How to Write a Book

(First: Wednesday Advice Smackdown? What? It's Thursday. Why are you asking about Wednesday?)

(Second: Holiday hiatus, apparently.)

(Third: How to write a book in one week.)

1) Decide to write book.

2) Make some notes in a notebook. Lose notebook.

3) Take week off work.

4) Vow book will be written within this week, or at least substantial portions of it.

5) Find notebook. Drink wine.

Monday:

6) Is birthday! Cannot write book on birthday. Drag husband shopping and to Phantom of the Opera, because you are brat.

7) Discuss book over dinner and act really, really serious about it.

Tuesday:

8) Sleep in.

9) Start writing.

10) Decide that this is easy. Also decide that it is really, really cold.

11) Have husband call heating guys, because you are busy. With the writing. For real.

12) Realize house is messy. Decide to vacuum and organize closet before heating guys arrive.

13) After heating guys arrive, try to type one-handed while holding a really annoying howling dog who really wants to annoy heating guys.

14) Think of really amazing piece of dialogue while in the shower.

15) Completely forget amazing piece of dialogue 10 minutes later.

16) Realize that after book is done, you will have a lot of apologies to make to your friends and family.

17) Consider posting pre-emptive apology on Web site now; write birthday wrap-up post instead.

18) Decide to take a break at page 10.

Wednesday:

19) Start working on page 11.

20) Heating guys come back. Dog yaps. More of the same.

21) Realize you need to write an advice column and provide photos of expensive gifts to satiate online readers.

22) Realize that the week is more than half over and you have only written 11 pages.

23) Change font. 14 pages!

24) Watch Lost in Translation for inspiration of subtle character development and condition of human soul.

25) Realize entire book, idea and brain suck. Eat leftover pumpkin pie.

26) Go out for happy hour with friend. Discuss book, issue pre-emptive apology for composite-like character.

27) Drink wine.

Thursday:

28) Get out of bed when heating guys arrive at 9 a.m. once again.

29) Attempt to communicate with heating guys while unshowered, uncoffeed and wrangling the most annoying yapping dog in the entire world.

30) Re-read existing 14 pages. Huh. They don't suck as bad as they did yesterday.

31) Write this list so others can know your secret to writing 14 entire mediocre pages in one week.

32) Write the damn book already.

Happy Birthday, You Huge Freaking Pain in the Ass

Behold, the blank space of the unwritten entry!

So Christmas is over. My birthday is over. It was a glorious run. But now, it is over.

I am at home all this week, however, so I am not hitting the "oh shit I'm back at work and this is my life forever and ever" wall yet.

Instead, I am freaking out, because:

1) Our heat is not working. It is freeeeeeezing in here. Max and Ceiba have called a truce and are both leeching off my body heat under the covers.

2) Ceiba fell off the bed this morning and cried and limped and still seems to be walking funny but it could just be that she is cold.

3) I have not chosen winners for the Focker Swagathon, nor have I finished the playlist for my Amalah: The Album mix CD that will be the bonus prize for the winners because honestly, the Focker stuff is a pile of complete garbage.

4) I am trying to write a book. I have taken this week off for this express purpose. But I've hit the "six solid pages of literary gold followed by narrative implosion" wall that I hit every time I try to write something that is not:

   a) A really disorganized entry about assorted things I am freaking out about.

   b) List-related.

   c) Completely stupid.

So instead? Let's just talk about my birthday. Which was yesterday. I've been stressing to Jason for WEEKS about how I want to do NOTHING on my birthday except to relax, chill, veg out and etc. No parties, no friends, no fuss.

Jason: Well, that's good, because I wasn't planning a party and you don't have any friends.

Ha! I kid. But I really hate the Big Birthday Fuss, because honestly? I had no say in my arrival into this world and would rather be celebrated for actual accomplishments, like writing the next great American novel, or at least 3,165 words of it.

So I slept late, got breakfast in bed, re-admired my new Tiffany's necklace that Jason got for my birthday but I insisted on opening on Christmas, and then horribly abused Jason's good nature by responding to his offer to go see "any movie [I] wanted" by dragging him to The Phantom of the Opera.

(Have I ever mentioned that I have a horrible weak spot for horrible musical theater? I do. I own soundtracks, people. Original cast recording soundtracks!)

Jason, At The Theater: You sure you don't want to see Lemony Snicket? The Life Aquatic? Spanglish? Anything?

Amy, Digging In Her Birthday Girl Heels: Phantom. Of. The. Opera. There is singing! And melodrama! And then more singing!

Jason is so wonderful. He even refrained from killing me outright when I said (with great delight, as we taking our seats), "This movie is going to be so, so bad. I cannot wait."

And it was...well, it was not great. It was also three hours long, so it gave me tons of stuff to nitpick and overanalyze the rest of the day and show off my pretentious geekitude when it comes to Broadway musicals. And Jason LISTENED TO IT. All night! And he even NODDED. Like he CARED.

He also took me to dinner at Ceiba, the restaurant frpm whence our dog's name came from, and I got to wear all new clothes and carry my new sparkly black satin Coach bag and our menus said Happy Birthday Amy with like, three exclamation points and I got a very special birthday flan wish for dessert.

Amy, Peering Obnoxiously at the Next Table's Menus: Oh, it just says happy birthday on OUR menus. Not everybody's.

Jason: *sticks fork in eye*

Next year? I want a pony. Preferably one who can sing Broadway showtunes.

The Post-Christmas Pre-Birthday Drunkening

Merry Day After.

I can't give details on our Christmas Day right now, mostly because I'm a littloe bit drnuk. But tomorrow is my birthday! Like, in an hour! Happy birthday meeeeee. I will be 27. Which means I am still young and youthful, so suck it, older people. And younger people? Well, I probably make more money than you, so you can suck it too.

(druuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnke.)

OKay, enough typing about me rationalizing my birthday as being not that old even though, ogh my God, I am so in my late 20s and not totally world-famous yet, which blows.

HERE ARE (wHOOPs) some Christmas-y-ish photos to fill up some space. I am going to get more wine now. Or maybe some like, extra dry sherry, because I'm FUCKING OLD.

Amy's Mom + Craftiness - Real and Actual Grandchildren = Stockings For Pets

Cat + Catnip + Wee Stocking = We could help him get his head unstuck, but we'd rather just laugh and take pictures.

Christmas Tree + Wine + Tripod = The last time I'll do this damn mathematical-type photo caption, I promise

I got a My Little Pony for Christmas. Did you? I was going to keep it in the box for display purposes, but was overcome with desire to comb its hair within five minutes.

(I got lots more than this, though. Like Coach bags! Many things Coach! And Tiffany's! Because I am loved and spoiled.)

Good God, I fucking hate you. So very, very much.

I would hate you, but I'm too stupid to grasp the concept. Instead? I will just poop on the upstairs carpet.

 

Ceiba: I will save you!

Max: Hey HamsterDog, I hate this hat, but I hate you more, so fuck the fuck off, mm'kay?

Christmas is hard work. And I totally cashed Max's bag of catnip. Sweeet.

(I started this post at 11 p.m. on December 26th. It is now 12:38 a.m. on December 27th. So Happy Birthday to me, and also, photo essays are hell damn time consuming. Am too old to be wasting my life like this.)

Merry Christmas to Everyone Except the United States Postal Service

Christmas Eve, Zero Hour.

Still waiting on one last package from Amazon. I'm thinking it's not going to get here.

According to the USPS Web site, the package has not been seen or heard from since December 15th when it left the top secret Postman's Lair or whatever.

I sent out two frantically pissy emails: one to the USPS directly, and one to Amazon.

USPS response: Sucks to be you! We have no idea where your package is and frankly, don't think that's really our job. If it doesn't arrive after 30 days, you can go ahead and fill out Form A122-34 version 2F, available at all post offices in the Pacific Northwest, and we'll promise to look into it before next Christmas.

Amazon response: We are so sorry. REALLY sorry. Words cannot express how sorry we are. Seriously, we're like, crying over here. We have sent you a replacement order at no charge and commissioned a sherpa to guarantee delivery. Also, here is some ice cream and an animated "We're Sorry" e-card. Are we still friends?

God bless Amazon, and us, every one.

(Except, you know, the post office. Bah Bitch Humbug there.)

Fock This

There will be no Advice Smackdown today, because I have something better to write about. And you can just suck it if you don't think it's better, because you're wrong and stupid. Plus, there are prizes!

Last we wandered into some sort of surreal, this-does-not-happen-in-actual-real-life bonanza of blog material.

It was the after-party for a screening of Meet the Fockers, brought to you by Bud Lite. At a Ruby Tuesday's.

First, okay, yes. The Amalahs were at a Ruby Tuesday's. Am ashamed. But we were only there for the cheese fries and the beer. We had other reasons for going there, all of which make such perfect sense that if I wrote them all out you'd totally be blown away by our late-night munchie logic, but I won't write them out because this post is not about me and my eating habits.

This post is about all the notes I took on a napkin. The very first thing I wrote down?

SHUT. UP.

An argument had broken out at the bar regarding whether or not the cat and the dog in the movie were real or animatronic.

"Of course they were real! They looked so real! They couldn't make them so realistic if they weren't really real!"

"But there is no way they really flushed a dog down a toilet. There is just NO WAY."

"Hey, who else needs a cold and refreshing Bud Lite?"

The "party" consisted of five Bud Lite reps, two guys who may or may not have been a couple, and a group of four twentysomethings on a group date who all ordered bacon double cheeseburgers, except for one girl who got the salad bar but then ate all her boyfriend's fries.

We learned who the Bud Lite people were kind of by accident at first.

Swarmy Guy With Two Cell Phones & A Pager: So! Were you two at the movie? Wasn't it GREAT?

Amy: Um, no. We weren't at the movie.

Jason: *snorts*

Amy: Yeah, see, I hated Meet the Parents intensely.

Swarmy: You HATED Meet the Parents? Nobody hated Meet the Parents!

Amy: I know I'm alone in this opinion. That movie made me want to gouge my eyes out with a plastic spoon.

Swarmy: Well, you should still totally see Meet the Fockers. It was awesome!

Amy: I also hated Titanic.

Swarmy: *head explodes*

The Bud Lite people came laden with five boxes of Focker Swag, including beer coozies, keychains, T-shirts and Very Official & Authentic Movie Posters.

"That was the organizer I was just talking to, wasn't it?" I asked. "How much do I rock? Tell me that I rock."

"You are a rebel." Jason answered.  "Also, I think they were expecting a few more people."

The Official Bud Lite Focking Team wandered around the sparsely populated bar for awhile, pawning off coozies that nobody wanted and trying to get everyone to talk about how great the movie was and wasn't it so great that they got to see it FIRST, and let's all raise our glasses to toast the wonderful Busch family for making this all possible and being so great.

My napkin reads: Dudes. The movie opens in THREE DAYS. You are not special. You are not a unique snowflake. Shut the fock up.

(My napkin was wrong, actually, as the movie opened today. So these people had only gotten about a 12-hour jump on the rest of the country. So my point still stands, even though I clearly need to hire a fact-checker for all future napkin journalistic efforts.)

A redheaded Bud Lite girl who was not aware that I was blaspheming the good name of one-note-joke cinema came around and gave us coozies and keychains.

Napkin: Focking swag! Woot!

After the like, six attendees left, the Bud Lite people hung out to bitch about work and drink more Bud Lite and make seventeen trips to the bathroom each. Jason and I had pretty much moved on and were having a rollicking discussion about Fight Club (a movie I did not hate), and I was congratulating myself for the "unique snowflake" reference.

But, you know. The Bud Lite people were RIGHT THERE. It was hard not to overhear their conversations. Especially since those conversations seemed to be about:

1) Strip clubs. Attending and/or working in.

2) Whether or not some boss guy had kids, and whether or not they were ugly.

3) Whether or not some boss guy's kids were actually his own, because they were not ugly.

Redhead: Doesn't some boss guy remind you of that guy? Oh shit, you know who I'm talking about. That actor who was in the movie with the 12 kids? And the one with Queen Latifah? What the hell is his name?

Poor, poor Steve Martin. I'm so sorry. You're no longer the guy from The Jerk, Roxanne, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels or even Father of the Bride, for Christ's sake. You're no longer that wild and crazy guy with the arrow on your head. You're now that guy from Cheaper by the Dozen and that movie with Queen Latifah.

I'm sorry. I know it's your own fault, but I've read both Shopgirl and The Pleasure of My Company and still love you intensely. And I would have slugged Redhead for you if Jason had let me.

Swarmy: *tries to get his icy cold draft of Bud Lite into the promotional coozie*

Amy: *a little embarassed because she already tried that, and it didn't work*

Beer: *goes everywhere*

Swarmy: Hey there, can I grab a napkin from you?

Amy: Um. No. I need it. For. Stuff.

Next, the group started talking about some photo of Redhead when she was, apparently, all decked out in Bud Lite Ho Wear for another, more interesting event.

The word "cameltoe" was overheard. We checked out. The End.

But now? I currently posess two (2) Bud Lite/Meet the Fockers beer coozies, two (2) Meet the Fockers keychains that look suspiciously like the Star Trek logo, and three (3) Very Official & Authentic Meet the Fockers Movie Posters.

And one (1) very funny napkin of notes, in near-mint condition, except for one little part that Ceiba ate.

So to thank the good people at Anheuser-Busch for providing me with such scintillating entertainment, I'd like to help create some "buzz" for this Meet the Fockers film, because I think it's really important that we support quality cinema that may otherwise be overlooked by the Hollywood marketing machine.

Your challenge is to write the funniest damn comment involving the word "Focker," which I hear may be a small source of humor in the actual movie. From time to time. Okay, in every scene. So let's pretend we wrote the script and can make wacky Focker jokes 'til the cows come home because HA! It just never gets old.

Variations are allowed, including fock, focking and fockity. The rest is up to you. Stories, haikus, historical biography -- I really don't care. You may enter more than once, within reason. (Meaning don't make a focking nuisance of yourself.) Winners will be chosen by me and Jason will help with any tiebreakers. Prizes will be awarded as follows:

Grand Prize: The Almighty Napkin which contains AT LEAST one extra bonus joke that did not make it into the final post, one movie poster (autographed wittily by me, if you'd like, unless you hope to make millions off it on eBay), one coozie and one keychain.

Second Prize: One poster, autographed by me blah blah blah eBay, and one coozie.

Third Prize: The poster thing. Again.

Honorable Mention: A keychain. And the shame of defeat.

So get ready, get set, go fock yourselves!

The Christmas There Was No Fresh Basil

I found out late last week that a two of my many, many siblings were going to celebrate Christmas with my parents on Saturday. Jason and I went too, as I am unable to resist the prospect of early Christmas presents and maybe somebody would remember my birthday and maybe I would get money.

I don't think I've really written much about my family -- siblings in particular. There are two reasons for this.

1) They read this site.

2) They know lawyers.

But on Saturday, I was granted special permission to write all about our day together. There are three reasons for this.

1) They were drunk.

2) They would like to be famous and have people buy things off of their wish lists.

3) They were drunk.

Jason and I arrived to a great uproar of yells and applause and hugs and it was great to bask in the love of family and blah blah blah. Except then I realized they were mostly (okay, completely) excited because:

1) Jason was carrying a TiVo box.

2) I was carrying Ceiba.

3) They were drunk.

It was one p.m. in the afternoon, people. And the Corbetts had already Gone Wild and Gone Through about two bottles of wine. Awesome.

Let me introduce the cast.

Keith, my oldest brother. We find each other to be absolutely hysterical. We were both nearly hyperventilating over a recent episode of South Park, to the point that we couldn't actually SAY any actual quotes from the show, but we both KNEW what the other was trying to say and would lose it further.

AMY, STILL GOING ON AND ON ABOUT HER DAMN UGGS: Yes, it's all very Paris Hilton.

KEITH: HEE. HEE. Stupid, hee, Spoiled.

AMY: Stupid Spoiled Whore!

KEITH: Playset!

AMY: Hee. HEE HEE HEE. Mister Slave Hee.

KEITH: A whore-off! HAAAAA. HA.

AMY & KEITH: *die of laughter*

REST OF FAMILY: *frightened and confused*

William, Keith's son, my nephew (I know!). Eleven years old and smarter than you. Maintains that Jim Carrey is NOT the right actor to play Count Olaf, just no, and that his mother is making him see Polar Express and just blech, you know? Do they sell blindfolds at the concession stands?

AMY, AT DINNER TABLE: I think I have the giggles.

WILLIAM, AT OTHER END OF DINNER TABLE: No way. We totally didn't notice.

AMY, COLLAPSING INTO FURTHER GIGGLES: Hee hee hee. William needs a blog!

Jennie, my sister. We both enjoy expensive things and she knew the instant she I handed her a Sephora gift bag that I'd gotten her the stupidly-hard-to-find Chanel lip gloss that I'd praised to the skies last Christmas but didn't know the name of, so she'd spent all year going to stores trying to find a Lip Gloss With No Name.

JENNIE: You do not even know how excited this makes me. Also, I know how much these cost and YAY.

AMY: Ha! I know. And I have like, three of them in my purse. Brat.

JASON: Wait, how much do they cost?

AMY: Um. $12?

JENNIE: Heh. You dirty liar.

Jennie, Allie & Amy. If you are a Corbett, please insert your own "blond sandwich/windtunnel joke here because wow, those NEVER EVER GET OLD.

Jennie buys the best gifts ever, and was thrilled to learn that I still get dozens and dozens of Google search hits for "Care Bears Days-of-the-Week Thongs," which is what she got me last year.

Jennie found Ceiba a little "naughty" tee, which everybody said was an unfair label until she pooped on the stairs.

(Confidential to Amy's Mom: Yes, Ceiba really did love that dollop of whipped cream you gave her, but by any chance do you know how many more times I need to wash my left foot that stepped in doggie diarrhea at 2:30 a.m. on Saturday night before I can feel clean again? Should I use lye?)

Then there's Cary, Jennie's husband. Dedicated Amalah.com reader, so everybody say hi. Totally wants me to upload their wedding video to the site so y'all can see me as an eight-year-old junior bridesmaid with really bad hair.

AMY, MINUTES AFTER ARRIVING: No, I swear to God, Ceiba is NOT a chihuahua, so stop calling her that.

CARY: *creeps up, hands Amy glass of wine, departs*

I gave Cary William Shatner's new album and a songbook of Christmas carols for dysfunctional families, many of which Jennie and I tried to sing during dessert but no one paid us any attention. We tried singing louder but then everybody just walked off to play with the TiVo.

Allie, the child of Jennie and Cary, who is now sixteen, despite my repeated orders for her to stop with the growing already. Properly mortified by all other Corbetts, especially the ones who are all, "Have some wine! Stay out late! Ride in cars with boys!" Her mother and her aunt may be among the people who tell her this garbage.

I got Allie a baby blue Ugg backpack for Christmas. How totally cool am I? Cool, I know. Also radical.

Allie and I cleaned up the entire kitchen together, because it's her job at home and she's THAT GOOD OF A KID. I helped because my mom said I never cleaned up after dinner, even though it had been my job my ENTIRE LIFE and I ALWAYS DID IT, and now I was being SMEARED by my own mother at CHRISTMAS. So I got all huffy and went to load the dishwasher, because I'll SHOW THEM what a lazy teenager I am and one day I'll go blind from dishwasher detergent and THEN they'll all be sorry.

Speaking of my mom, she nearly wept with joy over her brand-new TiVo, and also her DSL. Both of which Jason had to set up for her, which meant we NEVER, EVER saw him the entire day.

AMY, THREE HOURS AFTER ARRIVING: Where's Jason?

MOM: Oh, I heard him calling the Verizon people because there was some sort of problem.

AMY: Did anyone take him up a glass of wine?

REST OF FAMILY: *horrified gasps*

AMY: I'm coming, baby! I'm so sorry! Red or white?

My mom cooked a huge meal for us, and was frantically throwing random hams into the oven at the last minute because THERE MIGHT NOT BE ENOUGH FOOD. She does this every year, and I used to laugh at her. But then I cooked several Thanksgiving and one Christmas dinners on my own and have learned that she can't help it, the oven gives off Crazy Rays to your brain that suddenly makes an 18-pound turkey not look nearly big enough to feed four whole people, so OH MY GOD I better defrost a pot roast and make another kind of salad.

MOM: I used your recipe for the potato casserole, but I didn't put the bread crumbs on top. I'm sorry.

AMY: Don't worry! I'm sure it will be just fine without the bread crumbs.

MOM: I also made coffee before you got here, but everybody drank it. I'm sorry.

AMY: It's okay! We'll kick their asses after dessert.

MOM: I can't find my wine glass markers! I've looked everywhere! I'm sorry.

AMY: Really, it's all right. I taped a big Christmas bow to Jennie's glass so she'll stop losing it. She's dumb sometimes.

MOM:  I made a tomato and mozzarella salad, but I don't have any fresh basil. I'm so sorry.

AMY: Well, now you've just totally RUINED Christmas, you know.

And my dad, who is still holding his role as Post-Christmas-Gift-Wrap-Disposal-Patrol-Dictator after all these years. Also loves his TiVo and had a CIVIL WAR Wishlist created in mere minutes. Thinks Amalah.com is the biggest possible waste of my time and talent, because y'all are just four or five dimwits who comment under different names.

AMY: Hey Dad, a literary agent emailed me. I'm going to write a book!

DAD: That's amazing! Wonderful! How did she get your email address?

AMY: Well, through the site.

DAD: *immediately suspicious that Amy has mistaken Viagra spam for a book deal*

God, I love them all so much. 

Give in to the Dark Side

GUESS WHAT!

Mine. All mine. Thank you, Internet. Specifically, thanks to Anyabeth, who abused her work priviledges in a reckless and glorious manner in order to track these wiley boots down for me.

Anyabeth: Shh. There's a pair of size 7 Sundance Uggs at this exact latitude and longitude. Go now, but make sure no one follows you. Ask for Charlie and tell him that the green chicken has entered the nunnery and he'll know what to do. Hurry! There's precious little time! This email will self-destruct in seven seconds.

Amybeth: I love you. Let's make out!

Anyabeth knows all sorts of insider shopping seekrits and ways to spend all your money. Which I did, as these boots were the very last purchase our credit card was able to handle, and it self-destructed in a puff of maxxed-out smoke soon afterwards.

Specifically, at the restaurant I made Jason take me to for the express purpose of showing off my butt-ugly boots.

"Hi, I'm a total snowbunny poseur. You can't see it because I can't hold the camera still for three solid seconds but my sweater is a hoodie that's trimmed in rabbit fur and even has two little furry pom-poms. Alert PETA, for I deserve to be smacked very hard."

Anyway. I heart my boots. They are orgasm-caliber comfy and obnoxiously trendy. I would now like the Internet to find me the matching messenger bag in Chestnut, but for free, as I have no money left at all.

"So does this mean I can take off the snowbunny sweater now? Also, please send me food, Mr. Internet, because my mom thinks fashionable footwear is more important than eating. Or shoes for Daddy, who gets nothing but faded old socks. I'm so going to take a crap in those boots."

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

FUCK. ALL. Y'ALL.

No, I don't really mean that. I'm projecting my anger towards the innocent Internet, but really, I think it deserves it today.

The morning thus far:

I woke up super-early after having a NIGHTMARE about the Wednesday Advice Smackdown. Questions were pouring in at breakneck speed, including one from my actual real-life bona fide Internet archenemy. About GRAMMAR. And I didn't know the answer. And Google wasn't working. And then more questions came and I woke up all in a panic and wondering how in the world I ended up with an Internet archenemy.

To calm my nerves, I went right over to Nordstrom.com to check the Ugg status, and lo and behold, they claimed to have the Sundance boot (the only one I like, as I maintain that the others are still kind of bleh) in size 7 in Sand, which is my second color choice so CLOSE ENOUGH.

But Nordstrom LIED. They are not available. They are already gone. I cannot have them, ever, and it is like, 25 degrees today and I'm cold and also tired because I WOKE UP SO DAMN EARLY.

Also, do you think I got to work on time today? Or even early? No, I did not, because some stupid people insisted on getting into an accident this morning. (I can call them stupid because they were all fine and standing around on the curb sipping their Starbucks and staring as the tow truck loaded up their huge-ass suburban assault vehicles and I glared from behind a police car because some BITCH would NOT LET ME MERGE, LIKE I WAS SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHICH LANE THE ACCIDENT WAS IN AND PLAN MY MORNING ACCORDINGLY.)

*breathes*

Stupid people. And stupid styrofoam cups at work that don't fit into the complicated coffee pod machine we use so I cannot get coffee because the manual one is being used for DECAF and JESUS, even the car accident people got their damn coffee this morning.

So. Who's up for some advice from Ms. CaffeinelessCrankyPants?

Amy,

So which would you really rather have: a pair of Uggs or something from Tiffany's?

-Jason

Oh! Well. DUH.

Dear Amy,

For some inexplicable reason, I find myself reading Dear Abby in my local newspaper each day (even though the advice that she gives is clearly inferior to yours).  I find it oddly relaxing to read other people's inane problems while I eat my toast and jam in the morning.

But, speaking of inane problems, this letter (I swear, I'm not making this shit up)took the cake:

DEAR ABBY: I am 13 and in seventh grade and I have a big problem. I don't know my multiplication tables. I'm afraid if I tell my teacher, she'll get mad. What should I do? -- AFRAID IN COACHELLA, CALIF.

Now, instead of berating Afraid in Coachella, yelling "haven't you grasped the concept of rote memorization?", telling AIC to learn how to count on her fingers really quickly, or asking "why the hell are you wasting your time writing me instead of, oh, LEARNING THE DAMN TABLES?" (all of which I probably would have done), Abby offered the following advice:

DEAR AFRAID: Tell your teacher NOW, before you fall further behind. Explain that you need extra drilling, and that you sincerely want to master the problem. The squeaky wheel gets the grease -- and your teacher won't be angry.  Teachers are there to help you learn, including extra help when you have difficulty with a subject.

I'm wondering how you would have answered the question.

Also, do you know what 8 x 4 is?  I can never remember that one.

--Martha

Dear Afraid in Coachella, if that is your real name, and I doubt it:

It's letters like yours that killed Ann Landers, you know.

Because hi, YOU MORON. I bet you wrote this letter hoping that I'd be all, "Oh, you POOR DEAR. You clearly have a learning disability that is totally not your fault and you should be excused from school altogether because lo, how hard it must be for you."

Well guess what, bitch. Dear Abby didn't get her damn coffee this morning and is going to tell you exactly where to shove your multiplication dilemma.

Up your ASS, that's where! HA! I'm clever.

Have you ever heard of flash cards? Or, I don't know, those activity books they sell at the Wal-Mart for 3-year-olds? I mean, you can do the damn nines on your fingers and the rest you just need to memorize like every other child in the history of childom has done. You know how you know like, every lyric on your 98 Degrees album? That's called memorization. You can do it! But I won't help, and your poor teacher has bigger problems to worry about than you, what with all the guns and gangs in schools today.

So I advise you to take a big dose of shut the fuck up followed by a little do it yo' damn self. And don't ever write me again, you fool retard.

Love,

Abby v.2.0

dear amalah.

i think my baby is sick. she makes me hold her when i really need to go peepee and she keeps licking at my boobs, leaving  wet spots on my shirt. do i deserve a present-- such as a peppermint mocha from starbucks even though i have no money?

your friend,
the sarcastic journalist

EW. Do children really do that? Yuck. Maybe I don't want one. Maybe I would prefer something from Tiffany's.

As for the peppermint mochas, a word of caution. Once upon a time, my friend and I were waiting in line outside a big-deal big-big-screen movie theater in D.C. for one of the Harry Potter movies. We decided to get some Starbucks as it was cold. And we were also bored.

I got a gingerbread latte and she got the peppermint mocha. La la la.

So the whole time during the movie I kept smelling Altoids. I figured someone around us must have an Altoid Problem and kept eating them and DAMN, that's a pungent smell. I glanced at my friend who was also sniffing the air and we kind of laughed, like, DUDE, I'm sure your breath is fine by now.

It turns out that no one had an Altoid problem. The peppermint smell was coming from MY FRIEND. And not her breath. Her SKIN. The oil from the syrup was oozing out her pores and she smelled minty from head to toe and apparently did for the rest of the day. That ain't right, people. Peppermint is a delightful smell and taste TO A POINT, but once you're literally sweating minty freshness it's a tad nauseating.

So I don't believe a peppermint mocha is the solution to your boob-licking problem. The baby will probably be all, "Ooh! Mommy tastes like candy!" and go all crazy with the licking...only to throw up on you once she realizes you are perspiring toxic levels of icy cool freshness.

Go chew some garlic instead.

Queen of all things pretty and presentable,

Please help! Am attending a wedding this weekend. Have cute dress, cute shoes, and even cute purse. But? Am in desperate need of some sort of cleavage. Or something. All the push-up bras in the world don't seem to be helping out my cause. And, while my collar bones are great they are also sharp and might cut someone standing nearby. How can I obtain even the teeniest bit of voluptuousness in the next three days (without drinking straight-up buttermilk, I mean)?

~Nola~

ps: Any thoughts on how I should wear my hair?

(Hmm, I seem to remember requesting that the dwindling number of men in the audience send in some manly questions about beer and trucks to offset all the hair talk. Instead, this week is the Boob Advice Smackdown.)

And hi! You sent this question last week! Which means the wedding is over and your hair was done and your boobs were hoisted without any advice from me.

And yet the world is still spinning on its axis. Hmm.

But! There is always a next time, right? Damn people with their damn weddings. So from one flat chest to another, here are my top suggestions.

1) The Angels Uplift Bra.

2) The Very Sexy Seamless Push-Up Strapless Bra.

3) Duct tape. And no, I am not kidding. And no, I am not providing how-to photos. But yeah. Use one piece across both boobs, sort of underneath and around the sides until they're all pressed together. The key is to still wear a padded bra over your taped boobs and to also be very, very drunk by the time you have to rip the tape off.

Or you could just learn to be comfortable with your body, flat chest and all, but let's be honest -- what are the chances of that actually happening?

Dear Amalah,

I need some advice on furniture.  My fiance and I are getting rid of a giant old desk (which I love, but really, is way too big for our condo), and making room for an expanded living room which will feature two loveseats (a big improvement from our current one).

Our current loveseat is an ugly, flowery piece of poopy-caca inherited from my parents, which we've slip-covered with nice taupe-ish fabric.

Should we a) buy two new matching loveseats, b) buy two new loveseats in different (yet complimentary) colours, c) keep the current loveseat and add a new one in a matching or complimentary colour?

The current loveseat is a sofabed one, and is heavy as monkeylovin' hell.  I'd like to get non-sofabed ones, as they are much easier to handle when moving to a new place, but then people can't stay over as easily (it's a one-bedroom condo).

So, really, this was a two-part question, and perhaps had more cohesion than necessary for the W.A.S., but hey, I just type the words that I think of.

Thanks, and all the best,
Joey.

I had to write out actual real-life notes to keep this question straight. I work hard! This is what I've written:

Ugly sleeper loveseat -> slipcovered -> want second loveseat -> two new ones or just one, lose the sleeper or no -> heavy + guests = have these people ever heard of a couch?

My head hurts now. Firstly, what's the deal with the loveseats? Is the room too small for a real sofa and maybe one of those big chairs for when you want to snuggle? Because I'm concerned that the two loveseats will mean the two of you will each stretch out seperately, which is bad for togetherness and also your back, unless you're both really, really short.

But if you must do the two loveseats, I'd advise that you ditch the slipcovered one, unless you can send me a picture of it and prove that it doesn't look like the ugly couch Jason and I slipcovered when we first got married. Since we were beyond poor, we didn't really have any better options, and thought it looked great.

It did not look great. We didn't even have the money for a real slipcover, but instead spent a whole $50 at Linens n' Things for one of those pre-made slipcovers. I get twitchy just thinking about that couch. When we finally had a little more money we bought a floor sample sofa that, while slipcovered, was at least professionally slipcovered, and we tossed the old old couch off our apartment balcony and into the parking lot.

And some long-time readers may remember what became of the floor sample slipcovered sofa, or "Old n' Busted," as it came to be known.

So. Get rid of the old loveseat when you get rid of the desk. Buy two new loveseats in a matching neutral fabric. Then get a lot of constrasting fun pillows in different yet complimentary colors and patterns. Try to get one of the loveseats in a sleeper style, but only if you are paying other people for delivery and only if you actually, honestly, deep down in your heart WANT overnight guests or if there is a perfectly lovely and reasonable hotel nearby.

Fuck Tony Robbins and Dear Abby. I gots all the life-changing advice you need right here at advice@amalah.com, suckahs.

Tantrums, Retractions & Dogs In Sweaters

Blah blah blah insert insincere apology for not posting here and random non-word stress sounds i.e. gaaaaaaaaaaaaah, aaaaeeeeeeeiiii, etc.

ANYWAY. It's almost Christmas, people, whattaya want from me? All I've been doing is shopping and cleaning and drinking.

Tonight I went to the MALL, like, in the SUBURBS and it was exhausting and a little frightening. Some of that was my own damn fault, as I was wandering aimlessly through an unfamiliar mall, without ever looking at the directory, in three-inch heels. Because I am a MORON.

Some of it was NOT my fault, but the fault of my very first purchase, which was much heavier than I anticipated and set off the alarms in EVERY STORE AFTERWARDS. The alarms would go off as I ENTERED the store, and by store number four I was like, "HELLO STORE, I AM A PRE-EMPTIVE SHOPLIFTER. THAT WAS YOUR WARNING." Only not. Mostly I just pretended that I didn't hear the alarms, which was really cool and believable.

Luckily, most of the mall employees felt kind of sorry for me, as I was clearly out of my element, wandering around in stilettos and an oversized clutch purse with a purchase possessed by the store-alarm devil. It's kind of sad when you realize the 16-year-old working the register at a woefully understocked Waldenbooks feels sorry for you.

Also, I would like to retract previously-made statements made previously on this site regarding Ugg Boots. I said they were ugly. And I made some tired Ugg/Ugh/Uggly joke too, for which I apologize for on the basis of humor.

But mostly I would like to apologize to Ugg Boots, because I misjudged them. I saw some very frumpy-looking people wearing them and looking extra frumpy, so I was all, ew, frumpy fashion victims.

But now I like them. Shut up. Am fickle.

Amy: Ew. Am so sick of those goatherding boots or whatever.

Jason: Really? I think they're cute.

Amy: Really? Oh. Me too!

BUT CAN I FIND THEM ANYWHERE? I CANNOT. Size 7 Sundance Uggs have vanished off the face of the retail earth, only to be found on eBay, marked up beyond belief. Or you can order them now and receive your pair in like, four months, when it's 80 degrees.

Uggs are now the Cabbage Patch Kids of 2004 and I am late to the early-morning toystore riot. And my heels are pinchy.

On a completely unrelated note that I remembered just now, someone at work called me pumpkin this morning. "Pumpkin." I call Ceiba pumpkin, because she is small and squishy and stupid, and also the color of pumpkin pie. I do not believe I am any of those things.

Amy: Dude, I just got called "pumpkin" by some guy. The hell?

Anonymous Yet Wise Source: When someone calls you babe, they want to fuck you.  When someone calls you sweetie, they want you to do something for them.  When someone calls you honey, they like you. When someone calls you pumpkin? Unless you are their two-year-old daughter - you must turn and run.

Speaking of that little furry slice of pumpkin pie (ew), here she is in her new Christmas sweater.

Her Nana sent it to her. I think Nana would like an actual grandchild. What do you think?

Cheese and Cracking

I have decided that I am entirely too popular. I need to piss some people off. (Maybe you!)

I had some kind of party or get-together or gathering or box social to go to every night this week, which seriously cramps my TV-watching lifestyle. Add in the fact that my JOB is INSANE, my blogging (gah! journaling! weblogging! diarying!) lifestyle is like, dead. Waaaay down on the list of things I need to do, just below writing an angry letter to TiVo for recording fucking NORTH SHORE instead of The Apprentice because it screwed up the channels or something, which meant when I finally got home after a shindig with all my jet-setting friends last night and went to watch The Donald and I was confronted with SHANNEN DOHERTY.

(Although last night was super-fun, as it involved a lot of cheese, tequila, gossip and me schooling a group of coworkers on the term "fuck buddy.")

Still. Damn TiVo.

(Confidential to TiVo: I don't mean that! I love you! You can record tonight's repeat episode! I forgive you! Come back!)

Also, I am gaining weight like it is going out of style. Another reason I need to piss off some friends so they stop inviting me places where I can eat lots and lot of cheese.

Oh! And for the first time since the Great Amalah Brain Meltdown of 2004, there is a wee tiny chance that I could be pregnant, but I'm probably not, but I can't stop thinking that I might be, which is driving me crazy and also to tequila, but then I'm all guilty that I'll end up with a little web-footed frog baby instead of this precious little thing that makes me weep every time I look at it.

(Confidential to self: Please stop with the run-on sentences. They are called PERIODS. Use them. Love them. Because you'll probably be getting one of your very own in another week or so because YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT, YOU BITCH ASS CRAZY GIRL.)

(Confidential to all concerned readers: I'm cured! Off the Crazy Pills and into therapy where I've determined that my problems are actually emotional [whee!] and not so much with the chemical, and I was relying on the pills too much and also labeling myself as "sick" thus taking a passive role in my recovery and blah blah blah psychobabble blah. Anyway, I can safely get pregnant without giving birth to a Prozac baby, but I'm not going near the Clomid for a long, long time because DAMN, that shit messed me up and GOOD, so we're doing commando cycles with the possibility of pregnancy falling somewhere in the one in seventy gazillion chances range.)

(Again with the run-ons! I blame the cheese.)

Oh, and ask me how many Christmas gifts I have bought people. And how many cards I have sent out. If you guessed ZERO, you are correct and have won a personalized non-denominational holiday card from me, which you will receive sometime next June.

And I'm sorry for that. Except that I'm not, because I really would rather you be mad at me and stop asking me to dinner on good TV nights. But not TOO mad, for the sake of my little cheese baby, who will need gifts and things. She likes tequila.