Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Our office Christmas party was yesterday, and I had such high entry-related hopes for it. But alas, it was very tame, and no one fell down, not even me.

Although there was a very dangerously slippery-looking dance floor, and my friend Sprocketeer kept daring me to go sliding across it on my knees while singing, "LET'S GET THIS STAR-AR-TED." I declined, but am still laughing at that mental image today.

But today is Wednesday, which means it's time to smack some advice down. So let's get this star-ar-ted with a question from Tonya:

Dearest Queen Amalah –

I have been wrestling with the idea of starting my very own blog.  I have had a Live Journal thingy going for a couple of months now with very little traffic (although I have read your entry on how to up your traffic, therefore the shameless plug of my own journal here).  My writing is nothing like that of the great Amalah, but there are things I feel I could offer the Internet community.  Like my cat!  The Internet NEEDS to see pictures of my cat!  Currently it is more of a weight loss focused journal.  But some day my husband and I would to travel down that road from “Childless & Happy About It, Hence All the Drinking” to “Trying to Conceive” to “Can You Believe What The Little Terror Did Last Night?”  Not to mention that I have a laptop at home & cable Internet, ensuring a drunk post or two.  My question is, what is the best way to go about setting up a blog?  Do I go to Typepad or attempt Moveable Type?  Or should I just start with Blogger or some other like service?

Also, and more importantly, how do I come up with a good tag line for my blog?  It’s kind of like giving yourself your own nickname or catchphrase, something I’m not sure of how to go about doing.

Your Loyal Subject,

Tonya

You should definitely start your own blog, but only if you promise not to be better at it than me. Also promise to not call it a blog, because I hate that word.

"Blog: Because Web Log Is Two Letters Too Many!"

(Heh. That would be a good tagline for your site. But too bad I thought of it first.)

Ahem. What? Oh. Your site. I'm partial to TypePad, because it gives you all the features of Movable Type without all the "HTML" and the "code" and the "make one mistake and fuck up your entire site forever" hassles. Plus, you don't need to install anything or find a hosting provider and stress about your server sharing bandwidth with some freaky porn site that involves clowns and pies.

But you do need to pay money, which is why a site through Blogspot might be better for you. I have two problems with Blogspot sites, because I am a Snooty Whore:

1) BLOGspot. There's that word again, and now it sounds like something you sneezed all over your pants.

2) TypePad and MT let you have your own jazzy little domain name, as opposed to www dot bloggityblogblogblog dot blogspot dot com.

(Wait, I lied. I have more than two problems.)

3) The comments suck. SUCK! I don't WANT to comment anonymously or log into the fake Blogger account I created just to avoid having to comment anonymously. I want to comment so all your readers will click on my link and go, "Hey, this site is even better than the one I was just reading! Awesome!" Blogger comments defeat me here.

4) Standard templates. There are some cool ones, but you're sharing them with 800 gajillion other blogs. (Although the same problem applies to the basic TypePad account, so pony up the money for a Pro subscription and you can CSS your little heart out or pay someone like me lots of money to design it for you.)

5) There are some CRAZY, CA-CA-CRAZY, BITCH FOOL ASS CRAZY people with Blogspot blogs. I fear it attracts them. Perhaps Blogger offers discounted broadband to insane asylums or something. I mean, I was just looking at a site the other day that looked  like Crazy vomited all over Blogspot and this site contained everything that didn't make it into the toilet.

But it's free. And easy. And also free, so you don't need to be like me and despair over your bandwidth overages and worry about having to sell out and get Google ads or offer Queen of Everything trucker caps or something.

(Although perhaps my problems will all be solved now that I've gone and bashed on Blogger and I will have no more readers, ever. For I am bitch. Also the Blogger people might come break my kneecaps.)

Amalah,

For my birthday I was given Sebastian Potion 9.  I am to assume this is some sort of hair stuff, as I got it from a friend who works in a salon.  Have you heard of this, and if so, in your unerring hair wisdom, could you tell me what the heck to do with it?

-Heather

I have not a clue. I've never used it, but according to the Sebastian people, it will fix everything that is wrong with your hair and also program your VCR. It appears to be either a hair moisturizer or de-oilifier or volumizer or de-frizzer or shinifier or split-end-mender or magic potion of love. Or all of the above.

Here's my Universal Advice for Mysterious Hair Products. On a non-important-day when you have no plans whatsoever, pour a small amount in your palm, rub your hands together and then run your fingers through towel-dried hair from roots to ends. Comb through. Style as desired, squint at reflection in mirror and declare it the Best Hair Day You Ever Had.

Or get back in the shower and re-shampoo if your hair looks like shit.

Amalah,

THERE ARE NO SEPHORA STROES IN VANCOUVER! Though I just found out there's one about an hour twenty minutes from me in Washington State. But before I drive all that way, have you smelled Peony Fleur de Sephora? Is it very pretty? I heart peonies. Do I want this fragrance? What other pretty, light & flowery and/or citrusy fragrances do I want? I have and like Clinique Happy (I KNOW; massive popularity makes it less likeable, but what can I say?)

I've also LOVED Calvin Klein's Eternity for, like, ever, but I've never gotten any and I've wondered if liking it puts me into the category of Total Fragrance Dorkness. I mean, Eternity was the "it" girl for a while in high school, along with Colors de Benetton, Tribe! (Barf), and Ex·cla·ma·tion! (Double barf). I feel the same way about Sunflower by Elizabeth Freaking Arden; like it, sometimes love it, but does that make me an Eau de Loser? Am I a total fragrance dorkwad? What do I do?

Help me Amalah-Wan-Kenobi, you're my only hope!

Totally Ignorant

Gah! Colors de Benneton! Ex·cla·ma·tion! Sunflowers! You are looking at my adolescent fragrance hall of shame. (Along with Drakkar Noir, which every single boyfriend I had wore, so I would always get this weird feeling while making out with Boyfriend v.3.2 that I was back with Boyfriend v.2.1 who always reminded me of Boyfriend v.1.0. Yew.)

Oh, and this one time I got a free tiny wee sample of Lancôme's Trésor, and I made it last for three years. And then there was the Tommy Girl, like, decade.

I've never smelled Peony, so I will ignore that aspect of your question entirely and tell you about the perfumes I currently wear. (Amalah Stalker Wannabes, sharpen your pencils.)

Marc Jacobs. Yummy and properly expensive and since I love Marc's clothes and handbags so much I have brand loyalty to buy his perfume. (Which I'm sure he PERSONALLY created in his lab, spending hours and hours perfecting the balance of gardenia and musk. Marc! Marry me!) This perfume has flowery undertones with some spiciness. Or something. It smells pretty and makes Jason kiss my neck a lot. I would very much appreciate the Shimmer Body Powder, in case anyone was wondering what to buy me for no special reason.

Ralph by Ralph Lauren. This is my "casual" perfume. I cannot explain the distinction, but every woman needs at least one dressy fragrance and one casual fragrance. Although her decision to wear one instead of the other may have nothing to do with her wardrobe or her plans for the day. All women out there understand, I'm sure. This perfume is citrusy yet sweet and reminds me of the beach. It also gets my neck and cleavage area a lot of attention from Jason. Lucky bastard.

Got questions? Send them to advice@amalah.com and then wipe that fool milk mustache off your face.

Stupid Girl

I think I may need to follow Doxie's lead and create a category like her "Times I Fell Down." My category can be "Times I Did Stupid Things That Resulted In Injury to Myself, Or Else Just Public Embarrassment."

With that in mind, let's recap the weekend.

Stupid Thing #1

Friday night, I fell out of a cab. On the WAY to dinner, pre-wine, pre-anything. I do not know how or what or why. I just did.

Stupid Thing #2

We went to see The Incredibles on Saturday. A matinee, because we are trying to pretend that we like children.

"Kids are great! Wow, what spirit! What energy! What...brats. Shut UP, child. Why doesn't this movie theater serve beer? I'd probably like these kids if I had some beer."

Anyway. We followed the (small, screaming, monstrous) crowd into the theater and sat down. The previews were atrociously kiddified, and included a movie about a plucky zebra who wants to be a racehorse and features the voices of Snoop Dogg, David Spade and Frankie Muniz. I wish to God I was making this up.

(Although the trailer for Fat Albert made me laugh pretty damn hard, but again, I remind you that I am Very Stupid.)

ANYWAY. The movie starts, and I'm confused when we see the Nickelodeon SPLAT logo instead of the Pixar logo with the adorable desk lamp. Then there's some non-animated guy on some non-animated boat, and I'm thinking that I've been grossly misinformed about this movie.

Yet I DO NOT COMPREHEND what has happened until the fool CREDITS start rolling and we hear...

WHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO lives in a pineapple under the seeeeeeaa.....

"Grab your coat!" I hiss to Jason, "We're in the fucking Spongebob movie!"

"Shit!" He said. "What the fuck?"

(Yes, clearly we are ready to have children.)

We made it to the right theater in time, only missing part of some odd little Pixar short about a bald hopping sheep and a jackalope that may or may not have been voiced by John Goodman or by someone who really wanted to sound like John Goodman, only more cowboyish. Either way, it was weird. The Pixar people are on drugs. The end.

I can include this story in my Times I Did Stupid Things That Resulted In Injury to Myself, Or Else Just Public Embarrassment Category because this morning, while regaling a coworker with this story, I got a little too animated and did a big dramatic chair-swing at the "Jason, grab your coat!" part and smacked my knee on the side of my desk. Hard.

But I tried to act like I didn't and kept going with the story until I realized that there was blood seeping through my pants. At this point I had to admit to my coworker that I had perhaps fatally injured myself and would he please go get me a band-aid, some ice and some vodka.

Stupid Thing #3

I have seriously yet mysteriously injured my lower back. Considering that I do absolutely nothing strenuous at all, ever, I became convinced that I was dying of kidney failure.

(In my defense, I had serious Kidney Issues as a child and was forever being hospitalized with infections and blah blah increased risk of renal failure pee in this cup and allow us to insert tubes where tubes shouldn't go but it's okay because your mom is going to buy you a Pound Puppy when you get home but first let me rap you on your poor infected kidneys some more.)

(Also, WebMD is perhaps the most terrifying Web site on the planet, just behind this one.)

So I spent much of the weekend rapping on my back and moaning and preparing for death, but I'm pretty sure now that I'm going to live and that I just pulled something, most likely during sex. Sex! Hi, I am ninety years old.

Or maybe from falling out of that cab. Either way, I'm installing a damn handrail in my shower before I break a hip.

Stupid Thing #4

I clipped Max's back claws. By myself. He did not enjoy this. Ow.

Stupid Thing #5

In spite of Stupid Thing #3, I decided on Sunday night that the Old n' Busted Couch had to go. That. Very. Instant. I believe it was about 10 p.m. Someone in our building had abandoned a cheap and ugly-ass armoire on the curb, which you aren't allowed to do, otherwise Old n' Busted would have been deposited there months ago. But look! Someone else was breaking the rules! It was dark out! No one will see! Everyone will blame the armoire people! It's the perfect crime!

Perfect except for the hauling-a-big-ass-couch-down-three-flights-of-stairs-in-the-dark part. And the injured back part. But we succeeded! We have one couch and one couch only in our living room! And it only took six months!

But dang it, my back hurts. Put me in a home.

amalah: Jase?

jason: yep?

amalah: what are those things called that you plug in and they get hot?

jason: a hot plate?

amalah: no, no, you lie on them

jason: like a lie detector?

amalah: no, no, for your back! for your pain! you lie DOWN on them and they are like pads that get hot, but not those sticky ones from the drugstore.

jason: a heating pad?

amalah: right! but what are they CALLED?

jason: you know, I think I might work late tonight.

Stupid Thing #6

I let TiVo use my Tom Hanks Wish List against me and record a whole slew of Bosom Buddies episodes. This is a very, very bad show. Also stupid. Like, Zebra Racehorse Stupid.

And I laughed my fool head off and got myself a damn season pass. Help. I'm old, falling apart, senile and have horrible taste in television.

But I only have one couch in my living room. And I'm so going to get one of those heating plate pad things and then I'll be back in action and ready for my next fall down a flight of stairs, or something.

One Week

Amy’s week, as told through a series of vignettes, sentence fragments and exclamation points.

MONDAY

Hello, this is <awesome cool magazine>, we just love your site and think it would be awesome cool if you submitted an essay or two. We will pay you actual money. Let us know.

Amy: SQUEE!

Amy: <debilitating writer’s block>

Amy: SHIT!

Hello, this is <all your readers>, where are you? Why haven’t you written anything? Why don’t you love us? Fucking lazy bitch.

Hello, this is <your job, dumbass>. You really need to get a move on those eleventy hundred Special Reports that print on Friday, especially the ones you HAVE NOT EVEN STARTED ON. We pay you actual money, but only because we assume that occasionally you do actual work.

TUESDAY

Hello, this is <your hair>. I am ugly! So are you! Frizz! Frizzfrizzfrizz!

Hello, this is <a soon-to-be-published actual author>, I just love your site and think it would be awesome cool if you pitched a novel or two to some literary agents I know. They could give you actual fame and make all your stupid high school friends wicked jealous. Let me know.

Amy: SQUEEEEEEEE!

Amy: <panic, writer’s block, self doubt and a loss of narrative ability>

Amy: SHIT!

Amy: Stay away from me tonight, for I need to Write.

Jason: Bah. Boring.

Amy: I must Write! I can do this! I have talent! I have a car accident near-death experience! Comedy GOLD!

Jason: Fine. I will watch Star Trek reruns all night.

Amy: <blanks>

Jason: Are you done yet?

WEDNESDAY

Hello, this is <8:30 in the morning>. Yes, I know this is early to be at work already, but you’ll get lots done and maybe be able to leave a little early and walk your dog before it is pitch-black and all the crazy rapists are hiding in the bushes! Have a good day!

Hello, this is <special report #6>. Why haven’t you started writing me yet? I need to be at least 12 pages. Oh, and I need to be done before all the other special reports for some reason that is complicated. So that means tomorrow. Have a good day!

Phone: Ring Ring!

Amy: This is Amy.

Phone: Who?

Amy: Amy. Storch.

Phone: Nooo, I don’t think so.

Amy: Yes. Yes, I am quite sure.

Phone: Where is Betsy?

Amy: Who?

Phone: What?

Amy: There is no Betsy at this extension. There is actually no Betsy at this company.

Phone: Extension?

Amy: What?

Phone: I didn’t dial an extension. Who is this?

Amy: Amy! Amy Storch! Not Betsy!

Phone: Fine, whatever. Click!

Amy: THE HELL?

Hello, this <Yahoo!>. We heart Snarkywood! We will make you famous! Sorry about the whole bandwidth thing and not giving you a heads’ up about your Important Editorial Mention. But still. You rock! Meow!

Hello, this is <6:30 in the evening>. So much for leaving on time! So much for seeing your family ever again! So much for the Advice Smackdown, which I know you’re starting to get just the tiniest bit tired of but will hang over your head every Wednesday for the rest of your natural life! Mwa ha ha!

Amy: <at home, Writing feverishly>

Jason: More writing?

Amy: Cannot. Talk. Must. Give. Fake. Advice.

Jason: I want pizza. Let’s go out for pizza!

Amy: No time for food! I must Write! Am Writer!

Jason: I bet they’ll give you free wine again.

Amy: Let’s go! Pizza pizza!

THURSDAY

Amy: Today I will get to work early again! And be productive! Will make Special Reports my bitch. Bitches! Plural! Proper grammar!

Hello, this is <Ceiba>. Hi! Baby ate Kitty Kat’s food and now not feel good. Baby might need to poop. No! Need to play with sock! No! Need to poop! Here! On sock! And carpet. Wah. Is sticky.

Amy: <gets to work very late>

WORK WORK WORK WORK SPECIAL REPORTS WRITING WORK WORK CRY.

Hello, this is <your sweater>. I am so pretty and soft! But guess what! I am 10% angora which means I like to fuzz! Fuzzfuzzfuzz! All over your black pants! You look very stupid now.

Amy: I promised my readers that I would finish the Advice Smackdown today. But I didn’t! I must do it now! But I am tired and not creative. I suck.

Jason:  I think maybe you need to chill.

Amy: Okay. Please reheat me some stuffing.

Hello, this is <Ivana from The Apprentice>. I totally got my ass fired just to make your week. You are so welcome.

FRIDAY

Hello, this is <Ceiba>. Baby still pooping all sticky. Also pee! On bathroom floor for some reason. You clean up now.

Amy: <gets to work very late again>

Special Reports: <still not done>

Print deadline: <looming>

Writing career: <stagnating>

Entry gimmick: <wearing thin>

New black boots: <rock my world>

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Gah! Work! Excuses! Long lines at Nordstrom's when I went out to buy socks for the poor children that my office collects socks for and I'm not even going to go into that! Anyway!

The Smackdown is late, and as of this moment it is incomplete. Jason is whacking me with the TV remote and whining and waving his hand in front of the computer screen because he wants to go out for dinner. NOW. NOWNOWNOWNOW.

So here are two questions. Two or three more to come later, AFTER dinner, AFTER wine. So check back! (Unless there are already four or five questions posted when you are reading this, which means you have ripped a hole in the space-time-blog continuum and you should run for your life.)

AMY - STOP TYPING I WANT PIZZA WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR DUMB ADVICE. LOVE, JASON

My Dearest Amalah, Who I Trust Has The Answers To All Of My Problems:

I recently bought the most beautiful new black suede boots. I am smitten with them.  They fit me perfectly in every way, but are more than just a wee bit snug when I zip up the top inch or so near my knees.

Now, I am aware that my butt and thighs might be considered "problem areas" by some and that they could use a little bit of work, but I was heretofore ignorant of the fact that my calves could be lumped into that same category.  I've always been under the impression that I have lovely, somewhat shapely calves, even possibly THIN by my relatively judgmental standards.

What to do?  I've worn the beautiful boots several times, and this problem isn't going away.  And I'm NOT giving the boots up.  Have you seen how beautiful and perfect they are?  I have been searching for them for years.

Do they make garters for calves?  Or control calf pantyhose?  Or am I just doomed to a life of numb lower extremities?  Any advice would be welcome.  As long as it doesn't involve telling me to diet or exercise or stop drinking wine, as those concepts are fundamentally opposed to my central belief system.

-Martha

(Before I get to Martha's question, let me revisit my own boot dilemma. Yes, I am taking them to get repaired this weekend. They are too pretty. Plus, I am not that wasteful and spoiled. In the meantime, I remain in mourning for them, wearing all black. Because black matches the brand new boots I just bought.)

And yes, Martha, you'll want to click on that link. Same damn boots, only in crocodile. So I can personally attest to their beauty, grace and lovely table manners.

But maybe we should switch, because the crocodile presents the opposite problem -- I have extra space through the ankle and at the top. I worry they look clunky, but like you, I love them too much to care and would sooner pad my ankles with tissues like a bra than send them back.

(And I'm not implying that my calves are twigs and yours are tree trunks. The boots are different. Clearly, this is all Ralph Lauren's fault, and he owes us free clothes for our troubles.)

Anyway, try buying knee socks from the girls' department. They'll be tight, but it will be an evenly distributed tightness (rather than a tight pinching just under your knee). This should be more comfortable. Or it will just make your entire leg completely numb below the knee. Can you live with that?

Yeah, I thought so.

Dear Amy aka The Queen of All-

Is it appropriate to drink on an airplane, and if so, how much?  More importantly, how much is too much to drink on the 7:30 from San Fran. to St. Louis?

-Stu

Appropriate? Good God man, it's necessary. Have you seen Castaway? Lost? ALIVE? With all the plane crashes and the fire and the dying? Is that really something you want to face sober?

Not me. If my plane is going down in a fiery inferno, I would like to be wasted. Especially since survival could mean being stranded for years with either a volleyball or some cannibals.

Although the cast of Lost is pretty hot. I wouldn't mind being stranded with them. So before you order that first drink (and remember you'll want one drink per each 12 minutes of flight time), take a look at your fellow passengers. Are they cannibals? Professional volleyball players? Hot?

(If they are all three, up your alcohol consumption to one drink per seven minutes of flight time, because no matter what, you are in for a fucking weird flight.)

(Also, you know how fucking weird I am? Writing about plane crashes does not unnerve me in the slightest, yet this story completely freaked me the fuck out.)

LAVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

(HI, I'm back from dinner. Where I got free wine because my husband is a food god and also because I told the waitstaff about Snarkywood and they loved it. Because who doesn't love Downward Spiral Britney?)

Anyway. Advice? Are you kidding me? Now? At 11:37 at night? No. Just...no.

More questions tomorrow, because I am so lazy and tired and also there is the SICKEST episode of South Park EVER on right now and I am so extremely disturbed. I think I kind of want to pray. And then go beserk with the Comet on the bathroom floor. Because ew.

What?

Right. Tomorrow. More advice and then lots of other hysterical stuff that would really make an excellent book so you should send me money because my GOD, I am brilliant.

*weeps*