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« December 2004 | Main | February 2005 »

January 31, 2005

Vagueration

So. Hi!

I am dedicated to posting today. I will post today.

What the hell am I supposed to post today?

Those of you who know me in real-life (and some of you who know me in semi-real-life) are aware that the shit? It be going down. All sorts of shit going down. There is some news and then there is some NEWS and then there is WORK and there is LIFE and there is STRESS STRESS STRESS.

And then there is me, writing repetitively worded sentences that make no sense because none of this shit going down is suitable for our Internet broadcast.

I have never, ever wanted a completely anonymous blog/journal SO BADLY than right now. There. That's all I can tell you.

So what the hell am I supposed to post today?

Man. I wish I wasn't too snotty for memes. Or that I trusted you lunatics enough to invite guest-blogging. Or that I could think of any of those other lazy-ass things bloggers do when they have nothing to write about. Audioblog? Cat photos? Advice Smackdowns?

I know! A list! A list of things that aren't connected and require no real context or narrative arc.

THINGS AMY HAS DONE, SAID, SEEN OR THOUGHT ABOUT SINCE SHE LAST UPDATED LIKE, THREE WEEKS AGO:

1. I cursed out some punk-ass kids in Adams Morgan for pelting passerbys with showballs and then realized that four of them were much taller than me, but continued to yell at them, possibly because I am crazy.

2. I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up only to discover that the dog had PEED in my BED and I was lying in WET DOG PEE STAINS.

3. I contemplated killing the dog.

4. We began hardcore, remedial housetraining of the dog, sans doggie litterbox.

5. The holes in my wall have finally been patched up. Now we must repaint. The odds of repainting being done anytime in the next six months: none to nonexistant.

6. Our coffee maker broke.

7. I cried.

8. We bought one of those pod coffee maker thingies.

9. In. Som. Nia.

10. I ordered shoes online in the middle of the night.

11. I wandered around the house barefoot in the middle of the night.

12. Right into doggie pee puddles.

13. I switched to decaf.

14. I fulfilled someone else's lifelong dream. And then totally made her give me credit for it and then wrote about here because I am a WHORE LIKE THAT.

15. I took Peaches 'n Cream Barbie out of the box and discovered that 20-year-old Barbie hair gets really weird and her feet totally swell after time and won't fit in her shoes.

16. I spent approximately eleventy hundred hours at work, wrote three hundred gazillion special reports, missed a deadline, took a nap at my desk, woke up drooling an hour later, made a deadline, yelled at someone, barely refrained from hugging my new assistant because of all the LOVE and the COMPETANCE and switched to decaf. Again. I mean it this time.

And a lot of other stuff happened too. But I forget. It's kind of a blur. Is it February yet?

Anyway. If y'all can just keep sitting tight for a little while longer I promise there are good things coming. Coherant sentances and humorous stories and the long-awaited focking mix-tape masterpiece and maybe a even a grand ambitious move to Movable Type.

But probably not, because who the hell am I kidding? I'm on DECAF people. For like, another hour or something because I am falling assslllllllep rigt noww and zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Posted at 12:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (28)

January 24, 2005

Peachy

The worst hiatus ever continues!

One Saturday morning, many, many Saturday mornings ago, a little girl was eating her Cheerios and watching her cartoons. It was her birthday, but no one was awake yet because no one else cared about watching animated Pound Puppies solve mysteries at 8 a.m. on a weekend.

But then, without warning, a bright pink box appeared in front of the little girl. It was a Barbie, and it was the most beautiful Barbie in the entire motherfucking world. It was Peaches 'n Cream Barbie, who was as pretty as a peach blossom and who came with a GLAMOROUS CHANGE-AROUND STOLE that you could style all sorts of interesting ways, including as a very slutty dress if you used it by itself. There was also a little Vanna White wheel with stole styles on one side and hot date destinations on the other (i.e. dinner, movie, whorehouse) to save you from having to use your imagination.

The little girl's big sister had bought Peaches 'n Cream her own self, and I swear to God, there was never a better-loved Barbie in all the land.

For about four hours.

After carefully arranging Peaches 'n Cream on the family room sofa (legs straight out, head cocked towards the television, detachable wrap-around stole a vision in peach synthetic fabric), I went to...do something else. Probably pee.

When I came back, my mother was casually sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper.

"Where's Peaches 'n Cream?" I asked.

She gestured towards a nearby heap of semi-naked Barbies and said, "Isn't she over there?"

I rolled my eyes at the sheer ignorance. Clearly, none of those dolls were Peaches 'n Cream. Those dolls were garbage. They all had hopelessly tangled hair and were missing at least one shoe. Those were yesterday's fashion dolls.

After a lot of whining and digging around the couch cushions I persuaded my mother to stand up. And that's where I found Peaches 'n Cream.

My mom had SAT on her and SMUSHED her head. She now had a big gash running from her neck to her nose. I could see the extended plastic neck and white swivelly thing through the rip in her pretty face.

Amy: waaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiillllllllllllllllllsssssss

Amy's Mother: horrified, yet chooses this moment to remind daughter about leaving toys on the couch where yeah, they get sat on from time to time

Amy: waaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllsssssssss

In the end, there was nothing anybody could do. We crazy-glued her head and left her wrapped in rubber bands overnight, only to have the wound pop open the minute anyone touched her.  I never threw her out though, and everytime I was introduced to a new type of adhesive (rubber cement, Elmer's paste sticks, glue from my sister's false eyelashes), I tried to repair her.

Amy's Mother: Well, Peaches' clothes are still fine. You can dress up one of your other dolls instead. They're all the same.

Amy: THEY ARE NOT ALL THE SAME. I WILL BELIEVE THIS UNTIL I DIE. PEACHES 'N CREAM BARBIE WAS SPECIAL AND I'LL THANK YOU TO REFER TO HER BY HER FULL NAME.

I still tell this story from time to time...usually around the holidays, usually to my nieces and nephews to scare the crap out of them, and usually to make my mom really regret choosing that one instance to teach me a lesson about responsibility instead of just rushing out and buying me another damn Barbie.

Apparently, somebody was paying attention.

Img_1964_edited Img_1968_edited Img_1970_edited

Thank you eBay. And thank you Jason. Although I am now faced with a dilemma. Peaches 'n Cream is quite a collectors' item now, and I'm not supposed to take her out of the box. But how can I resist that glamorous change-around stole?

(BY THE WAY: The original 1985 price tag? That is still on the box? $8.05. EIGHT DOLLARS AND FIVE CENTS. Not to be a total brat, but Mom? Don't you think it might have been worth splurging $8.05 to prevent your 8-year-old daughter who had already written four books from someday writing a book about the time you sat on her Barbie? Or even worse, writing about it on the futuristic Internet? I'm just saying.)

Posted at 05:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (48)

January 20, 2005

Do Not Fuck With the Un-Pregnant Women

I'm still too busy to post. But I'm not too busy to spend much of the day correspondin' with my bitches. And...bitching with them. About everything, because the entire world SUCKS for us and wah wah wah we hate everything.

Anyway, I'm really tired of looking at that short post with the stupidly long title, so I'm doing the laziest thing ever and posting a bunch of goddamn emails, which are only vaguely funny but mostly not, but y'all should just be happy that I'm not flooding YOUR inbox with this garbage.

(Except for the NotifyList email about this garbage. Sorry about that. Luckily you probably will never, ever receive it because NotifyList hates me.)

AMY & ZOOT ARE LOSING THEIR SHIT:
A BALLET IN THREE ACTS

(Location, Zoot's site, in a follow-up post regarding her recent tragedy that has not interfered with her ability to do good hair, where Amy left the following un-helpful comment regarding some possible coping strategies.)

AMY COMMENTS:

You could also come to my house where we could weep bitter bitchy tears together and throw things.

Or watch movies and get manicures. Either one.

ZOOT RESPONDS:

Well - two nights ago? Amidst profanity and tears? I spent a good three or four hours bitching about anyone in my life I could think of that might have harmed me in one way or another. Were you five minutes late for my dinner party? I hate you - you stupid whore. Did you break one of my dishes? Go to hell, jackass. Did you go slower than me on the highway? Death to you and your family. I was bitchy, ruthless, and incredibly catty. It was incredibly therapeutic and I'm SO happy I have a husband who doesnt hold those tirades against me.

So - how about you come over next time and we'll bring the blog world into my world of snotty bitching?

AMY WHIIIINES BACK:

It's a date. Hell, I can bitch about people who've done me wrong even without a life tragedy to blame. Mostly because I hate most people. But that's the beauty of the Internet: you have a place to bitch about people you hate AND a place to meet more people to bitch about.

Also, my period is 21 hours late, but I've been cramping for three days. Think it's about time I went to the store for a pee stick to properly dash my unrealistic and foolhardy dreams?

ZOOT GETS MAD:

I am personally denouncing ALL pregnancy tests from here on out. They are evil inventions designed to get my hopes up and destroy all home in a matter of 120 seconds. And I don't need to pay nine dollars for that. So I say, keep your pee in the toilet and keep hoping. If in 5 months you feel a kick inside your abdomen? You're pregnant.

(And you waited 21 hours? I start taking tests FIVE DAYS before my period is supposed to be here.)

AMY OVERSHARES:

See, the reason I'm not all, OMIGOD I MUST PEE ON A STICK THIS INSTANT this month (which is a first), is because I've taken the stance of the realist. Let's review the facts, jack: I'm not on Clomid or anything. (Because I'm scared to death of it after how INSANE it made me before.) I've had one regular period since I went off it. Um, woo? And considering how stressed out and upset I've been this month, I'm fairly certain my cycle has just gone all wonky again so really, "late" is a relative word for something that will probably wait another 3 months to start, just to piss me the fuck off.

Also, I don't think we had nearly enough sex, because I'm getting really, really tired of sex.

ZOOT GETS EVEN:

Thank you GOD. I'm glad I'm not the only one. For those three days we were pregnant (those were the good ole days) this week? MrZ was all "Oh, damn, I was enjoying trying" and I was "Shut the hell up. I need a break. Sex sucks."

Oh - and we have a "consultation" next week to, and this is a direct quote, "come up with a plan of action against your body". Um. Okay?

AMY STOPS BEING POLITE:

The hell? Please tell your doctor that your body is not the enemy here. It's everybody else in the whole world's fault that you miscarried. Stupid doctor.

It's inauguration day here in DC, and planes and helicopters keep flying over my office, and they're pissing me off because I've been watching too much 24 and am convinced that I am going to get blown up by terrorists.

It's been a very long and emotional 21 hours. Wait! 22 hours! Happy Birthday Phantom Pregnancy!!

ZOOT STARTS BEING REAL:

Emotional? Thats a sign of pregnancy!!! Raging emotions!!!

Yeah. I know. But I do it day 24 - day 30 every month...totally look at any and all symptoms as possible signs of pregnancy.

If you see Jack Bauer, tell him to call me.

AMY BRINGS BODILY FUNCTIONS BACK INTO IT:

Oh, I see sure-fire pregnancy signs all the time. I'm fatigued! I'm emotional! My boobs are sore! I'm craving junk food! I'm gassy!

One time I thought I was pregnant DURING my period because it seemed lighter than usual. Am stupid.

And if these emails didn't make us both sound like hysterical bitchy harpies, they'd make a GREAT entry.

ZOOT CHANGES THE SUBJECT:

Because unfortunately by "hysterical" you don't mean "HI-LARIOUS", you mean "IN-SANE". Of course, like we're really fooling anyone into believing otherwise, right?

I have been listening to a Top 40 radio station (shut the HELL UP Kelly Clarkson, I take back all my votes for you because I'm over you already) all day trying to win a family fun pack for "Racing Stripes". A movie my son doesn't even WANT to see but HAS to see because his conservative friend's moms think "Are We There Yet" is too risque. My life has hit an all new low.

AMY STOPS MAKING SENSE ALTOGETHER:

Hee. HEEEEEE. If you go to that movie I just might never stop making fun of you.

(Ducks from inevitable karmic anvil that will drop when I become I parent and have to take my child to a movie about a band of talking office supplies who travel across the country to compete in the National Spelling Bee with Fran Drescher as the voice of Sharpie, the electric pencil sharpener with attitude.)

ZOOT SUMS IT UP:

I think we are Hysterically Insane Unpregnant Women, by the way.

Twice the crazy, Twice the funny, with none of the embryos.

Posted at 04:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (39)

January 18, 2005

Amy Still Is Taking A Break, She Just Had To Tell You This One Thing Real Quickly Like

EDIT! ORIAL! ASSIST! ANT! BITCH! ES!

A lovely and talented and desperately-needed candidate accepted our offer this morning. I would weep for joy but I'm all cried out.

Of course, it's too late for her to be any help with my current googamungous to-do list, but it's light at the end of the tunnel and blaaaaah. Still, she better not suck, and she better be all CHOP CHOP with the learning curve. Am pre-emptively bitter.

(Okay, apparently I am NOT all cried out, as I was just reviewing my schedule with another coworker and very nearly started to weep and shake with the sheer OVERWHELMINGNESS of it all.)

I now return you to your regularly scheduled hiatus.

Posted at 10:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (24)

January 17, 2005

Fra-gee-lay

Hey y'all,

So listen. The work thing. Is priority.

(So is teaching myself the art of the compound non-fragment sentence.)

I've put this off for as long as I can but I simply must take a (short, temporary, wee, please come back) break from updating.

I'm super-extra-beyond stressed right now, and while I'm usually stubborn as hell about how writing here is my essential relaxation technique and all, that just hasn't been true lately.

Our heat is only sort-of working, we have two monstrous holes in our bedroom wall, Ceiba is keeping me up all night during remedial potty training, I'm working 10-hour days on 20 minutes of sleep, my dad is having another health crisis, I'm still not pregnant and I've realized that the main character in my book is a selfish, hateful little brat.

(The main character is me.)

As a result, I'm kind of going insane from sheer exhaustion. I get a mean comment and I cry.  I honest-to-God CRY over some dipshit who found me via a Google search for "ashlee simpson large sexy boobs" and decided to say something cruel for the hell of it. I have 389 unread emails. And this morning I got some news that I really didn't need to know about, except that I really did need to know about but I didn't want to know about because it made me cry and then I made the bearer of said news cry which made me cry more because said news should not have made me cry because I am an ADULT who needs to handle things like said news better.

(Please do not ask about said news. You will make me cry. You do not want to make me cry anymore because I just might kill you. Am still a bad-ass motherfucker, y'all. Only more delicate-like.)

So basically: You can knock Amy over with a feather at this point so she's going to stay away from feathers.

I'll be back in a few days, maybe a week, promise, after I get some sleep and re-up my medications and get some actual work done for once.

Love,

Amy

P.S. Why don't you sign up for the pretty Notify list? So you don't have to come here everyday and re-read this hysterical entry? And be all annoyed about the mysterious said news or worried that I'm about to jump out the window? Because I'm not? I'm just cranky and tired and will probably change my mind in like, an hour?

Posted at 10:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (38)

January 13, 2005

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

SPECIAL THURSDAY SLACKER EDITION

Blah blah blah witty introduction to the concept here plus life updates (HINT: BUSY AND COLD AND SOME HEATING FIXER GUY LEFT A SCARY FLANNEL SHIRT IN MY CLOSET YESTERDAY AND ALSO I GAVE CEIBA A BATH AT 3:30 A.M. LAST NIGHT AND I ADVISE YOU NOT TO ASK ABOUT IT.)

Anyway, there is no time for any of that today! No time at all! Go directly to the advice! Do not pass go! Do not listen to a SINGLE HYSTERICAL WORD that I am typing today!

Dearest Amalah,

I have fine, stick straight, doesn't hold a curl hair. I am currently growing out my bangs. Growing out your bangs when you have fine straight hair, quite honestly sucks. I can't master the side swept bangs, I'm thinking because I had really thick baby bangs.

I look awful with longish thick bangs, because of the chubby cheeks. I just have the two clumps on either side looking sucky. Unless, I use a bobby pin to hold them back, but that just looks flat and weird.

So, in the meantime I have been toying (and by toying I mean the appt. is Jan 29) with getting a body wave, just for something different.  The last perm I got was in the late 80's and they burnt my scalp, and the damn thing fell out in about 2 weeks.

I just want some nice soft waves that are not poodley and not crunchy while growing everything out.

Am I crazy to be doing this?

Megan

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

(Actually, so strong are my feelings about this issue that I broke format and e-mailed Megan the instant I got her question and ordered her to cancel the appointment because I was afraid that maybe I'd get hit by a bus and be in a coma and not be able to warn her otherwise.)

The gentle, soft body wave is a MYTH, propagated by the perm industry to sucker in otherwise stylish young women who would otherwise never, EVER go near those malevolent little perming rods.

I know because I was one of them once. Aaaaannnnd...we shall never mention that again.

And my mother and I spent HOURS on Thanksgiving morn trying to undo the damage done to her hair by a so-called "body wave." Her hair was so dry and overprocessed and crunchy and permificated that I had to send her home with a week's supply of hot oil, a $27 bottle of shampoo and a shopping list for about $150 in smoothing/conditioning/volumizing styling products.

Yes. Volumizing. Because here's the thing: if your hair won't hold a curl, it's NOT HOLDING THE BODY WAVE either. Your hair will curl and kink up around your face, but the heavier layers on the back of your head will continue to just sit there. <sit> See?

Again, I may know this from personal experience, but we are NOT TALKING ABOUT IT.

Anyway. So what to do about the bangs? And what to do about the Ricky Martin "She Bangs" song now stuck in my head?

First, you must accept that growing out your bangs is a painful and tedious journey. Many have failed. Many have taken the kitchen scissors to their foreheads and undone all the progress in a tantrum, only to begin again.

Second, you must use quality volumizing products like Pureology Volumizing Shampoo and Conditioner and Root Lifter Spray Mousse. Not on your bangs, but bodytastic hair will help mask the bangs.

Third, you must master the sideswept thing. It sounds like your bangs need to be thinned out.  I just had this done on Saturday (by someone who was NOT my regular stylist, Neat, who is on bedrest because apparently babies are more important to her than me, but more on that later).

Here, in an outtake from the Scarf Entry, you can how formerly blunt-cut bangs can be given some texture.

Img_1903

Now I've got pointy-ish whispy bangs now instead of a fringe, which are much, MUCH easier to push over to the side.

And by "push," I mean "blow-dry." Blow-dry your bangs last, use lots of tension from your brush, and blow them straight out with only the slightest last-minute tug over to where you want them.

NotNeat also advised me to push my bangs AGAINST my natural hair growth. This is an excellent theory, as this will give your bangs the allusion of body and make them more...um...not flat. So far, I'm not digging it for me, because I've got the faintest widow's peak (OKAY, it's a cowlick) on my forehead that really, REALLY doesn't like being pushed around in any direction it don't rightly feel like goin' in, pardner.

But hair, like small rat dogs, needs to be trained. Don't worry if your bangs fall straight in your eyes at first. Just keep parting them and pushing them in the same direction every day and they'll start doing it naturally after awhile.

Lay off the products, as you don't want to weigh them down and make your forehead all zitty. I use BedHead Head Rush spray shine on my bangs and then run my fingers through to separate out the wispy pieces. If they are misbehaving, I'll use a styling paste (not pomade or fiber or wax) to give a little more hold. Use a tiny bit of hairspray right at the roots while your "training" them to go in a certain direction.

And! Don't be afraid to pin them back. Because whatever, some days they just look like shit. But to keep them from being all flatty flat, give them a twist or two before pinning them loosely. And always use more pins than you actually need. Like five bobby pins (mixed maybe with a sparkely one) or a couple snap barettes. This gives you the look of, "Yeah, I'm fucking Carrie Bradshaw and I MEANT to look this kooky and totally did not NEED to use a bobby pin to get my ratty ass bangs out of my eyes."

(This look works especially well if you have a layered cut and use Bumble & Bumble's Surf Spray to scrunch your hair into a wild, textured bed headish look instead of blow-drying.)

Oh! And this is the LAST thing I am going to say about bangs because this has gotten so boring and blah but this is really important. I asked NotNeat what his #1 advice would be for growing bangs out and he said, "Um. Don't cut them?"

Sigh. Come back, Neat!

Dear Amalah Who Has Such Pretty Pretty Hair,

Luckily, my question does not have an immediate time limit so feel free to get to it whenever you get a chance (however I am in a wedding in June so before then would be helpful).  Anyway, thing is I moved a year and a half ago to rural Vermont... which is redundant I know.  Anyhoo, worst part?  Finding a stylist/color genius.  Luckily I found the greatest stylist ever (1 hour away, but still, it's HAIR, it's worth it) who I have gone to until, apparently, now.  When I called to check on the exact date of my appointment later this month I was informed she had left.  No forwarding address, no contact info, nothing.  The bigger issue is that this was a teeny, tiny salon, and the other people there are unknown quantities I don't want experimenting on my hair, and the owner's own hair is reminiscent of Motley Crue circa 1984 (bangs and all, well, except the spangled headband).   So staying at the salon is NOT an option.  I could go into Boston, which is probably the most reliable option.  My question is, how should I pick a salon?  Is there a website online that has reviews (like say frommers?).  I truly got lucky this past time, and it's important for me to find a talented colorist I trust because I like to go in and say "I'd like it to be a little warmer" and let them create their masterpiece.  Also, shouldn't my current salon have notified her clients?  I feel like if I hadn't called I would have walked in there in 2 weeks to find out I had an appointment with the Nikki Six impersonator.  Oh, and asking for recs from co-workers is so not an option, unless I want to look 40 years older and have my highlights done with a CAP. 

4-weeks from truly heinous roots,
Suzie

Bah. Your stylist, while talented, was clearly a heartless bitch. Either that or Motley Crue Lady had her killed and decomposed the body in a vat of bleaching cream and in that case you should call the police. And not ever go back to that salon.

My salon at least called me when Neat was put on bedrest, and were even nice enough to pass my altruist platitudes about her health and the health of NeatBaby to her and left out the part where I whined and asked that if I came and sat on the floor by the bed, could she still do my hair?

I saw NotNeat because that's who Neat was recommending her clients see instead. NotNeat was very cool and funny and totally thinks my book idea will be a best seller and also had really cool tattoos. A haircut with NotNeat cost $35.

While he was cutting my hair I was relaxed and comfortable and we discussed my upcoming highlighting needs and desires (I would like to go punk rockish. Suggestions?). But after I went to pay the bill and they told me $35 I was sent hurtling into self-doubt and panic. Haircuts do not cost $35! Haircuts cost much, much more than that! My GOD, $35 is practically like that place that rhymes with Bare Buttery that we just DON'T TALK ABOUT.

Obviously, Neat recommended her clients to a junior stylist, or even an apprentice. Which, fine, maybe he's her apprentice and she thinks he's a genius, but I'm also afraid she wanted to ensure that she gets all her clients back after the NeatBaby gets here.

(And I know all of this has NOTHING to do with your question. I just felt like announcing to the world that 1) I enjoy paying top-dollar for my haircuts, and 2) if it looks like ass it is NOT MY FAULT.)

ANYWAY, finding a stylist in a rural area really is just like finding one in the city. Talk to people with good hair. Get referrals from friends or lord, even stop strangers and ask them where they got their hair done. I have done this. It was in the line for the bank, and the woman even had a referral card in her purse because she was so totally crazy in love with her hairdresser.

And like any woman is going to run away screaming if another woman dares to COMPLIMENT THEIR HAIR. Oh my God! The insanity!

(Also, Vermont? Maybe try the touristy areas around the ski resorts? There was a really nice spa I went to in Killington while my family was off doing that crazy-ass "skiing" thing that I believe did hair, and all the snobby girlie girls working the reception area had really pretty highlights. I do not remember the name or even if they definitely did hair or even if it was an actual place that I did not dream. It was the spa at the place with the thing. Look it up in the phone book and call today!)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There is more advice coming later today, including: Mini-Backpacks: Totally Out Or Just Out?  And Help! My Girlfriend Smells Like My Grandma!

(See? Now I just KNOW you'll come back.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jebus God. I cannot keep my eyes open any longer. I was planning to work late tonight and make a wee dent in my gigahugmungous pile of work, but...GOD. And since y'all so lovingly and pointedly made note of my multiple spelling/linkage/grammar errors in the questions above, I'm sensing that I'm not quite up to my A-game in the editing/writing department. Oh! The irony!

So how about some more advice nonsense? That I'm sure will be very, very bad and not-funny as I seem to have misplaced my sense of humor today, but I think that tends to happen after you only get 20 minutes sleep at night because of a damn dog and a damn heater and a damn anxiety attack about your damn job.

In summary: Hate.

Oh Stylish and Pretty Amalah:

I have a dilemma. At least, I think I have a dilemma.  This morning on my commute to work, I noticed something.  As I was pulling my book out of my cute leather mini-backpack, I looked around at the other female commuters and noticed that none of them had cute leather mini-backpacks like mine. I love my mini-backpack, because it is so practical and can hold my wallet and my book and I can sling it on my back and have my hands free while I shop.

But I realized today that my cute leather mini-backpack may not be in style anymore.  I have hope that it might be so out-of-style as to be retro.  But I'm in a panic that maybe, just maybe, it is just "out." Downgraded.  Possibly even just silly, especially to the other career girls on the train with their shoulder bags that say "LV" all over them in bright colors.

So I am turning to you for advice, as you are the most stylish person I read about online. I feel I can ask you my question and receive an answer - an honest-yet-gentle, sisterly advice kind of answer.  Is my bag "out?"  Should I retire it to the back of my closet?  Should I buy a new trendy bag from one of those guys with the pushcarts on the corner?  Which one?

Your faithful reader,
So Wants to be Chic in Chicago

Well, there really is no easy way to tell you this, but your bag is so out that Bobby Trendy and Carson Kressley are tiny, wee flamboyant specks on the horizon. It's Sears and J.C. Penney out. It's out.

(Although there is a distinction if it's a brightly-colored Ugg mini-backpack, for the specific reason that it's totally impractical for work and really costs a lot of money for something that only will go with a quarter of your wardrobe. As usual, this makes it acceptable.)

So yes. You need a new bag. But before you feel sad, let me tell you that the girls with the brightly-colored Louis Vuitton bags are carrying last year's knock-off as well. Those LV fakes are so prevalent that they've pretty much destroyed even the genuine article, and besides, EVERYBODY is carrying the multi-colored Dooney & Bourke bags instead this year. So go ahead and laugh at them too, because we ALL KNOW you bought that bag for $20 off a street corner and you ain't foolin' nobody.

(And please don't send me hate mail if you carry a knock-off and love it and think I'm a shallow, spoiled bitch and blah dee blah. I really couldn't care less if your bag is fake. I've owned fakes too. I'm just warning you, though, that a hell of a lot more people can tell the difference than you think. The end.)

But just think...you get to buy a new bag! I love buying new bags! 

You strike me as the type who falls deeply in love with your bags, so my advice is to STAY AWAY from the trendy purses. You want a fashionable, yet classic bag. There's a huge difference.

Trendy:

Juicy Couture

Fashionable, Yet Classic:

Pradaaaa

The classic bag can be carried for years. The trendy one will be over and out and done with well before the final death knell of Ashlee Simpson's career. Which fine, it's adorable, but many of us do not have money trees in our backyard.  Yet.

But it IS worth spending money on a good bag. I know! You're totally shocked that I'm saying that. But it is. You want a bag that will last -- one that you can lovingly wrap in tissue paper once you put it on hiatus, knowing full well that even years later, it will still look gorgeous and provoke looks of envy on the subway when the other riders see you carrying a vintage Prada bag while they've ended up spending hundreds on cheap Kate Spade knock-offs that fall apart every three months.

So. For the budget-conscious-ish business-like girl on the subway who wants to carry a wallet, a book, some makeup and a Mini iPod, I present to you two of the most perfect bags on the planet.

Cole_haan

This is a Cole Haan medium-sized tote, which has the benefit of being super hot right now because women are finally rebelling against the twee little purses,  and is also an absolute classic bag. The straps are long enough to go over your shoulder, and the bag is narrow enough to not get in the way of your arms. It's $275 at Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus, (which, dude, bargain) and comes in a tangerine color and a winter white if you feel kicky. Does it not just scream "professional businesswoman of steel who also carries 14 tubes of fruity-flavored lipgloss around?" It totally does.

Dooney

This is the Dooney & Bourke crocodile dome satchel. I think I might be in love. It also comes in black and grape (!) and has fun little interior pockets. It's $325 at Nordstrom's. This one screams "AMY! AMMMMMMMMY!"

So there you go. Ditch the fool backpack and buy yourself a classic shoulder tote. Spend some dollars and get one that will last forever, which is a good argument to convince the super-practical husband to buy it for you, at least until he realizes that you're pulling that very argument out every time the seasons change.

And then maybe buy this one for the weekends, because we can't ALWAYS be professional businesswomen of steel, right?

Dear all-knowing Amalah,

I have a situation on my hands. It's one of those times where you question if you should be honest, or just suck it up and deal. My girlfriend, who is incredibly cute and sweet, wears a perfume that I do not like. I'm not even sure what the name is. It's not terrible, but to me, it smells faintly like an old lady. Amalah, I am not old. I am not dating an old lady. But this is her favorite perfume and she has worn it for many, many years. I just think that there are super sexier perfumes out there. So, what do I do? Tell her the perfume isn't my favorite? Surprise her with some new perfume? If so, what other super sexy scents do you suggest? Or do I do nothing at all and just be thankful that she is my girlfriend? You seem very knowledgeable in the world of beauty products, so I feel you can help.

-Not a fan of old lady perfumes

Ok, this is what you do. The next time you see the perfume bottle live and in-person, every so casually pick it up and examine it. Then say, "Hey! This is the same stuff my mom/grandmom/elderly-shut-in-aunt-with-12-cats wears! I KNEW it reminded me of somebody."

That should be the end of Eau de Granny.

(Or, if you'd like to be less direct, just swear up and down that you can't smell it anymore you read somewhere on the Internet that sometimes your body chemistry changes so perfumes you wear for years and years can suddenly smell differently or not at all, so it's good to change formulas every once in awhile.)

(And it won't be a lie, because you just read it here, on the Internet.)

And then you buy her some new perfume. I won't recommend brands here because it's personal -- that old lady perfume you're smelling could be something most people consider sexy, like Obsession (spicy and yum), but to you it's mothballish and that's all there is to it. It must go.

And seriously, the perfume department at a nice department store (Like Nordstrom! The official store of Amalah.com! Send her free things!) is the most guy-friendly place in the world, even better than the lingerie. Sephora will help you pick something out too, and they even have little bowls of coffee beans to ward off odor-overload. They'll help you find what YOU think is sexy and won't say a word if you get a hard-on once you find it. (Hey. It HAPPENS.)

And once you find it, you can thank me by sending me some Marc Jacobs. Or the Fresh Index Fragrance Chronicles, because what girl would not love the perfume equivalent to an easy-bake oven?

Posted at 02:28 PM in Wednesday Advice Smackdown! | Permalink | Comments (36)

January 12, 2005

Tantrummy

OH MY GOD Y'ALL.

You know how I like to whine about how busy I am at work? And that I have SO MUCH to do and wah wah wah and feel sorry for me because I'm going die?

And you know how usually I'm full of shit? Well, I'm not this time. I mean it. I am going to die. The cause of death will be stress and many tiny, tiny paper cuts. And possibly frostbite from the whole no-heat-in-the-condo bullshit, which made me very late for work this morning (don't ask), which seriously cut into my valuable freak-out time.

I have so much to do before February 1st that I've hit that deer-in-the-headlights point of panic where all I can do is stare stupidly at my to-do list and move stacks of paper around my desk, as if I'm magically going to find 17 spare special reports and an assistant just lying around under the clutter.

(Also, confidential to a certain person who is not helping things: All this work is NOT MY FAULT. I am sorry that MY HUGUNDOUS WORK LOAD may mean you have to do work as well, but that is YOUR JOB and don't act so surprised when I come to you with your part of this special report brouhaha and act like you had NO IDEA it was coming because YOU DID, you BIG DRAMA QUEEN, and besides, you will never OUT-DRAMA QUEEN ME because I have a WEBSITE on which to throw my tantrums so meeeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhfft.)

(Also, just wait until you see what I'll be bringing you next week.)

(Also also, YOU HAVE AN ASSISTANT. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.)

(Breathes.)

Sorry about that. Do you think I'll get fired for that? In case the person reads it? Maybe? Or does it need more cursing and personal insults? Because really, getting fired may very well be my only way out.

Well, there is ONE OTHER WAY, but it ain't pretty, because it means postponing the Wednesday Advice Smackdown until at least tomorrow. Which pains me greatly to do, because it's going to be a good one, or it could be if I could just calm the fuck down for a good 30 minutes or so.

How's everybody's July look? Could I get back to you then? Peachy.

Posted at 02:08 PM in Wednesday Advice Smackdown! | Permalink | Comments (25)

January 11, 2005

This Post Has Three Titles Already, So I'm Not Typing One Here

Ok, I have a really funny story to tell you, but also many other boring things. So I've divided this ADD-like entry into chapters for easy reference as to What The Hell Amy Is Talking About Now.

THE PART ABOUT THE SCARF

Img_1906_2 

Look at my scarf! That is all mine! It is a Type A Original, already the hottest thing in crocheted couture this winter. You should totally go buy one of your very own, because it's soft and pretty and I was stopped in the PARKING GARAGE by a stranger this morning who loved it so much I was a little afraid she might rip it off my neck and run away with it.*

*That probably won't happen to you, so don't let it stop you from contacting Kristie and sending her money.

Img_1915

And no, this is not a coincidence. I may have a problem.

AND NOW, A WALL INTERLUDE

And I am so glad I have my warm, wooly scarf, because I STILL HAVE NO HEAT IN MY HOUSE.

I do, however, have a big motherfucking hole in my wall.

Img_1895

I meant to take a picture with me holding Ceiba up to the hole because she is our universal measuring unit now. (As in, "Wow, that jumbo roll of paper towels is about a Ceiba-and-a-half," or "As long as that mole on your head stays smaller than Ceiba, I wouldn't worry about it.") But I was afraid to put her anywhere close to that hole because it is about three times the size of the wee pup and is gaping and sticky and makes weird clanging noises periodically.

I am very scared of this hole.

On the plus side, I can totally see my closet through the extra bonus hole in the ceiling, which is very convenient for picking out outfits from downstairs.

Wait. I said I had a story for you, didn't I? That was supposed to be the point of this entry? Wait, what's that over there? Jangly keys! Shiny!

ADVENTURES IN STOCK PHOTOGRAPHY

0206cover

Right. This is my friend Thea. The Washingtonian put her on their cover a couple years ago because she is adorable. And because she works for a restaurant called, adorably, 2 Amys, which is my favorite place ever. Look at that pizza! Look at those authentic Neopolitan toppings! Look at that wine list (not pictured)!

Anyway, she's totally famous. But the last time we ate at 2 Amys (which was...probably about 48 hours ago), Thea told us that a relative saw her picture in a magazine. Another magazine. From like, South Carolina or something. And like most people do when their relatives start talking like this, Thea assumed they were insane.

They were not insane. Her photo had been reprinted for an advertisement. The pizza had been replaced by a plate full of not-so-appetizing-looking barbecue.

"On PAPER PLATES." This offends her.

"SUE THEIR ASSES." I told her. "That's like, SLANDER."

It turns out, Thea's picture is now royalty-free stock photography. For $299.99, you too may Photoshop your inferior product into her adorable arms. Or you may buy it on CD for $499.99.

Does she get any of these mad dollahs? Does she get any say in what horrific things will get piled on those plates? Does she have any recourse if The Onion uses her photo for biting social satire on the eating habits of Middle America? Does she have a snappy comeback ready in case someone on the street goes, "Hey! You're that girl from the acid reflux ad!"?

No, she does not. Well, except for that last one. She's pretty snappy.

Nemopizza

I am not pleased, yet also, deeply amused.

Posted at 11:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (37)

January 07, 2005

In Which I Please Everybody Except People Who Want Actual Intelligent Writing

In response to the many De-Lurking Day requests, I present a photo essay about the pets, the shoes, and the drunk. Also cows.

First up, just to make everyone happy...

Img_1882 Img_1863 Img_1864_1
Img_1884 Img_1866 Img_1877

(I took these all last night, when both pets were feeling especially squirmy and blurry and did not feel like being photographed. But I tried. FOR YOU.)

Next up, the drunk. New Year's Eve drunk!

Img_1809_edited

This is Jen. And me. At Jen's house, which was where the party be at, bitches. We have only had three, maybe four glasses of champagne by now, tops.

Img_1808_edited_1

This is Jason. And Mike, who is engaged to Jen, whose house it was, where the party, it be at.

Img_1813_edited

You can SEE Jen trying to lean away from my terrifyingly large flower pin. She's all, "Put down the camera and HELP ME."

Img_1843

Do not ask me how I got my hair to do whatever it is doing in this picture. With the flowing and the curling. I may have made a one-night pact with the devil.

Img_1818_edited

God help us. The white girls are dancing, and they are dancing to Snoop Dogg, and Amy has busted out her patented "Praise Be to Jesus" dance move.

Img_1817_edited_1

Jen: I want YOU to put that muthafuckin' camera down THIS INSTANT or else I'll get Snoop down here to put a cap in yo' ass.

Erin: Hee. Being drunk is fun!

Amy: *not pictured, possibly because she was eating all the mini-quiches*

Img_1836_edited

Honestly? I have no idea. Was I trying to kill Erin? Make out with her? Force her to smell the flower pin?

194564300205_0_alb_edited

Uh-huh. We may be too drunk to stand up anymore, but we are BAD ASS GANGSTAS. Also pictured: Unidentified feet.

Img_1839_edited

Jason: Yep. Y'all keep having fun there. I'll be over here on the couch, with my water, being all responsible-like. Fuckers.

Next up, more drunk! Drunk cows!

Img_1846

Translation: I was drunk, and decided to take pictures of cows. We were wandering past a local art gallery and were confronted by many, many paintings of cows. Just...cows.

But then...

Img_1848

I don't even know where to begin. Weiner! Udderly! Nudes! Cows! January!

But then...

Img_1851_edited

MOOOOOO!

I went to put the camera away, and there were MORE COWS. In my new Christmas Coach purse, next to my Chanel lip gloss. COWS.

What? This was SO FUNNY at the time I took the pictures. You have no idea how funny.

Shut up.

Img_1892_edited

Do fuzzy slippers satisfy the shoe people? No? Well, life is just full of bitter disappointments now, isn't it?

Shut up.

Posted at 03:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (31)

January 06, 2005

Re-Lurk! Re-Lurk!

I have nothing to say, but I must post SOMETHING and put an end to the De-Lurking Day madness. Madness!

My plan was to email all of my brave little lurkers and say hi and thanks for commenting and see? Don't you want emails and validation from me? Don't you want to comment more often?

It was a great plan, until the comments hit 140 and still. Would. Not. Stop. I've emailed like, 20, and then those 20 people replied and said something funny and I just had to write back again, because yay, new people to waste the day away with and also, I am not a snotty bitch, regardless of what you may have read in the tabloids.

So I will keep trying with the emails, just like I am still trying to finish the prizes for the Focking Swag contest from like, a month ago. But the prize is going to be so focking awesome it will be worth the wait, I swear. Remember how in High Fidelity John Cusack's character was reorganizing his record collection and his friend asked if he was doing alphabetical or chronological and John Cusack was all, "No, AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL." And then his friend was all, "Whoa." Remember that?

Anyway, I'm making an AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL mix CD for the year 2004 that will mostly make sense to me and like, the four people I know in real life who crossed me this year and will get ripped a new one in song form. It's Passive-Aggressive Mixtapeology, and it's going to be awesome. Focking awesome!

(Also, did anyone used to watch the Rosie O'Donnell Show? Remember that one time she made up a song about the Kotex Multi-Pack of tampons? That song is stuck in my head and WILL NOT STOP. I am really, really frightened about the things my brain absorbs and chooses to maintain. Especially since I cannot remember where I parked my car today.)

(That song will NOT be on amalah: the album though.)

(And I don't REALLY remember all the words to the song, but just have an image of Rosie O'Donnell holding a box of tampons singing "Multi-Pack! It's the Multi-Pack! It's the greatest idea Kotex ever had!" And it replays over and over again, along with her telling the audience that she "gets no money from the Kotex people." )

In other words, please kill me.

So even though I am clearly losing my fool mind, I'm glad all of y'all decided to de-lurk and say hi and say nice things about me and my life choices, except for one person who called Ceiba a food product (which is true...she does resemble some kind of smoked sausage snack that would taste really good on a RItz cracker), and one person who insulted the Uggs (YES, I KNOW. They are ugly and over. The Manolo, he does not approve. But they are COMFY and half of the people in my neighborhood are still wearing Christmas sweaters with JINGLE BELLS on them so who the fuck do I need to impress?). The rest of you were lovely and well-behaved and delightfully kiss-assy.

In fact, I was even able to do some market research with your comments and find out ways to make amalah.com a better reading experience for us all. Here's what you and your fellow lurkers had to say about the site, in super-scientific Gallup poll results.

The amalah.com De-Lurking Day Instapoll

99% think I am awesome

76% think Ceiba is awesome

34% think Ceiba sucks and Max is totally the awesomest

24% think no, shut up, Ceiba is the awesomest

85% want me to update more

15% want me to update a lot more

50% want more pet photos

49% want less pet photos, more shoe photos

1% really, REALLY want more shoe photos, preferably stilettos, or possibly Keds without socks, and also some toe cleavage

100% still did not get the Notify message about yesterday's post

17% want to work for me remotely, which no, that will not work, stop asking

2% want to sell me DISScouNT herBAl ViAGra

34% used a replacement for the word "fuck" (including fock, feck and frick), and seriously people, there's no need for that kind of fucking fake language here

40% want more drunk posts

0.2% want me to take better care of myself

6% know me in real life

4% would so write a tell-all book about me so email them!!

3% are my coworkers

1% are my boss

0% have a new job to offer me after I get fired

Posted at 02:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (34)

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