The Lazy Crazy

You knew this was coming, right? Come on now.

I got myself a little notify action goin' on:

email:

So there's like, shit happening in mah life. Drama and whatnot. So the every day posting? Of a brilliant, long, hysterical, classic (and did I mention long?) entry? Every damn day? Are you kidding me?

And since y'all yelled at me for taking a few days off around Labor Day, I'm scared to NOT post every day, lest you get all worried and call the blog authorities or something. So here. Join the little listy thing and I will email you whenever I update. PERSONALLY. Only not!

I'll still update a lot. I have much to bitch about. I also got a new purse this weekend. So I'll be writing about that. Aren't you so excited? Can you just not hide it?

I've got a NotifyList and I think I like it. Sign up, bitches.

Powered by NotifyList.com

Ouch.

(I meant to write a 9/11 entry. Maybe to tell you about how I was trapped in traffic on a bridge in D.C. when I saw the fireball at the Pentagon and felt like the world was coming to an end. Or maybe to tell you how I drove to work anyway because I didn't know what else to do, and how I watched another driver at a red light singing along to a CD, oblivious to the horror unfolding on the radio waves. Or maybe to tell you how my brother-in-law was on the subway when the planes hit, having just left the WTC a few minutes earlier and how I remember my ears ringing when I heard this news. Or maybe to simply say that I remember that morning like it was just this morning, and that I hope you do too. That's what I should have written. I wrote this instead.)

I get a lot of hits from Julie’s monster master list of infertility blogs. I'm linked under "Trying."

I guess I’m not really in that category anymore, but I haven’t asked to be taken off the list. Partly because, hell, I get a lot of traffic from it and, you know, I’m a whore like that.

But mostly because I refuse to think about it in black-and-white terms. No, we’re not actively trying to conceive. Yes, we’re using birth control. No, there’s not going to be a change in this arrangement anytime soon.

I’ve gotten used to this idea. When my psychiatrist told me that I would need to put all thoughts of pregnancy on hold for at least nine months, it hurt. Like hell. But at that time I was completely, utterly and batshittily sick and out of control. I was threatening to leave Jason and run away with someone else or maybe simply RUN AWAY, far away, where no one could find me. So the whole plan of having a baby was already starting to crumble. Just a bit.

Thank God, we're past that whole breed of Crazy, and recommitted to the idea that we WILL have a baby together and it WILL be wonderful and it WILL happen for us, as God is our witness, shaking our fists at the sky, etc.

Setbacks in finding the right combination of medications have pushed back our plans to a full year or so. I accepted this news with a shrug of the shoulders and a weary “Well, duh.”

I’m in no shape to be anyone’s mother. Even my puppy annoys the living shit out of me with the neediness and the hyper and the noise and the mess and I weep openly when I can’t get her to eat and once the cat starts in with the howling for food I start thinking that chucking them both out the window sounds like a damn fine idea.

(And oh, my God, to everyone whose fingers are already itching to fire off an indignant comment or email or threaten to call the ASPCA on me or whatever: I WOULD NEVER THROW MY ANIMALS OUT THE WINDOW. Both pets are well-fed and loved and showered with attention and toys and expensive, organic, all-natural treats because nothing on God’s green earth is too good for my precious babies. Okay? Good.)

But you get the idea. Am hanging on by a thread as it is. Baby? No fucking thank you. The idea of post-partum depression or relapsing in future years scares the shit out of me. I wonder if I'm being irresponsible even considering becoming a parent. Perhaps it is all Meant To Be This Way.

And yet.

And yet when our next-door neighbors came home from the hospital today, bearing baby girl number two, flushed with excitement and pride and the joy of being a family, the old wound was reopened.  And the longing for one of my own was rubbed raw.

Ouch. OUCH. I cried. I sat on our stupid second couch that we STILL have not gotten rid of and cried. I cried when my mom called and asked, “How’s the baby?” even though I knew she meant the puppy.

I cried when I wrote that just now.

I just feel so…DAMAGED. The infertility could be a result of the chemical problems in my brain. The infertility drugs could be responsible for my rapid decline and resistance to medications that worked for me in the past. 

So if I get better, maybe I’ll conceive more easily. But if I don’t, and I go back on Clomid or some other hormone-charged drug, maybe I’ll get sick all over again.

My head hurts just thinking about that vicious little circle.

So I try not to think about it. For now? I’m only trying to get better. I’m trying to get better, and then I will try to get pregnant.

So I’m not asking Julie to take me off the “Trying” list. Because I still am. Harder than ever.

 

I’m still going to cry about the baby next door a little more though.

The Great Amalah Caper

So I remember what I was planning to write about yesterday, instead of writing that horrific train wreck of an entry that I posted instead.

And I cannot BELIEVE I forgot about it. This is something that happened LAST Friday, and I'm horrified that I did not rush right on over to TypePad.com to spew righteous indignation all over the place. Suspicions that I am a total comment whore when it comes to sappy, lovey-type posts have been confirmed.

Y'all, someone in Pensacola, Florida used my credit card to spend $1,900 at an Office Depot last week.

Nine. Teen. Hun. Dred. Doll. Ars.

On MY credit card. MINE, ME, THE ONE THAT IS IN MY WALLET.

Did I mention that this transaction took place in Florida? Last week? When I was not in Florida, not even in the general vicinity?

Did I mention that they spent nineteen hundred motherfucking dollars?

So. What did I DO when I saw this transaction on my lovely little online statement, since I waited an entire week to throw an online tantrum about it? (And oh, Jason totally found it first, because I never check my lovely little online statement, because I? Am a CHILD.)

Well, the first thing I did was what any level-headed person would do. I sent an email to everyone in the Judith Light Brigade. An email that went something like, "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD SOME JACKASS MOTHERFUCKER STOLE MY CREDIT CARD NUMBER AND SPENT NINETEEN HUNDRED MOTHERFUCKING DOLLARS AT OFFICE DEPOT IN FLORIDA WHERE I WAS NOT AND OH MY GOD."

After that, I calmly checked my wallet to make sure that my credit card was indeed, still there. And it was. As was Jason's. (In his wallet, not mine, because that would be weird, like I give him an allowance or something, even though he makes approximately a bazillion dollars more than me.)

(A bazillion is probably an exaggeration, but like I said, I don't really know much about the whole "money" thing, except for what I keep in my piggy bank until I save up enough to buy a My Little Pony.)

Anyway. Both cards in our posession. Check. Both of us not in or near Florida. Check.

So I called Capital One, praying to the Lord in heaven that they were just as good about the fraud protection as they claim to be in their super-annoying commercials.

Phone: Ring ring.

Amy: Oh my god, please, not ringing nearly fast enough.

Phone: Welcome to Capital One, please enter your card number and don't fuck it up or else we will promptly hang up on you!

Amy: Ok, 5, 4, 9, oh wait, shit.

Phone: Invalid! Goodbye.

Amy: *censored*

Phone: Ring ring, etc.  Welcome STORCH, AMY. Please stay quiet while our friendly computer tells you your balance, your remaining credit (hint: zero!), and also your payment history back to that one time you sent your payment in seven hours late.

Amy: HAAAAAAAAATE YOOOOOOOOU.

Phone: If you would like to make a payment, press one. If you would like to send us more money just for the hell of it, press two. If you would like to report fraud, you dirty lying liar, press three.

Amy: 33333333333333333333333333333333333

Phone: Hello, this is the Department o' Fraud and Bad Things, how may I help you?

Amy: ohmygodthereisachargefromfloridafor$1900thatisnotmeandwe
aren'tinfloridandiamscaredpleaseholdme.

Phone: Oh yes, I see that. Dayum. That sucks ass. Please hold.

Amy: wah.

Phone: easy soft jazz soothing tunes of blandness

Amy: wah. WAH!

Phone: Okay, I'm back, but I'm not someone who can help you. Please hold.

Amy: O-

Phone: elevator music of easy peace love blah

Phone: Hello, Ms. Storch, if that IS your real name.

Amy: Hi, please be nice because I am freaking out muchly.

Phone: So, here's the thing: our system shows that your card was present at the time of this transaction and it wasn't online and that it was in the store. LIKE YOUR CARD WAS.

Amy: *shock*

Phone: Do you have your card?

Amy: incoherant blathering but basically, yes, we both have our cards so that is NOT possible

Phone: Perhaps Office Depot always has their credit card payments processed in Pensacola, because that is SO LIKELY.

Amy: I haven't BEEN to an Office Depot. Anywhere.

Phone: Suuuure. You didn't buy a computer or something that has totally slipped your mind until now?

Amy: NO NO NO FOR THE LOVE OF BACON

Phone: Okay FINE. I will turn this over to our Fraud Department of Invesigations and Maybe Payback and Broken Kneecaps. Cut up your card into wee pieces and I will send you a new one, eventually.

Amy: Also? The $1,900?

Phone: Poof. Gone. Don't worry about it. But um, you know, pay the rest of your bill please, because DAMN you spend a lot of fucking money at PetSmart.

Amy: *weeping* Thank you.

Phone: Thank you for using Capital One! But you suck for paying off your entire damn bill every month so we can never charge you interest! Freeloading air mileage whore! *click*

So anyway. We don't have to pay the $1,900. We got a form from them that we have to formally fill out and tell our story of confusion and wrongness. I also looked up "Office Depot, store #202" that the transaction happened at and yes, it is indeed in Pensacola, Florida. So no chance of some weirdly routed card processing. It was not us, the card was a fake or possibly an "order online, pick up at the store" transaction gone awry.

No idea who or how or why or what. But Capital One has been pretty nice about it. Except that I'm still waiting for my new card and they better fucking remember that I chose the design with the pretty hammock and beach scene and not send some other boring design, like with a globe or something.

The end! Maybe. I hope. Please be the end!

Wickedly Bad & Awful

Or, The Laziest Post Ever

So I had a topic I wanted to write about today. It was something important. I even wrote a few sentences in my head while I was brushing my teeth this morning and they were quite funny and very insightful. I was well on my way to winning a Diarist Award, I know it.

But I have absolutely no frickin' idea what it was now. Life? Death? Dog poop? Why brie cheese with fig jam on French bread is probably the best food combination this side of peanut butter and chocolate?

Nope. It's gone.

So instead? Some random crap, interspersed with selections from an IM conversation I had last night with Mir, because I've already had the conversation, which means way less work and typing now.

And If An Entry Full Of IM Nonsense Wasn't Bad Enough, Here's Some IM Nonsense That Won't Make A Lick Of Sense To Anyone Who Has Not Read The Book WICKED:

Amalah: just read your comment...I didn't give up on Wicked, I finished it
Amalah: Just thought the story kind of fell about after she went to the Vinkus

Mir: I read it years ago, so I'm fuzzy on details... but I do remember thinking it kinda dropped.

Amalah: And I sooooo could have done without the Star Warsian "The Wizard is your FAAATTHHHER!" thing. At that point? Literally chucked the book across the room.

Mir: true

Amalah: But the first half? Amazing. Loved it.

Mir: me too
Mir: I'm glad you finished it...sorry it was disappointing.

Amalah: want to rewrite the ending for him
Amalah: i was just a little letdown. like I wanted the ruby slippers to have more significance…some cool witchy magic power thing, not because the Witch’s daddy never loved her and wah wah wah

Mir: heh yeah I know what you mean
Mir: Now I kinda want to read it again, but I know it's just going to piss me off.

Amalah: hee
Amalah: I'm still interested in seeing the musical in NY though...I heard they rewrote the second half of the book to the point of being unrecognizable

Mir: Oooh, I wonder what they did.

Amalah: Plus it's got Joey McIntyre from New Kids on the Block as Fiyero! My hearthrob!

Mir: But, um, I dug "Into the Woods" so I'm guessing I would like it.
Mir: LOL

Amalah: I heard that they cut out Liir and kept Glinda in it more

Mir: I wonder if that pissed off the author.

Amalah: less time at the castle debating the nature of good and evil endlessly and such
Amalah: The author needs to shut up and praise the Unnamed God for every royalty check he gets

My next-door neighbor was induced at 7 a.m. this morning. This is her second baby. Jason and I started trying to get pregnant right around the time the first baby was born.

To say that I am jealous, bitter, resentful, unhappy, petulant, angry, bratty, selfish, hurt and sullen about this would...well, that would probably be about right.

Basically, green with envy. Like the Wicked Witch!

Mir: I need to write something people will pay for.  I could get used to royalty checks.

Amalah: Yes, or write a musical that can charge $100 a seat to see a New Kid try to sing.

Mir: That's genius.  I don't know that I can aim so high.

Amalah: You are going to be a VP though!
Amalah: Your readers BELIEVE in you!

Mir: Oh yes!  I left a very lovely, earnest, and not at all stalkerish message for my contact at Big Company today.
Mir: "Remember me?  I'm just checking in!  Hoping to hear from you soon!  I love Big Company with all my heart!"
Mir: *cue music appropriate for the selling of one's soul*

Amalah: Hmm...definitely should be a NKOTB song

Mir: Absofuckinglutely.

Amalah: Step by step, ooh baby, gonna get a job in your wor-or-ld

Mir: heeeeeeee

Amalah: (please do not judge me for still knowing New Kids lyrics)
Amalah: (I was a very lonely child)

Mir: You poor dear!

Amalah: I wrote them stern letters after they used the word "hell" in one of their songs.

Mir: Did you really???

Amalah: yes.
Amalah: in sixth grade.

Mir: Oh my.

Amalah: I felt it was too risqué.

Mir: In your middle school yearbook, do you have big bangs and look very earnest?

Amalah: YES
Amalah: nightmare

Mir: hee that's a very amusing mental image.

Amalah: I? Was Not Cool.
Amalah: I took Not Cool to new and frightening levels.

Mir: But look at you now!  So cool!

Amalah: ‘bout effing time, really.

Mir: You worked hard for it, clearly. 

Haiku Smackdown IIIVVVXXMMM: The Death of Smackdown

Yeah, so the Thursday Haiku Smackdown seems to have died. After one too many Wednesday nights of going "Oh SHIT" and throwing some pictures together, only to have participation and ku quality drop more and more each week, only to be so UNBELIEVABLY BORED OF THE ENTIRE CONCEPT, everyone here at Smackdown Grand Central all kind of stopped caring.

I'm sorry to disappoint the, oh, four of you who still care. Maybe we'll make it a monthly thing. The First Thursday of the Month Haiku Smackdown? The Second Tuesday of Months Ending in "R" Haiku Smackdown? Well. We'll see.

Wait! I know! We'll get Cousin Oliver to haiku! Maybe two 'kuers could get married! We could do a special edition from Hawaii! Or maybe a Very Special Smackdown where we all write anti-drug and alcohol 'ku.

Or we could all just move on with our lives and write sonnets, or something.

And Speaking Of Cousins:

Mir: By the way?  I am watching The Miracle Worked on ABC Family and that's enough to make anyone feel better about their sucky life.  At least I can see (sort of) and hear!

Amalah: WAAAAAA TAAAA!

Mir: It hasn't gotten to that part yet

Amalah: Is it the old one? With what's her name? Patty Duke?

Mir: Is that who it is?  I have no idea.
Mir: I think it's a slightly newer one.

Amalah: Patty Duke had that sitcom...where she played herself and her identical cousin
Amalah: i also watched a lot of Nick at Night as a teenager

Mir: Whaaaaaat?
Mir: LOL

Amalah: Identical Cooooousins
Amalah: or something
Amalah: that was the theme song

Mir: Identical. Cousins.
Mir: Brain. Hurts.

Amalah: I know you're totally singing it now

Mir: Nope, never heard of it!

Amalah: I think it was a post-Parent Trap thing

Mir: ah

Amalah: IMDB! Prove that I am not hallucinating!

Mir: Well you're a bit younger than me on account of I am old and decrepit, so maybe I missed it somehow.

Amalah: its a fairly old show...70's I think
Amalah: 1963

Mir: If you were watching Nick at Night in high school, I would've been in college and without a TV.

Amalah: Not crazy! Look! http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0056778/
Amalah: Patty and Cathy. Identical cousins. Yes.

Mir: That's just wrong on so many levels.

Amalah: ah know
Amalah: was horrible

I just realized that my best friend's wedding, the wedding that I am in, is about two weeks away. I do not have shoes. I was going to order shoes online about a month ago, but decided to check out Nordstrom Rack before I bought anything because they'd probably have something similar. I have not been to Nordstrom Rack and now I cannot remember what site had the shoes I wanted, or even what those shoes looked like.

And I also think I MAY or MAY NOT have heard Ceiba chewing on something that MAY or MAY NOT have been a beaded strap of my bridesmaid dress, which is still in a heap on my closet floor, waiting to be dry cleaned/pressed/steamed or whatever. And now I cannot bear to look at the dress in case the strap is ruined. I shall instead just ignore it and hopefully it has enough time to become sentient and repair itself like something from Star Trek.

And maybe Glinda the Good Witch shall arrive in a big pink bubble with some shoes. Yes.

Mir: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0246786/
Mir: That's the version I'm watching.

Amalah: GAH! Its that little girl from the Pepsi commercials!

Mir: "Starring Alison Elliot as Anne Sullivan! And she was never heard from again."
Mir: Yes, that's her.

Amalah: She creeps me out.
Amalah: That is one star-studded cast!

Mir: She's actually good in this.  I mean, for a little kid, she does a great job.
Mir: She got creepy later.

Amalah: Twila Provencher! Eugene Lipinski!

Mir: All my favorites!

Amalah: DAMIR ANDREI!
Amalah: Hee. I am so funny sometimes.

Dude.

Yeah, I know.

That was like, the most weak-ass entry ever.

Look, I KNOW, okay? I really had a good idea this morning and have spent all day trying to remember it, but I'm giving up. This was better than NOTHING, right?

That's...debatable. Much like the future of the Haiku Smackdown.

Oh my God.

What? What?

I totally just remembered what it was that I was going to write about.

And?

Well, for one thing, it did not involve me talking to myself in this stupid little way.

That's a start. Anything else?

Shit. I just forgot again.

Stupidest. Girl. Ever.

If I only had a brain!

Oh my God. Shut up. SHUT UP!

Self Interrogation

Hello? Amy? Are you here?

Hi! Hi! Yes! Am here!

Jesus Christ, girl. Where the hell have you been?

Um. Around? Sleeping mostly.

Sleeping around?

Haaaaaaaa. That was funny. I am funny.

Shut it. You could have posted something. You had the whole damn Internet worried.

Sure I did. I also sent the stock market plunging and got the terror alert raised too, because I'm just that important.

Whatever. You just liked leaving that last post up so you could get dozens and dozens of comments.

True. I also like vanishing and being all mysterious so people will write me nice things. And would a We Heart Amalah And Hope She's Okay blog ring be too much to ask?

Yes.

Oh. Okay, nevermind.

So seriously, where have you been? Why haven't you written anything? Why did you not at least email people to let them know that you didn't lose it and jump off a bridge or something? And most importantly, where the HELL is today's advice column?

Well, maybe I DID jump off a bridge. Maybe I'm a NEW Amalah.

What?

Maybe there have been a lot of Amalahs. Like Ann Landers. Or the drummer from Spinal Tap.

You lost me. Also, it is not funny to joke about jumping off a bridge. My brother's friend totally died that way.

He committed suicide?

No, he was just really clumsy.

THIS IS THE ENTIRE ADVICE COLUMN, RIGHT HERE, BECAUSE IT IS THE ONLY QUESTION I GOT THIS WEEK, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE MONKIES

Dear Amalah,

I have two needs.  The first one is a need to know why Jay McGraw is allowed to, well, exist.  Just because he's trying to get real with teens similar to Dr. Daddy, that doesn't give him the right to renovate people's families.  Especially when he sports an excessive amount of scruff.  Can reality tv hosts do the scruff?  It's perplexing, I know.

Second, I need to know if I am the only one who is being sucked in by the new Gap commercials featuring Sarah Jessica Parker.  For some reason, I feel it necessary to purchase a lot of brightly colored blazers and high heels, even though it's still in the 90's here in Florida.  And I don't wear high heels because they hurt my feet.

Sincerely,
Sara

1) Jay McGraw? Who in the fuck now what huh?

Okay, I Googled him. And all I can say is this: Thank you TiVo, for not recommending this show to me, because while I enjoy some good trainwreck reality TV, my TiVo knows that I am better than that show and deserve more from life, like Scrubs and more Cheers reruns.

2) Com...com..errr...shals? What? Oh yes. Just one of the many things my TiVo totally saves me from. I never watch them anymore. I did see a billboard of SJP wearing some whimsical-yet-funkified-by-twenty-percent-or-so denim capris with ribbons on them, to which I am going to say this: No. Do not. Wrong answer, please try again and this time lose the ribbons.

I have seen some cute little blazers though that I sort of want. Perhaps you could buy me one so I could get some real perspective on your dilemma and give you some real advice regarding the SJP/Gap phenomenon.

Wow. That was weak. Even for you.

Well, I'm a little rusty. And cranky and hungry. Also medicated.

Oh yes, how goes everything with the crazy-ass-mental-condition-you-once-said-you-weren't-going-to-talk-about-and-now-won't-shut-up-about?

Oh, just PEACHY. Prozac has joined the party, by the way. I'm totally kicking it old school now.

Word.

To your mutha.

JUST SOME OF THE THINGS I DID THIS WEEKEND, BECAUSE YOU CARE, DEEPLY

I got free tickets to a Redskins game on Friday night.

And I WENT. ME. With the CROWDS and the HEIGHTS and the PARKING LOTS.

The beer helped. Also hot dogs.  I think they won. Woo and whatever.

I went to Target and Petsmart and put my clothes away and called my mom and my sister and I napped and went to dinner and then panicked and hyperventilated and then got better and watched Galaxy Quest, which totally rules.

I bought a lot of books and read one that started out totally amazing and I thought it was going to be the best book I ever read but then halfway through I realized that it was not going to be that, not even close. It ended up kind of sucking which made me sad, because it was such a cool idea. Much like this post, except for the cool part.

I bought a cheap paperback version of Gone With the Wind because I haven't read it in years but while I was getting rung up I suddenly wondered if it was okay to still like Gone With the Wind because, you know, I'm white, or is it wrong to even think about it in those terms? Either way, I got myself confused and put it at the bottom of my reading pile. I really do remember thinking it was a great book. Maybe it isn't anymore.

I took a bath with rubber duckies and wind-up green frogs that both scared and fascinated my dog. Martha sent them to me because she rocks and knows that it's hard to be sad when you have a rubber duckie.

I modeled a new shirt that BMH sent me because she rocks too.

I had weird dreams about fighting evil forces underground while on the run from zombie cats and Shrek. Loretta Swit from M*A*S*H was there and so was Blue Poppy, I think. I dreamt about being back in high school and this one girl who never talked to me in real life was my best friend and we all went out partying at this Indian restaurant that also sold throw pillows and bridal accessories. And then I dreamt about smoking pot with the cast of Friends.

I went to Sephora and ate Krispy Kremes for lunch and drank margaritas for dinner and I slept a lot and panicked some more and stared at the ceiling and played with my dog and cleaned up her accidents and bought a new vacuum and chased my dog with the new vacuum and went to bed early and got up late and felt like a normal person and then didn't again and drank a lot of coffee.

What in the WORLD was all that about? Are you TRYING to scare your readers away?

No, I was going for this stream-of-consciousness thing where I could express that while things are weird right now, I'm still managing to live a normal and functional life, see?

Not really. It was mostly just boring.

Sorry. I'm not really very good at this whole writing thing sometimes.

I think it's time to shut up and post some dog pictures.

Good idea. Also, who are you and why am I talking to you?

I'm frickin' Dear Abby. Now shut up and post some damn pictures before I throw you off a bridge.

Love in a Time of Madness

My house is a mess right now. For real. I have not put clothes away for about two months. My suitcase from Miami is still sitting in the bedroom. My shoes sit in a pile that could double as a small child's fort. Today I noticed the cobwebs that coat the dining room chandelier have taken over the ceiling. The entire kitchen is sticky. I'm not even going to address the bathroom -- I'm tempted to just board it up and say "Bathroom? What bathroom? The McDonald's down the street has a nice one" when anyone asks to use it.

It's not easy living with someone like me.

I leave wet towels on the floor and forget to unplug appliances. I get too dizzy to put dishes away and I can't be trusted around sharp objects or the medicine cabinet. I can't get out of bed without actual physical pushing, pulling and/or dragging. I want to sleep all the time and feel about as sexual as a sleepy garden slug. I won't answer the phone or check my voice mail and I complain a lot.

(You might have noticed that last one.)

Jason cleans. Jason vacuums. Jason makes dinner. Jason sends flowers and buys me little gifts.  Jason checks in on me every hour or so to see if I'm okay and if I'm maybe sort of ready to start thinking about getting up and dressed because it's almost noon already. Jason rubs my head when I have a headache.

About a month ago, though it seems longer than that, I lashed out at him. I said awful things that I can never take back.  I threatened to leave. I told him I didn't love him. I hurt him because I was hurting in a way that I couldn't articulate and didn't understand. Which is no excuse. But there it is.

I hurt him. Deeply and truly. He's still licking his wounds and he has every right to be angry with me still. He should have left. He should have kicked me out. I was practically daring him to. I pushed and pushed and then freaked out when it actually came down to an ultimatum. I cried and hiccuped and begged for forgiveness. And then I did it all again a few days later.

In short, I was an absolute fucking nightmare of a human being.

Last night, he curled up on the kitchen floor with me as I gasped for breath as panic ripped through my body. He held me close and whispered, "I love you. I love you. I love you."

This morning, before the sun came up, he held me close again as I twitched and kicked and sobbed in despair. He whispered again, "I love you. I love you. You are everything to me. You always will be. I love you."

I usually can only answer back with, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Jason. Thank you for being the man you are. You are my rock, my soulmate, my everything. You always will be.

I love you. I love you. And I love you.

Placebo

Dear Amalah,

Greetings and salutations from Limbo! Having a great time, wish you were here!

Wait, now I’m having a bad time.

No, a good time!

Wait, no!

Haaaa! As you can tell, it’s a party every minute around here. That killjoy Lexapro is still hanging around and dude, I totally hate that guy. He’s such an asshole.

There’s this new guy called Wellbutrin who just showed up – hasn’t really done or said anything yet so I don’t know what to make of him. I’ll keep you posted.

Trileptal? Is such a slut. All the serotonins have had her by now. We’re all just totally ignoring her but she keeps showing up.

And holy shit, Risperdal? Hard core. Just showed up and trashed the place in 20 minutes flat. We all did shots of Jager with that guy and blacked out. Felt like SHIT the next morning though, oh my GAWD.

So be careful with that one, dude. For real.

Anyway, things should settle down in about eight to 10 days, and hopefully we’ll be seeing our old friends Full Effects in three to four weeks. In the meantime, don't count on anything you're feeling or thinking, because I am OUT TO LUNCH. Like, completely. VACATION IN LIMBO, BABY!

Well, I’m pretty tired now, so I’m going to have one last little mood swing at the hotel bar and then go to sleep right around the time you’re trying to drive home from work. This is fun!

Love,

Your Brain

P.S. The airline lost my luggage. Fuckers.

The Wednesday Advice Smackdown

OR, A BREAK IN THE DRAMA, SORT OF

Yes. I am here to give advice and to solve problems and finally tell you exactly how to get your damn life in order. Like mine! Because I am perfect and smart and totally together.

(It's a new tradition at Amalah.com: Wednesday is now Opposite Day, where everything Amy says is completely the opposite of the truth. Sort of like lying, only let's not add THAT to her already impressive resume of compulsive behavior, okay?)

Wednesday is also Busy Work Day, for I have done NOTHING for a week except file things. File file file. And stare into space and and then yank stuff out of file folders to re-file because I forgot that I already filed it. I also made neat little stacks of papers on the floor, which is my pre-filing system for stuff that still needs to be filed.  And I made pretty filing labels for file folders that I have yet to attach to any file folders.

Needless to say, there was other stuff I should have been doing this week besides filing.

So while I'm working on that, I shall spread out today's advice column in a sporadic and unfiled manner, with questions appearing at random times throughout the afternoon until I run out of questions, get bored and/or have a meltdown of some sort.

You just never know with me! Am wild and impulsive! Party! Woo! Etc.

Dear Amalah,

My computer punked out on me last week, after a short and sudden illness.  Yes, I am bitter, because I had just given her a Windows upgrade, iTunes, and the protection of SpySweeper.  Instead, she apparently had some sort of rendezvous with all those unsavory websites and cute and charming but dangerous executable files that I had always warned her about.  And who's paying the price?  Me, in the form of the new computer that I now have to buy.

But then I got to wondering.....could this have been bad karma because of all the music and video files I had on my hard drive that I got from, uh, less than 100% legal means?  OR, EVEN WORSE, has the RIAA given up on lawsuits, and is now fighting back with malicious spyware?  Or am I just paranoid?  Really, I was reformed!  I had uninstalled Kaaza and installed iTunes!  I had an iTunes account! I purchased a Moby album and that song by the Killers!  I was cleaning up my nasty file-sharing habit and heading on the straight and narrow! I was paying for music from the Internet! Where did I go wrong?

Signed,
Best Buy Better Give Me A Damn Refund For the Windows Upgrade I Bought Three Weeks Ago

Dude, give it UP. We’ve all heard about you and the porn. The whole Internet knows about you and the porn.

(Speaking of the porn, if someone could find me "San Fernando Jones and the Temple of Poon" on one of those file sharing sites? I would be so eternally grateful, because that is the Best Title Ever. Just don't send it to me. Send it to these crazy wackaloons. Thanks.)

But seriously, your old computer is gone. Say goodbye to her viral, porn-riddled ass. Embrace the joy of the new computer. Think about it. You'll have a pristine hard drive. A pure Internet cache. A pious temp folder. A prudent FreeCell record. And other P words too, which I would look up in my pampered Word thesaurus, except that I’m feeling a tad persnickety and pragmatic today.

(Poon is also a P word. Poon is an awesome P word. Especially when you say "of poon" for random things. It’s a Wednesday…of poon! I have a meeting…of poon!  I can’t wait to take a nap…of poon!)

So once you get your new computer, stay away from the porn, unless you are downloading it IRONICALLY, because it has an awesome title. Also maybe email me instructions for how to use Kazaa, because it confuses me.  I miss Napster, which was like the AOL of illegal file-sharing and did not judge me for wanting Chumbawamba's Tubthumping but gave me lots of pretty high-speed places to get it from and did not trick me into downloading the entire motion picture soundtrack of Newsies seven times by mistake.

(By the way, that whole "of poon" thing was so much funnier when Dawnie and I first started doing that over IM. Seriously. It was a laff riot.)

(Of poon!)

Dear Amalah,

So I'm sitting here at work this morning and I come across this article.  Is it not awesome that Blair Warner is quoted in this?  How does she not have her own talk show?  And what would Mrs. Garrett think of all this?

Still stuck in these damn rollerskates,
Tootie

It is a crime against humanity that Blair does not have a talk show. A crime.

And I called Mrs. Garrett to get her opinion on the whole "hot saucing" brouhaha which has exploded all over the place lately, and which we here at Amalah.com knew about WEEKS ago. MONTHS ago even. Because we are so totally hip to whatever crazy antics that Lisa Whelchel is up to these days. And also because we have readers who were given that Creative Correction book by crazy-ass relatives.

(For Amalah.com readers who have no freaking idea what we're talking about, allow us to refer you to an earlier Advice Smackdown.)

(For Amalah.com readers who would like us to stop with the creepy referring to ourselves as plural, allow us to remind you that we are batshit crazy.)

Anyway, hot saucing. Burning the shit out of your child's tongue with Tabasco to teach them not to lie or gossip or whatever. The sins of the tongue or something. Everybody's talking about it and apparently a lot of parents are doing it.

I'm not a parent, so I don't think I can address the rightness or wrongness of hot saucing.

But I do have a valid concern about this tactic. Kids who are punished with hot sauce are never going to like spicy foods and will refuse to even try them. And this means your kids are going to grow up into adults who annoy the living shit out of me. And nobody wants that. So don't do it. Order Indian or Thai food instead and have a nice family dinner and talk to your kids about how lying is wrong except on Wednesdays because then it's not really lying, it's just Opposite Day.

Oh, and Mrs. Garrett thinks hot saucing totally sounds like a sex act.

Ama-lama-lama-lah,

I know that Zoot has recently told you about her Lisa Whelchel fascination. Now I've stumbled upon a page of hers, here, at her agency: http://www.ambassadoragency.com/client_profile.cfm/cid/88, but something about it disturbs me. At the start of the 3rd paragraph it reads: "Whelchel has joined 700,000 others as home-schooling parents, and she teaches her tree children at home."

Tree children? Amy, I'm scared. Should I be scared?

Shiz

Okay, nobody said ANYTHING about hot saucing TREES. That cannot be good for them. Where the fuck is Greenpeace?

Yes, you should be scared. You should be scared of everything on that damn page. Did you know they made a Where the Red Fern Grows, Part Two? What? How? The dogs died at the end of the first one! Right? There's no Part Two! Dogs! Dead! Leave it alone!

I'm also disturbed at the number of Facts of Life reunion specials that have been made. The Facts of Life Go To Paris? The Facts of Life Down Under? They must not make anymore of these. Please write your congressman.

And everybody seems to forget that "the facts of life" are usually referring to procreation and puberty and S-E-X, so the sitcom's title is a clever play on that, but it's not clever when it "goes to Paris." That's like, the WORST euphemism for menstruation EVER.

QoE,

I was involved in a hit-and-run accident on Monday where I was the one being hit.  And, while I would really like to find this person and say mean things, someone else has come along who I may hate more (but still not as much as Jena Malone).

Because of this accident, I was sent in for x-rays to ensure that my spine wasn't fractured.  Super fun, right?  But when I was lying on the table in pain, the home-fry radiologist and all his 'Hey, Big Dawg' glory decided that drumming on said table and thereby sending a little vibration army of pain to the injured area, was #1 in his book of Good Ideas.  I hate him.

So I seek advice from you, Amalah, in trying to figure a way to exact my revenge on either one of these jackholes.  Please keep in mind that while I'm on muscle relaxants, I should not be operating any heavy machinery, nor should I be around anything hot or sharp.

Whoooo, muscle relaxants!

-b

HOT SAUCE THEM! HOT SAUCE THEM!

Whoops. Sorry about that, B. That was Mrs. Garrett. She's all drunk or hopped up on X or something and keeps taking over my column.

But I do agree with her, to a point. You need some creative revenge tactics. And since today's column has turned into "All Lisa Whelchel, All the Damn Time" (and since I'm also not creative because anti-psychotic meds have turned my brain into Synapse Soup), I think we should consider taking some advice from her book.

Like this one: If your child refuses to hold your hand while crossing the street, hold them by his or her hair. Find the hit and run guy and drag him back to the scene of the crime by his hair. Or have someone else do it so you don't hurt yourself. You can watch and take pictures. Post them on the Internet.

Or this one: If your toddler throws a tantrum, try using a spray bottle to spray water in his or her face. Go back to the hospital and spray the X-ray guy in the face. If you really want to drive the point home, try using bleach or acid instead.

OR HOT SAUCE!

(Shut UP, you old bag!)

Amalah:

Reading about scary Blair and her scary life has disrupted my entire office. People are trying hot saucing and accepting Jesus left and right (and then giggling at the thought of spending eternity with the scary lady). And then we moved on to Kirk Cameron's site, and there is more giggling and talk of eternity. Help! How do I get back on track? And, really, should the boss be sending around links to scary funny websites? And, also, how the hell did I get to be the boss?

mc

Then you probably won't appreciate me giving you this link, which someone emailed to me awhile ago, and I have been waiting for the perfect time to spring it on all of y'all, and that perfect time is NOW, and I apologize because I CANNOT REMEMBER who sent it to me because I am SENILE and GMail is not working with the search capabilities today and I am SORRY.

www.bibleman.com

Bibleman? Is Willy Aames. Tommy from Eight is Enough. Yes. He started the ministry after kicking a cocaine habit. Oh God, yes.

Dear Amalah,

My journal has the bestest readers in the whole wide world. I've been having a really (REALLY) tough time lately and finally broke down and wrote a little about It and my readers just swooped in with the love and the email and the comments and the hugs and the good squishy thoughts. They even got all outraged and riled on my behalf when other people were mean. And nobody got scared off when I was all "Hi, I've been diagnosed with recurrent non-seasonal major depression plus a panic disorder with OCD tendencies that manifest in anorexia and self-injury. How are YOU?" Instead, they just swooped in with more love.

So here's the thing: I'm kind of uppity and snarky on my site. I'm not all fuzzy and warm unless I'm posting kissy pictures of my puppy like this one. But I really want to tell my readers how much I love them and how I want to have a big old sleepover and make everyone chocolate chip cookies and paint their toenails and braid their pretty hair. Is there any way to do that without sounding like that Wil Wheaton tool? Would my readers lose respect for me if I went all squeeish on them?

Love,
Amalah

PS. You are pretty! I would like to buy you a new purse!

Shut it, Crazy Girl. Go take your meds and maybe stop talking about yourself for one freaking second. Also, your hair looks like shit in that picture.