Spazzy

A Big Author is coming to the office today, and I must pretend to be a Real Editor.  Who can like, write and shit. Also spell. And I must do all of this with a throat that is all but swollen shut for some reason.

But I'm wearing my lucky Pink shirt, complete with Jason's cufflinks, because they cost more than mine. I shall be brilliant and together and financially savvy and I won't get the S&P 500 mixed up with the Dow Jones Industrial Average. Again.

But all this professionalismissitude means that I won't be around today to write that totally brilliant and hilarious entry that I totally meant to write today. Oh man, it's such a shame. You would have loved it.

So instead, why don't y'all just check out the archives and then discuss how much better this site used to be in the old days, when I actually put effort into things instead of just sitting down at the keyboard and writing really, really long run-on sentences about my hair. Which is very FRIZZY today and not professional and I hate it. I'm getting it cut tomorrow. Perhaps I shall hack it all off.

Dun dun DUN! There's a little mystery for the weekend. Will Amy cut her hair super short? Or will she just get a trim? And what about the bangs? WHAT ABOUT THE BANGS?

(I've always wanted to do a weekend cliffhanger post. I'm not sure this is what I had in mind.)

My throat hurts. I think I might be running a wee temperature.

Big Author gets here in 45 minutes. I need to pull it the fuck together. And put my hair up in a professional matronly bun or something.

Oh! Jason sent me flowers this week? Because he likes to make the husbands of my friends look bad? And the bouquet has sunflowers and these weird little yellow chili pepper things. Which are very cool, but they look DELICIOUS, because I love chili peppers. Can I eat them? Are they poisonous? Is Jason trying to kill me with irresistable foliage of death?

I am so, so hungry. I also forget what I was talking about. I also am very nervous about Big Author all of a sudden and am too paralyzed with fear and hunger to get my damn notes together or find a pen that doesn't have teeth marks all over it to take to the Big Meeting.

I'm really not drunk. I swear. This is just Amy in High-Pressure Situations. I'm really quite a pain in the ass, especially when the nervous tics start up because I tap things and make softly annoying tapping sounds. I also have to pee a lot.

(There's a frightening and growing number of coworkers who read this site, and yet this does not stop me from sharing all this information. I am clearly deranged. Coworkers? If you see me today? Please give me a hug and tell me I look pretty and that I'm totally the best editor ever, because I'm so cool and stuff.)

(It might also be a good idea to carry a brown paper bag around today in case you stumble upon me hyperventilating in the supply closet or something.)

(Actually, instead of a hug? Just give me a good, hard slap. Thanks. Y'all are peach pies.)

Advice Smackdown, Part II

Yeah. So, sorry about the abruptly truncated Advice Smackdown yesterday.

Me, Last Tuesday: Wah! Send me questions! Now!

Y’all: Ok! Ok!
Y’all: *send dozens of excellent questions*

Me, Last Two Wednesdays: Meh! Never mind!

First, there was work. Then? There was a burned-out light bulb in my sensual office mood lighting. Then? A headache from the vile scorching ceiling lights I had to use instead.

After work? There was my rock star food critic husband who wanted to go out for dinner to a new place. Then? There was wine. And then Lost. And then baseball!

You see? There was simply NO TIME for any further advice. None!

(Official Amalah Stance on the World Series: Although we are usually a staunch Yankee household due to husband’s upbringing, I was all about the Red Sox. This caused more than a little marital strife, but as I am from Philly, home of the Curse of Billy Penn, I really, really needed to see that a city’s curse can eventually be overcome. In like, 80 years or so. Go Phillies!)

So the Smackdown will continue today. Because seriously? I’ve got nothing better to write about. Hooray for fall-back plans!

First question coming soon, right after much coffee and maybe a nap…

Dear Amalah,

Recently I have become ALLERGIC to make-up. I threw away practically all of my make-up, which was mostly cheap drugstore brands anyway, because ALL OF IT was making my eyes super-puffy and I was turning into Puffy the Puffy-Eyed Pufferball every time I put on even a teeeeeeny bit of mascara. On the verrrrry tips of my lashes. Or base. Thinnnnly spread. And my eyes would say, "I think you need to rip us out, now. Seriously." and swell to the size of Jumbo Jet Puffed Marshmallows.

So I might begin trying some other make-up brands, to see if any of THOSE turn me into Puffy the Puffy-Eyed Pufferball. Upscale, classy, Amalah-style PRETTY make-up. But I don't know where to begin. Oh Great Amalah, WHERE SHOULD I BEGIN?

Yours in Make-Up and Pretty-Thing Love,

Puffy the Puffy-Eyed Pufferball

Years of wearing theatrical pancake make-up turned my skin into a bitter and hardened old lady who don’t get irritated by nothing, because she KNOWS irritation and you young whippersnappers don’t know how good you’ve got it. I’m not allergic to anything and frankly can poke my eyeballs directly with a mascara wand with no effect. So your question is kind of out of my area of expertise, since I only care to know about things that actually apply to me. And also myself.

But I consulted with a friend who claims to have highly sensitive skin…to the point that it gets red and angry if she just WALKS BY the Maybelline display at CVS. Her advice? Almay on the drugstore end; Prescriptives on the high end.

And this is why God invented Sephora. You can go play with all the high-end make-up before you buy it, so you can go there and conduct highly unethical experiments on your own eyeballs without having to fork over money. So go, but do not go near anything that is not clearly labeled “Hypoallergenic.”

Also! Eye makeup remover. For sensitive eyes. Try Clinique. Do not argue and do not say that washing your makeup off with a general cleanser is enough. It is not.

Also also! Buy some nice brushes. Don’t use those crappy little spongy brushes that come with eyeshadow. Don’t use your fingers. Wash your brushes every day with warm soapy water.

Also also also! Replace mascara every six months or less.

(Good God, when did I become the Makeup Nazi? You know there was a time when I owned exactly one Maybelline pressed power compact and a Revlon lipstick in a color entirely too dark for me? And now I’m suddenly the Voice of Makeup Reason and Extravagance? The hell?)

Dear Amalah,

I have no knitting or hat making abilities whatsoever, sorry.  Instead I'm sending you a picture of me in a silly, silly hat.  Of course when I forced my husband to take my picture in the Coach store, I was sure I'd think of some utterly clever way to work it into a smackdown question, but no.  It turns out I'm not the least bit clever.

So here.  If this doesn't convince you NOT to drop another hundred clams at Coach, I don't know what will.

Your loyal fan,

Amanda

PS - Any advice on how to get my evil hair to stop doing that evil thing it does in the photo would be loverly.

OK, let me state for the record that I never once considered getting that hat. Not. Once. I tried it on at the store and Jason and I both cracked up, because that is a pimp hat. I don't care that it says Coach on the inside and is trimmed in the finest vachetta leather: that's a Snoop Dogg Pimp Hands Hat.

I do own two Coach hats, however, and I'm not apologizing. They are fucking adorable. I bought one on eBay and the other was a birthday present from my friends. And I repeat: are fucking adorable and I look super cute in them and they are not pimp hats.

Also, what evil thing is your hair doing? I see hair being...well, hair. Curly hair too, which I do not have, at least not since my dear friend Humidity went away.

If I had your hair? I would use Cat Walk's Curls Rock Curls Booster on it, then emulsify some Bed Head After Party into my hands and give my hair a few good scrunches.  Then I'd spray it with Bed Head Head Rush Spray Shine. Then I would put on my cute non-pimp Coach hat and post more adorable pictures of myself on the Internet.

Dear Amy,

To paraphrase the inestimable Sars, I super extra hate this goddamn job. For the record, I got my bachelor's degree in English, with a minor in Women's Studies. I know. So practical, and it really comes in handy at my nonprofit grunt job. Here's the real problem: lately my boss has been on my ass about taking sick time, even though a)it's not excessive, b)I always try to make up the time, c)I've got plenty of sick time still coming to me, d)I'm legitimately sick, and e)I usually drag myself in even when I'm feeling like hell. Oh, and I am an awesome worker, which my boss freely admits. There's not a chronic medical problem serious enough for me to talk to HR, as was my boss's suggestion, but at the same time I do occasionally need to take time off.

These are my options as I see them: I could get myself fired (which seems to be looming on the horizon anyway) and collect unemployment while I'm in grad school. I could suck it up and try to keep this job by, you know, never getting sick ever ever again. Or I could look for another job, one that is actually more in line with my dream profession, which is journalism. So, any suggestions, O Queen of Everything? Also, any advice on how to land another job without losing this one in the meantime? (Also also, sorry for the crazy length; feel free to abridge the hell out of this.)

--Fraulein N

Step 1) Get flu.

Step 2) Drag sad sick ass in anyway.

Step 3) Lick everything in boss' office.

Step 4) Repeat as needed with with cold sores, stomach ailments and intestinal parasites.

While your boss is sick? Interview your sweet little ass off. Don't go on unemployment, because it sucks. You have to go to the UNEMPLOYMENT OFFICE and wait in line with UNEMPLOYED PEOPLE who are sometimes unemployed because they are DIRTY and CRAZY and OTHERWISE UNBALANCED.  And then you fill in sad little forms and give them to someone who totally thinks you're lying about being unemployed just because, and then after you go through all of this they give you a tiny little check that comes out to be about a nickel for every dollar you made before.  Before taxes, which they STILL MAKE YOU PAY, YOU, THE UNEMPLOYED.

Oh! And then you have to tell them about any interviews you go on so they can call the people post-interview to find out if they think they will offer a job to you, the unemployed slob who is totally mooching off the government and getting like, $200! A month! Get a fucking job you hippie!

And then? If you get offered a job? You like, HAVE to take it, because unemployed slobs are not allowed to be picky. So you end up taking a shitty job where your boss makes you pick up her dry cleaning or find out what happened to that one restaurant she ate at that one time that isn't there anymore but could you find out WHY it closed and could you do it now?

Yeah. This happened to...um. My friend. Yeah. She said it really sucked ass and you should find a job that will offer tuition reimbursement for grad school, because that infomercial dude is on CRACK when he says the government wants to give you money to go to school.  The government would like to give you anxiety attacks and maybe an ulcer, but it really REALLY doesn't want to give you any money.

Dearest of the Dear, Her Royal Highness and Prettiness, Not To Mention Wittiness Who Owns The Cutest Of The Doggiest:

Please help.  I will be applying for several jobs in the coming days and while my cover letter and resume are stellar...STELLAR, I tell you, I do lousy, lousy, lousy in the interviews.  Because you are the Queen of Everything, that means you are the Queen of Interviews.  Here is my problem:  I get nervous.  I get nervous and start sweating and sitting on my hands in an attempt to prevent them from flailing about uncontrollably.  I apparently believe that the correct answers are posted somewhere on the ceiling of the interviewer's office and, sometimes?  I'm not really good at using flowery language.  As an example, had I ever been a janitor in my lifetime, I would never have thought to say, "Custodial Engineer", I would have just said "janitor".  So, when they ask me those questions where they want the truth but everyone really knows that they don't really want the truth, they want to see how well you can b.s. your way through the answer, I either blurt out the truth or I say, "Weeellllll..........." which is followed by a long, what I hope appears to be a thought provoking pause so that they think I'm highly wise and am flipping through my Thesaurus in my brain but of which has yet to successfully fool anyone.

In other words, how DO I answer, "Why do you want to work here?" without bluntly telling them, "Because I need a job."

Thank you your fantastically, fabulously, stunningly beautiful gracious and kind Queen of Everything.

Signed
~Someone Who Never Says, "Expanding My Horizons" In My Objective On My Resume

(Again, somehow I went from someone who Was Complete Unemployed Basketcase and Could Not Get a Job Anywhere That Didn't Totally Suck to the girl who Knows All About Jobs and Interviews. How did that happen?)

(Oh, wait. The unemployed basketcase wasn't me. That was...my friend. Yes.)

You know what? You need to CHILL OUT. Nobody wants to interview anyone who's all, "I'm a self-starter! I'm proactively synergistic! I quantify concrete deliverables!" Hate people like that.

I actually prefer people who aren't polished interviewees. I hate the interviews where the candidate is practically screaming  "I TOOK A COURSE ON HOW TO INTERVIEW! PLEASE NOTE MY FIRM HANDSHAKE AND ENDLESS SUPPLY OF CANNED ANSWERS! MY BIGGEST FLAW IS THAT I WORK TOO HARD!"

All that says to me is that you've been on too many damn interviews and should probably have a job already. Stop "looking for the right fit of opportunities to develop your existing skill set that will utilize your experiences and challenge your professional growth." Pick a job and shut up. They're pretty much all the same.

So stop thinking of yourself as a lousy interviewee. Instead? You are the no-nonsense candidate who will cut through the bullshit and actually speak plain English. Your resume speaks for itself. You only showed up for a free bottle of water and to see if this job is even close to worthy of you and your kickass cover letter. Oh, and to check out the office restrooms. Make sure they provide seat covers. Trust me on that one.

Real & Actual Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Oh my god. The Wednesday Advice Smackdown is actually happenings on a Wednesday, and in true Smackdown format. Is miracle.

You may remember the drill (but I don't blame you if you don't, since I have been a huge ass slacker about this for weeks). Questions will get posted throughout the day, all day, as I have slack-off time from work, which really means whenever I decide to cut-and-paste a question from the document that I wrote last night, from home, on my own free time, because I am a good worker who does not slack.

In other news, I had a therapy appointment this morning so I am feeling very balanced and healthy and qualified to boss you around. No progress is being made on the compulsive, relentless lying, however.

I have tons of questions for today, but I might like yours better. Or I might answer it next week and go for the world record of Keeping Up With My Own Damn Regular Features. So send them to advice@amalah.com, suckah.

Amy-

So, I am making plans to go home for Christmas on leave, but I realize that means I will have to deal with my semi-psychotic family.  Usually I manage by drinking in excess, but I was wondering if you had any other little tricks to keep myself sane.

-Stu

Heh.

Let me give you a little glance into Christmas with the Corbetts (which, in movie form, would probably be slated for a Halloween release instead of December).

My parents used to not drink. And by “not drink,” I mean “nobody drinks in our house, you bunch of degenerates, so pass the damn sparkling cider.” Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Easter. Booze-free.

So every year, seven grown children with families and serious chemical dependency problems would descend on my parent’s house for the holidays with more smuggled booty stashed in their luggage than on a flight from Columbia. Mini liquor bottles, cigarettes, flasks, travel cups, rolling papers and bottle openers.

Every Christmas eve, my sister and I would claim that we had a lot of presents left to wrap. Which we did. On purpose. We’d wrap gifts and chug wine using my niece’s little cartoon Dixie cups that would disintegrate if you left the alcohol sitting in them too long. My niece called these little cups her “Rinse & Spit Cups,” which was adorable, and even more adorable when her alcoholic mother and aunt used them for cheap wine and/or Tequila shots.

(I later bought my sister a lovely silver hip flask and had it engraved “R & S.”)

My other sister and I would make a big show of having some “sister time,” since you know, we missed each other SO DAMN MUCH, and would insist on getting out of the house together for a couple hours to “talk.” And of course, that was adorable too, since we would talk at the bar while we slammed as many beers as possible...usually about how much the holidays sucked ass. It was a great bonding experience.

(Once? Around Thanksgiving? We weren’t able to swing the sister time since my parents wanted to order a pizza and watch movies with us, which was fine, since we just offered to pick up the pizza from the place that was right next to a bar. We did shots and came home with a complicated story about how we had to wait because they’d put anchovies on our pizza.)

Anyway, my parents drink now. A vacation in Europe reawakened their love of getting hammered and now we all argue over whose turn it is to bring the alcohol to dinner.

But you know? It doesn’t make as much of a difference like we always thought it would. My family is still my family, drunk or sober or high or otherwise medicated. And my family is absolutely batshitfucking crazy. Jason and I are planning to take a vacation this Christmas. To anywhere that my family is not going to be. I advise you to do the same.

(HI MOM I MADE ALL OF THAT UP FOR ARTISTIC PURPOSES FOR REAL.)

Dearest Queen of Everything,

My husband gave me a gift certificate to a fancy shmancy day spa for my birthday a few weeks ago. He told me to go and pamper myself, but I am unsure exactly of how to go about this.  Sad but true, I have never been to a day spa.  One time I got a massage, but it sucked.  I've had a few manicures, but never a pedicure.  I've never had a facial nor have I had any sort of mud wrap.  I get my eye brows waxed regularly if that counts for anything.

I was hoping that you could give me some pointers as to how I can pretend that I have some class and money when I finally end up going to the spa.  (Since you are the Queen of Everything, I assume that you get these sort of things done to you as regular up keep and that they would be a common occurance for you.)  You have impecable taste when it comes to handbags, makeup, hair products and puppies, so I figured that you would know how to best use my gift certificate.

Thanks,
Myllissa

You send gift certificate to me. I will try all services at the spa and then tell you which ones are the best. Then you get those. Problem solved.

Y’all, I would KILL for a decent massage right now. Especially one from a strapping young masseuse named Todd, to whom I have pledged my eternal love. (Mir: "Honey, Todd is a masseur.") He rubs my temples with oil and gives the world’s best scalp massage and when he has me flip over onto my stomach he puts hot towels all across my back which is like, GAH. The best thing ever. My fingers are getting all squooshy just thinking about it. Plus he is hot and has very, very strong hands and he is very, very concerned about my stress level and recommends I take more vacations. And once I get dressed and leave he’s always waiting outside the door with a glass of water and another gentle reminder to take more vacations.

Sigh. Get a massage and request a male masseuse. (Mir: "Masseur!") You will feel pampered and beautiful and twee and petite. Don’t forget to shave your legs and tip 20%.

If a person leaves her bed at 6:45am and heads into a 20 hour day very day for 11 weeks, at which point she will have 3 weeks of 17 hour days (plus Christmas!  the parties!  the shopping!  the family figh...get togethers!) before she repeats the cycle 4 more times, how long will it be before said person self-explodes?  Because, uh... a friend of mine was wondering...

You're a peach.

-b.

B, are you supporting a cocaine habit? Are you a hooker? Have you been sold into white slavery? Do you not feel “safe” at home?

Because seriously, what the blooming fuck?

You quit that job. You come work for me as my assistant. I may throw the occasional pen at your head but I will not make you work 20 hour days. At first.

Because I might be working 20 hour days soon if I don’t hire someone pronto, as I just got out of a meeting where I proposed not one, not two, not three, but FOUR gimungous projects for myself that are all smashingly good ideas, but will involve so much extra work my head is spinning. I am obviously not well. Please go get me a skim pumpkin spice latte and a cookie while I curse my stupid industrious self.

(Holy merciful crap, people! Work! Everywhere with the work! Why do I try to sound smart in front of important people? Why do I open my mouth and talk about fabulous ideas instead of staying quiet and status quo? WHY?)

Amy,

I feel bad you lost all your advice emails so here's an easy question that is STILL super important and will probably help tons of people who live/visit DC and read your site.  Anyhoo, I have to go to DC all the time for training and I'm starting to get tired of ALWAYS eating at Maggianos and then going to ... don't laugh this wasn't my idea... Coyote Ugly.  I was able to get our group out to Adams Morgan last time and we hit some of those bars, but I want to know what fun places locals go to eat and drink!   I mean, I can go to the damned Cheesecake Factory in a dozen different cities!  (Not that I am disrespecting the cheesecake, by any means).  So where do you recommend a group of mid-20-somethings go to eat, drink and be merry?

Suzie

P.S.  That totally wasn't me dancing on the bar last August, I SWEAR.

MAGGIANO’S?

CHEESECAKE FACTORY??

COYOTE UGLY???

*smack smack smack smack smack*

This is really a question for my husband, the rock star food critic, who has not only been interviewed as a “best D.C. blog” for a prominent D.C. magazine, but was actually RECOGNIZED at a RESTAURANT this weekend and given FREE WINE because of it. THAT is a reason to blog, people. Free wine. Press. Prestige. Etc. I mean, I won’t bash the occasional wish list purchase and whatever, but wah. My traffic runs circles around him and yet HE’S the fucking celebrity.

(Oh, while I was typing that? The receptionist just called to tell me some flowers had just arrived for me. Am SUCH. A. BITCH.)

Anyway. Yeah. You’re going to some craptastic places there. Seriously, you might as well just wear matching red t-shirts that say, “Mrs. Mark’s Third Grade Class Goes To D.C. ’04.”

Instead, try one of the following Patented Amalah & Friends D.C. Nites Experiences:

METRO, RED LINE, CLEVELAND PARK:

Dinner: Spices for sushi & Japanese food
Dessert: Bardeo for wine and cheese
Drinkables: Aroma, in the back on the funky couches

METRO, RED LINE, ADAMS MORGAN/WOODLEY PARK

Dinner: Afghan Grill
After-Dinner-Dinner: Meskerem
After-Dinner-Dinner-Tapas-Drinkables-Crossover: LeftBank (Be sure to try the tea-infused martinis for eleventy hundred dollars. Are worth it.
Drinkables: Felix
Post-Drinkables: Reef
Post-Drinkables-Place-To-Sleep-It-Off: Tryst
Morning-After Breakfast: The Diner

METRO, RED LINE, DUPONT CIRCLE

Dinner: Heritage India
Dessert: Homemade donuts & Mexican chocolate at Komi
Drinkables: Wine bar at Sette Osteria
Dancing/Post-Drinkables: Red

METRO, RED LINE, CHINATOWN

Dinner: Capital Q
Drinkables: Jaleo for sangria
Dancing/Drinkables: Home

METRO, GREEN LINE, U St./CARDOZA

Dinner: Kuna
Post-Dinner-Dinner: Dukem
Drinkables: Chi Cha Lounge
Post-Drinkables: Local 16
Nightclub/Concert/Drinkables: 9:30 Club
3 a.m. Post-Drinkables: Ben’s Chili Bowl

(For anyone who is buying the booze I would be happy to give a guided tour of any of the above Amalah Experiences.)

This Is Not An Entry About Ashlee Simpson

Bah. I tried to write an entry yesterday. I really, really did. I wrote a lot of sentences but they were stupid. And they were all about Ashlee Simpson.

ASHLEE SIMPSON Y'ALL.

I am obsessed with her. The lip-synching! The hoe-down! The scandal! The acid reflux! It's the best story ever, because I have nothing better to do than to take sick pleasure in watching a 20-year-old pop product implode. Schadenfreude, table for one. (I totally just looked that up in the dictionary. Again, I really need a better hobby.)

So I didn't post anything yesterday, because I didn't want an entry about Ashlee Simpson. Entries about Ashlee Simpson do not win you Diarist Awards. Entries about Ashlee Simpson do not convince your father that blogging is a viable path to a professional writing career. Entries about Ashlee Simpson are dated and passe three minutes after you hit "Publish."

So this is not an entry about Ashlee Simpson. Instead? Pictures! With funny captions! Which is only slightly less lazy!

Hi, I'm Ceiba. Saaaay-bah. I enjoy eating cat poop and used tissues. I do not enjoy wearing this stupid hoodie. It is a tad gangsta for my taste. I have recently learned that the outside is a big, big toilet. I also know how to sit and lie down, but only if I can tell that you are holding a treat for me. Am smart. Cat poop is yummy.

I also fart and then look at Mom like, "What did you DO?" See? Smart.

Hi, I'm Max. I am heart-breakingly gorgeous. Am I not gorgeous? And adorably cross-eyed? I enjoy sleeping, shedding and InStyle Magazine. I would also like you to serve me that dog on toast with maybe some mayonnaise. I love mayonnaise.

Hi, I'm Amy's hair. I don't know why she put me in a French braid. French braids are stupid and I haven't been in a French braid since Amy was in middle school and went through that unfortunate wearing-a-French-braid-every-damn-day phase. I would also appreciate it if Amy would stop letting that damn dog chew on me. I also love mayonnaise.

Hi, I'm Amy's purse. I am beautiful. I am cranberry, pink and grey. I would like a matching scarf and maybe a jaunty hat. Amy will buy yarn or perhaps wish list items for anyone who will make me one. Because I own that bitch.

Hi, I'm Amy's flower pin. I am whimsical.

Complaints & Advice & Such

I'm still alive. I'm sure you're all relieved.

Seriously, I will be the first to admit that I am the BIGGEST baby about being sick. I'm a nightmare. I expect the entire world to stop spinning until I feel better. And the entire world needs to bring me tea and sympathy and soup. So when I'm feeling shitty and I have to go to work? Holy hell, that's just tragic.

And yes, I know October is not flu season. Shut it. I know the damn flu when I get it. I don't need no stinking CALENDAR dictating my diagnosis, thank you very much. There's actually been a strain of stomach flu wreaking havoc in the DC area for a few weeks now and I seem to have picked up some sort of bizarre hybrid strain of it.

I never, ever get flu shots either, because I never, ever get the flu. Except when I get flu shots. Huh. The last flu shot I got was in college and good lord, it very nearly killed me. And I thought I was being all grown-up and responsible by getting the shot without anyone telling me to and I called my mom to proudly report on how well I could take care of myself. And she was all, "NO! YOU DON'T GET THE FLU SHOT! YOU ARE ALLERGIC YOU BIG DUMMY. WHY DO YOU THINK I HAVE NEVER TAKEN YOU FOR A FLU SHOT EVER? WHAT KIND OF MOTHER DO YOU THINK I AM?"

Oh!

See, I am allergic to antibiotics. All. Antibiotics. Penicillins, erythromycins, tetracyclines, sulfas, you name it. Swell up like beach ball. Hives. Fever. Drama. And duh, people with allergies like mine are not supposed to get flu shots or certain other vaccinations. (Like the chicken pox vaccine, which I learned the hard way TWO WEEKS BEFORE MY OWN WEDDING. Bah! Whole other story there.)

(I'm very much about the sentence fragments and angry capital letters today. Not sure what that's about.)

Anyway. That was the end of flu shots for me as I was plowed over with the flu for a month. La la la.

But! Am better today. Still have a wicked hacking cough and a headache and my back is hurty and sore. Food is not my friend, unless it is chicken soup food. But I do feel better.

In fact, I feel better enough to write a Special Bonus Friday Edition of the Wednesday Advice Smackdown. Since y'all were so good about sending the resident idiot all new questions after she deleted all the old ones, I will answer a few today. The rest? On Wednesday, just as God intended.

Dear Amalah, Queen of Everything,

I need your help.  I've recently discovered knitting. Yes, knitting. The "hello, I'm someone's grandma..here's an ugly sweater and some mittens you will never wear" knitting.  Except I'm not anybody's grandma, and I haven't made a sweater or any mittens yet.  I've made hats. And scarves. And a purse.  But I live in Texas, so the only thing that might get any actual use would be the purse. I'm addicted. I can't stop. I knit when I walk, when I wait for the bus, when I'm on the bus. I knit during dinner and tv-watching. I knit in bed.  I've considered taking it with me to the bathroom, but have actually put my foot down there, and set it down. At work? I sneak away from the counter where I work to secretly knit a few stitches here and there. It's a disease. And it's spreading.. to all of my friends.

And yarn? Don't even get me started on all of the yarn I've bought and am currently drooling over buying.

How can I curb this addiction and become a normal human being again??

Signed,
My name is Manda, and I'm a knitting addict.

Dude, seriously, what is with all the knitting? Everybody knits now. There are knitting blogs. Knitting blogs! What's next, um…shit. Was trying to think of some funny thing like "paint-drying blogs" only not so bloody obvious. Cannot. Moving on.

I do not knit. I do not do anything crafty like that. I don’t remember the last thing that I made with my own two hands that did not involve ice cubes.

Many of my friends knit. And yet I have not received any scarves or sweaters or anything. I'm a little ticked about this, because DC gets very cold and windy and I could catch a cold if I don't have a scarf. Or the flu! Again!

What an inconsiderate bunch of bastards I have for friends. For real.

Anyway. I have no advice on how to deal with a knitting addiction. Perhaps try replacing it with a more conventional addiction? Alcohol? Cocaine?

Or maybe you could knit me a damn scarf. Make it stripy and trendy and match my purse.

Question for the Empress of advice....

What should I be for Halloween? I mean here's the thing..I wear glasses. Without  them I have all the ocular power of that skater girl in "Ice Castles". So anything I throw on has to include the specs in the mix.

Any suggestions?

Pratt

(Ice Castles? What?)

(Also, why have I not been invited to any Halloween parties? What the hell is wrong with my friends? Is it because I don’t knit?)

Anyway, a few costume suggestions that could involve prescription eyewear:

1)  Harry Potter (get someone to make you a scarf)
2)  Warren Buffett
3)  Pirate Ghost
4)  Tina Fey
5)  Naughty Librarian
6)  Naughty Warren Buffett
7)  Milhouse
8)  That one guy in that show who wears glasses
9)  Dilbert
10)  St. Hubbins, the patron saint of quality footwear

Ok, so I love you and all and am all about helping a sister out in her time of need when she needs people to give fake advice to. Also you make me laugh until I start choking because I have the Vulcan Death Flu and when you are laughing you can't sneeze and all the snot runs down the back of your throat and so, the choking. And if it weren't for you I would never have known about hot saucing and the brilliance that is Lisa Welchel and my life would be sadly incomplete. Anyway, here is my question, oh brilliant Amy:

Having recently gotten off the zany fun that is the infertility roller coaster, Mr. Ex and I decided we should try to, um, renew the part of marital relations where it is actually fun and, you know, not scheduled and mechanical and about the temperatures and the charting and the shots in the butt and whacking off in the doctor's office (that's him, not me). I seem to remember at one time that we actually enjoyed this activity, but it's kind of a blur. Any suggestions for, er, getting the Hot back after a couple of years of "What, you're ovulating AGAIN?" would be greatly appreciated. 

Also this is not technically advice but WHAT is WITH the women on The Apprentice this year? How is Carolyn restraining herself from punching them all in the face? Because that is what I would do. Except for Lil Stacy who I would just step on.

Love,
Jen(noS)Ex

HAAAAAAAAAA! NO MORE LIL WEE STACY! FIREDFIREDFIRED. I could not be happier about last night's episode. Unless someone personally brought me Wee Stacy and let me smack her precious snooty little face.

(At this point Jason will be IMing me to remind me that Stacy is a "person" with "feelings" and I shouldn't be so "mean" and "violent" all the time. Whatever.)

Anyway. Sex after infertility. Christ. The hell if I know. I certainly wouldn't recommend going on a cocktail of numbing antidepressants, that's for sure. I shall spare you the details, but wah. Wah wah wah.

I'd recommend taking a vacation though. Get a cheap flight and spend all your money on an upgraded room and room service. Get champagne delivered with your breakfast each morning.

If you can't afford to actually fly anywhere, just take a couple days off and stay in your own city. Again with the nice room and the room service and champagne and a big tub or shower. Lounge around and anytime one of you says, "I'm getting bored, why don't we actually *do* something?"

Well then, you do each other. "Fuck," as the common people say.

Good luck, and please don't tell me if you decide to reincorporate the shots in the butt for fun. Because ew.

 

Catch the Fever

killllllllllllllllmeeeeeenooooooowwww.

So yesterday I got this email from my mom:

After a few great weeks, we are back to the rollercoaster health again.  Dad is having a biopsy on 11/10. (Five days before his 75th!!!!! B/day).   Dr. Miller, bless him, found a growth on the inside of Dad's lower lip.  He is starting on a diabetes med.  This is all pretty upsetting but we will get through it as we have with everything else.  So for right now he has a catscan coming up of the aortic artery (checkup). Thyroid ultrasound in Nov. We need a secretary to keep track of appts. Just thought I would pass on the news.  Love, Mom

Diabetes med? Biopsy? What?

And then I promptly threw up into my office trash can. I took this as a sign that I really should maybe go home, as it was not shaping up to be a good day.

So now we can add diabetes to the list of assorted cancers and heart problems and blocked arteries and suspicious nodules and all the other shit my dad has had to put up with. And another mystery tumor! Yay.

Am so pissed at the universe on his behalf right now. I don't think I'm going to accept its calls anymore.

And! Then! To make yesterday just entirely peachy, I woke up with what I thought was a nasty-ass hangover. Which didn't make sense, as I really didn't drink that much the night before (unlike Andie, my dear drinking companion, who I fear may never recover and just might mean it this time when she swears to never drink again). But you know, am old and wussy now with the bedtimes and such.

But nooooo. Is flu. Am achy. Coughy. Just enough of a fever to have the whole Jesus-I'm-cold-no-shit-I'm-burning-up routine. Living on saltines. Feel like I benchpressed 300 pounds and then ran a marathon last night instead of sleeping. Head may explode.

So I'm at home, right? Right?

HA. You silly people. You amuse me so.

No, I'm at work, because I am one bad ass motherfucker. I also have an issue coming in today, a non-get-out-able conference call and a bazillion assorted busy work things to do. AND I HAVE NO ASSISTANT TO DO SHIT FOR ME SO I MUST DO ALL THE SHIT.

Wah. Weep. Etc.

So here I am, ranting into a feverish void and screaming at everyone who approaches my office door to stay the fuck away from me. Unclean! Unclean!

(Jason's sick too, so I am getting the worst service. He made me come DOWNSTAIRS last night to eat my chicken soup, and he refused to make me a cup of tea while we were watching Lost, EVEN THOUGH I waited until the commercials to ask.  Is useless. Is also the one who got sick first so I blame him entirely, Mr. Germy Man.)

Now you must excuse me, for I must go nod politely during a conference call about complicated financial things and try not to vomit, because it is being transcribed.

MR. AUTHOR: So that's where I see the market going in the next six months. Clearly there are a lot of opportunities in certain...

MS. STORCH: *RETCHES*

EVERYBODY: *SOUNDS OF DISGUST*

MR. AUTHOR: I'd like to request a new editor please.

Advice Smackdown Smacked Down

Hi. My dad has diabetes and I have the flu. Wah.

Any advice? Bueller?

 

 

Thanks for all the advice questions. I'll get to them, promise.

I Hate Tuesdays

Um. So I kind of lost all the emails I had in my Wednesday Advice Smackdown queue. How? I do not know. But the folder is empty. (So I guess I didn’t “kind of” lose anything. I just flat-out lost them.)

Somehow I have managed to completely screw up Gmail, the most user-friendly and idiot-proof email interface out there, and delete and entire label’s worth of emails. And then I went a step further and deleted them forever. Gmail users will understand how difficult this is, and have now lost all respect for my technical skills, and will probably send me t-shirts that say “LOSER” on them and point and mock and etc.

Anyway. There it is. All advice questions have been lost. Pfft. So if y’all wouldn’t mind maybe resending them? Or just sending some new ones? Would be very grateful and will make a point to be extra funny tomorrow and not just phone it in. I know! It’s an once-in-a-lifetime offer. So pleeeeeeeease send me some questions. To advice@amalah.com. Or amy@amalah.com. Or bitchbitchbitch@amalah.com. Or amalah@gmail.com. They all go to the same damn place, because once? I was smart and not stupid and knew how to operate the Interweb on my personal computing unit box.

And then I solemnly swear not to touch anything ever again or try to get fancy with the labels and the sub-folders.

I would also like to put out a plea for everybody everywhere to not order the Skillet Sensations at Applebee’s, simply because I cannot stand the commercials for them. The jingle is stuck in my head and is. Driving. Me. Mad. It’s the worst jingle since the one for Chili’s Baby Back Ribs, which I hold wholly responsible for both mad cow disease and the assassination of JFK.

Actually? No one should eat at Applebee’s ever, because this chain also brought us that jingle for riblets, sung to the tune of “Rawhide,” which OH MY GOD I AM NOW SINGING. HELP.

Gah! Change the subject! Quick!

Okay, so I’m interviewing someone today to be my editorial assistant. Because as I’ve mentioned a million times before, I am extremely important. And have I mentioned that I’m getting a window office? I have? Well, I probably haven’t mentioned it in a few days so window. Office. Suckahs.

I feel weird interviewing people. Especially the guy last week, who was so much smarter than me it was not even funny. According to his resume, he started pursuing his master’s the year I graduated from high school. Yeeah. Mm-kay. Go get me some coffee, bitch.

So does anyone in the DC area want to be an editorial assistant? You will benefit from my months of experience and I can teach how to write real good and also proofread which is a really important skill to posses. You can also staple things for me and let me throw pens at your head when I am cranky.

Like today!

riblets riblets riblets applebee’s has riblets all that you can eat now ribleeeeeeeeeeeeets

The Unbearable Lameness

So have you ever been at a stop sign, stopped behind a line of cars all waiting to make a right turn onto a busy street? And you don’t really pay attention to the cars in front of you? But you just keep staring to the left to watch for spaces to turn? And you see a space and just kind of assume the car in front of you took it, because it was a HUGE FUCKING SPACE?

And then have you ever inched up a bit to see to the left a little better, only to rear-end the car that did not take the huge gaping space, but is still at the stop sign?

Yeah, me neither.

I also lie a lot.

*weep*

Now of course, one really can’t do much damage while rolling forward at three miles per hour, but one can make a sickening THUMP sound, panic, start reversing until the frantic car behind you is all HONK STOP I’M HERE TOO BITCH HONK. 

Her car was fine, so was mine. I may have added a wee nick in her bumper, but she had a city bumper already so there was no way to tell. (A city bumper. You know, if you have to parallel park all the time so your bumper looks like you shave it with a dull Gillette every morning.)

No exchanging of info was necessary, I apologized profusely and she looked at me and shrugged and was all, “Yeah, so? Bitch.”

A lovely way to start the morning.

But how was my weekend? Was it any better? Well, if we’re simply going for whether or not I did anything as boneheadedly stupid as vehicular homicide at a stop sign, then yes. It was better.

We had dinner with some friends, saw Team America: World Police (verdict: while not as mind-blowingly hilarious as the South Park movie, puppet sex and puppet vomiting are way funnier than they have any right to be), and bought Ceiba some winter clothes.

Yes, that is correct. I bought my dog some clothes. I ask you, is there anything in the world that screams “HELLO MY WOMB IS COLD AND BARREN” louder than this?

I didn’t think so.

That’s Ceiba modeling her pretty new quilted winter coat with a fleece lining. I also got her a red thermal hoodie sweatshirt. (It has a HOOD. For a DOG.) And I also very possibly bought her a red cape fleece thing with a fluffy collar because another couple was trying it on their dog at the store and it looked so damn cute.

I am so lame. Lame!

I also took some naked dog pictures. Please don’t report me to the authorities.

 

I Should Be Fired For This Post

Bah! Gah! Wah! And also Rah! Or something.

Sorry for the silence, peeps. Was at the Big Kids' Table yesterday doing Big Kid stuff like business planning for 2005 and brainstorming and syngergizing proactive opportunities with unilateral deliverables. It was very long. Lunch was a highlight, except for when I caved to peer pressure and ordered the "seasonal fruit and berries" for dessert instead of the cheesecake that I really wanted. Because I am 17 years old, apparently, and want to be the daintiest little eater at the Twelve Oaks barbeque ever so I can catch a beau.

Bah. Again.

Am super busy again today, so I'm going to cheat and post an email that I wrote to Brigadeer Martha, whose TiVo betrayed her last night and neglected to tape The Apprentice.

Amy, if you're really so busy, how in the world did you find time to write this big whole thing earlier?

Because it's The Apprentice, jackass.

And The Apprentice is more important than your beloved readers of your journal?

That? Is the stupidest question ever. OF COURSE IT IS. IT'S THE DONALD.

Anyway. Here's Last Night's Apprentice In Fifteen Minutes As Told By Amy:

Sooooo, okay. The show is obviously trying to help the women stop with the constant losing and sucking, because the task is to design a line of women's clothing and sell it to buyers of high end department stores and such.

Maria is the PM for the women, and they choose a guy designer to work with who is all, "One word: Capelets." Ew. But the designer works really hard and basically does all the work for them. The women have decided that Elizabeth is the One They All Hate Now For Unclear Reasons and keep sending her off to do bullshit stuff away from the rest of the group and completely bash every word that comes out of her mouth. Blah. I hate them all so much.

Pretty John is the PM for the men, and they choose this really weird woman designer who works really, really slowly and is no help at all. Kelly the Army Guy shocks them all by actually knowing a thing or two about clothing and designs an entire outfit while the designer is off...somewhere else. In the bathroom or something.

(Diana broke in at this point: Amy!  You forgot to tell Martha the bestest part! When Kelly shocked us all by designing that outfit, the guy from the restaurant task (Chris?) said: "Wow, is he wearing pink camouflage underwears?")

The teams are supposed to use models from Trump's agency for their little fashion show and the men are all: "Women! Drool! Pfjoajdl!" Especially Raj, who keeps asking them for their phone numbers, for he is a Tool. The women don't even meet the models because they know they might look like trolls on camera next to them. Their designer does even more work for them while they bitch about how much they hate Elizabeth. Shut up, Wee Stacy.

The day of the fashion show, John decides to leave all the decisions about pricing the clothes, which is pretty much the most important part of this task, to Wes and Kevin. Why does he do this? Because he wants to go watch the models get dressed before the show. For real. Wes and Kevin have no fucking idea what they're doing and the designer is again, No Help At All.

All the clothes are fugly. Both teams design capelets and the women's stuff is boring and the men's stuff is bizarrely haute couture and involves plaid knicker shorts...or something.

In the end, the men get TROUNCED. $7,000 to $22,000, because their clothes were priced way too high. So the women win, but I would like to clarify that they still all suck. They get to go to some "celebrity-studded party," which looks really boring, actually, and the only "celebrity" there is Lil' Kim, who is the Scariest Plastic Surgery Science Experiment Gone Wrong Ever. Holy crap. That woman ain't right.

And instead of taking the two people in charge of pricing (who are both strong players) John is advised by Kelly to take Andy, because he's the scapegoat-easy-target du jour.

So John takes Kevin and Andy to the boardroom. Trump jumps all over him for 1) Not being involved with pricing, 2) Picking a useless fugly designer, 3) Every other task-related decision he made, and 4)bringing Andy instead of Wes. Kevin is all disgusted at John and tells Trump that while he understands he's there because he did make a mistake, Andy has no business being there and John is a wuss. John is fired. Bye bye, John. You were pretty, but also useless.

So is Kelly some sort of mastermind? Did he know that Trump would punish John for bringing Andy? Is he devilishly brilliant? Is he, in fact, wearing pink camouflage underwears?

Also, I am in love with Kevin, by the way, who answers the TrumpPhone at the beginning of the ep in just his boxers, and dayum. Boy is built.