Wednesday Advice Smackdown
December 15, 2004
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.)
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?
So which would you really rather have: a pair of Uggs or something from Tiffany's?
Oh! Well. DUH.
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.
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.
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?
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)?
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.
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?
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,
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 firstname.lastname@example.org, suckahs.