The Time I Could Have Died But Didn't

On my second-to-last day of high school, I almost died.

*prepares for the inevitable "RIGHT, oh ye drama queen" eye rolls*

No, but really. I did. And it fucking changed my life.

*and here come the "You learned a lesson, isn't that fan-fucking-tastic" eye rolls*

On the second-to-last day of high school, I had two finals. English and History. I had an A in both classes, but had worked myself up into a state regardless. I was going to fail and not graduate and not be able to go to that horrible Christian college in the Midwest that I didn't yet know was horrible and my life was going to be ruined because I was going to end up at a COMMUNITY COLLEGE where I would never meet a nice Christian boy who wanted to marry me and my life would be horrible and I'd probably die alone in a maroon velour housecoat while watching the 700 Club.

And all this would happen if I got anything less than an A-minus on these finals. So I was worked. Up. Just a little.

(Obviously, this is the one part of my life that was not changed by the whole almost-dying thing, because even today? I can take two parking tickets and a bad PowerPoint presentation and map my life out from comfortable yuppiehood to crack whoredom in about five minutes.)

I took extra puffs from my rescue inhaler in the bathroom and chewed deeply on my knuckles to calm down.

In the classroom, the girl seated next to me folded her hands and bowed her head in prayer. I snorted and doodled out a list of all food products I had consumed in the last 24 hours.

And then I kicked ass on the finals. One right after another. I wrote English essays until my raw knuckles couldn't take any more and I knew every damn date of every motherfucking crusade in whatever damn century those motherfucking crusades happened in.

I was allowed to leave after my History exam, as I had a car and no real friends that I felt like goofing of in study hall with. I'd really stopped caring by senior year though. I was dating the captain of the football team at a local public school and had tons of friends there -- who needed these snooty rich kids and goody-goody church kids when I was getting to second base on a regular basis with a really hot guy?

So I left after my exam. I got in my 1988 Honda Civic sedan that was really just on-loan to me while a missionary friend of my parents was missionarying in Japan. We'd given her $1,000 towards her trip and she agreed to let me drive her car while she was away. I loved that car.

I went to the McDonald's drive-thru first -- I lived 25 miles from my little school and it was a long, boring-ass drive -- and was shocked to see one of my classmates was already manning the window.

"That history exam was freaking cake. I was done in 20 minutes," she said with a shrug.

"Yeah." I replied. I still never expressed original opinions to any of these people, ever. Even ones who worked at McDonald's.

"This way, I figure I can get off shift a little earlier." She handed me my super-sized Coke.

"You gotta study for Chem tomorrow?" I asked, and deciding to play all Happy Days/Dukes of Hazzard cool, took off my seat belt and slid out the window, sitting on the door frame.

(Which, hello, 1: proved that the only TV I was ever allowed to watch was on Nick At Nite, and 2: meant that I couldn't see my friend unless I twisted my torso awkwardly, and 3: made me look like the biggest tooliest dork ever.)

"Yeah. Study. Right." She eye-rolled and handed me the rest of my order, which I grabbed by twisting my left arm over my shoulder and then almost lost my balance while sliding stupidly back into the car.

I'd ordered some burger that was aimed at "adults" with "adult tastes" or something. The Arch Deluxe? The XXX Pounder? I forget. But I went through a phase where I always ordered it, because I bought the marketing hook, line and sinker. Although I always scraped about 99% of the crap they put on it before actually taking a bite.

I got stopped at a red light and absent-mindedly put my seat belt back on.

I drove past my school and popped in a tape. An alphabetical collection of the Beatles that I'd recorded off the oldies station during a "Beatles A-Z Weekend."

I hit fast-forward to "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds."

I hit the gas.

My bag of food fell off the passenger seat.

I reached out to stop the spill, but was too late.

I surveyed the Value Meal damage.

I looked out the windshield.

The road had curved. I hadn't. My right tires were on the grass. There was some kind of ditch. For drainage? For dumping bodies? I don't know. But it was just steep enough that my tires slipped and I couldn't correct. I couldn't get back on the road. I couldn't slow down.

shit shit shit shit shit

Then I saw it. A wall. A wall? What? A stone wall supporting a driveway over the ditch. A stone wall I was headed straight towards.

Oh my god. This is it. Is this is?

No!

I don't remember the impact. I sort of remember the sounds but mostly I remember the deathly silence that followed. The deathly silence right before I realized I needed to start breathing.

I opened my eyes. I was alive. The car was...no...let's not think about that...

I felt fine. Really, really fine.

I bet I could walk back to school and catch the bus home

So I opened the car door and tried to get out.

HOLY MOTHER OF BABY JESUS GOD I'M HAVING A HEART ATTACK. MY HEART IS ATTACKING AND THE PAIN, OH GOOD GOD THE PAIN

Then I didn't feel so fine. My chest burned and throbbed and ached and all sorts of other words the Thesaurus could supply you with. I gasped for breath and started to cry.

Which didn't help anything, as the tears just made all the blood that was gushing from above my right eye run down the side of my face.

What the fuck?

Yes. Blood. GUSHING FROM ABOVE MY EYE. BLINDING ME. WITH BLOOD. Blood that was GUSHING FROM MY OWN BODY.

"I'm hurt."

These were the first words I said out loud. I said them calmly, staring at my bloody fingertips.

Suddenly there was someone there. By my door. An elderly man. Apparently it was his driveway that I had plowed into.

"Oh my gosh, I am SO SORRY." I gasped. "I go to school down the street...if you call them they will get me and I'm sure the nurse can take care of..."

"Close your eyes," he said. "You have a really bad gash on your eyelid and your collarbone is swelling. Stay still and close your eyes. I've called 911."

*11? What? Shit. This is going to be a whole big thing now, isn't it?

"Where are my sunglasses?" I asked, but he was already running back to his house.

I opened my eyes and tried to survey the damage once again. The glove compartment was missing and the steering wheel was really close to my chest. I was soaking wet. The hell?  Every window and mirror was shattered.

My foot was stuck under the gas pedal.

Elderly Gentleman was back at my side, bearing a hand towel. He pressed it against my eyes and told me again to close them.

"I'm really sorry," I repeated.

"It's okay. Third accident since we've lived here. You're okay though. You're really okay."

We sat in silence while I bled into his guest towel. I wondered if he used the nice towels or if he knew there was a difference. I wondered if I would get out of my Chemistry final tomorrow. I wondered what my parents' missionary in Japan would say when she found out I wrecked her car.

The EMTs arrived and were openly amazed that the girl inside that crushed soda can of a car was awake and talking and insisting that they find her damn purse and also, there is a BUS at her SCHOOL and a NURSE and this is all not NECESSARY.

I barked my parent's phone number to Elderly Gentleman who said he'd call them and my school, and the thought of my bastard classmates finding out that Amy, poor, ignored, under-appreciated Amy was very nearly killed several hundred yards away made me extremely happy.

"Tell them I was bleeding!" I yelled at Elderly Gentleman as I was loaded into the ambulance. Then that heart attacky feeling came back and I gasped and flailed until they strapped an oxygen mask on me. Although it could have just been good timing, because I was sort of being a pain about the commands and WHERE THE HELL IS MY PURSE?

I passed out on the ambulance ride and woke up in the trauma center at St. Mary's Hospital (aka Our Mother of Holy Staphylococcus). They cut my clothes off (including the most adorable eyelet lace bra from Victoria's Secret that I have never forgotten and never found a replacement for) and asked if I was lying in a puddle.

"Actually, I think that's a super-sized Coke." I was coming to my senses now.

My dad arrived. My mom was at the motherfucking gynecologist getting a goddamn pelvic when he called the office in a panic. She was on her way.

"I'm so sorry about the car, Daddy."

You know when someone is crying so hard that the most they can do when they hear something absurd like that is shake their head and cry harder? That's what my dad did.

I had surgery on my eye socket which, to our best guess, was hit with the rear-view mirror and sliced up with glass from a variety of sources. The plastic surgeon who stitched me up liked to tell me how stupid Americans were for treating their children like little princes and princesses because it made them grow up weak. I was awake and disturbed by this but I knew better than to argue with a man who had several needles going through my eyelid and also controlled the morphine.

I was lucky.

I did not break a bone. My ankle and foot? That had been pinned under the gas pedal? Had actually been protected by the pedal when the front of the car crunched in. My sternum and ribs took a nasty blow from the steering wheel, but since I drive with the seat so far back from the dashboard I wasn't close enough for my ribs to be crushed. Shards of glass fell from my skin and hair for weeks but I have tiny scars that only I can make out.

I was lucky.

My car had no airbags. The entire dashboard closed in on me. The force of the impact sent the glove compartment flying into the backseat.

I had put my seat belt back on less than five minutes before the crash.

I was lucky.

I lived. I was 18 years old. My life started then.

It's been pretty good so far.

Suck. Just...Suck.

I should have tons to write about. I should have tales of turkey and thankfulness and perhaps some wacky kitchen hijinks. But I don't. Because...

Because...

 

The victim: One Charles David boot.

The assailant: A rogue city curb with nothing left to lose.

A small dog was held for questioning when the broken heel went missing. She was later charged with evidence tampering and given a good stern talking to. A raspberry was then blown into her belly and she was released.

So yeah. I tripped on a curb and my heel fell off, and I had to walk like, six blocks on my tippy toes, trying to not think about how much these boots cost and how this is the second shoe-related tragedy I've suffered this month, and also trying to convince myself that I am actually a very good heel-walker. And seriously: both shoe tragedies occurred when I was stone-cold sober. Perhaps I'm a better heel-walker when I've had wine?

Either way, it was upsetting. So I went and bought myself something to ease the pain.

Audrey Hepburn had it right. Tiffany's makes everything all better.

(And yes. I bought it my own self. For myself. Because why not?)

(And here are more parentheses, followed by more random out-of-order pictures. Because why not?)

Thanksgiving with the Amalahs! Jason, Amy, Amy's Dad, Amy's Mom and Amy's Mom's Surrogate Grandchild Who Almost Ended Up In Her Luggage.

Also turkey, cheesy potato casserole, asparagus, challah bread stuffing, wine and a big ass pepper grinder.

Again: I feel like I should have interesting stories. I should have set something on fire or sliced off a finger or...or...forgotten the rolls at least. I didn't.

I need to start lying.

Tomorrow, I'll start lying. Crazified fictionalized adventures! Fires! Vampires!

(Actually, why wait? Forget what I told you earlier about Shoe Tragedy Redux, because I really broke the heel while kickboxing a gang of motorcycle vampires who stole our dinner reservation.)

CEIBA: Oh Mom, shut up! This is just embarassing.

TOMORROW: I promise to do better. Stories! Humor! Less one-word exclamations!

And vampires!

A Letter to the Editor

I will post today. I WILL! But not right now. Because of three words: Editorial. Assist. Ant. As in: I don't have one. So I must do work MYSELF. Over LUNCH. With my OWN HANDS.

So in the meantime, I present a Very Special Guest Post, Or, The Pinnacle of Laziness.

(Thanks to Shiz, who wrote this and is much, much more talented than I am.)

Dear Amy/Amalah/The Publishing Revolución:

I really like your blog. I like to read it when I get up in the morning, even before I've brushed my teeth. Then, after I brush my teeth I check it again, just to see if you've updated. I might make my bed, or take a shower, or apply Bed Head products to my hair, but in between each task I am reloading Amalah.com, because it is just SO DARN GOOD.

I take all of the Amalah.com photos and blow them up huge on my laser printer, and stick them to the walls in my apartment. The ones of your pretty self, Amalah, are super-huge, especially the one of you in a big orange box. You are funny!

I've printed out your entire archives on high-quality paper and have had them professionally bound as reading material for when I don't feel like surfing the net, or when I am in the bathroom. I use all of your recipes from the Recipedown, and think they are SCRUM! DEL! EE! ISHIOUS! I have them in a special recipe box with AMALAH marked on it. I've made sure to make it very pretty.

All of my friends know how much I love you, and how great you are. We have little Amalah parties where we put on make-up the Amalah way, and where we do our hair just like Amalah. Sometimes we take your best posts and we re-enact them for an evening, and we have such a wild and great time. It must be so much fun to actually BE Amalah, because we have so much fun re-enacting your day to day life. My favourite times are when it is my turn to play you, the great Amalah, and I know I might not be perfect at playing you, but I think it's pretty close. I know so much about you, Amalah!

A couple of months ago I took my savings out of my piggy bank and I went and had my hair done like yours. Even though I was born with brown hair, I am sure the Lord God intended me to be like you, because I look SO MUCH like you in my blonde straightened hair. I took twenty-seven Amalah pictures to my hairdresser and we talked about how I wanted to look just like you for like, an hour before she even started. I even tipped her 10%! So now I have Amalah blonde & straight hair with your kind of cut and length. (Though if you could post a recent picture of you I could get the length down perfectly and that'd be great.)

And THEN a friend of mine and I were talking, and she said that if I just have my cheeks lifted just a bit, I would look so much more like the pretty Amalah, so now I am saving up for that. Not to freak you out or anything but you are so pretty and it would be such an honour to look just a little bit more like you. By the way, how tall are you?

There are some things I don't know about you yet. Like, for example, I don't know what your favourite thing is to eat for breakfast. So like, when I play Amalah at Breakfast Time, I'm never sure what I should be eating. Sometimes I think you would like cold pizza with Vegamite on it, and sometimes I think Fruit Loops might be more your thing, but please do tell me because my friends and I want to get the details right.

Other questions are:

If you could live in any European city, which one would it be?

And,

If you were a flavour of frozen yogurt, which flavour would you be and why?

Amalah, I feel I must tell you: I feel so much like we are sisters! We are soul sisters, I think. I LOVE BEING YOUR SOUL SISTER! If I can get permission from my guardians, can I come visit you on May 29th? I think I can get a cheap airfare to DC on May 29th. 2005, that is!

And Amalah I have one more question for you. I see that you have not posted since November 24 and NOW it is November 29th. It has been FIVE DAYS! Do you really think I can live like that? Why haven't you posted, Amalah? I was thinking, maybe, that I did something bad and now you might not like me anymore? Is that why you haven't posted? Because I NEED an update, Amalah, all of us NEED to hear about your Thanksgiving and your husband and your dog, Ceiba. Ceiba is the BEST name ever and I cannot believe you thought of it because that is totally what I was going to name my dog! Now I can't have a dog, but I have a picture of one and I've named her Ceiba and I talk to her, too.

Amalah, you really have to post now, for the good of your fans. I have been refreshing Amalah.com every minute for the past five days, and let me tell you girl, that is a LOT of refreshing!

Why haven't you updated us, Amalah? It is REALLY important that we know what is going on. WE LOVE AMALAH, for crying out loud! The least you could do is update Amalah.com at least five or six times a day. At least.

Amalah, we all love you very much, but this not posting thing NEEDS to be ADDRESSED. We have to know what is going on! We need more Amalah.com scenes to re-enact! Have you stopped loving us, Amalah? Did I do something bad? I always do something bad! But when I do something bad at the home they always tell me they forgive me. Why don't you forgive me, Amalah?

Amalah, one last thing. When I was praying to you last night, did you feel it? Do you feel my prayers or just hear them? Or is it kind of both? I love that you sometimes talk back to me in my room, Amalah, telling me stuff about your day and reassuring me in my prayers. But you haven't been talking much to me lately. I hope you do not hate me. I'll try to be good, Amalah. I want to keep close with my soul sister!

So Amalah, I know that some of your more batshit crazy readers are all over you to post and post and always keep posting, but I don't want to be demanding of you. I won't tell you that you have to. I won't even tell you about my gun or that rock I might throw through your window. I will not be like that. You can post whenever you want, just post soon, please? Please? I cherish you, my soul sister! Please keep writing.

Oh, and one last thing. We moved a desk next to the window in here so now I have a New! Window! Office! too.

Yours with hearts forever (please post too PLEEEEASE?),

Ethel Wymann

Your totally devoted fan!

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Dear Amalah,

Are those black fishnet stockings you are wearing really work-appropriate? Come on now.

-An anonymous coworker all up in yo' grill

Well, as the ONLY person here today who did NOT get the memo that we could dress casual? I think y'all look like a bunch of damn slobs.

Grr. GRR!

Okay, on with the real Smackdown. This week's questions were extra-super-girly, so guys? Sorry. I mean, I'm not giving advice on yeast infections or anything, but it's all make-up and fashion and stuff. So maybe next week all you boys can ask questions about burping and how to get laid in under three dates. The address is advice@amalah.com. Go for it.

Dear Amalah,

I don’t know if I’m the only fingers-applying-foundation person to think this after reading your post, but – apply foundation with a brush? I suppose I knew in the back of my mind that it was done, but I honestly have never given a lot of thought to the advantages. I just thought it was another option...now I’m not so sure, since you seem to know a lot more about makeup and various beauty products than I do. Is there a special kind of foundation that you have to use, in order to apply it with a brush? (I currently use foundation from Mary Kay, that comes in a little tube, and – horror! – pat on with my fingers.)

-Zandria

Ok, let's think about this for a minute:

Fingers = dirt + germs = oil = zits = unpopularity + dying alone

My mother was an extremely wise woman (even though she let me go off to college without ever telling me to pluck my eyebrows). The day I entered puberty she came to me with a tub of Noxzema and this advice: "Keep your damn hands away from your face."

Touching your face causes blemishes, people. Do you not know how dirty your hands are? Everything they've touched? Everywhere they've been? The amount of fecal matter found in even the most spotless bathroom? (Sorry, there are Krispy Kremes in the kitchen and I'm trying to resist.)

If you rub makeup into your skin with your fingers, you are piling on the oil and dirt and basically sealing it into your pores with a protective layer of flesh-colored cream. Now: I don't have great skin. It's tempermental and likes to respond to high-pressure situations by breaking the fuck out. But switching from my fingers (or even worse, one of those makeup sponge things that are the equivalent of rubbing your face with a toilet brush) to a foundation brush CHANGED MAH DAMN LIFE.

(Also the discovery of the Burt's Bees Garden Tomato Complexion Soap, available at odd places like Whole Foods and Border's Books, but good Lord, it's the best.)

So allow me to walk you through the process. (WARNING: AMALAH WITHOUT MAKEUP ON AHEAD. AAAEEEIIIII!!!)

After you've washed your pretty little face, get out your moisturizers. Ideally you should use one for your face and one for your eyes and neck. I use Ahava, who really need to send me money. Also more facial moisturizer, as I am almost out.

Use the tip of your ring finger to apply moisturizer around the eyes. Tap lightly, don't rub, don't shoot your eye out with your BB gun, etc.

Obviously you'll need to use your hands to apply the facial moisturizer. Apply a thin layer and rub in lightly. LIGHTLY. (I believe this may seriously be the worst picture ever taken of me. But I share for the good of complexions everywhere, because I'm good like that.)

This is a foundation brush. Also a toilet, but that's a whole other photo essay. You want a solid brush with synthetic bristles, as they are easier to clean and retain less germs. A good brush will cost about $20 to $40, but will save you money on foundation in the long run as you'll waste less product. (Fingers, sponges and natural bristles will absorb your makeup.)

Squirt/pour/pump your foundation onto the back of your hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Welcome to the most boring photo essay ever, boys. Perhaps next week you can submit some questions about sex? Or hookers? Or beer? I like beer.

Apply the foundation in wide semi-circles starting at your nose. Gently use the top of the brush to conceal those nasty eye bags. Also, those are not zits on my forehead--those are scars from the time I donated precious life-saving forehead cells to starving children in Africa. Totally.

Wash your brush out with warm soapy water.

Ta-da! You are a now a movie star. Time to go grocery shopping.

Dear Amalah,

I have these Ugg boots that I absolutely love.  They are ugly but oh so warm and fabulous and so make me feel like I'm walking on a cloud.  However, I find myself in a quandry. 

Yesterday, while at our tiny post office, an acquaintance (yes my village is that small, we see people we know every friggin' day) admired said boots but was quick to point out an apparant faux pas.

"Aren't you supposed to wear those over your jeans?"

Huh?  "Huh?"

"Yeah don't you wear those with your jeans tucked in?"

"Well I don't really know, I know they are warm and squishy and make my feet feel good."

"I'm not sure but anyway, I like them!"  said the observer.

Bitch.

So anyway, I find myself in a quandry.  Do I make myself a slave to the fashion trend, even though I feel a little like Sissy from Urban Cowboy when they are tucked or do I just wear them however the fuck I want to wear them because I live in gee dee village so remote and isolated, no one besides said bitch will care? Oh yeah and because we have about a foot of snow on the ground.  Have asked my trusty friends but since you are the queen of everything, I thought I'd ask.

See this photo and yes I realize I need to mop my kitchen floor. 

You so rock.

-Chris

Ugg. Ugh!

You probably aren't going to think I rock anymore once I tell you that Ugg Boots are the ugliest fucking things in the entire world, except for maybe these.

I hear they are super-comfortable, which does nothing for me, as I have not felt my feet since 1996 when I tossed out my combat boots in favor of stiletto mary janes. You want comfortable footwear? You stay home and wear fuzzy slippers. You go out in public? You wear cute shoes that pinch.

I'm sorry, that's just how I feel. Uggs and Mukluks and Hush Puppies are against my religion.

But as I can tell that you are really attached to your sherpawear boots, I will address the tucked/untucked debate. There's something about tucking the jeans in that screams "fashion victim." There's something about leaving the jeans out that screams "let's pile in the minivan and go get Arby's." But if you must make a decision, let me remind you that discussing what Paris Hilton does (as I noticed your commenters did in favor of tucking), is NEVER, EVER the right answer. Gah.

Dearest Benevolent Monarch,

My [college] roommate is a crazy bitch.  She has made my life a living hell for the past 11 weeks.  For example, she does not have class until 11 am, I have class at 8 am. I have to get ready IN THE HALLWAY so that I don't disturb her! She speaks ill of me to everyone she meets, and says that I am a loser for blogging/reading blogs.  What would be the best way to exact revenge upon her?

Your loyal reader until the bitter end,

Rachael

I had a bitch-ass roommate too for a semester. She turned our room into a nail salon so it always smelled like acrylic tips and polish and got drunk and cheated on her boyfriend in the bottom bunk and played gangsta rap all the time except for this one Garth Brooks song she liked to line dance to (I've Got Friends In Low Places) and her favorite movie was Dirty Dancing and she stole stuff. She also decided she hated me about halfway through the semester and started talking shit about me because I like, WENT TO CLASS and fucking STUDIED AND SHIT.

I was clearly a huge pain in the ass. Lord.

I exacted my revenge several ways:

I made ramen noodles in the room every damn day even though she hated the smell.

I dropped her VHS of Dirty Dancing behind the dresser and told her I thought someone stole it.

I told her all sorts of horrible ghost stories about the campus and how our dorm once was a hospital for an influenza outbreak and that bodies were buried in the intramural fields. She believed me and started staying in her boyfriend's dorm a lot more.

I helped her change her password to Penn State's online student services site so I was able to access her grade reports and print them out so others could see that it was, in fact, possible to have a GPA of 0.32.

I changed her email password occasionally, just to fuck with her.

I told her boyfriend she was cheating on him.

Good times, good times. I'm sure you can think of something similarly creative. Like telling her the wrong date for class registration so by the time she registers there are only 8 a.m. classes left. And then she can get her sorry ass ready in the hallway.

(Which...dude. No. Stop doing that. Let the poor princess learn that sometimes you just have to wake up before the absolute last minute in life.)

(Also try putting Garth Brooks on in the morning. She'll LOVE that.)

Have a happy Thanksgiving everybody. We're cooking! Really! And I will post about it. Eventually! I will also try to get my mom and dad involved in an entry and will see if I can get either of them to include the F-word. So yeah, I'm gonna be pretty drunk for the next two or three days. Yay for pilgrims and smallpox!

Amalah.com Has Been Named a "Best Blog" By Absolutely No One!

To: Amalah
From: Fresh Baked
Subject: Baby Jessica part deux

Amy,

Are you dead?  Have you fallen down a well? Or are you stuck under a massive pile of work and cute-ass shoes and lattes?  Should I be alarmed?  Do you need me to sound the alarm, alerting all to your immediate assistance?

I'm just wondering.  Because you have not written a single thing in 4 days and, quite frankly, I'm bored by now of the last entry.  I did my tour of vodka this weekend.  I need something new.

I'm here! Alive and fine and kicking and etc. Apologies for not writing anything since Thursday. I did try, actually. Several times. This is about what I got down:

Friday: Workworkworkworkwork. Goddamn assistant candidate turned down my generous offer of indentured servitude. Weep. Corporate Love-Fest Rah Rah Day, complete with free pizza and a lot of new employees because other people are not so horrible as I am and can actually HIRE PEOPLE. Weep.

Saturday: In-laws. Gah. Meet our new puppy, who will not go anywhere near you except to bring you a mouthful of cat poop. She will also pee on the bathroom floor after we brag about our housebreaking brilliance. Also please ignore Amy's drinking problem and the sticky kitchen floor.

Sunday: Bye In-laws! Gah. Now must prepare for my parents' visit over Thanksgiving. Holy shit, Jason's site is in Washingtonian magazine as a Best D.C. Blog. Bastard! But also, woot. Free meals from chefs and holy FUCKING SHIT, an offer from a Big Shot D.C. Chef to PERSONALLY ARRANGE my birthday dinner next month. We're celebrities! Or Jason is, and I shall ride his coattails. Or maybe I'll submit him to Snarkywood.

Sunday Part II: Ow, my head really hurts.

Sunday Part III: OW OW OW.

Monday: Holy lord. Migraine. Death. Blinding pain. Spent the entire day hiding under my covers, trying to stay in total darkness and moaning pathetically to Jason (who has the whole week off and can be found in this month's Washingtonian magazine, in case you didn't hear). Warm soft puppy belly is actually quite nice on the temples, by the way, as long as you try to forget where her dirty, dirty feet have probably been.

Tuesday: Today! Workworkworkworkwork! Another assistant interview, although I refuse to get excited lest she break my heart like the last few. Why does no one want to work for me? I'm really quite a kick.

Jason is at home, again, although he might be out autographing Washingtonian magazines or something, because I keep pinging him to ask that he email me a bunch of photos from the camera that I wanted to post and he is ignoring me. So maybe tomorrow. I had this whole photo essay thing planned, but Mr. Best Blog of Washington is too much of a big shot now to help out with wee, modest amalah.com.

So maybe tomorrow. (Wait, I said that already.) The day my parents arrive for Thanksgiving. The day I really, really need to clean my house up by. The last day before Thanksgiving vacation and my last chance to write to the 5,094,294 people who I owe emails to and now think I am a nasty, snooty bitch who is mad at them or changed my email address and moved to Bolivia. I am not mad! At you! I am just a very, very bad friend. Really.

Also, wee, modest amalah.com will be turning one year old on Sunday. Happy birthday, little site! Why the hell aren't YOU in the Washingtonian Magazine? What? Because you suck? Oh, right.

That.

There Are Pet Photos at the End, Promise

SMALL TRAGEDY OF THE DAY #1: My hosiery had an unfortunate encounter with my car door, so I had to take them off. I'm wearing knee-high boots, but you can still see my knees, which is asbsolutely SCANDALOUS at my office. Bare knees! With no nude nylons to preserve my modesty! Can pasties and g-strings be far behind?

This tragedy is further tragidized, however, because I did not shave my legs. Thank the lord for blond hair and all, but eesh. I feel yicky.

SMALL TRAGEDY OF THE DAY #2: Red pen. Explosion. Carnage. Permanently stained skin. Bah.

And now, a bonus Wednesday(ish) Advice Smackdown question, as it is of the utmost urgency:

Dearest Q to the E-

Tonight I am making Jell-O shots for a bachelorette party this weekend.  While they may be an immature and trashy shot, they are liked by many participants on the bachelorette bus.  My question is, how do I make these and still make them tasty and not taste like you just drank a liter of vodka?

Your follower-
Tonya

An impromptu Recipedown! Awesome!

Okay, Jello shooters are easy peasy. One small package of Jello (I prefer lime), one cup boiling water and one cup vodka. Mix the Jello and the water, stir, add vodka, stir again, pour into wee souffle cups and chill. Or freeze.

The seekrit is DO NOT USE SHITTY ASS VODKA. This strips the shooters of all camp value and demotes them right down to trailer trash nastiness and visions of frat boys passing around the Mad Dog 20/20. So buy nothing that comes in a big plastic jug with the name of your local liquor store on it in a medieval-looking font.

You buy Grey Goose. Or Belvedere. Expensive, but for real, the rest of your party essentials are freaking gelatin and paper cups. You can splurge here. Also, put the vodka in the freezer for a few hours BEFORE making the shots. Vodka kept anywhere other than the freezer is Vodka Cruelty and I believe we can end this horror in our lifetimes. We just need to work together.

Next weeK? A Very Special Thanksgiving Recipedown, as I show you how to make the World's Very Best Thanksgiving Everything, or at least how to make your husband do it.

And for now? Some random photos from my camera because I can't think of anything else to write about, and oh my God, did I honestly start off this entry by talking about LEG HAIR?

Jesus. This entry was doomed from the start. Gimme a Diarist award! Send money and book deals! I am the next Bridget Jones! Only skinnier! And hairer!

Only Max is aware that the evil Vacuum Cleaner lurks behind them, creeping ever closer, waiting for the perfect chance to devour them all. Your only hope is to blend into the couch.

Jason: The fear is his eyes amuses me. Mwa ha ha.

Ceiba: I wonder if I left the iron on.

(Well, yeah. She's pretty in sepia. Shut up.)

Ceiba: *dreams of shoes, maple syrup and becoming the Ultimate Fighting Champion*

Ceiba: Look! I'm a mummy! Look! Kitty! Look at me!

Max: *will not look*

Amy: *will kill camera operator*

Care Bear PJs: *are adorable*

Amy: HA! Let's put my "I Voted" sticker on the dog's butt. I bet that has NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE.

Jason: Yeah! And let's put my Livestrong bracelet around her neck, because we are SO FUCKING TRENDY.

Ceiba: *chomp*

Wednesday Advice Smackdown!

(Hi. Yes. Well, it still is technically Wednesday, is it not? And this is a Wednesday Advice Smackdown, right? So shut your yapping. And go read today's Snarkywood, because it rocks much, much harder than this entry.)

(MELISSA GILBERT, PEOPLE. WE MAKE FUN OF LAURA INGALLS WILDER. HILARITY ENSUES.)

Dear Amalah,

Um, I think I've lost my favorite BCBG dress along with a cute work-appropriate dress from Banana Republic. How did this happen? I'm going to a wedding next weekend and I NEED that dress. I bought cute new shoes to go with that dress! What should I do? Who can I blame (besides myself, obviously)? GAH.

-Wardrobedly challenged

You know, as a professional and fully accredited fake advice columnist, I pride myself in remaining detached from the hordes of problems and dilemmas that flood my inbox. I don't take my work home, so to speak. Except for tonight, when I didn't have time for lunch and am actually writing at home. The Simpsons is on. Jason will be home soon bearing burritos. The rum and Coke are plentiful.

Where was I going with this? Oh. Right. Sometimes an advice question comes along that really rattles me.

Like this one.

How could you lose your dresses? Are you sure they're really lost? Have you checked under the couch? In the car? Have you put up flyers in your neighborhood? WHY ARE YOU WASTING TIME TYPING QUESTIONS TO ME WHEN YOUR DRESSES ARE OUT THERE LOST AND ALONE?

I'm very upset. I need more rum.

Wardrobedly, there are two theories. Both of which put the blame squarely on someone other than you. Obviously, theory number one is your dry cleaner. This is why I only go to dry cleaners where absolutely no employee is remotely my size.

Theory number two is a tad more disturbing, and therefore much more likely. Your boyfriend is a cross-dresser, and has stolen your dresses for the upcoming Miss Man of La Man-cha-cha Drag Beauty Pageant.

Check your other drawers and I'm confident you'll find that several shaping foundation garments are missing and a lot of stretched-out fishnets. If you want to see your dresses again, help him. Support him. Make sure he wears cute shoes and doesn't overdo the rouge. Also tell him that no one ever won a drag pageant in anything from Banana Republic.

(Jason has arrived with burritos. Love him. Also salsa.)

I have run out of ideas when it comes to gifts for my mom. She likes cats and things and I already got her a Burberry purse for Christmas, but since her birthday falls three days after that, I need something else. Any ideas? Help please. Thanks in advance.

-Zoey

So you know when MY birthday is? Huh?

TWO days after Christmas. I win!

This is my list. Perhaps your mom will want some of it. Because I also like cats and things. Mostly expensive things.

A second TiVo
These earrings
Also these
This necklace
But I would also accept this one
Ooh ooh ooh this watch!
Everything on my wish list
A poncho, even though I sort of hate myself for wanting it
Lots and lots of PetSmart gift cards
And absolutely everything from Sephora, but especially this, this, this and this
The removal of the Old n’ Busted Couch from my house.

And that's it! Well, besides all the shit I will buy myself on the Amalah Shopping Spree Extravaganza that will pretty much begin this weekend and continue until December 28th, 2077.

(Reason #34793479354 Why I Love Jason: He just picked up this new photo frame we got over the weekend that has a picture of two little kids in it and said, "It came vit zee frame.")

(I just about died laughing. I am very, very easily amused.)

Dear Amalah,

I have never before been compelled to ask for advice from you.  But upon seeing your shoes on your desk in the post about your new! office!, it struck me that I indeed have a question.

What is your policy on shoes without socks?

I noticed that I could see your bare feet in the shoes, but perhaps you were wearing (gak) nude nylons. I guess what I really want to know is, what are all the sexy, hip girls doing these days?  Granted, I live in Canada and am into cool and sexy boot season, which necessitates socks.  I'm really asking this question in advance of next spring.

Thanks,
Pink Stiletto

Excellent eye, Pointy Shoe, as I was indeed not wearing socks. Nor was I wearing nude nylons, because as you said, gak.

I hardly ever wear socks. Why? I don’t know. I used to be all hardcore on the anti-sock stance in high school, as I refused to wear socks ever, with anything, no matter what the weather. Socks were for squares, dude! Or your PARENTS.

It is only by conferring with my contemporaries have I learned that a lot of people my age did the no-sock thing in the 90s. I was horrendously uncool, so I’m retroactively proud of myself for accidentally riding an actual trend. (Most of the trends I followed existed only in my own head, like the little stars I drew all over my hands every day in first period for two years or the fuzzy lavender tights I liked so much.)

I’ve softened in my old age, however, so I will wear socks. Sometimes. I think I own a pair or two. I prefer those leetle footie things though.

You know what I hate though? Novelty socks. I mean, I’ve got some Christmas socks and I think a pair with some ducks on them, but those are strictly pajama/floor skating socks. Never in public. If I see you sit down and spot a pair of brightly colored Tweety Bird socks I will mock you. I will point and I will talk about them on the Internet.

I don’t care what the temperature is or how close to frostbite my toes are: I don’t do Tweety Bird socks.

(Although: Care Bear socks. I might do Care Bear socks. But you know, ironically.)

So, how lucky am I that I have been reading your column and now sport a pelt of fantastically lush and silky hair?  LUCK-freakin'-Ucky.  Hells yeah.  Thanks!

So I feel I can trust you with this question of highly embarrassing nature.  I?  Am getting tiny little red broken something-or-others on my cheeks.  Not so close that you would see it from just talking, but when it is me and the wee cursed magnifying mirror - oh yeah.  I can see myself looking like Teddy Kennedy in a few years.  Obvious solution?  Stop drinking?  Lets take a moment to consider. And... we're done. 

So any other tips?  Long, long ago (pre-wedding), I went to a dermatologist who zapped them with a needle (ughh!) and said it was just my fair Irish skin oh-so-sensitive to cold and sun.  Now, I live somewhere's new.  I noticed my new GP has a butt-load of broken veins on his face, so I'm not sure if he would know a good dermatologist.  Help!  Oh so very, very grateful!

Spammit

Honestly? It sounds like you have the Plague. 

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!

(Jason just shouted that upon seeing the crazy French woman on tonight's episode of Lost, and again, cracked me the fuck up. Am easy. Am easy movie reference slut.)

What kind of makeup do you use? How do you apply it? If you use foundation, try Sue Devitt's Triple C-Weed Foundation, which is light and fluffy and made from 70% water. This is a good thing, except that it costs much, much more than one would think seaweed and water would cost.

And do not. DO. NOT. Ever. Apply foundation with your fingers. Or a dirty germy sponge. Get a nice synthetic foundation brush and wash it out every day. This will keep the oils and dirtitude crap off your face and your skin clear.

Also try like, I don't know, not sticking your head in the deep fryer at work anymore. That's really, really bad for the complexion.

Got a question? Care to show off your superior question-asking skills? Simply transcribe your query into your electionic mail protocol interface and insert advice@amalah.com into the message destination mailbox field. Ta-da!

Duncity in a Time of Boredom

A collection of completely random and mostly unrelated observations/complaints/kvetchings for Tuesday because I cannot be bothered and also my new shoes are pinchy:

Oh right. The new shoes. I don't know why the Internet cares so much, but pictures were demanded of the new shoes. Whatever. Y'all need a hobby. I hear knitting is pretty fun!

The new shoes are from BCBG, just like the Sparkly Stilettos of Death, because I have learned Nothing.

Also, it is very hard to take a flattering picture of your own feet that doesn't make your calves look elephantish and overly stout.

The Notify message for yesterday's entry arrived in my Inbox at 10 a.m. this morning. That would be (for those of you playing along at home) more than 19 hours after I actually sent it via the NotifyList site. This beats the previous NotifyList Record for Slow As Shitness by a good 11 hours. So congratulations, Fucking Notify (tm Doxie), you have risen to new levels of Suck. Let's see how long this record holds.

The bathroom at work smells like oranges. And not like orange air freshener or tile cleaner. Actual oranges. Like someone peeled and ate an orange while on the toilet. This is disturbing me.

Continuing with the smelly theme, the elevator I rode down on at lunch smelled like cigarette smoke, and the elevator on the way up smelled like green onions.  My office smells like white-out, and I smell like flowers. Pretty ones.

I would also like to brag that I am wearing a SIZE TWO skirt today. SIZE TWO. Which is only two letters off from twee, which is how I feel. And I am really only barely sucking in and the mark the waistband is leaving on my skin is really not that noticable at all.

As a reward for my tweeness I am eating a cheeseburger for lunch. I will neither confirm nor deny the presence of french fries. I will simply use more white-out to mask any scent of golden crunchy deliciousness.

Speaking of the Diarist Awards, did you know that the finalists have been announced? No? Well. They have. That's all I'm going to say about them, and I will provide links to both the site award finalists and the individual entry award finalists as a public service only and for no other reason at all.

(But seriously, there are some great sites and entries that you should check out and vote for them because I really heart them all and I have nothing but blind hate for myself and my bloated french-fry-eating ass.)

Diarist Site Awards Finalists

Diarist Entry Awards Finalists

So go vote! Because if you don't? P. Diddy will kill you.

(And thanks for nominating me, yo. And for nominating my truly deserving and brilliant peeps Miss Doxie,  Coleen, Mir, Chiara, and Snarkywood.)

(And all praise for Snarkywood must go to Martha and Lauren who are really the funny ones and have been carrying me for months because they are too nice to tell me that I suck.)

Of Shoes and Duncity

There is not a made-up screamy-type word with enough vowels out there to adequately describe how stressed out I feel right now.

AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeEEEEiiiiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaa!

Nope. Not even close.

There is Much Work To Be Done and Little Motivation To Be Had. I spent most of Friday writing a Big Ass Document but then accidentally closed it without saving it because I thought Document 7 was a stupid-lame entry I'd started, but no. That was Document 12. Document 7 was Big Ass Document. Documents 8 through 11 were blank, and Document 6 was nothing but my spelling cheat-sheet full of words I'd typed to see if the spellchecker thought they were correct. Or if they were even actual words.

(Friday's words included concomitant, exacerbate and duncity.)

(Duncity, while not an actual word, is the state of being a dunce and/or behaving in a dunce-like manner. Feel free to use it in a sentence today.)

So I lost all my worky work on Friday. I had no time to redo it either, as it was one of my bestest coworker's last day with our company. She got a job as the Boss of Everything Important at a Very Important and Famous Place and we had a little party for her so I couldn't redo my work; I had a company obligation to go socialize and eat cheese puffs and copious amounts of ranch dip. And also to sulk, because I am going to miss her.

We took her out after work too. And that evening can be summed up in three words: Caramel. Apple. Tini.

The weekend was quiet and sleepy, except for Saturday night, which was an experiment in terror.  First, we got the cab driver from hell who made me totally carsick. Then we got stuck in massive Tony Blair-related traffic. Then I sliced my finger open on the paper covering our table and bled all over the white tablecloth. Then I ordered the nastiest tasting wine ever that made me lose faith in Sauvignon Blanc. Then the restaurant's bathrooms flooded.

Then we left, and as Jason ran to hail a cab I fell off my shoes and down some steps. Yes.

The ankle strap on my sparkly stilettos slipped and I fell down the stairs onto the sidewalk outside the restaurant, where about 20 people were present to shriek, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY? THAT LOOKED REALLY BAD! ARE YOU ALL RIGHT ETC. ETC.?"

I mumbled to the assembled crowd that I was fine and then tried to act natural and loudly remark to Jason that I'd only had one glass of wine and it was my shoes! My shoes! It was not the fault of my own clumsy drunk ass! It was not duncity! It was the SHOES!

Anyway, I hurt my wrist and managed to bruise and scrape the hell out of the top of my left foot, which makes no sense as I fell off my right shoe and fell backwards, not forwards.

But looking back, it was good that I fell, because that eased my heartbreak when I discovered later that Ceiba had decided to seek vengeance on the offending shoe. She completely destroyed it which necessitated the purchase of new shoes, which I got yesterday and which are even taller than the Shoes of Injury. But they are a pump, not a sandal so therefore? Totally different and practical. I am wearing them right now and have only sort of tripped on the carpet once but it didn't count because no one saw. Anyway, they are beautiful Pointy Shoes of Death and if Ceiba chews on them I shall skin her and make two very small fur mittens.

(Also, extra special love to Hilldery, who got me a tape of last week's Lost episode, and also to Modest Mouse, who are the type of band that makes me a little sad that I did not decide to be a professional groupie muse person when I grew up.)

Cry Hard With a Vengeance

So. I was all prepared to come back today with Edge and Bite and Avril Lavigne-style Punkness, but then I read all your comments about Steel Magnolias and A Little Princess and the therapeutic necessity that is the Movie Cry. Now I'm all squishy.

Although my hair is once again shiny and straight like splinty hard steel. Will cut you and burn your eyes with its gorgeous shiniess. And I am literally trembling with anticipation for the release of Eminem's new CD tomorrow, because I am such a bad ass. I'm totally going to buy it on my lunch hour tomorrow.

I may also totally buy A Little Princess on DVD while I'm out.

See? Bad. Ass.

(An' ya know I totally love all of y'all more'n mah luggage.)

I have to love you, for you helped me name my office plants. Which was a very important task and you did not let me down. Now, if someone out there has a tape of last night's episode of Lost, then I will make a bold stance and declare this whole Internet thing a smashing success.

(BURN IN HELL ABC. BURN IN HELL AND DIE. Goddamn network made Lost run one hour and one minute so instead of recording Lost? My TiVo recorded a rerun of Mythbusters that started in that crucial one-minute overlap period and for some reason was a higher season pass priority than my beloved, beloved Lost. I seriously fought back more tears last night when I discovered the mistake and these were NOT the happy sappy movie tears but the real, bitter and painful kind that can only be soothed by alcohol.)

(I've already made about five people recap it for me so you don't need to tell me what happened. But still. Want tape to see the bamboo in the fingernails thing myself because I HATE scruffy-mean guy.) (TM Type A.)

What the hell was I talking about?

Plants! Right. So without further ado, let me present...

(Ok, just a little more further ado: I have conquered the evil office blinds. They  open and close and lower and rise to my wishes now. All I have to do is climb on top of the heating/air conditioning box and jiggle this little white plastic thing once I get the blinds lowered to the level I want. It's quite an acrobatic feat and I'm glad my window faces a parking garage and not another office building, because footage of a girl in a short skirt and knee-high high-heel boots balancing on a narrow heating unit and yanking on venetian blinds could totally become the next Star Wars Kid video of the Internet.)

Anyway! Plants! Complete with naming credit links, which I have determined to be the prize of the contest, because the Amalah.com legal department determined that since I never promised a specific prize, I owe you bastards absolutely nothing. Thanks for playing!

This Mary Jane. (Thanks to Princess and BMH.)

This is Peter Parker. (Again, thanks to Princess and BMH, who may possibly be the same person, which in that case are disqualified from any further linkage.)

This is Mad Tall Curly Bob. (A group effort by Brian, BluePoppy and Hudson.)

This is Ashley Carmichael. (Thanks to Kathy and Suzanna Danna.)

And this is Forney Grasshattery. (Thanks to BMH, that contest-hogging hog, and Lizardek.)