A Note from the Trenches

Happy Memorial Day, y'all!

Wish you were here, as I would totally put you to work.

That's my bedroom, along with every single thing from our storage area crawlspace things, dragged out and strewn around the room. We pulled everything out so we'd be forced to ask the tough questions, like why are we saving empty wrapping paper tubes and the TiVo box, and what IS IT with me and the saving of shopping bags from upscale stores?

FYI: Jason did all the actual dragging and strewing. I supervised.

It's really easy to get out of doing things when you look this pregnant.

In between pondering the mysteries of my selective packrattiness (box from Thomas Pink = save, extra wedding photo prints = trash) and 300 trips to The Container Store (which is like CRACK for nesting pregnant women), we also kind of bought a new car.

(What? You were maybe expecting a station wagon or an SUV something? Ha. Like hell.)

But oh, CALM DOWN, it has a backseat that is fully LATCH-compatible and freestyle rear doors. And we already have a sort-of-wagon for primary child transport purposes blah blah blah.

It also has a 238-horsepower engine for which to get Squishy to playgroup very, very quickly. Corners like it's on fucking rails, y'all.

Home Implosion

We're closing on a home equity loan this afternoon, which means our long national nightmare can now begin.

We're redoing our kitchen. New cabinets, floors, countertops, sink, etc. I'm even getting a pantry, something I have always, always wanted. Possibly even more than offspring.

But only recently did it occur to me that I have to completely empty out every cabinet and drawer before demolition begins. (Demolition! In my very own house!) Where am I supposed to put everything? (Our condo is tiny.) Soup and dry goods on the windowsills? Plates on the dining room table? Glasses stacked precariously on the TiVo?

At the same time, we're replacing the carpet on the stairs and upstairs bedroom with hardwoods. (The "upstairs bedroom" is actually the "entire upstairs," as our condo is, again, tiny.) This is the same carpet, as some long-time readers may recall, that we've been talking about replacing after multiple puppy potty-training accidents and one bizarre week of feline temper tantrums after we switched kitty litter brands.

And again, it only recently occurred to me that all our bedroom furniture will have to be moved downstairs, and that we (which includes me, the achy, whining, pregnant woman) will be sleeping on our sleeper sofa in the meantime, surrounded by groceries and cutlery.

Also at the same time, we're replacing the vanity and sink in our bathroom, as it is fourteen different kinds of nasty. It may even be nastier than the piss-stained carpet.

Also also at the same time, we're starting work on the nursery, which is currently a Room O' Junk. (FYI: the nursery is the only room where I mean "we" will actually be doing actual work. All other home improvement projects that "we" will be doing will be done by people to whom we're paying large amounts of money.)

We've already bought the paint and primer. (Who thought it would be a good idea to paint a room that would eventually be used as a nursery dark red? Who? Oh right, me.) We've bought dropclothes and a masky thing for me and we've planned lofty artistic things with Jason's mother, who is a professional painter/decorator/Martha Stewart and we must get it painted before we order furniture and holy shit, I have to buy a crib? I am not ready to buy a crib. Am I actually having a baby or something?

Oh finally: We have no place for all the junk currently residing in the Room O' Junk, have no idea what to do with any of it (especially as 90% of our [tiny] condo will be in transitional shambles for the next couple months), and actually got into a fight this week about the fate of our ironing board.

"Where are we going to put the ironing board?"

(hysterical silence)

"We'll have to keep it in our bedroom somewhere."

"But where?"

"Somewhere!"

"It'll be in the way if we just stick it somewhere."

"Well, MAYBE we'll have to start behaving like GROWN-UPS WHO IRON THEIR CLOTHES BEFORE HANGING THEM UP AND WHO ALSO PUT THE DAMN IRONING BOARD AWAY WHEN THEY ARE NOT USING IT."

"STOP YELLING AT ME."

"I AM NOT YELLING."

I really have no idea why we never thought to do home improvements before. This is fun!

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

But First, Necessary Life Updates, Because You Care:

22-week prenatal appointment this morning. Learned I now weigh 139 pounds. Sweet merciful crap. There may also have been some baby stuff discussed.

Interview this evening. No, not a job interview. An interview of me by an Actual Media Professional. Who plans to write a story about me in an Actual Media Publication, provided I am not stupid and boring at the interview. Have been walking around making intelligent-sounding observations about blogging to myself all week in preparation. Regardless, am sure I will be a total idiot at interview, but at least it gave me an excuse to buy a new dress.

And now, on to the always-thrilling Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Remember, questions for the Smackdown should be sent to advice@amalah.com, and feel free to ask me all about my new dress.

Hello Amalah,

I would really like your advice on a pair of shoes I recently bought from Zappos.com. I have received them but haven't worn them out of the house yet becuase my husband HATES them and I still have the option of returning them. Here they are. What do you think?

Nadine

They get a thumbs-up from me, because I like the funkified slip-on sneaker look, although this particular pair does sort of resemble cleats or crampons with all that extra tread. But I'd just affectionately refer to them as my "spelunking shoes" and everybody would think that's funny and charming and then would run out and buy spelunking shoes of their very own. Because I am just that much of a trendsetter.

(Note to self: do not refer to self as trendsetter in tonight's interview, as Actual Media Publication is local and all local readers would be all, "Trendsetter? Her? Who?" and I would totally get called on my bullshit in a Letter to the Editor.)

Dearest Amalah and Squishy,

I know male quandaries are not normally included in The Smackdown, but I think this issue is of a suitably unisex nature. The subject: shoes.

Two weeks ago I bought a fancy shmancy new pair of Nike basketball shoes and they are, to coin a phrase, the cat's ass. They're white leather with those cool Nike shocks under the heel and little metal things on the tips of the laces. One of the reasons I bought them is that they are so purty and stylish that they seem to distract people from the fact that I am among the shittiest basketball players ever to have double-dribbled his way into the gym.

I love these shoes. They're who I am.

Sadly, I am developing a nasty blister on the outside of my left big toe because the shoes are a little too narrow at the top. It's causing my game to suffer a bit, but because my game was so crummy to begin with, the difference is practically imperceptible. I really don't want to have to give up my new shoes just because they're hurting me, but I've never before been confronted with a scenario that would require me to be a slave to fashion. What do I do? Do I keep the shoes and deal with the pain? What's a desperate nerd with no jump shot to do?

Help me, Amalah. You're my only hope.

Shooting an airball especially for you,
Dr. Johnny Fever
Size 13

First, a counter-question: When was the last time I was actually aware of the comfort level of my own feet?

Answer: 1994.

Washington, D.C. is not a super-high-fashion town. Very few women dash around in Manolo Blahniks -- we're more of a tennis-shoes-and-pantry-hose-with-some-pumps-tossed-in-a-knock-off-duffle kind of city. So whenever I show up to work in my pointy stilettos, I'm kind of the oddball.

People ask, "How can you walk in those? Don't they hurt?"

And I say, "Hurt? That would imply I still have functional nerve endings in my toes, which I don't, and I can walk in these because they are pretty and they make things in life worth walking to."

So basically, you suffer for your fashion, girly-man, and we women don't want to hear you bitching about your blister. Try walking around on four-inch heels until your calves ache and your toes swell through the metallic strappy straps that are the only things keeping you attached to your shoes besides your own sheer will.

(Note to the Assvice Club: Yes, I gave up my super-high heels during my pregnancy and am only wearing comfortable flats or sensible pumps with solid, non-teetery heels. AND I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE MISERABLE IN MY LIFE.)

Anyway, if you insist on being wussy about it, or are worried about corns and bunions, there are a couple things you could try.

1) Wear tighter socks. If possible, wear socks that feel about a size too small. (Like for skiing or snowboarding -- you wear socks that are as thin and as tight as possible to prevent killer blisters from your boots.) Thicker and looser socks will rub and shift and actually aggravate your feet. Check out Smartwool's line of athletic socks.

2) Buy an expandable shoe tree. If your sneakers are leather, they will naturally break in and feel better after time. You can speed this process up by using an shoe tree like this one.

3) Buy a half-size bigger. Shoe sizes? Are crazy. I own everything from a size 6.5 to an 8. You may have misjudged this pair and actually require a size up. Your left foot might be a 13 and your right foot might be a 13.5. Or somebody just could have had a bad day at the sweatshop. But if you love these shoes, it's worth a trip back to the store and trying the next size up.

Or, you know, you could just quit your damn bitching.

And now, two questions about the same thing, but I'm posting both lest I hurt somebody's feelings about playing favorites or something:

Amalah, Here is a question I'm sure you would never have to deal with personally, because you are so much smarter than me, but hopefully, you will know the answer by pulling it from the ether, in your omniscient way: I am very fair. VERY fair. To prove it, I got a bad burn in New Hampshire. New Hampshire. Watching a minor league baseball game from wearing a tanktop (with wide straps, before little ones were popular). And I did sin, Queen Amalah. I confess to using no sunscreen at all. And I got majorly freckled on my back and shoulders. No big deal. Except for the dress I'm going to be wearing at my wedding. With my hair up? Can you help me, please, even though I did sin against my skin?

Repentant Sinner

And also...

OK - last week you addressed the issue of lip liner and the need for it to match your natural skin and lip color. Here is my problem - I have "natural" lip liner. I have freckles. Lots and lots of freckles. Not just the cute ones that are smatter sweetly across someones nose and cheeks. I have freckles that cover my entire body. In the summer my ears freckle, my lips freckle, I swear that sometimes my fingernails freckle too. I don't tan. My freckles eventually run together to make it appear as though I'm tan, but if you look closely, there are spots of Fish-Belly White between the freckles. These cursed freckles gather together around my lips and make it appear as though I'm wearing lip liner. Friends have pointed out to me that my lipstick has worn off and I look funny with just lip liner. Jerks - they know I rarely wear lipstick. My own mother has tried to wipe it off of me. What should I do? Do I have to wear lipstick every day? Can it be bleached? I've tried wearing sun block to reduce the freckling, but there they are, every summer, big ol' Lip Liner Lips. L3 for short. What can I do?

Crazy Ride Lady

First of all, y'all, freckles are not a curse. The only people who really think that are people with freckles, and I know you never believe it when non-freckled people tell you that freckles are cute.

But honestly: freckles are cute. Whether it's a smattering on your shoulders or a full-body covering, freckles. Are. Cute. And freckles are much, much better than moles, and guess what kind of beauty mark Amalah develops after too much time in the sun?

Cute flat freckles? No. Dark ugly moles that regularly alarm her dermatologist? Pffft.

But seriously, it's best to come to terms with your freckles, because there really isn't a way to get rid of them. The old-school tactics of lemon juice or buttermilk work just as well as the fancy expensive bleaching creams out there. Which is to say, not very well. You may see some temporary lightening, (so it might be worth trying for say, a wedding), but all of those products will leave your skin MORE vulnerable to the sun, and thus, MORE freckling.

The only way to prevent freckles is to wear sunscreen with an SPF of at least 30. And to wear it ALL THE TIME, EVERY DAY, NO MATTER WHAT. Cloudy? Wear it. Just going outside for a few minutes? Slather up, baby.

And Crazy Ride Lady? This stuff is your friend. And if you're still self-conscious this summer, try to find a tinted lip treatment you can live with reapplying a few times a day to draw attention away from the L3. Perhaps this one in a neutral shade would work for you.

Dearest Amalah Who Knows And Sees All And Is So Very Pretty:

I know that you are unable to imbibe, due to the impending birth of teeny, cute, and squishy Babalah, and I don't want to rub it in that you cannot partake of yummy, yummy alcohol but I desperately need your help and that of your food and wine savvy husband. I looooove food and I loooove wine, but I don't know what to pair with what. I am planning a hoity toity dinner party in a few weeks and if you could give me some tips on pairing food and wine I would be most appreciative. I am thinking of rack of lamb with dijon mustard, rosemary and breadcrumbs along with roasted new potatoes, grilled asparagus with olive oil and garlic, a salad of mixed baby greens and for dessert a tart with lemon curd and fruit. Please save me from ruining a perfectly good coq au vin with yet another cheap screw top wine or worse yet, a light beer.

Embarrasedly Yours,
Karla

At the most basic of basic levels, the Rules of Wine Pairing are as follows: Red wines with red meat, white wines with poultry and fish, pink wines with a derisive laugh as you pour them directly down the drain.

But of course, there are four frillion exceptions to the basic rule. (Except for the pink wine part. White Zinfandel must be stopped.) And for the love of God, there are other reds besides Merlot and there are other whites besides Chardonnay.

(Did y'all see Sideways? Jason and I have a new motto in life, and that motto is that we are NOT DRINKING ANY FUCKING MERLOT.)

(We never drank Merlots before, either, but everything is more fun if you have a motto, and bonus points if said motto includes the f-word.)

For your main course, which is fairly simple yet rich, I'd suggest serving a Pinot Noir. (I know, I know. Trendy Sideways wine. But oh, so good.) A French Pinot is generally the best bet, especially if it's from the Côte d'Or (Slope of Gold) region in Bourgogne (Burgandy). But California and Oregon vineyards also produce very nice ones, provided you aren't buying the cheapest bottle on the shelf. (And cheap wine will give your lovely guests hangovers, so don't do it.)  For $25 you can get a really nice bottle; for $45 you can get a mind-blowingly amazing bottle.

You may want to serve something lighter during appetizers or have a white on-hand for anyone who just doesn't like red wines. (Although most people who complain about headaches from reds or who classify all reds as "too dry" would also enjoy the Pinot Noir, if you can convince them to taste it. Both complaints come from cheap reds with high sulfite contents or that are just basically, crap wines.)

An Italian Pinot Grigio is always a nice wine for a summer party, and unlike Chardonnays, it's never oaky or easily ruined by overchilling. (Because who has time to monitor exactly how long the wine has been in the fridge while you're cooking and fussing and greeting your guests?) Certain whites, after an hour or so in the fridge, get a nasty "bite" to them. You can get a good Italian Pinot for about $10 or $15.

Is it okay to serve white wine with one course and then switch to red? Absolutely, provided they aren't some $4.99 Sutter Home domestic. It's not like a "beer before liquor, never sicker" kind of rule. If the wine is quality, your guests can bounce between varietal and vintage to their hearts' content, get really good and loaded, and wake up feeling pretty darn okay the next morning.

What to do if your guests arrive bearing wine that you really don't want to serve? Like a (horrors) White Zinfandel? Have both of YOUR wines open before people show up. Have the white open and in an ice bucket, and have the red open on the table to "breathe" before dinner. (Or in a decanter, but that's a whole other level of wine snobbery that we don't need to get into here.)

That way, you look like the good hostess who gets a glass of wine into a guest's hands within minutes of his arrival, without having to drink any of that fucking Merlot he brought.

That's all I have time for today, chickies. I have just a couple questions saved up for next week, though, so feel free to fatten the queue back up by emailing advice@amalah.com with anything you require my supreme know-it-all-ism for.

What To Expect When You Don't Know You're Expecting

So I was having a conversation with Diana about those little moments when you were totally acting like a crazy pregnant lady, but you didn't know you were pregnant yet -- but, looking back, how fucking dense could you be?

(Well, originally we were talking about how my TiVo cut off the last minute of last week's Gilmore Girls season finale and how I called her in an ABSOLUTE HYSTERICAL PANIC to find out what I missed, but obviously, this is the perfect segue into Other Crazy Things Crazy Pregnant Ladies Do.)

Diana recalls sitting on the couch, eating Little Debbie Star Crunch Cosmic Snacks and "crying my eyes out reading The Green Mile."

Before I knew I was pregnant, I rented 13 Going On 30 and watched it one night that Jason had to work late. He came home right as the movie ended to find me sobbing on the couch. And when I say "sobbing," I don't mean the usual sniffly-snuffly girl cries, like how I cry at the end of Steel Magnolias ("BUT MAH DAUGHTER CAAAAAAN'T!!"). I mean a full-on heaving cry, complete with audio, like how Ben Stiller cries at the end of Something About Mary.

For anyone who has never seen 13 Going On 30, I would like to point out that ending is very much a happy one. Nobody dies or reunites with their estranged ghost dad or shoots Bambi's mother.

So when Jason walked in to find me on the couch, face in my hands, shoulders shaking and mascara running down my neck, because I was just so damn HAPPY for Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo, he was Very, Very Confused. And Sort Of Concerned.

And I could only explain that yes, I was crying because I was happy, but also because I didn't think the movie had done well enough at the box office to merit a sequel that would show nothing but Jennifer Garner and Mark Ruffalo being happy and married in that happy house that looked JUST LIKE THE DOLLHOUSE HE MADE FOR HER WHEN SHE WAS 13 AND ALMOST DIDN'T APPRECIATE UNTIL TOO LATE and then the tears started again and I made Jason sit on the couch and hold me for awhile.

And it never once crossed my mind that maybe I was pregnant.

Diana's husband knew something was up the instant she suggested baking chocolate brownies with chocolate chips. He suggested that maybe she should take a pregnancy test, because honey, you hate chocolate, remember?

Jason suggested the same thing the night I puked in a restaurant bathroom at the mere sight of his beef tartare appetizer. (Thankfully, he left that incident out of his review of the evening.) I laughed at him and ordered another martini, because boy, please.

To be fair, the 427 negative pregnancy tests from the past year or two left me a tad bitter. Or very bitter. Okay, extremely bitter. But, as Diana put it: You still think you'll KNOW. Like, you'll have this moment where you're aware that LIFE has been CREATED.

You expect pregnancy to begin with some sort of cosmic hunch -- a vague new-agey feeling that your body is incubating a tiny little miracle and ta-da! Your skin will glow and perhaps a halo will descend from heaven and alight on your holy, mothering head.

Instead, your skin breaks out and you cry when there's no pudding and most importantly, you don't feel any different at all.

And it's the perfect introduction to pregnancy, which also turns out to be Not At All What You Were Expecting Either. It's worse. It's better. It's totally fucking weird, yo.

But at least, once you know, you don't feel like such a freak for crying during Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and eating an entire package of salami.

I take that back. You still feel like a freak. But you have hope that maybe, just maybe, you'll return to a less freak-like state at some point. Maybe by the time the kid goes to college.

But in the meantime, everybody ELSE better fucking respect that fucking halo resting above your life-giving, freak head, because this shit is HARD.

Good Morning America (and Amalah)

7:00 am: Alarm goes off across the room (where it was put to prevent mass snooze-button abuse).

7:02: Roll over, discover that left ear formed some sort of vacuum seal with pillow overnight which now HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER.

7:04: Get out of bed, stumble towards clock, turn alarm off, get back in bed.

7:05: Momentary stumbling has awoken the babalah/boybalah/squishy/whatever-I'm-calling-it-these-days, which awwww, but also STOP KICKING AND LET MAMA SLEEP.

7:10: Wide awake now, gripped by horrible reality that in four months, there will be another human being in my house who will most likely want to wake up at 5 a.m., and who cannot be ignored like the large, plaintive eyes of my dog.

7:20: Anxiety makes me tired. Back to sleep.

7:30: Secret backup alarm goes off.

7:32: Shuffle downstairs with one eye open to make sure I don't step in any Ceiba's overnight accidental shit piles.

7:35: Pee. Congratulate self on making it through the night without getting up to pee. Thank uterus for finally getting its punk-ass self out of my pelvic cavity and off of my damn bladder, like the pregnancy books promised would happen WEEKS AGO.

7:37: Feed pets. Max immediately begins slurping and inhaling his food at an alarming rate, while Ceiba sits by her untouched bowl, quietly observing the frenzy.

7:38: Max is done. And now he is sad. Ceiba takes her cue and starts loudly and happily munching on her kibble, occasionally walking up to Max to crunch in his face. Max, completely forgetting that he ever had food in the first place, looks at me like, "Why? Why do you make my life so very hard?"

7:39: I swear I am not making this up. 

7:42: Jason is in the shower. Shit. Might as well go back to bed and lie down for a few more minutes.

8:03: Vaguely aware of Jason calling my name. What?

8:05: SHIIIIT.

8:06 - 8:18: Shower. Try to think of way to blame lateness on Jason.

8:19: Because Jason strongly prefers long hair, I am forced to keep my hair long and therefore I require tons of primping time in the morning, so really, it IS all his fault. Ta-da!

8:20: Hate. Maternity. Clothes.

8:22: So much.

8:30: Need to leave for work this instant.

8:31: Jason returns from walking Ceiba, finds me standing in the kitchen eating a chocolate pudding cup, still in my underwear.

8:32: Shirt. Pants. Hate.

8:35: Apply makeup. Momentarily debate drawing smiley face on belly with eye pencil and taking picture. Jason enters bathroom to kiss me goodbye and pretend that he didn't actually see me staring at the mirror with my shirt up and an eye pencil in hand.

8:42: Hair, which has been wrapped in a towel, turban-style, has dried all bent and frizzy.

8:43: Should be fired from Advice Smackdown duties.

8:44: Untangle cord to blow-dryer.

8:45: Which is not happening.

8:46: How does a cord get so tangled in 24 hours? By just SITTING THERE in a CABINET. It is EVIL and POSESSED.

8:52: Hair is dry and sort of vaguely straight. Decide to over-product-it-up and scrunch it so it looks like I purposely went for bendy-straw-hair.

8:53: I want more pudding.

8:56: Run upstairs for jewelry and shoes, check reflection in full-length mirror for first time. Red bra totally visible through pink shirt.

8:58: Options: change to white bra from two cup sizes ago, iron a new shirt, blame the lighting and change nothing.

8:59: The lighting in my bedroom IS really weird, actually.

9:00: Cannot find full pair of footie socks.

9:01: Where are all the footie socks?

9:02: I swear to God, I've bought 400 pairs of footie socks in the past six months alone.

9:03: Find one footie sock mixed up with the dish towels.

9:04: Find other footie sock stuck to the side of the washer, soaking wet.

9:05: Put on one dry footie sock and both shoes, gather purse and keys while frantically waving wet footie sock in air.

9:06: Stop looking at me like that, Ceiba.

9:08: Outside! Headed towards car!

9:09: Parking enforcement. Shit. Must act casual yet get to car quickly before expired inspection sticker is spotted.

9:10: Is impossible for a pregnant woman to look casual while trying to walk quickly.

9:11: Especially if said pregnant woman is carrying a footie sock.

9:12: Parking enforcement person is ticketing out-of-state car parked behind mine. Frantically and not-at-all-casually get into car, fumble with keys and drive off just in time.

9:14: That was all very James Bond, wasn't it?

9:15: Hang wet footie sock on air vent.

9:22: XM Radio exists merely so humans have the option of going from Lucinda Williams to The Killers to 80's dance songs in a single commute.

9:24: I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it...

9:30: So. Late. 

9:33: Footie sock is still not dry. Turn up fan. Footie sock sails off of vent and into backseat.

9:37: At work. Park, retrieve slightly damp footie sock from backseat. Decide pneumonia is better than blisters and put on.

9:40: In office. If anyone asks, I had an offsite meeting at 9 am and it was totally productive.

9:41: I wonder if anyone would notice if I ran out to Starbucks real quick?

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Lord, y'all, the question queue is HOPPING lately. So many good good questions. So much crappy crappy advice I have to give.

Since today's column ran a bit (crazy insane ridiculous) long, I'm going to save a few questions for next week. If your question didn't get answered, I'm sorry, but I promise to answer it soon. If you need immediate assistance, please hit 0 on your keyboard and someone will be with you shortly.

(Except for Amber, with the shoe question, because the shoes you were asking about are no longer linkable or on sale, and I'm so so sorry, because they were cute, and if you did buy them I'd say money well spent, unless you didn't, and then I'd say good because actually I didn't like the bell-bottom heel that much.)

Got a question? Preferably one with a shelf life of a week or two? Send it to advice@amalah.com and blah blah blah I'll answer it when I damn well feel like it.

Amy,

What is a kick-ass brand of lip-liner? (Bearing mind that I SOLEMNLY SWEAR TO NEVER MISMATCH MY LIPLINER WITH MY LIPSTICK, EVER. I've never done it and never will.)

Can you advise me on getting very pretty day and evening looks for my lips/lipstick/gloss?

Thank you, Amalah-lah-lah. You are the BESTEST.
Sharon

I actually don't have a brand perference for lipliner. I buy whatever brand has the color I want in the type of liner I want. (Hint: PENCIL. No crayons, liquids, high-tech-self-sharpening-retractables, etc. I like a soft pencil and an old-school sharpener.)

Currently I'm using a Sephora-brand pencil which is a ridiculously fabulous buy at just $4. I wear it with a variety of sheer neutral glosses during the day, and then use tinted glosses for evening. I cannot remember the last time I bought an actual lipstick.

And yes, I use the same lipliner for both day and night looks. This is because (NEWS FLASH!) your liner should match YOUR LIPS, NOT YOUR LIPSTICK. (Unless you're wearing some screaming red lipstick that's 400 shades redder than your lips, of course. Then you can match the lipstick, but this is a moot point because you should never, ever wear a screaming red lipstick that's 400 shades redder than your lips, because guess what! You look like a whore.)

The liner should match your lips because, duh, it tends to last a LOT longer than even the longest-lasting lipstick. This is what happens: you line your lips in that nice deep raisin color in the morning, put on the coordinating lipstick, proceed to leave said lipstick all over the rim of your morning coffee cup, and then you're left with clown lips because honestly, who has the energy to reapply their lipstick 10 times a day?

And before any of y'all say anything about filling in the entire lip with liner? Don't. At one time we've all suddenly thought we're total rocket scientists when we go, "Hey, since the liner lasts so long, why don't I just color my whole lip with it? Dude, I'm a GENIUS." And then you proceed to have cakey, dry-looking lips all day because even the creamiest liner craps out when overused and rubs off in the center of your lips and suddenly you don't look like such a genius anymore.

(Oh, and anyone who takes their lipliner above and beyond the natural line of their lips? I'm sorry, I cannot help you. Please go back to trailer from which you came.)

So, the Lipliner Manifesto, in summary: use a pencil, match your lips and natural skin tone, line only the actual outer edge of your lips, the end.

Okay Queen of Everything, I am in desperate need of some advice.

I quit smoking about four years ago (yeah for me) but unfortunately, the damage to my teeth was done. I've tried all the whtening toothpaste that I can find and nothing works all that well. I've tried those trays but I can't keep them in my mouth (I have kind of a strong gag reflex). Short of shelling out the hundreds and hundreds of dollars to have them whitened at the dentist, are there any other solutions? I so want a sparkly shiny smile.

Please help me!! Thanks so very very much!!!
PaintingChef

Crest WhiteStrips. They really, truly, totally honest-to-God-and-the-Baby-Jesus work.

I haven't tried the new "premium" ones that claim to whiten for six months or more, but I agree that you do need to start over with the original strips after a few months of coffee and red wine to keep the whiteness level up. But for just $30 and 30 minutes twice a day, they are easily the best whitening product this side of the dentist. And the dentist's method will mostly likely use trays, unfortunately, so you'll have the same gagging problem with the $500 professional treatment.

(Although I remember seeing some kind of laser whitening treatment on Queer Eye once that they recommended for a guy with serious Austin-Powers-on-three-packs-a-day teeth. Then they followed it up with a box of WhiteStrips, so if you have some really stubborn staining you might need to kickstart the process with some professional help.)

And wear the strips during your commute so you aren't constantly fixated on the fact that you can't eat or drink for 30 minutes. Otherwise you'll slap the stips on and then be overcome with a craving to eat that package of salami from the fridge and open a bottle of wine RIGHT THAT INSTANT.

I just read the last advice smackdown, and can I just say? I love my hair. I really do. It's long, naturally curly, and all the people that stop me to tell me just exactly how much money they'd pay for my hair makes me feel, well, like I have more money than they do.

Here's my thing, after a lightbulb cut when I was 13 years old, I've been cutting it myself. I'm now 31. The goth bangs, mine. The choppy layers, all by these hands. This is the thing: I sort of want a long cut, but the bangs are outdated, the layers, well, I'm giving myself the same lightbulb cut I had when I was 13. It's just now longer and a mishmash of lengths. My problem? My face. It's as long as a mule's. Eyes? Love 'em. Lips, great. Face? All my pictures make me look horsey and old. I want to bray. The only reason I can't send a worse picture is because I have ripped up/deleted them all. So, shorter, more layered, natural curls, the way the internet says I have to cut my hair for my face, make me look even more like a lightbulb when it gets fluffy. The longer, more even cuts that my hair needs to fall flat make me look equine. I will go to a good hairdresser, but, I want to be able to give some sort of idea to him about what I'd like. Are there NAMES for the kind of cutting technique I want? What would you recommend to a girl whose hair needs to be long to not frizz out like the coarse but extremely lightweight hair I have, but that needs a shorter cut, at least around the sides, to not make me look mammalian and like I'd give good saddle?

(BTW, the first pic, in which I look great, was taken in Phoenix, where the humidity is lower than my cat's weight. I now live in Colorado, and it rains alot this time of year. I had to wear a hat for a year when I was in high school, because my hair grows so slowly. Help?)

--Dayna

I hope you'll believe me here, but I think that your hair? Is great. I love it, really and truly. And I think you are being way, way too hard on your features and what you are "supposed" to be doing with your hair and blah blah blah.

Guess what! We're all different, and even the most general of rules has its exceptions and baby, you are it. More layers, especially around the face, would NOT work for you. They might make your face look wider, but not in a good way. With curly hair and a long skinny frame? You'd look like a Q-tip. And I LIKE the little half-forehead-goth-bangs on you. I get the sense that they fit your personality and honestly? If they work for you, then they work for you. Enough said.

It certainly couldn't hurt to get a professional's opinion, especially about the self-cut, growing-out laters. Unfortunately, some professionals can sense weakness and a vague desire for change and decide to do something drastic. Like more layers. Which have I mentioned? Would NOT work for you? A little texturizing would be the most dramatic thing I'd suggest and could take a teeny bit of the weight off the bottom while keeping your hair the same length and NOT giving you separate, definable layers.

If you are looking for a change, it's best to NOT get that change on your first visit to a particular stylist. Make them earn your trust by doing exactly what you say (even if it's just "take exactly a half inch off, no more, no less") the first couple times you see them. If you get the sense that they do listen to you and aren't trying to push the latest technique they've learned, ask their advice. You can always say no.

And for the frizz? That's all about the product, not the cut. Oh, and a really, really good blow-dryer and diffuser.

Y'all know my deep, dark love of Tigi products, so I'd suggest combing Bed Head Control Freak through wet hair, followed with Cat Walk Curls Rock Curls Booster and a few good scrunches. Then blow-dry with your diffuser and finish with Bed Head Headrush spray shine. These are all products I use on my own lightweight and frizzy thin hair, so I know they won't weigh you down with gobs of pomade and goo.

If they aren't strong enough to fight your frizz, then again, get a stylist you TRUST to recommend something. (Also don't ask on your first visit, as they could be all, SUCKER and sell you a bunch of discontinued crap that's about to be marked down 50% in two days.)

Dearest Amalah, Homecoming Queen of All Blogs,

I have a couple of questions that I was hoping that you could help me with. You see, my best friend (and matron of honor in my upcoming wedding if we are being technical) and I have a blog. We decided to blog after our friend Mirella began hers. Throughout our readings, we came across you. You. Are. Great. Why won't you be our friend? We have tried time upon time again to comment, post, and email and we got nothing, nada, nunno (is that a word) from you! We are funny, hip, stylish, and must have "please comment anonymously and rudely" stamped on our bloggie address, but we don't have your comments. I am aware that sometimes this blogging business becomes quite a chore, but if you could so kindly stop by our site and perhaps, comment, we would greatly appreciate it. Oh yeah, here's our site: http://acareerwomanandahousewife.blogspot.com!

Secondly, I am also planning a honeymoon. It has become apparent and obvious while reviewing every post you have ever made, that you are quite the traveler such as myself. I am a Caribbean queen and have been a lot of places, but I want to go... AGAIN. My fiance has never been out of the Northeastern United States (pity him, I know) and doesn't care where we go, so it is up to me. I have been on two cruises to the western caribbean, and I have vacationed in the Bahamas and Aruba. I want to go somewhere NEW! Where do you advise us to go? Do you feel a cruise or an all-inclusive trip to another island would be our best bet?

Sincerely,
Need A Honeymoon and U As Our Friend

Okay, let's divide this question up into Part A: Please Be Our Friend and Part B: Vacationage. And let's begin with Part B, because I think that just makes good sense.

As for Part B: Vacationage, I'm actually not so much with the world travel. We were so poor when we got married we honeymooned in Williamsburg, Virginia. We've been to Aruba twice and once went on a Disney cruise to the Bahamas with my entire company. Oh, and I went to Europe with my high-school Spanish class, which is where I bought the plastic shoes.

I hated the cruise, and only partially because of the overwhelming Disney-ness of it all. I didn't like being stuck on a boat, I didn't like the tiny cabin with the weird toilet, and I didn't like the big group dinners where you had to sit and eat and converse with OTHER PEOPLE. I don't like other people, especially on vacation. So I'd say no to a cruise on your honeymoon, because there are simply too many other people in very close quarters, and also you have to waste valuable sex time on those stupid lifeboat drills.

Have you thought about Costa Rica? I am dying to go to Costa Rica, ever since seeing the first season of Temptation Island (shut up), which was filmed at this resort. It's not yet a huge tourist trap like Aruba or the Bahamas, and there's tons of cool stuff to do, like seeing monkeys in the rainforest or bathing in volcanic(!) hot springs.

If we were to go on another big trip that was 1) not in August, which is when our anniversary is, and GODDAMN, it's either 150 degrees everywhere or in the middle of monsoon season, or 2) not when I was pregnant, which eliminates any cool activities like hiking around the rain forest to see monkeys or swinging across zip lines, we'd do Costa Rica on an all-inclusive adventure package.

Mostly because I really like monkeys.

And now, Part A: Please Be Our Friend.

Y'all, I suck at stuff like that. It's really nothing personal. There was a time, a long time ago, when I did not suck. I answered emails. I responded to comments. I read 450 blogs a day and commented on at least half of them. And I met some very cool people by doing this.

I also met some not-very-cool people, and some people who at first seemed very cool and then turned out to not be so much with the cool. And I got hurt by some people and then I inadvertantly hurt some other people and finally came to the conclusion that the Internet functions at about a seventh-grade level and I don't want to talk about it anymore; I'll be in my room.

So I don't really comment on a lot of sites anymore, even though I still read about 450 sites a day. Ask even my very best Internet friends in the world when I last commented on their sites, and they'll stare at you blankly and mutter something about the Clinton administration.

And I turned off that "email new comments" feature some time ago. I've been trying to respond to comments IN my actual comments section a little more lately, although I know people don't like this as much as the replying-to-comments-by-email thing, but y'all, look...

1,086 unread emails. And they're all from comments made to this site. (Or at least I thought they were until I did some inbox cleaning recently and found unread emails from 1) a literary agent wanting to discuss book ideas, 2) a reporter wanting to interview me about non-anonymous blogging, and 3) four emails from my mom. Whoops.)

So when you comment to this site, rest assured that I read it. I check my comments many times a day and read every one, but with an average of about 40 comments per entry, I just can't reply to each one personally. (It's a trade-off though...when I responded to comments I received far fewer comments from assholes. Now I get the drive-bys from strangers who want to tell me how stupid I am for buying a dry-clean-only diaper bag or that I'm being childish for wanting an ultrasound at 20 weeks or that I am just generally a bitch and they hate me for no particular reason.)

(To these people: Hi, I'm Amy, and I don't know you at all. And this may come as a shock to you, seeing as you spent an afternoon with my archives and clearly feel that your opinion matters to me, but you don't know me either. AT ALL. So while you're certainly free to say whatever you like in your comments, I'm also free to publicly make fun of you later. Don't like it? Get your own damn site and see how you feel when random strangers crap all over your life.)

And as for all the nice people who send me email directly, I read these too. (Or I do now that I'm not drowning in new-comment notification messages.) And this is where I frankly, just suck. You've taken the time to tell me how much you enjoy the site and my writing and what do I do? I blush and I smile and then I never write back because I can't think of a clever way to respond. Perhaps this stems from me not knowing how to take a compliment. Like would it kill me to just reply with thanks for reading, and you smell nice too?

Apparently, yes, it would. For I do sure suck.

ANYWAY. Thanks for asking this question and letting me vent all this crap and explain myself and provide some frantic justification for my suckitude as a member of the web writing community.

And I HAVE been to your site. And I HAVE read it and know who you are and consider you to be friendly happy commenters. And your site is fun. I love a good collaborative blog and your collaborative blog is definitely a good one. So will you forgive my inability to become your VBFF if I tell all amalah.com readers to check out http://acareerwomanandahousewife.blogspot.com today and leave you a pretty comment?

The Big Announcement

ATTENTION INTERNET, I HAVE NEWS.

I'm very pleased to announce that this weekend, a very important decision was made. Perhaps the biggest decision I've made all year.

Darling people of the Internet, the diaper bag. It has been purchased.

After much thought and research and comparison shopping, I rejected Coach(!) as too summery and Kate Spade as too boring, and instead opted for a Petunia Pickle Bottom bag -- specifically, the Fortune Cookie boxy backpack.

(Oprah Winfrey gave a similar bag to Julia Roberts, in case you were wondering, which you probably weren't. Likewise, you probably don't care that Julianne Moore and Reese Witherspoon also have them. Yeah, me neither.)

(Liar. And also, snobby snob snob.)

And so, I present a combination portrait of The Belly At 20 Weeks and The Prettiest Bag For Carrying Dirty Diapers Ever.

P.S. Dear Mr. Creepy-McFetish-Man, please do not comment on this post or send me any more email. I don't care how beautiful you find pregnant women or that you want to date an actress who wears a prosthetic belly and I'm sorry that waitress from the strip club isn't returning your calls or whatever. Please take your freak self elsewhere.

Adventures In Babysitting (Or, Daycare) (Or, Guilt)

(Blogging Lesson #429,873: It's really, really hard to think of a follow-up post to ultrasound photos that's not a complete letdown, especially since every time I look at my site for inspiration I'm hypnotized into staring at the photos for the billionth time.)

We've been touring daycare centers this week. Would you like to know how it's going?

Center #1: The Gulag

According to the nice glossy brochure, this place had a fixation with trees, and all the heavy-handed metaphors that go along with that. Children: They need strong roots! Children: They grow strong and branch out! Children: You have to give them water occasionally!

The cover of the nice glossy brochure, then, naturally featured a photo of a few adorable tykes holding watering cans and crouched around a small garden. Children: They make great migrant labor!

This center was also one of the most expensive ones on our list. But they were promising to take my seedling and nurture him into a mighty redwood, and honestly, how many places can make concrete promises like that?

Then we showed up for our tour. The center was one small wing off a neighborhood community center. Actually, the center was one hallway in some sort of administrative building for the neighborhood community center. The play area was completely paved over, save for one three-foot-long patch of grass with some dead tomato plants that I recognized from the brochure cover.

The infants (sorry, "seedlings") shared a room with the toddlers (sorry, "saplings"). When I asked how the babies were supposed to nap in a room full of screaming two-year-olds, I was told that "most of them just get used to the noise." Then they demonstrated how the ceiling lights directly over the cribs were controlled by a separate switch, which had about the same impact as unscrewing a single florescent light bulb in a high school cafeteria.

Bend over and take it: Currently costs $350 a week, but the rates are going up in the fall. Parents provide diapers, wipes and all solid foods. Center provides Cheerios and a dank, gloomy setting.

Chance in hell: We're number three on the waitlist for January 2006 placement.

Guilt factor: Off the charts. Once we got back in the car, I cried, because oh my GOD, that place was so EXPENSIVE, so it's probably a HILTON compared to the other places on our list and oh my god, I am the world's worst mother already.

Center #2: Even the Hippies Are Rich Around Here

Next, we went to a home-based center that was, surprisingly enough, based out of a home. A home the size of Rhode Island, because what better way to teach your child about income disparity and the out-of-control D.C. real estate market than to have him spend half his day at a house seventeen times bigger than your entire condo building?

We met Robin, the owner, who showed us around her lovely and homey little center. Also the small airport she calls her backyard. Also the kitchen where she makes homemade baby food out of organic fruit and vegetables everyday and prepares both breakfast and lunch for the older kids. And some other stuff, but I was a little distracted by her fringed wolf-print t-shirt and the whole socks-with-Birkenstocks thing. Then she put her hands on my belly and formally introduced herself to the baby.

Bend over and take it: Currently a bargain at $260 a week, but rates are totally going up. To, um, $310? Would you freak out at $310? No? Wait, I meant $320. You're still interested? Ha ha, sucker.

Chance in hell: Depends. Who knows. She'll have to check the moon cycles.

Guilt factor: Not nearly so horrific. There's a backyard with grass! And tons of toys! Plenty of cozy friendly staff and a laid-back, non-institutional atmosphere! On the other hand, this place is WAY COOLER than our house and I'm never going to have the time to make homemade organic baby food and oh my god, I am the world's worst mother already.

Center #3: The Hey, This Ain't Half Bad Center

Next up was a place that rhymes with DinderDare, which I was prejudiced against because there was one near my house growing up and man, it looked like fun because there were a lot of toys outside, but my (stay-at-home) mom would always tell me how horrible it would be to have to go there and I eventually came to believe that children who attended TinderTare were children with mommies who didn't love them very much.

But I actually loved this place. Really. The play area was large and grassy except for a small blacktop area where the older kids could play basketball and hopscotch and four-square. Four-square! Damn, that takes me back.

The infants had their own room -- two rooms, actually, so they could keep the crawlers/walkers separate from the itty-bitty layarounders. To satisfy the yuppie within me, even the infant room follows a monthly curriculum so your child will totally be ready for Harvard at age 10. (The theme for May is "Colors." Okay, it's not Quantum Mechanics or anything, but hell, their skulls haven't even fused yet.)

Bend over and take it: $325 a week. Are rates going up in the fall? OF COURSE rates are going up in the fall. Silly person. However, besides diapers, wipes and formula/breast milk for the itty-bitties, the center provides breakfast, lunch and two snacks for the older ones, and free transportation to-and-from local schools for the older older ones. There are also computers at the center, which means Squishy can totally keep up his blog from daycare.

Chance in hell: We're number six on the waitlist for January. They accept six infants. Do the math. I must somehow contact those six families and tell them that HinderHare is only for children whose mommies don't love them very much, so please place your brat elsewhere.

Guilt factor: The lowest yet. Squishy could like, learn shit here and have fun. Also the closest center to my office so I could be there at a moment's notice to nurse or kiss skinned knees or bring toys to smooth over any guilt that surfaces later that will surely come from being the worst mother in the world.

Center #4: McDaycare

The next center was another place that rhymed with WinderWare and was on our list simply because they didn't have a waitlist when I called to ask about the waitlist. (The waitlist quickly became my first question. Not, "how much?" or "do you keep the infants confined to a small pen?", but rather "HOW BEHIND AM I AND HOW MUCH OF A BRIBE WILL IT TAKE TO MOVE MY CHILD UP THE LIST?")

The reason they didn't have a waitlist is because they accept approximately 627 infants at a time. To be fair, the babies are all divided up into the standard six babies, two caretakers to room, but still. Room after room after room of fussy, messy, mucusy babies who cried and flung themselves at me because apparently, I look just like a lot of babies' mothers.

The play area was covered in AstroTurf, which, our tour guide chirpily explained, keeps the kids from getting dirty. "You'll never have to wash grass stains!" Jason and I politely responded that yes, wow, that's incredibly awesome, but inside we both died a little at the idea of choosing our baby's care based on the laundry benefits.

Bend over and take it: Same as the other MinderMare, rates go up in September, blah blah blah.

Chance in hell: They liiiied on the phone, as there is a waitlist, but considering the place holds enough children to populate a small country, our chances of getting a spot here are probably the best of any center so far.

Guilt factor: While virtually identical to the other JinderJare, we didn't like it as much. Was it the AstroTurf? The large enrollment numbers? The plates of mushy brown bananas stacked up in the kitchen?

Center #5: Holy Shit

This place cost $1,475 a month. $436 a week. And no, this price does not include weekly spa treatments or pony rides or Latin lessons. And you have to bring your own Cheerios. Moving on.

Center #6: The Big Fat Tease

Finally, we toured a private school where every woman I know seems to send her children. Lucky damn bitches. A lovely building, lovely grounds, lovely teachers. Spacious infant room. Spanish lessons at age two. Bible stories and weekly chapel to prevent future juvenile delinquency. Fewest number of visibly coughing, hacking or otherwise mucusy children of any place so far.

Bend over and take it: $310 a week until (you guessed it) September, when (guess what) rates go up. Parents send in meals and donate to group snacks, but hey! Spanish lessons!

Chance in hell: Snowball's chance. The Big Fat Tease Center keeps even the infant rooms on a strict school-year-type schedule instead of moving kids up after certain birthdays. The center director tried to explain Squishy's hypothetical placement using a late September birthday but seriously, it was so complicated I couldn't really follow it. Basically, it's very, very unlikely that they'll have a mid-year spot open up, and then because they use a September 1st birthday cut-off every year, the best she can guarantee is a spot in the two-year-old room in like, 2007.

Guilt factor: See, if I hadn't had fertility problems, I totally could have stuck with my original plan to conceive in October, given birth in late June before it got too hot, taken three months' leave and then made the September placement no problem. But it didn't work out that way, so we're screwed.

I couldn't even give my kid the right birthday. I am so the world's worst mother. Already.

Meet the Squishy

Pictures! Many, many pictures. All of which I am going to make you look at.

I am sorry, but clearly, this is the cutest baby in the history of ever. The nose! The toes! The "Oy vey, all this poking is giving me a headache" pose!

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

I AM SKELETOR, FROM THE PLANET EYE SOCKET FURY OMICRON 8. ALL YOUR CHEERIOS ARE BELONG TO US.

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

Jason: You know, because it's a boy? Our chances of giving birth to the antichrist are bigger now.

Amy: Did you just imply that our precious unborn son is going to be the antichrist?

Jason: DAMIEN! IT'S ALL FOR YOU!

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

Our ultrasound technician was a highly nervous and excitable Indian man who at one point stopped the exam to order Jason back to his little chair after he'd gotten up to get a closer look at the television screen.

Ultrasound Tech Man: I am sorry, sir, but I am afraid I will not be comfortable if you keep creeping up behind me like that, sir.

Jason: Okay... (sits back down, looks at Amy like, what, did he think I was going to knock him out and go on the lam with a stolen ultrasound machine?)

Ultrasound Tech Man: Look at that beautiful little arm!

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

Okay, I'll admit it. Like the vast majority of my readers, I thought I was having a girl. I just assumed that since I'm a girl, my body would naturally only produce its own kind. A boy is like, a different species or something.

The idea that I've created a little man, with little man parts, kind of blows my mind.

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

After showing us the boy parts, he turned around and gave us a look at his bottom, which I just want to pinch because it's so cute.

I am going to spend a lot of money on diapers for that little butt.

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

Amy: What if he doesn't like me?

Jason: (leans over, kisses Amy on forehead) Don't worry, baby, he's going to hate you.

(Don't you love our sense of humor? Don't you think we're totally ready to be parents?)

I can't say I'd blame him for hating me, though, if this habit of posting pictures of his little private parts with big arrows continues much longer.

Click here for the annotated-what-in-sam-hill-am-I-looking-at version.

This is my son. My little tiny man. I promise to play sports with you and tell you that it's okay to cry sometimes and whether that shirt goes with those pants.

I can't wait to meet you.

It's...

(Thunderous drumroll)

It's...

It's...

GET ON WITH IT!

It's a boy.

And damn, he's so cute. And not modest at all. I love him. I shall call him Squishy.

(Pictures coming tomorrowish.)