love you both. Here's to years and years of happiness and lots of dinner parties disintegrating into drunken chaos.

 

Of Poop & Puppies

Please stand by for The Big Fat Drunk Wedding entry, which has been delayed on account of PROJECTILE PUPPY DIARRHEA.

The Precious is sick. I'm staying home with her today. Because I am a wreck. Because she is sick.

We picked her up from the vet last night and she seemed okay, but she obviously lost some weight during the whole spaying-and-boarding ordeal. Which is HUGE when you only weigh like, 3 pounds. If we were on Animal Precinct and someone saw our skin-and-bones puppy we would so get arrested.

But she's a super picky eater so we figured she just didn't like whatever the vet fed her. She chowed down at home and we were all, "Yeah, she's a brat diva."

Then the poop came. OH MY GOD THE POOP.

Ceiba: Mommy and Daddy came fer mE! Yay home and hi kat. FOOOOOD. YuMMie,. Uh oh. haver to pOOP now. Allover floor. carpit! pilES and piles of greeN poop. WAh.

Mommy: FUCK. DAMN. BUT ALSO POOR TINY WEE BABY! WAh.

Max: Fuck. They brought that damn rat thing back after all. WAh.

Schmoopy

Ceiba is fine. Her teeny little reproductive organs are no more, because we are Responsible Pet Owners.

(Even though Jason was hit with an attack of the "But I want Ceiba puppies!" at the eleventh hour.)

Anyway, we went to visit her last night.

I KNOW, RIGHT? HOW PRECIOUS IS THAT PUPPY? OH MY GOD.

And that's all I have for today! What a total gyp. I should be ashamed of myself.

Tomorrow is The Wedding, we leave today in like, a few hours, I have not packed, I have lost the bride's card, I still did not sleep last night even after taking a motherfucking tranquilizer pill, and my shoes have wrecked my toenail polish.

Ceiba is staying at the hospital all weekend, which makes my heart all hurty, because I miss her so damn much. She is an unbelievable pain the ass who pees on the floor and rips my panty hose and runs around the house with cat poop in her mouth.

God, do I ever love that dog.

Max will be left at home with buckets of kibble and water and toys and treats and will not even notice our absence. I will miss him too, because staying at a hotel means I won't wake up with a 15-pound cat who thinks he's still a tiny kitten snuggled up in my armpit.

Wah wah wah. Shut up, Amy.

Monday: Wedding pictures of people you don't know! But also of me wearing the prettiest damn bridesmaid dress ever, and looking super skinny and busty in it because of miracle space-age lingerie!

Two Steps Forward

So I sent out an email yesterday to just about everyone with “insider knowledge” about my illness. The nice people who sent me emails offering comfort and virtual hugs.  The nice people who were rewarded for their kindness with hysterical ramblings from me that usually contained entirely Too Much Damn Information, Crazy Girl. And to the other nice people who sent me nice things or offered to clean my house or gave me their home phone numbers with permission to yell PICK UP THE DAMN PHONE BITCH! into their answering machines.

I told them all that I was doing better! Better! Happy! Medicated! Bzzz! BZZZ!

And of course, this angered the Pharmacy Gods muchly and I was promptly a quivering mass of anxiety and weepiness once again. Yay!

I still maintain that I’m getting better. Fuck you, Pharmacy Gods. *shakes fist at nightstand piled high with seventeen bottles of pills* You call that a panic attack? Ha! I laugh at your panic attack! Or I will later, once I stop crying about it.

Anyway. Ceiba is getting spayed today. Ack. Ackackack. I woke up at four a.m. convinced that something awful was going to happen to her and she was going to die.

I was able to get back to sleep, only to have an extremely disturbing dream about being a scientist working on a top-secret government project which turned out to be Jason as some Terminator-type supersoldier whose evil powers I accidentally unleashed after falling in love with him and kissing him.

So after that? I was pretty much wide awake and vowing never to sleep again. Got up. Got dressed. Told Jason he had to come with me to drop off the puppy or else he would probably get a call from a payphone in West Virginia after Ceiba and I Thelma and Louised it away from the vets.

The good news is that her extra baby teeth fell out last night. No one is allowed to vacuum our house until I find them.

After tearing myself away from my precious little pumpkin pie angel girl and giving her an embarrassing number of kisses in front of the vet, I went to my bazillionth doctor’s appointment this month. You can all now refer to my doctor as “Dr. Doomsday” (tm Coleen), as she managed to rip my “I’m feeling better!” routine to shreds and sent me packing with not one, not two, but THREE new prescriptions. We’re adding tranquilizers now, people. TRANQUILIZERS. Like I’m an escaped monkey from the zoo or something. Also doubling dosages that were already doubled once before.

Cripes.

So now? I’m a little cranky and short-tempered and seriously ready to rip that guy’s head off if he doesn’t SHUT THE HELL UP OUT IN THE HALLWAY OUT THERE YES I CAN HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR.

Basically, this, again:

But! But! This weekend? Is my best friend’s wedding. I picked up my bridesmaid’s dress from the cleaners this morning; I bought shoes last weekend; I had my highlights touched up; and I have narrowed my toenail polish choices down to three.

I am ready. I think. Do I need to give a toast? Can I pawn that off on someone else? Where did I put her card? Where did I put the directions? Why didn’t I just take tomorrow off from work instead of being all stoic and agreeing to come for a half day before driving up to some town in Pennsylvania that I’ve never heard of with a half hour to spare before the rehearsal?  Could I write a longer run-on sentence than that one?

Also: New television arrived this morning. It’s big and pretty and will probably require a whole new entertainment center solution furniture thing. I have not bonded with it yet, however. I'm eyeing it suspiciously, like it will shock me every time I touch it or somehow mess up my TiVo. I'm sure this feeling will pass after we enjoy The Apprentice together tonight. In the meantime, I'm keeping my eye on you, New Television. Don't try anything funny.

The old n’ busted T.V. is now sitting on top of the old n’ busted couch. Seriously. I’m thinking of propping the couch up on some cinderblocks and bringing in an old rusty lawnmower just to complete the look.

Notified Readers Fuck Not With The Crazy.

The Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Welcome to this week's Advicie Column Thing. Don't be alarmed, but I think I actually give out some real advice today. I know! Craziness.

Dear Amalah,

I've been enjoying Wednesdays at your 'place' for quite awhile now, and I keep meaning to write you a question because getting a letter published on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown is quite literally, all I aspire to these days, partly because when you don't get questions, you're not happy, and an unhappy Amalah is an unhappy INTERNET. The problem is, I keep forgetting (blah blah busy life blah) and suddenly it's Wednesday again and DAG IT, how do I remember to send you my question? LOOK! IT HAPPENED AGAIN!

PS: Please don't buy that hat.

Signed,
Dizzy Lizzy

Well look! You didn’t even have to write a question to get published on the Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Your dreams and aspirations are now complete. You may die in peace, or think of some new dreams and aspirations.

But you raise an important point. Some weeks, I get a lot of questions. Like this week! Gah! Ack! And etc.! Other weeks? None. Or one. Or NONE. Everybody is trying to be all clever and think of something funny to ask and this is hard. Oh, so very hard.

So this week, and this week only, in addition to regular advice questions, I will accept boring old straightforward questions about ME. Anything you want to know about me, my dreams, my aspirations or my dog. I will answer them all, and I will be honest. Mostly.

(Martha can show you how it’s done.)

So ask away. The Advice Smackdown usually ends up being 99.9% about me anyway, so this isn’t really much of a stretch. You can all just drop the guise of asking a question about your own damn boring selves and we will skip right ahead to the me me me.

Send them all to advice[at]amalah[dot]com. Don't make me unhappy, Internet.

Dear Amalah, Queen of Everything including lurvly pink purses for us to covet,

I have thin, straight as all get-out, nasty-ass hair, with highlights grown out about 3 inches. And nothing stays in it! It's so slinky even hair claws (is that what those thingies are called?) can't hold on for more than 10 minutes. And Gawd forbid I should not wash it for ONE DAY. You could succesfully oil a squeaky hinge with all the grease that collects on my head in 24 hours. Did I mention my hair was brown? Dull nothing-girl brown.

You have beautiful flowy golden locks which I covet almost as much as The Purse. What is a girl like me, living on a lowly teachers salary, going to do with this genetic (thanks Dad) dysfunction???

love,
Pathetic Excuse for a Girly-Girl

There is hope! Oh, how there is indeed hope for you, my child.

My hair? Is actually super-fine. (And by that I mean thin, not like snap-snap you is so FINE, baby.) Super-straight too, at least most of the time. And it used to be like yours: oily at the roots, dry and brittle at the ends. It wouldn’t stay in a ponytail and it had all the volume and bounce of overcooked spaghetti.

And now? Is beautiful. I love my hair. I want to scream from the mountaintops that I, Amy, for the first time in my life, love my hair. And you can too.

So first of all, you need to go old school on that shit. Buy some Infusium 23 and VO5 Hot Oil Treatments. (Two of the best drugstore brands out there, among the ranks of Cetaphil and Loreal mascara.)

Hot Oil once a week. Infusium several times a week. And get yo’self a quality volumizing shampoo and a deep conditioner. (And yes, you want to deep-condition oily hair.) Don’t shampoo your ends; don’t condition your roots.

(Shampoo/conditioner brands I recommend: Matrix, Pureology, Wella, and Halo.)

(Shampoo/conditioner brands I say run screaming away from: Biolage, John Frieda, Pantene, and for the love of God anything that’s a combo shampoo/conditioner. Those are of the devil.)

Forgo highlights if you have to, but please, spend a little money on your shampoo.

After a few weeks, your hair should be healthier and have a little sheen and be touchably soft and such. At this point, get a haircut and get rid of the ends that were past repair. Do not let them cut your hair bluntly, in a blunt little line. Get long layers. LONG layers, that cut “in” to the rest of your hair. Basically, your hairdresser should be pointing the scissors straight down the whole time. The ends will be a little wispy and your hair WILL look fuller. This is the cut I have.

Then treat yourself to a few nice products. Yes, they are expensive, but they will last because people with thin hair should only use the tiniest amount of them each day. For you? I recommend the following:

Bed Head Ego Boost Leave-In Conditioner & Split End Mender. Self-explanatory.

Pureology Root Lift Spray Mousse. Yes, a mousse, I know. But this one rocks. You spray it right at your roots and it coats extremely lightly and won’t weigh your hair down and will give you volume and blah blah blah. (If you ever see me with my straight-ass hair all wavy? It’s because I felt kicky and sprayed all my hair with this stuff and scrunched scrunched scrunched.)

Bed Head Small Talk. A miracle product. Thickifier and stylizer and basically anything else you want it to do, like Dishwasher Loadifier. Put a wee drop in your hand and emulsify and then lightly work through your ends. Thick! Texture! Shine! Camera! Action!

Bed Head Hard to Get Texturizing Paste. (I get NO MONEY from the Bed Head people. NO MONEY OR FREE PRODUCTS WHICH I WOULD ALSO ACCEPT.) Use this stuff only after you see an improvement in your hair and get a good haircut. Tiny tiny bit and use to pinch your ends together in that trendy chunky look. Is more lightweight than pomade or wax but holds nicely.

Can’t find any of these products? Let me know, for I have the hookup. And by that I mean a salon half a block from my house that sells them all.

(Holy shit. I like, really answered a question. That was hard. I’m totally tired now.)

Hi Amy,

I'm  a silent reader, who thinks your site is quite frankly, the dog's bollocks.

I know your going through some tough shit at the moment and I sincerely hope things pick up soon.

I didn't post in your guestbook because I'm a shy English girl and we are far to reserved for that don't you know!  I hope emailing is ok with you.

I have a question I'm hoping you can help me with.  In 5 weeks I'm coming over to the US for the first time and like any sane girl I will need to shop.

From you photos, I can see you are a chic and stylish dresser, not to mention that new bag, which kicks ass by the way.  The problem I have is I don't know which shops to visit whilst I'm over.  I'm all geared up to shop like a mad woman, but at a loss where to start.

Could you possibly give me names of some shops that are worthy of my cash? I would be eternally grateful.

Take care of yourself.

Thank you so much,
Jilly xxx

Oh my god, I love this letter. I have never before been called the dog’s bollocks. I would like to be called this on a daily basis.

I hope you don’t mind me posting your email, dear Jilly, but it was just too good to keep to myself.

DOG’S BOLLOCKS DOG’S BOLLOCKS DOG’S BOLLOCKS

Anyway. Stores! Oh! This is turning into the most girly column ever. Can I paint y’alls’ toenails next? Yes? Okay good. Here are all the stores that I cannot live without and you must visit and love as much as I.

Sephora
Max Studio
Banana Republic
Miss Sixty
Lucky Brand
BCBG
H&M
Ann Taylor (for like, work shit)
Coach (duh)
Tiffany’s (duh)
Filene’s Basement (for bargain hunting and scrounging)

Okay, I have to stop, because I totally want to go shopping now. Wah.

DOG’S BOLLOCKS DOG’S BOLLOCKS DOG’S BOLLOCKS

Dearest, most wise and beautious Amalah, could you spare a moment and douse some advice on me?

My parents are being kind enough to pay for my wedding.  I have told them I'd rather have the money they're blowing on the wedding go to my law school fees and The Boy and I pay for the wedding ourselves. However, my mom knows my propensity to be cheap and has deemed that a gajillion dollars will be spent on one day of my life.

What's the problem?  My parents want to limit the number of friends we can invite to 20.  A sane amount until you realize that 200 people are being invited to the wedding.  About 100 are first cousins and aunts and uncles.  Which leaves room for 100 more.

I will probably slowly just work my mother down to agreeing with me, using blackmail or some such ("Grandma, Grandpa!  Mom and Dad lived together BEFORE they were married!"), but I'd love to hear what you'd advise.  Because you are smart AND funny at the same time.  And really, for what's available on the internet, that makes you the best deal there is.

Loave and hugs,
Alektra Land

Bah. Let me tell you something. I hate weddings. I think they are stupid. I think they are extravagant. I think they are a symbol of what’s wrong with our materialistic and selfish culture.

(Thus sayeth the girl with a $350 purse and seventy pairs of shoes. Shut up, self.)

Anyway. My point? Weddings are no longer about family and friends getting together for a big party, which is exactly what they are. A big-ass party. And yet this big-ass party costs a bazillion dollars simply because it has the word “wedding” attached to it so all the vendors can charge a 400% mark-up and families feel the need to show off to a bunch of strangers and prove that they can afford a cake that costs as much as six months’ of car payments.

And it seems to be, less and less, about what the actual bride and groom want. This is a shame.

All weddings get hijacked by the parents at some point. There were a helluva lot of people at my wedding that I’d never even met before. And we paid for a helluva lot of things ourselves.

But you aren’t, so unfortunately, you aren’t going to get a lot of say in anything. Sad but true, and it will get more pronounced as the big day approaches. Save yourself the grief and let your mom do whatever the hell she wants. If any of your friends don’t make the guest list, throw a little party at your house later for them. If your mom invites 500 people? Whatever, take their gifts and smile pretty at them during the reception. It’s already more about your mom than you at this point, so let her have it, since you seem to be a rational and sane person who understands that a wedding is one day, but student loans are forever.

Either that, or totally do the blackmail thing.

(Oh, by the way, there’s a special Britney Spears Wedding Edition of Snarkywood up now.)

Dearest Queen of Everything, Keeper of the Cutest Little Dog Ever, She of the Classy Purse,

I find myself in great need of your wisdom. You see, I am 29 and have lived alone for the better part of thirteen years now (except for my dog, and a six month period where I had a female roommate). I have recently become rather smitten with a man who lives in another state. We've been visiting each other quite frequently, but can no longer stand to be so far apart. After much discussion, we have decided to bridge the distance. In a few weeks he is planning on moving to my state and cohabitating with me.

While I am thrilled to have him near, I am also Freaking The Fuck Out. To have someone live with me? And, at that, a MAN? Whoa, this is a rather large jump from my many years of bachelorettehood. Does this mean that I might actually have to cook? To make room in the stuffed closets? To box up some of my shoes? *shudders*

He's wonderful, and I am quite sure he is worth it all. But I am nervous, and a tiny bit scared...

Any tips/advice that you can give me on how to make a smooth(er) transition into living-with-a-guyhood would be more than appreciated. Or even just some comfort.

Thank you so much.

Forever a Faithful Reader,
Sabine

Bah! Boys! Who needs them! (There certainly can’t be any boys still reading this column, that’s for sure.)

Living with a boy is hard. But also fun. But also hard.

But since you’re Freaking The Fuck Out, I don’t need to tell you about the hard stuff. You take that as it comes. You lay down the law about clearing his own goddamn dishes from the table, and also reserve your right to make him clear YOUR own damn dishes from the table if you feel like it.

But no! Since this is the Wednesday Advice Smackdown Sleepover Girls-Night-Out Spectacular today, let’s focus on the good things.

You will now have someone to kill crunchy bugs for you. You will now have someone to do heavy lifting for you. You will now have someone to get things off high shelves for you while you ogle his ass. And while I’m sure you were 100% totally capable of doing all these things when you lived alone, he doesn’t have to know that. Except for the part about ogling his ass. Boys like hearing that you think they’re hot.

Boys also don’t care about closet space. Clear him out a drawer and then let him live out of plastic storage bins you keep under the bed. Or make him hang shelves or build you a new closet. After all, that’s what he’s there for.

(Well, that and the sex.)

Amalamalamalah,

I work with eeediots. Eeeediots with PhDs. Eeeediots who feel it is beneath them to put a piece of paper in the trash. I am constantly cleaning up after slobbish f-tard eeediots. When I try to ask the f-tards to PLEASE FOR ONCE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR GODDAMN SELVES they get offended and complain to my boss about the bitchy bad-ass lady in the mailroom. How do I keep my sanity? How do I get the FUCKING FUCKTARDS to show me some respect and to clean up after themselves? And, how do I find out which FUCKTARDS complained and what sort of NASTY BAD BADASS revenge can I enact upon them?

Thank you Amalah. You are Pretty.

Sincerely,
HAD IT UP TO FUCKING HERE WITH THE FUCKING ASSHOLE FUCK FUCK FUCKTARDS

Finally! Some cursing! Some machismo!

And I’m at a loss. I’ve gotten myself worked up into such a girly state that I’m actually clutching a hankie to my heart and saying “My heavens!” at your language.

I may have to lie down now. In the meantime, I would start farting in the mailroom a lot so they all stay the blooming fuck away from you.

 

Notified Readers' Farts Smell Like Flowers.

 

T.V. From The Fiery Depths of Hell

The Gilmore Girls Season Premiere, On A 15-Inch Non-TiVo Television, As Watched By A Girl Who Is Not Used To Such Horror

7:32 Turn on regular television, hoping it has miraculously repaired itself in the past 48 hours

7:33 Pfft. Zzzzz. Crrck. Poof.

7:34 Fuck.

7:44 Wine.

7:53 Upstairs to wee television with shitty picture because cat chewed on cable once.

7:55 WHAT CHANNEL IS THE WB? I DON'T KNOW I NEED MY PRETTY GUIDE.

7:57 Martin is on WB. Start singing Martin theme song, which basically consists of: MarTIN!  Bump ba bump MarTIN!

7:59 Oh my god. The suspense.

8:00 Recap recap recap. Lorelai = Luke. Emily & Richard = separated. Rory = whore. Check.

8:01 SHIRTLESS DEAN! He's STATICKY! NOOOOOOOOO! I cannot see the shirtlessness through shitty reception. Weep.

8:02 Shut up, Rory.

8:03 "Dean is married" phrase that pays count: 12

8:04 Strummy la laaaaaaaaaaaaa Where you lead, I will follow, laaa laaa.

8:06 Why does Volkswagen insist on using obscure songs in their commercials? Are they like, indie commercials? Art-film cars?

8:07 Shut up, Julianne Moore.

8:08 Britney has a fragrance? Since when?  I bet it smells like skank and beef jerky.

8:10 Why is Emily is a cave? Or is that a basement? Why is there a crystal chandelier? Cannot see shit.

8:11 Basement. And now she is not wearing pants. Am glad I cannot see shit.

8:12 OOOOHHHH EMILY WITH THE COMEBACK. SNAP!

8:13 Is that Jess? An errant neighborhood child? Oh, it's Kirk. And...Sookie? The hell? Am so confused.

8:14 Oh right. The Inn. THAT.

8:15 The inn needs better fucking lighting. Is DARK.

8:16 Dean's wife, in cotton nightie, with brownies, offering to cook. The poor, wronged girl who nobody cares about because this show has done zero character development for her.

8:17 Shut up...Dean? The hell? Cheating asshole? Do I really think this? I think I might and I am sad about this.

8:18 Dean: "I'm just tired. Long day." Yeah. A long day of...FUCKING! HAAAAAA!

8:19 Shut up, Pepsi Edge.

8:21 Sookie's baby. Look! A baby! Ok, now go away for a few episodes.

8:22 Blah blah blah townie Taylor bullshit song and dance. I do heart Michel so though. Want to have his leetle snooty babies.

8:23 Ceiba has developed nasty, dirty habit of taking cat poop from litter box and running around house with it. Will care at next commercial break.

8:24 Lorelai and Sookie SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Way too screechy with the bad sound on this piece of shit T.V.

8:25 There was no sex. Do you hear that people? THERE WAS NO LUKE & LORELAI SEX. Wah.

8:26 Wait, Jason's condo was on fire? Did Lorelai like, leave her curling iron on since they broke up and burn his place down? That seems likely.

8:26.483942 Rory just said "That's your prerogative." DRINK!

8:28 Taylor wears a 6.5 narrow shoe. Jason: "Heh. He's small." (Holds up pinkie and thumb to demonstrate)

8:29 Oh, just fuck his brains out already, Lorelai.

8:30 Rory is TOTALLY whoring it up on the little WB promo in-between thingies. Slut and whatnot.

8:31 CEIBA CEIBA CEIBA! I want to eat her up. But I won't. I will just get her spayed on Thursday so she will never, ever become a whore like Rory. Sniff. Poor puppy is about to become a not-woman.

8:32 (Am also getting her baby teeth pulled while she's under. Would it be weird if I asked for one back?)

8:35 Wait, what did all those signs at Miss Patty's say? Ballet? Ice Skating? IF I HAD TiVo I COULD PAUSE AND READ THEM ALL GODDAMN IT.

8:36 Rory! Dean! Get it on! Also, Jason has that shirt he's wearing.

8:37 Lane. Needs. To. Get. Laid.

8:39 Sebastian Bach. Should totally sleep with Lane. That would rock.

8:40 "Dean is married" phrase that pays count: 32

8:43 Blah blah blah Lorelai and Rory Fightingcakes

8:45 Does anyone actually watch One Tree Hill? Anyone? Bueller?

8:48 Rory is going to Europe with Emily. That's...not very interesting.

8:50 So Lindsey is totally a Stepford wife now with the white dress and the meatloaf and whatever.

8:51 And Dean is calling for a booty call or whatever.

8:52 And Rory is going to Europe or whatever and is totally being a petulant brat.

8:53 Yeah, welcome to the world where your parents do not 100% support each and every life decision you make, Rory. Gah.

8:54 Luuuuuke come back and sleeeeep with Looooorelai.

8:55 Jason: "Luke is going to get into a car accident and go into a coma right now."

8:56 No car accident, because nothing ever happens on this show.

8:57 God. Damn. Commercials. Want. To. Throw. Television. Out. Window.

8:58 Did you know that Weebles wobble but they don't fall down? It's true.

8:59 Next week: Rory evolves into full-fledged homewrecker. Shouting. Weeping. Moping.

Awesome.

I Just Kept Typing Until There Were A Lot Of Words

AAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYY.

Hi! Hi hi!

Where you been, bitch?

I have had absolutely nothing to write about. Nothing interesting to say at ALL.

And now?

Still nothing. But I'm starting to get testy-sounding emails from people.

So that's why you're doing the thing where you talk to yourself again, right?

I'm not just talking to myself. I'm talking to my ITALICIZED self.

Oh, right. Completely different then.

Oh my god, oh my GOD, y'all. There was a tragedy at my house this weekend. A TRAGEDY.  Saturday night. My television like, blew up.

I turned it on and there was some scary white static and then a popping noise and then *poof*. No TV.

So now? I need to buy a new TV. And I have no money to buy a new TV. But I HAVE to buy a new TV, because of The Apprentice, people. The. APPRENTICE. 

My TiVo is recording and recording away in vain. I have no idea what it's recording and I'm frightened.

We cannot watch movies, we cannot play Playstation. We toyed with the idea of playing actual BOARD GAMES on Saturday night because we had nothing to do. I went to bed at 8:30 p.m. last night because I have no PURPOSE in LIFE anymore.

Oh, Amy?

Yes?

You know tomorrow night? Season premiere of Gilmore Girls.

JESUS CHRIST.

Attention All Dog People:

You must help me. Help! My puppy is teething. Her "big" and "ferocious" teeth are coming in, but her baby teeth are NOT FALLING OUT. They are freak-of-nature teeth that won't budge. In a few days she will have EIGHT fully-grown canines in her precious little mouth.

We have bought her rawhide bones, knots, braids, flips and rings (both regular AND condensed), rubber bones and Kongs and balls, dental bones, pig hooves and all sorts of assorted vague animal hides. She chews and chews and chews and still. The. Teeth. Won't. Budge.

What do I DO, oh all-knowing crazy dog people? Do I need to take her to the vet? Do I attach a string to a doorknob? Do I need to chill out?

(I am extremely desperate to think of things to talk about.)

(I'm sure you didn't notice, because the topic of my dog's teeth has you totally enthralled.)

I'm getting a new office! Yes! There's going to be some big internal office move for reasons that were explained to me but I really wasn't listening, because I was too busy scanning the floor plan for my name, lest I was getting moved to the supply closet.

Because really, I deserve to move to the supply closet. I mean, I'm totally brilliant and everything, but I haven't exactly been at the top of my editing game the last few months.  You may be totally shocked to hear this, but Amy has kind of been a little bit of a complete and utter wreck recently.

But apparently, my job has not noticed, because I, Amy, Managing Editor Who Is Barely Managing To Hang The Fuck On, am getting a window office.

A. Window. Office. Complete with my own personal temperature control. (And also a window!)

The temperature! Will be in MY control! Too cold? HEAT. To hot? Air! It'll be like magic!

I will also be able to see the weather, which is very exciting. And if I park my car on the roof of the parking garage? I can stare at it all day, because that's all my window will overlook.

But still. Am excited! Am important! Have completely fooled them all!

So what else did you do this weekend?

I went to a wine festival in Maryland and got drunk.

And no drunk post? You SUCK.

Well, it was kind of far away so I was sober by the time I got home.

Pfft.

Yeah, I know. Can you imagine me sending out a drunk Notify? That would have been hilarious.

Haaaaa. Yes.

"NEw entri bizzitchES that yoo shouldf read right now cuz am DRUNBK and hgaaaaaaaaaa."

See? Now I'm all mad at you for sobering up.

Am sorry. It won't happen again.

 

Notified Readers Know It Damn Well Won't Happen Again.

The Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Welcome to Wednesday, the best day of the week, because it is the day I get to tell you all what to do, but also get to be no help whatsoever. If this sounds like the kind of advice YOU need, please send your queries and PayPal monies to advice[at]amalah[dot]com.

BUT FIRST...

The Purse! Okay, okay, I GET IT. Y'all want to see the damn purse. I misjudged you as good, socially-responsible people, for you are really a bunch of total expensive-shoe-and-purse WHORES.

And I love you for it, really.

So ta-daaaaa!!

The Purse. The limited-edition Coach Hamptons Houndstooth Satchel. Pink and grey wool trimmed with cranberry/wine leather, suede AND patent leather. Lined in a glorious and girly bright pink satin. Pockets galore. Silver hangtag. My knees shook when I saw it. Jason knew he'd get laid if he bought it for me.

(And I got the LAST ONE IN THE STORE. HAAAAAAA. Sorry, Georgetown suckahs.)

(Now I just need matching shoes and a keyfob and maybe a little houndstooth flower pin. But not the matching hat. That would just be too much. Wouldn't it?)

AND NOW...

Dearest Q of E with the purdy shoes and all,

How come when . . .

But it isn't always . . .

Apologies your majesty, freezing up even typing to you.  Just recognize that your wonderful juggernaut of bloggedness has actually reached the over 40 crowd. And yes, even we wizened old baby-boomer generation types can actualy make use of your wise-beyond-your-years advice.

Oh yes, the question.  Now since maybe this recently happened to you, perhaps you could share your feelings on the matter.  I have two fine sons currently enrolled in college.  Is there some sort of official waiting period to suffer through before completely gutting their rooms and re-decorating?

You see, my wife, she's getting an itchy trigger finger .The local home improvement stores are starting to drool with anticipation.  Have we already waited too long?  Is it too late for us to do our part to
help the economy?  By the way - our kids are currently in their sophomore & junior years, and in spite of our best efforts, still insist on living with us during their summer breaks.  Something about free meals.

Sign me,
Rooms to Rent

Can I start off with a story about me, me, me that only sort of has some relevance to your problem? Yes? Good.

I went to a private high school 25 miles from my house. I hated it. It wasn't a GOOD private school either, with the lacrosse and the champion debate team and the cute jailbait uniforms. It was a tiny, rinky-dink operation where the tennis team practiced at a YMCA 15 miles away. There was no cafeteria and our science books were all published by Jerry Falwell or something.

I hated it. HATED IT.

By my junior year, my parents hated it too. But what to do? The local public high school, while not terrible, was huge and borderline rough and I didn't know anybody there. But! The next district over? In the neighborhood where my parents always said they'd like to buy a smaller place and move to? Was awesome. Blue ribbon and whatnot. Hell, this guy was a graduate. And I had TONS of friends there. I was dating the captain of the fucking football team. I was CONNECTED.

Anyway, I begged my parents to move 10 minutes down the road so I could cross district lines. We'd save on tuition. With all my katrillion brothers and sisters out of the house we didn't need so many bedrooms. Think of the vacuuming time we'd save!

They didn't move. I graduated from my stupid school, number nine out of the biggest class in the school's history. I think there were 60 of us.

I went to college. I came back after a semester when my dad got sick and attended the community college where my dad taught part-time for free. FREEEEEE. Glorious free. I lived rent-free at home, which drove me insane, which drove me to forsake my free tuition (FREE!) and transfer to Penn State.

This is when I got a call from my mom. They were selling the house and moving. GUESS WHERE THEY WERE MOVING?

GO ON. GUESS.

So yes. They moved during my sophomore year into a little townhouse in the little neighborhood with the kickass schools. My room? Went bye-bye. That summer I lived in a tiny guest room.

And I survived. It actually drove me to marry young so I could get my own damn place without curfews and decent closet space. Free meals? Bah. I stayed in the house long enough to microwave some Easy Mac and then I was back out the door with my punk-ass friends. In short, it was probably responsible for my wise-beyond-my-years-advice-giving-skills that I now possess.

So. Should you redecorate their rooms? Why the hell not? You don't want them coming home anymore, because then you might end up being those Parents With The Burnout Kids Who Never Leave. Make them cook their own food, pay rent, take away their closet space and start demanding phone calls if they're out past 10 p.m. Wait up for them. Pretty soon they'll have steady summer jobs and their own apartments.

And if all else fails, paint their rooms pink.

Dearest Queen of Pretty New Purses,

I recently became engaged. Complete with pretty, shiny ring. Vvvvery pretttty ring. The thing is? I think that the ring is taking over. I became suspicious of the ring when I found myself showing it to the dog over and over again, because no one else was around. But when I was in the grocery store yesterday and the checker told me how very pretty is was and reached for it, I recoiled and shrieked "My Preschioussssss".

So, my question to you is what is the statute of limitations on bragging about my ring and forcing others to go "oooh, ahhhh"? (go, "oooh, ahhh" dammit. But do. Not. Touch.) Also, how long before my hair falls out and I become completely gray and hunchbacked with the crawling on all fours and stuff. Because ew. But as long as I can wear the ring? It's okay, right? Right?

Nola Pice

I'm not sure I can properly answer this question until I've seen the ring in person. Mail it to me. Let me wear it for a few days and then I will give you the month and day that you must stop demanding the ooohing and ahhhing over it.

Or, use the following guidelines to find out When You've Become An Old Boring Engaged Person With A Ring Nobody Cares About, Not Even You:

You no longer clean the ring every day, not even a little brush with your toothbrush in the morning to polish it up.

You notice it has spun around backwards and have no idea how long it's been like that.

Someone else you know gets engaged.

Spit = clean enough.

You lose the pretty velvet box it came in and just start tossing it places when you need to take it off.

You find that there are times that you do need to take it off, and you don't care, because really.

You leave it on the kitchen counter after scrubbing pots and forget to put it back on the next day.

You get married.

Four words: Three. Stone. Anniversary. Ring.

Dear Amalah,

Before the question - here's hoping things are going better and that you are feeling well - it at least sounds like you're on the uptick - wishing the best.

Ok, several questions that I have come to trust that only you can answer being the seer of seers and the knower of all that is good and wise.  What kind of car should I buy or should I continue to turn the radio up as loud as it will go so that I can't hear that terrible noise that comes from under the hood?  Secondly, can the long distance relationship really work?  And if so, what's the etiquette for "relations" on public  ransportation?

Thank you, queen, for your royal insight.
A confused consumer.

Before the advice - thank you. Yes and no, better and then not, fucking useless non-working drugs, whine, bitch, etc.

But! That's not what Wednesdays are about! Wednesdays are about your problems! So!

You should buy a new car. And then you should tell my one friend to buy a new car. Because I keep telling him to buy a new car and he won't listen to me, which pisses me off. But you'll listen to me, right? Don't piss me off.

My friend's car is old, old, old. You have to PUSH DOWN the door locks before you get out. There is no clicker thing or even a button thing. You have to CRANK the windows down with that handle thing. There is rust. There are dents. There are awful, awful noises coming from under the hood. There is an odor. I am SCARED OF THIS CAR.

(I am also scared of my friend, or at least I will be after he sees me bashing his beloved car on the Internet.)

Anyway. Buy a new car. I recommend the Subaru WRX, because it is bitchin' fast and yet AWD and roomy with trunk space and such. It's a turbo and goes 0 to 60 in 5.2 seconds. It is also available in a very pretty blue color. Like mine! And don't you want to be just like me?

(But don't buy an SUV. Please. There is nothing on earth I despise more than big honkin' gas guzzlin' SUVs. Sorry, SUV owners, but unless you have six children, four dogs, live off a dirt road and/or have a job-related need to haul things, you have NO NEED for a car that big and inefficient and such.)

(Rant over, off soapbox, whew.)

Oh, and you had other questions. Let me scroll back up.

No. And not ever, please, ew.

 

Notified Readers drive a lowrider.

An Open Letter to the J.Crew Dressing Rooms, Also, Amy's Got A Brand New Bag

UPDATE TANTRUM THING: FUCKING NOTIFY HAS NOT NOTIFIED ANYONE. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED IN ITS OWN DAMN SWEET TIME. WAH.

First Up: The Bitchening

Dear J.Crew Dressing Rooms,

Why? WHY?

Why do you make me look so damn bad? All the time? Why do I let you do this to me? You are not worth this pain. Even though you have that one dress that I really want right now? I’m thinking of going elsewhere for my preppy-clothes needs. Somewhere that cares. Somewhere with mirrors that elongate and maybe tell you how amazing your ass looks in those jeans.

I don’t think I’m asking for too much here.

And seriously, isn’t The Gap like, totally kicking your ass right now? THE GAP? I mean, they’ve got Sarah Jessica Parker and Lenny Kravitz in their commercials. And you find yourself kind of liking them in spite of yourself. I will admit, I went out and bought a little wine-colored corduroy blazer this weekend which is quite whimsical and jaunty.

(Granted, I did not buy it at The Gap, mostly because I was in Georgetown and The Gap is like, UP HILL and I was wearing pinchie shoes.) And I am seriously contemplating the purchase of a cute little hat.

But you? J.Crew? No SJP. No Lenny. You’re still doing the whole bland-blonde-jock-boys-cavorting-on-the-beach-in-$100-pants thing in your catalogs. Yawn. And also itchy sand.

So face it. You’re boring. One can only buy so many pairs of khakis, you know?

So once you get people in the door, you need to treat them right. Stop making them wander around helplessly looking for a 16-year-old wielding a dressing-room key like it’s the pinnacle of retail power. And then, do something about the lights.

Oh my God, THE LIGHTS.

The lights in your dressing rooms make a late-night emergency room look dim and romantic. They are BRIGHT. They are BLINDING.

Do you KNOW the effect these lights have on the white skin of the average white person’s ass?

Look, I am skinny. My ass is a goddamn size four. (And I know that you sell size twos and zeros and that a size four is probably more like a size six from somewhere else where a size six is really a size eight. Still. Size four.)

But in your dressing rooms? It’s horrid. There’s mottled skin and cellulite and this weird blue tinge to my thighs. So congratulations, J.Crew Dressing Rooms, you’ve managed to create the one environment where the image of a pretty girl stripping becomes as sexual as some health class movie about the skin diseases of your average heroin user.

I hate you. You made me all sad and paranoid and I could BARELY enjoy my dinner afterwards and I ALMOST could not bring myself to order dessert.

Trauma. Honestly.

Sincerely, which is not Love,

Amalah

P.S. Those white pants I tried on were totally ugly anyway. Pfft.

Next Up: The Braggening

Speaking of shopping, which I obviously did a lot of this weekend, I got a new purse. It is the most beautiful bag in the world and is waaaay cuter than that monkey-like newborn they’ve got next door.

Jason got it for me, because he is so unbelievably amazing and understands that, for me anyway, there is nothing better than a pretty new purse that cost a lot of money to mask the fact that I never have more than $4 dollars in my wallet.

In fact, it cost so much money I am not posting any of the 43 pictures I took of it, because someone would figure out where it came from and therefore figure out how much it cost and you all would TOTALLY HATE ME and tell me sad stories of starving children and puppies and make me feel bad.

And I refuse to feel bad, because I am a terrible and materialistic bitch like that.

But oh! If you could only SEE this purse, you might understand, at least if you have the slightest bit of terrible and materialistic bitch in you as well. InStyle magazine declared it a “Must-Have Bag for Fall!” I’ve never had a Fall must-have!

Honestly, it’s amazing I’m still alive.

My darling Type A was lucky enough to be sent a link to The Purse, even though I hesitated.

To: Type A
From: Amalah

Go ahead and hate me now. I no longer need friends now that I own this bag.

To: Amalah
From: Type A

yep.  bitch.

bitch minus friend.

fortunately for you, that bag is totally worth more than my friendship.

(She is so smart. Do you guys appreciate how smart she is? I don’t think you do. Go appreciate her smartness now, please, because this entry? Has completely imploded over here.)

And Lastly: The Stupidening

Also speaking of the dinner that was very nearly ruined by the bitch dressing rooms, I was encouraged by a very lovely fortune I received in my cookie:

Good news will becoming your way it will be here any day!

It’s about damn time, I think.

 

Notified Readers Are This Season's Must-Have.