Wednesday Advice Smackdown

DISCLAIMER: It has been recently discovered that your advice-giver's kitchen is completely infested with a common household pest known as the "confused flour beetle." So please think twice before taking advice from this individual, because 1) ew, there are tiny little bugs in all her dry goods, and 2) even those tiny little bugs are confused and stupid.

Dear Amalah, Queen of Everything,

I have an embarrassing problem, which I am sure you do not have because you are so polished and lovely. I have not been able to find an anti-perspirant that works for me. The deodorant part works fine, so it's not like I smell bad, but I get sweaty and it's completely disgusting.

My question for you is: do you know an anti-perspirant that works? I do not mind if it is expensive, as this is clearly an important problem that is worth spending money to solve.

Please help! If you can't help me, I don't know who can. You are the best!

Name Withheld Because, Well, Duh

Actually, you know who can help you? Sars and all her readers over at her advice column, The Vine. (That she does DAILY. Which means EVERY DAY.)

The original question.

And the resulting reader-suggestion-palooza.

My take would be to first try different men's deodorants/anti-perspirants (if you haven't already), because no matter how much bullshit Secret tries to pile on about being strong enough for a man, it isn't. I mean, I love my Secret Platinum Invisible Solid With Olay Conditioners to death, but I'm not a very sweaty person, and I never really give it much of a challenge, since I don't exercise. Ever. Try Degree, Mitchum or Arrid. Stay away from clear gels and experiment with roll-ons vs. solids.

If those fail, consider moving on to the industrial-strength types: Certain Dri or Drysol (requires a prescription). These are treatments that you use only at bedtime, and are a no-go for anyone with really sensitive skin. Unless you decide some irritation is worth it if you could JUST STOP THE SWEATING BECAUSE EW.

Or you can Botox your pits, apparently. Which, okay! Good luck with that.

Oh pretty and wise Amy,

I have lots and lots of hair. It is kind of pretty and sometimes shiny if I braid it or something but notsomuch normally because it is curly and curly hair doesn't take well to shiny (light refracting and all that jazz). My hair is my security blanket. I want to cut it...but I have nightmares about it... I know that keeping my hair long means that it goes straight and flat around my face making it appear even more round and pudgy. Which I hate. But? Am scared!

I don't use any products in my hair, nor do I blow dry it or use any styling implements on it besides a detangling comb. I've had shorter hair before and, while very cute, took *hours* of blow-drying straight, curling ends up or down with fat curling iron, and fighting Texas humidity with Aveda's purefume humectant pommade... okay, well not *hours* but it felt like it. And it's really too humid up in Texas to be standing around in a hot and foggy bathroom with a hot-ass blow-dryer making you all sweaty and i-need-to-take-a-shower-again-but-oh-my-god-my-hair!. And I *love* being able to get out of the shower, comb my hair, pull it away from my face and go... takes all of 5 minutes. Lurv!

But I am losing lots of weight and trying to get wee... and when you start losing lots of weight you start to say to yourself "Self, you are lookin' mighty fine but all that hair? that you were hiding behind? because you were hugemongous? Girl, that's got to go!" So here I am, ready to get The Cut and ready to spend The Money (assuming it's under $150) but can I find a flattering cut where I don't have to blow-dry/straighten it? Am willing to use product. But I.hate.blow-dryers! And curling irons! hatehatehatehate.

So please pretty and wise Amalah & Squishy, save me from the hair and from blow-dryers & curling irons?

Yours truly,
Hair down to there

This is a tough one. Every woman on earth is in search of that perfect haircut that lets us step out of the shower, toss our heads and then ta-da!  Breck girl super fantastic!

But the problem usually lies with our hair, which will keep doing the annoying things it does no matter what haircut we get.

Case in point: My hair is long, fine and mostly straight. I currently have a nice layered cut that lets me forgo blow-drying...but only if I wear my hair wavy with lots of scrunching and product. If I actually want to wear my straight hair straight...I have to blow-dry, or else it gets frizzy and bendy. Hair: It's A Confusing, Stupid Bitch.

You can ask your stylist for a low-maintenance cut, but their idea of low-maintenance will probably be different than yours. My hairdresser blow dries his wife's hair every morning and doesn't understand why Jason refuses to do the same for me. "It's easy!" he exclaims, while taking 20 minutes to dry my hair one tiny tiny section at a time.

So try cutting your hair gradually. You don't have to do it all at once like they do on the makeover shows. Cut off a few inches at a time and add some long layers for texture. (And layers make blow-drying much, MUCH easier, as they remove a lot of weight from your hair. It's the heavy, all-one-length kind of cut that requires hours and hours of blow-drying.)

By going shorter gradually you'll be better able to pick the length that compliments your new, thinner features. If you go from looooong to bob-length you're more likely to flip out, hate it, and then be stuck with styling a cut you don't like for months and months while you grow it out. But by cutting two or three inches off each time you get a haircut (every six to eight weeks), you may find that you only need to go shoulder-length for best results, and if you do go a bit too short...well, it'll be back to the length you liked in just another month or so.

And if you do find a short cut you love, even if it requires blow-drying, there are ways to speed up the process -- especially once you've taken length and weight off. Buy an ionic dryer with an angled attachment and a cool-air setting. Blow-dry your roots first, using high heat. Then separate your hair into about six sections (two on each of the sides, two or three in the back) using duckbill clips and dry each section individually with a round brush. Use the cool setting on the ends to prevent frizz. Then give your whole head a blast with the cool air to set your style.

Hello, Amalah,

I have bra issues. My situation is that I have small "ones" that are about an a/b cup (this is a guess). I've never been properly fitted and wouldn't know the first thing about where to go to do this or what to buy. Because of my small size, I had always bought the three-to-a-pack kind of bras (the Barely There), which I've come to find out...Barely Work. As I've gotten older, I don't deal with sag, but I do deal with the boobies kind of "looking off to the side" if you know what I mean. With this very thin bra, my straps fall down, the bra rides up in back, I'm falling out (yes, even I'm falling out). I was coming to realize that, yes, even I needed a good bra.

At about that time, I saw this great show on Oprah titled "Oprah's Bra Intervention" for which I could have easily been a candidate. I watched in awe as several well-endowed as well as small chested women were transformed with proper fittings and proper bras. Some looked 10 pounds lighter simply because of their bra. It was even mentioned that 85% of women wear the wrong bra size! It wasn't until I saw these makeovers that I realized what I had been missing and that there is the perfect bra out there, even for me. It's time to grow up and get fitted and then get a wonderful bra (or five).

So, my questions are these: (Pre Pregnancy) - where did you get fitted? Was it a good fitting? What is the best bra you've ever had for regular, every-day wear?

Thank you!
Amy

Ah yes, the days of small boobs. I remember them well. Mostly because they are STILL HERE, AS I AM STILL ONLY A FREAKING 34C (BARELY) AT SIX MONTHS ALONG, GODDAMN IT ALL TO HELL. I mean, it's better than the 32A I was before, but still. I was just expecting something a little...more. Like Pamela Anderson more. Was that unrealistic of me?

Anyway, I have never been "fitted" for a bra, because I don't like other people touching me, particularly in small fitting-room settings. I've always measured myself, because you CAN and it's EASY, particularly for smaller-chested girls. (Once you get into the larger and hard-to-find sizes, I've always heard that yes, it's best to get fitted by a "bra professional," whatever the hell that is, but HI, 32A HERE.)

(By the way, that "85% of women are wearing the wrong bra size" statistic has reached urban legend proportions at this point, with every upscale lingerie shop screaming it to lure women in for fittings even though YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF. I found it on four different websites while fact-checking my measuring procedure for this column.)

HOW TO MEASURE YOUR BOOBS*

*Hello Googlers! This is probably not what you were looking for and has absolutely nothing to do with Britney Spears. Sorry.

1. Stand upright, yet relaxed, in an unlined or lightly-lined bra.

2. Using a soft tape measure, go around the bottom band of your bra, along the top of your ribcage. Pull the tape taut, but not too tight.

3. Add five inches to this measurement to determine your band size. My ribcage measurement is currently 29, which means I'm a 34. If you end up on an odd number, you most likely want the next even size up, but not always. Try both sizes on and see which one fits better (no riding up, no slippage, and no marks left on your skin).

4. Next, measure LOOSELY around the fullest part of your boob. Keep the tape at an even level all around your torso. The difference between this measurement and your band size determines your cup size, with each inch of difference equaling one cup size. My bust measurement is 37 -- three inches more than my band size. That's a C-cup, baby.

If the difference is...
Less than 1 inch = AA cup
1 inch = A cup
2 inches = B cup
3 inches = C cup
4 inches = D cup
5 inches = DD cup

And so on and so forth.

Now, as for my favorite bra, it's nothing earth-shattering. I like Victoria's Secret. Sure, they're expensive and the catalogs are annoying and neverending, but hey, it's a convenient place to order from and they make really pretty bras in the 32A size and only rarely have I had a problem with a 32A not fitting like I expected it to. I also like Gap Body for plainer, t-shirt-style bras, although they really don't last as long as the VS ones do. (But they're cheaper, and I have a short attention span, so I just chuck them and buy new ones.)

(For pregnant girls? With the ever-changing chest sizes? Just go to Target. Really.)

Another option for small-chested girls is to just scrap bras and wear camisoles instead. I have dozens of them --  from Gap, Banana Republic, Calvin Klein, VS, etc. -- in cotton, lycra, silk, you name it. I mean, there's no bra in the world that could give me cleavage anyway, so why torture myself with the straps and the hooks and all that when you wear something pretty like this instead?

(Now if someone could just explain the complexities of nursing bras to me, I'd be set. Could I buy one now? Should I wait to see what size I am in September? Or will I be even bigger once these puppies are, ahem, fully functional? And also, I really, really don't want to talk about my boobs anymore.)

I am looking for a really good way to dye eyebrows. I am trying to change my husband into a metrosexual.

Also, I, like the sheep before me, love your blog. I wish I wrote that stuff, but, alas, I didn't.

Fidelle

In a word: Don't.

Eyebrows should NEVER be dyed at home. It's dangerous. It's unpredictable. And it's not worth it.

Eyebrows are wiry and coarse -- and home dyes (already a crapshoot) take to wiry, coarse hair differently than normal head hair. So that nice shade of blond you put in your husband's hair, when applied to his brows, could result in a screaming shade of orange.

And also, you know, blindness. 

I colored my eyebrows ONCE, and I let an actual Salon Professional do it. (And I only did it because my highlights came out a different shade than we'd been expecting so she darkened my eyebrows to make it look more natural.) And it looked nice, but within two weeks I had VISIBLE ROOTS. ON MY EYEBROWS. Eyebrows grow FAST, people.

But if you really, really think he needs his brows colored (to cover up gray, perhaps?), then by all means, drag him to a salon and let a colorist do it.

Or go to Sephora and pick up some colored brow gel. Stila makes one, as does Jean Paul Gaultier, which may be more manly-like and acceptable for your husband.

DISCLAIMER #2: Flour beetles, y'all! In my flour! And other starchy foodstuffs! Do you know how gross that is? It's hella gross, is how gross it is. Luckily, we're demolishing our entire kitchen in two weeks. (Although our contractor said that two weeks ago. And possibly two weeks before that.) But hey, once demo begins? It's only supposed to take two weeks to finish! Why does this sound vaguely familiar to me?

Anyway, questions for the Wednesday Advice Smackdown can be sent to advice@amalah.com, however, there's currently a two-month backlog, so please don't send questions about how you're currently on fire or something.

Amy Is Stupid Sometimes, Part 34835497123

Friday was a huge day in the exciting, glamorous life of Amalah.

For starters, I finally got my car's stupid safety inspection renewed. It only took me two months! And $200 in tickets! Which, I KNOW, Parking Enforcement Lady. I KNOW. I'm aware that my inspection expired and you can slap $50 tickets on my windshield EVERY DAY and it WILL NOT MATTER, because I KNOW, but I don't have time.

Also because I am chicken and will not drive to D.C.'s ONE LONE INSPECTION STATION by myself, because the neighborhood scares me. It's a very COPS kind of neighborhood, and our friends who had an apartment nearby finally moved because, you know, how much arson can you take before all the fire alarms and middle-of-the-night evacuations start really fucking with your sleep cycles?

So I made Jason drive me, and he kept trying to explain the route he was taking to get there and how not to get lost because you know, the next time I'll totally be going by myself, because Jason still doesn't fully understand that he married a total child who will NEVER DRIVE TO THAT SCARY PLACE BY HERSELF, EVER.

He's cute.

So we got the car inspected, and they gave us a new sticker and did not demand payment on our 700 outstanding parking tickets, which was awesome of them. One of these days I'll pay them. Or else one of these days I'll find my car booted and I'll cry and make Jason call the phone number and take care of it and then he'll probably divorce me.

Anyway. After the inspection we went to a prenatal checkup, and it was time for my glucose screening. Which I was expecting to suck in a completely different way than it actually sucked.

I figured the sugar-water-glucose-solution I'd have to drink would be nasty, but actually, I thought it tasted just like that McDonald's orange drink stuff your elementary school used to get for picnics and field day. Which come to think of it, most people WOULD consider that stuff to be nasty, but since pregnancy already makes me crave kid-centric foods (pudding! Spaghettios! Kraft Mac & Cheese! bananas with peanut butter!), I thought it was yummy.

I also figured I'd be pretty bored (you have to wait an hour after drinking the sugary stuff before your blood is drawn), so I came all prepared and brought a book. Except that I passed out cold about 10 minutes later.

Amy's Blood Sugar: Mmmm, glucose! Yum yum yum. AND YUM! AND WHEE! AND I'M HYPER AND EXCITED. LET'S DISCO DANCE! BUZZZZZZZZZ! WHEE! And...wait...oh. My. God. I'm crashing...crashingrightnowsohardandtiredandIwilljustclosemyeyesand zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Jason woke me up when it was time for the blood test and I kind of stumbled to the exam room. The nurse was freaking out about my purse and I just nodded and mumbled something about my head hurting. (By the way, I felt like shit on toast ALL DAY after the glucose screen. Had a pounding headache and I couldn't stay awake and I also whined a lot.)

I was so sleepy that when I was asked if I wanted an ultrasound I just shrugged and said, "Whatever."

(Yes, I know. I almost turned down an ultrasound. Clearly, that glucose solution is a more mind-altering hippie trip than LSD.)

Luckily, a small part of my brain (also known as "Jason") snapped to attention and said that yes, we would like an ultrasound.

And hey, anybody remember all the bullshit I went through with my doctor regarding the 20-week ultrasound? Where he wanted to wait until 26 weeks because of "picture quality?" And I was all, "WTF?" And then I was all, "He's evil and calculating and I'm going to destroy him?" And then I went for the ultrasound someplace else and got the most amazing, high-quality pictures and was all, "WTF, again?"

So I think I solved the mystery. My doctor's ultrasound machine is an ancient piece of shit.

(And also, I finally figured out that my doctor looks and talks and everythings JUST LIKE Corky St. Clair from Waiting for Guffman, complete with the references to a wife who probably doesn't really exist, because DUDE, YOU'RE GAY.)

I've had one sonogram in his office, but it was at 11 weeks and was via the cooch cam. Friday's peek at the Squishy was via the tummy cam, and the picture quality really and truly did suck.

I'm not even going to scan the photo, because it looks like an ultrasound done entirely in Microsoft Paint. There's a head and maybe an eye socket and some kind of hand-like blob and the only really obvious thing is my very full bladder which is getting smushed by Squishy's blurry head.

However, we did learn some important things:

1) Squishy is indeed a boy. Very much so a boy, no question there, thank you Mr. Very Prominent Scrotum.

2) Squishy is huge.

3) No, really. He's gigantic. He's measuring (in length) over a week ahead of schedule, and his estimated weight is about two weeks ahead of schedule.

4) His feet are 5.5 centimeters long and are oh, so cute.

5) Squishy is in the wrong position and needs very much to roll the heck over.

Squishy is in the "occiput posterior position." Which means he's facing up, towards my stomach, instead of down, towards my back. And that means labor can be longer and extra-super-painful. Also: Forceps. Gack. But hey, he still has plenty of time to move into a better position, so try not to think about it!

Excuse me?

TRY NOT TO THINK ABOUT IT? THIS IS YOUR SOLUTION?

Telling a pregnant woman to "try not to think about <insert something>" is a surefire way to ensure that her every waking thought will be consumed by <insert something>. WE CAN'T HELP IT.

I asked if there was any way to know if he rolls over between now and my due date, and Dr. Corky said, "Well, if labor starts and you feel your contractions in your front, and they feel relatively okay, we'll know he flipped over. If your contractions are in your lower back and hurt like a motherfucker, then we know he didn't."

(He probably didn't really say motherfucker.)

I HAVE A BETTER IDEA. HOW ABOUT GIVING ME AN EPIDURAL RIGHT NOW?

So here I am today, Monday, still not thinking about it, except for every time the baby moves or twitches or kicks. (Is he rolling over? Did he just roll over? Is that his head? Or his butt? Dammit.)

Am also waiting to find out if I passed the glucose screen, something I really WAS able to totally not think about -- until I was told how big the baby is. And now I'm convinced it's because I have gestational diabetes and won't be able to eat pudding or donuts for three more months and will still end up giving birth to a 10 pound baby who will come out sideways, or something.

I'm going to eat lunch at Krispy Kreme. That should take my mind off <insert something>.

Amuse Bouche

Last night, I surprised Jason by taking him out for a decadent, three-hour dining extravaganza for his birthday. A foodie's dream meal.

All I can say this morning is: DAMN YOU MICHEL RICHARD! Damn you and your inventive and whimsical take on contemporary French cuisine! Damn you and your amazing nine-course tasting menu with the foie gras and the lobster and the three goddamn dessert courses! Damn you for the free birthday sorbet you sent out for Jason, because clearly, we had NOT HAD ENOUGH FOOD.

Damn you and all that to hell!

So yeah. Dinner was awesome, but my belly button popped out on the ride home.

It's not a full outie yet, but it's close, and one more pudding cup may push it over the edge.

Jason thinks it's cute. I think he can go to hell too.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

(Also an interlude to say HAPPY 29th BIRTHDAY JASON! Whee! Whoo! I hope you love the new fancy camera that you bought for yourself, because really, I am very thoughtful like that.)

BUT FIRST, A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE SMACKDOWN

Y'all, the Advice Smackdown was never intended to become an actual advice column. Really. One Wednesday, back in April 2004, I was bored and without inspiration so I bugged some friends to send me funny and fake questions so I could answer them with The Worst Possible Advice in a somewhat humorous fashion. This continued until we all got really sick of it.

Early results were mixed. Eh. There was also extensive mockery of Blaire from The Facts of Life. Mostly, it was just me acting like a hyperactive ass.

Then somewhere along the line, people started sending in REAL questions. I think it all started with a question about hair. And then I started getting questions about things I knew nothing about, but felt obligated to sort of fake it, so I'd do some Google University or fashion mag research and bullshit my way through.

And now the stupid thing is a full-fledged advice column thing. And a weird mix of hair/shoe/purse chatter and actual life problems. I don't know how to solve actual life problems. I don't even know how to solve some hair problems, like why my bangs are doing that weird thing again today.

Yet still, the questions roll in, and the advice sputters out. And almost every week, someone comments about how much my advice sucks or that I'm ripping off The Vine or that basically, I sound really, really dumb.

So, essentially, the whole point of this introduction is to say to those people: I KNOW, OKAY? I TOTALLY KNOW.

Hello Smart One,

I love your site, but if I'm writing you I guess you already know that. Congrats on the pregnancy, your baby boy will be beautiful! My question is pretty much the opposite of all your good news. I was diagnosed with Uterine Cancer about two months ago and had an emergency hysterectomy, I'm 29 with no children and now will never be pregnant. I am beyond devastated and overwhelmingly sad, but now for my question.

I have an amazing boyfriend who has been so supportive and we will probably marry in the near future but I can't but feel that I'll be cheating him out of one of life's greatest experiences because of what I can't give him. He says he's ok with it, we've talked about it at length, he loves me not my uterus, we can adopt, go for surrogacy, ect. Do you think a man can really, truly love a woman who can't become pregnant with his biological child?

Sorry for the downer of a question.

Sincerely,

Kate

(See? SEE? I used to get questions about Beverly Hills, 90210 vs. Saved By the Bell and now I get questions like this, and I swear to God, I have NO IDEA HOW THIS HAPPENED.)

Anyway. Kate. I'm so sorry. I hope you're doing okay, both physically and emotionally.

To skip right to your actual question: Can a man really, truly love a woman who can't carry his biological child? Absofuckinglutely. Yes. Without a doubt.

No man (assholes aside) sizes up a potential mate by the state of her uterus. I don't think the e-Harmony personality profile includes any questions about regular menstrual cycles or PCOS or blocked tubes. "Could I accompany you to your next pelvic exam? I have a few questions for your doctor." Just...no.

And hello: "Male factor is identified as the primary cause of infertility in 40% of cases and a female factor is identified 30%-40% of the time. In 10% of cases, both partners have detectable abnormalities and the remainder are unexplained." Translation: it can just as likely be his problem as yours. You just don't know until you start trying, as millions of couples find out later.

In your case, you know now. And it hurts. And you need to give yourself time to grieve your loss and heal your body. And find a way to accept your body and all its shortcomings and realize that you still deserve to be loved for everything that remains.

I could go on and on about men and women and the power of love over our physical limitations and how great adoption and surrogacy can be, but I know you've heard all this. Your boyfriend (who indeed sounds wonderful) has told you all this. I imagine friends, family and your doctors have told you all this. You just need to get to a point where you can believe it, and I don't think some crazy random girl on the Internet is going to get you there.

If you haven't already, find a good therapist who specializes in treating cancer survivors and a uterine cancer support group. Your doctor or hospital should be able to give you several. There are also online groups and resources. Voice your concerns and your hurt with women who have been there. And who are there. Cry and hug and be as Oprah-cheeseball as you need to be.

Finally, check out the Cancer, Baby blog, the journal of an absolutely amazing woman who will make you laugh and cry in a totally non-Oprah-cheeseball way.

And her husband sounds like he really loves her a lot. So there you go.

(Okay, now I need a moment. And I want to buy Kate something pretty. And maybe I need another moment.)

Amy,

Here is my story: A few months ago, when my beautiful baby boy was about 8 months old, and I had lost all that pesky baby weight, I realized that I hated all my clothes and felt very frumpy.  I obviously needed to buy a pair of fabulous jeans. I decided I was willing to spend $100 of these jeans and I went to Nordstrom's on a mission. And lo, I found the perfect jeans (Salt Works "Mulberry Street") for the obscene price of $130. They made me feel sexy, so I forked over the cash. Now, a few months later I've lost a bit more weight (yay for breastfeeding!) and my fabulous jeans are too big. They're all gappy in the back. Thanks to eBay, I found a smaller pair of the same jeans for @ $50. My question for you is, what should I do with the gappy pair? Should I take them to a tailor and have them altered, thus turning them into a $150 pair of jeans? Should I pack them away just in case my butt expands again? Should I keep buying more pairs on eBay until my average cost per pair is low enough that I don't mind that the first pair doesn't fit? Please, Amalah, give me guidance.

Eve

Jeans, for the most part, don't do well at the tailor's. The stitching never matches and you lose the natural fading and distressing. Thus, altered jeans always look altered. Yick.

There are lots of tips for getting jeans hemmed (have the tailor make a tuck or reattach the original hem, soak the jeans in water and rub a bleach tablet through a cheese grater, etc.), but not a lot of people attempt altering the seat and/or overall shape of jeans. Unless you have a tailor who specializes in denim, this seems insanely difficult. And I think there's a high probability of the jeans looking like total ass afterwards.

So I'd save the gappy pair and continue to buy the bargain ones on eBay. You never know when you might need a nice pair of fat jeans (and we alllll have them and hate them and also love them).

(And incidentally, while I was packing up all my non-maternity clothes a few months ago, I held up a pair of gloriously hot Miss Sixty jeans and announced to Jason that, "I will wear these again next spring. As God is my witness.")

(Jason: "Suuuure you will.")

(I think he was making fun of me. Bitch.)

Okay, oh wise Amy on all things pregnancy related.

I am totally freaking out here, I am 13 weeks pregnant on Friday and am already showing. And what I mean by that is while looking at a 2 bedroom apartment the woman asks how far along I am and when I told her she *gasped*, that was not comforting. She asked if we were expecting twins! Last time we checked there was only one heartbeat. Now, I know you started showing early so thought I would turn to the only person I know who was scrounging for maternity clothes the first day of the 2nd trimester! Is this normal? I realize that this would be a crappy question for smackdown....but from one D.C.'er to another, any encouragement would help!

Thanks!
Emily

Lordy, I was in maternity pants by eight weeks. At nine weeks, I posted this picture, and my comments section erupted in gasps and cries of twins and triplets and horror.

Luckily, my belly did not grow exponentially from there. It kind of stayed the same for a long time and then started growing in earnest again around five months. Now I look just like any pregnant woman at six months, possibly a little smaller. 

So don't stress about showing early. It happens. There is no "normal." And it doesn't necessarily mean you'll be a beach ball by four months and Shamu after he ate the beach ball by nine. It's just the way your body is carrying right now. So buy clothes that fit, and ignore the "trimester guidelines" on the tags. (I decided it was better to just wear the baggy maternity pants early than be "that" pregnant girl who still thinks her non-maternity clothes look okay when lo, they do not, and THEY AREN'T COMFORTABLE FOR YOU OR THE POOR SQUISHED BABY, SO SUCK IT UP AND BUY SOME STRETCH PANTS.)

And be happy that you look bona-fide pregnant and not just lumpy. The lumpy phase? Not fun.

Ok Amalah. Here is the situation: I am an acupuncturist in a fledgling private practice in Portland Oregon. If you have never spent much time hanging out here, you will not know that this place is a haven for "casual" dress. It is perfectly acceptable to wear jeans to the symphony, and if you go downtown? Not so many ties or suits. I think that my business will improve if I stop wearing the "Oregon Uniform". The Oregon Uniform is this: Pile or fleece tops or knit tops in earthy colors Jeans, khaki pants Chaco sandals or flipflops in summer, any outdoor type shoe in winter. I mean, duh.

I need to attract people like you to my practice--stressed out folks, ahem, with a little disposable income who want to feel good. So my question, Amalah Queen of Everything, is this: What should your acupuncturist be wearing?? I'm a little slip of a thing (5 feet tall and flat as a pancake) but I have an unruly mop of red hair which is in good shape. I like black. I do not like gaudy prints. I must exude health and confidence...in a down to earth way that says "I'm competent, but not an asshole." I wear very little makeup, and I daresay I don't need much--a little mascara, occasional lip color. Help!!!!

Thanks Amalah!!
~ Acupuncturista~

I like my acupuncturists like I like my masseuses: fashionable yet a little earth-mothery. Hippie yet hip. Professional yet free-spiritish.

I'm thinking Anthropologie.  The stuff is made for little slips of things with unruly mops of hair. Long flowy skirts with a simple tank. Distressed jeans with a lacy top. Simple jewelry made from mother-of-pearl and tumbled stones. It's a cool, vintage look that says, "I'm serious enough to not follow fads, but I also don't buy my clothes at the health food co-op." 

My Dearest Amalah:

As a long time lurker on your blog I’ve read about your past struggles with some emotional/mental issues, which I too have been experiencing in months past.  I know I should be getting treatment in one form or another at least for the sake of my closest friends and family to whom I’ve been generally nasty or apathetic toward for some time now, but things like problems with health insurance have prevented me from doing so yet. 

My boyfriend of a year and a half has probably suffered the most from my moodiness but has stuck by me and been uber supportive and loving this whole time, maybe in part because I moved cities to be nearer to him about 3 months ago and  some of my issues probably stem from this change.  For the past few months, however, I really just haven’t been feeling the same way about him.  I have less to say to him and idiosyncrasies of his that never bothered me before have been driving me nuts.  Not to mention that I’ve had negative libido for months and have generally been resentful of him more than I ever dreamed I would be. 

If I wasn’t currently having some issues with depression, I already would have ended it...but as I’m acting differently in all facets of my life and given that I used to love him so intensely  and am not quite sure what, if anything, has changed between us, I’m having a hard time sorting out what feelings I can really trust and which ones might be function of the depression.   I’m not happy in the relationship as it is now, but I’m also not happy with much these days, so do I stick it out until I can get treatment (likely another 3-4 months) and make this important decision with a clearer head, or end it based on the way I feel now, and risk regretting it later?

thanks,
elizabeth

ps...sorry this is long and not about something fun like shoes

(Annnddd, we're back to The Sad That Ate The Smackdown.)

I'm sorry you're going through this shit. It sucks, I know.

Good for you for recoginizing that you need help. Good for you for recognizing that you are not yourself and are not in the position to make major life decisions. And good for you for already trying to sort out WHY you feel this way instead of passively waiting for treatment.

It's entirely likely that your feelings towards your boyfriend are changing because of your illness. God knows I've been there. I even won a fucking Diarist Award for it. It's also likely that the big city-to-city move is forcing you to ask tough questions. Is he worth it? Is this really what I wanted? What did I give up for him? And IS HE WORTH IT?

Anybody would ask these questions. And anybody, once they start looking, could probably find enough faults with the person they moved for that could maybe lead them to a scary answer that no, he's not worth it.   

The question is whether you are really coming to that conclusion based on a series of serious faults and actual problems in the relationship, or whether you're so afraid that you MIGHT come to that conclusion that you're suddenly focusing on all these little faults and idiosyncrasies and freaking the fuck out because oh my God, you moved for this guy and things aren't perfect and things NEED to be perfect and then the anxiety over the lack of relationship perfection and the fear of the Big Answers to the Big Questions drives you into a nice, dark funk.

But you aren't in any shape to start figuring out which scenario (real problems vs. anxiety-produced problems) you're actually looking at. And it might take more than a Prozac prescription to figure it out. And waiting three to four months is just not going to work. You're suffering. You need help. You need to find a way to get it NOW, before you hurt yourself and those around you any more.

Last summer, I saw a doctor who did nothing but prescribe pills for my anxiety and depression. Pill after pill after pill. I would show up, overmedicated and suffering, and she'd just add another prescription. She ended up treating the side effects of the medications more than what was actually wrong with me.

And I was okay with this, because 1) my health insurance paid for as many prescriptions as I wanted, 2) my health insurance wouldn't cover therapy, and 3) because I was scared of confronting Big Questions in therapy in case I didn't like the Big Answers.

I ended up in therapy, and it was wonderful. And I stopped taking all the meds and learned a lot about how I cope with stress. (Which is to say, not very well at all.) And I got some Big Answers and dealt with them -- even the really scary ones.

I'm not inserting my own personal story here because I think you should do exactly what I did or because your problems are just like mine. I'm just trying to show that the path to mental health is not always the easy one we'd like to take (which is usually: call doctor, request refill, drive to pharmacy, take pill with food or milk, feel happy better joy in seven to 10 days). Sometimes that works, but sometimes there are real problems and issues that need to be addressed before Prozac or Xanax will do its job.

So this is what I want you to do. I want you to call your doctor and tell them that you won't have insurance for a few more months, but you need help NOW. Ask them if they offer sliding-scale fees based on financial limitations and income. Ask if you can set up a payment plan. If they can't or won't, call another doctor, or find out if your city has a Community Mental Health Center that provides low-cost treatment (call Social Services to find out). Do the same for a therapist, or a doctor who will provide both medication with pyschotherapy.

I know, that sounds awful and a drag and probably the worst possible thing to suggest when you're feeling depressed and apathetic and Christ, getting out of bed is hard enough. But by DOING SOMETHING, getting out there and being an advocate for yourself, you'll feel better, your friends and family will feel better, and you'll start to pull yourself out of the self-destructive spiral of anxiety and doubt over your relationship.

And keep me posted, k?

I'm almost afraid to tell you that questions can be sent to advice@amalah.com. Warning: Am not a doctor nor even a snazzy dresser some days.

Random Asshole Sighting: The Guy Next to Me at the Sushi Bar

(Yes, I went to a sushi restaurant this weekend. But no, I did not eat raw fish, so calm down.)

(I've officially reached the stage of pregnancy where my diet has suddenly become The Entire World's Bizness, so even the parking valet was all, "Sushi for baby? Really?" No, dipshit, sushi for husband, veggie tempura for me, and delicious, wholesome placenta for baby.)

(Placenta laced with sake. Rice wine is good for babies, right? Because of...rice?)*

*Hello! This is a joke. Please don't email me.

So we went to a sushi restaurant and sat at the bar, atop the most uncomfortable stools I have ever put my ass on, pregnant or not. I spent the first 20 minutes of our meal bitching about said stools and struggling to find a comfortable position and then promptly taking the martyrrific "No, it's okay" stance when Jason asked if I wanted to get an actual table instead.

I spent the next 20 minutes eavesdropping on the couple seated next to us. Because lo, he was an asshole, and she was slowly discovering that maybe he was kind of an asshole, and it was FASCINATING.

He was the kind of asshole who, when asked if he was an adventurous sushi eater, responded in a booming voice, "I DARE them to TRY and serve me something I won't eat. GOD HIMSELF has not invented something I won't eat."

And then he proceeded to order what appeared to be assorted wuss-variety sushi.

He was the kind of asshole who decided to impress his date with tale after tale of ex-girlfriends tracking him down on the Internet in hopes of reconnecting with him. Because, you know, dating him forever leaves you with a big asshole-shaped emptiness in your heart.

He was particularly fond of the story where an ex emailed him using her married name so he didn't know who she was. She emailed again and provided her maiden name, and he still didn't remember her. He finally figured it out, but it took her telling him what his favorite drink was at the time they dated. (Whisky and pineapple juice.)

He was the kind of asshole who started slurring his words halfway through his second beer.

He was the kind of asshole who loudly complained about the dating scene. "Women just have so much fucking BAGGAGE, man, you know? I don't wanna hear about your fucking ex-husband. I just don't wanna hear about it. It's in the PAST, right? Move on already!"

And then he proceeded to bitch about his ex-wife. A lot.

His date unsuccessfully tried to change the subject and asked about his two daughters.

"So Chelsea's mother is...?"

"Shithead. Chelsea is Shithead's daughter."

"And Lauren...?"

"Lauren's from back in high school."

It was sometime around the "Shithead" comment that I grabbed Jason's knee so hard he let out a yelp. Then I muttered something about "the living embodiment of the main characters from Sideways" and made exaggerated eyeball-rolls over in the Asshole's direction. Jason looked over just in time to see the couple inexplicably sucking face. He recoiled in horror.

"Are you trying to get back at me for ordering beef tongue at lunch today or something? I told you, I didn't realize it would look so much like an actual tongue when I ordered it."

"It had BUMPS on it, Jase. TONGUE BUMPS."

Asshole was now in the middle of a full-on tirade about Shithead. Specifically, how much weight she gained during their marriage.

He was the kind of asshole who would talk about a woman's weight while his own gut bulged six inches over the waistline of his too-tight jeans.

"When we got married, she was 105 pounds! Now? 250, EASY. I swear."

His date quietly mentioned that she hadn't weighed 105 pounds since junior high.

The Asshole plowed on. "Well yeah, she was really dinky. But then she had a baby and BOOM, she ballooned right up and didn't even TRY to lose the weight afterwards. Didn't even TRY."

I was starting to have fantasies involving one of the sushi chefs flying over the counter at him, knife in hand, and then things just got violent, so I decided to at least TRY to NOT LISTEN ANYMORE and focus on my non-asshole husband for the rest of the meal.

"Baby, I love you. Don't ever, ever leave me."

(Somehow, and I don't know how he did it because I DO NOT HAVE THAT KIND OF WILLPOWER, Jason refrained from saying that he would never leave me as long as I lose all the baby weight. I know I would have said it, and it wouldn't even have made sense.)

"So I says to my daughter, I says the ONLY WAY your mother is eating dinner at the wedding is if I receive a PERSONAL CHECK for the price of her meal and the check clears BEFORE the wedding because I am NOT PAYING for that woman to eat."

Clearly, I wasn't able to tune him out. He was the kind of asshole who said stuff like that to his own daughter about her own mother before her own wedding.

And then bragged about it later, on a date, over some sashimi.

His date was very nice-looking, and had very impressive arms, like she could knock his fat ass off his twee little stool with a single backhanded slap. But she didn't. I hope she at least wanted to, and DEAR GOD, I hope all the sake she was downing lessened her pain but not her awareness that HER DATE WAS AN ASSHOLE.

Then we left, and as we were waiting for the Very Nosy Valet to bring our car I filled Jason in on all the tidbits of conversation I'd overhead all night.

And then we made out a little, because what else can you do when you realize that you've found someone who really, truly loves you and who will never, ever refer to you as "Shithead" someday?

There is nothing to do but kiss that person madly, right there in public, like a total sentimental asshole.

This Is Your Brain On Work

Blrrptt! Geffrribbddlle! And also, plrrawwr!

So the work thing, not getting any easier, that.

But does your job make you wear a lampshade collar? No? Then shut the hell up, Mom. Love, Glowy McEyeball.

Ceiba's eyes are much better. A checkup on Tuesday revealed that the puncture wound in her right eye has all but healed and the infection is gone from both eyes. Yay for the ointment in a tube!

The lampshade collar is a thing of the past, but the pictures, they are FOREVER.

And? I have nothing else to say. Here. Belly at 25 weeks. Going to sleep now. To sleep, perchance to dream. To dream of the days when I did not live in fear of a violent belly button eruption, which seems to be quite imminent, especially since Jason CANNOT STOP POKING AT IT.

Even the baby is rolling his eyes in there about the supreme lameness of this post.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Yesterday's all-day meeting went well, or at least was going well until I had to open my gigantic trap and propose some big huge idea that is so absolutely brilliant that Very Important Work People who previously thought my name was probably Annie or Jaime or Blond Girl are now personally congratulating me on my brilliance. Which is all well and good, except that I woke up at 5 a.m. this morning wracked with terror and stress and oh-my-God-what-have-I-done because now I have three months to make all this brilliance happen and I HAVE NO TIME FOR EXTRA BRILLIANT PROJECTS.

You have no idea how much extra work I've made for myself. I am really so very stupid sometimes.

So every day until the baby gets here will pretty much feel like this.

But since I'm really, really (REALLY) behind on the advice questions, I'm writing a column anyway. And I started it at 5 a.m. after waking up in the aforementioned panic with an overwhelming urge to make to-do lists, but instead started banging out advice while half-asleep. So yeah. It's probably all shit. Sorry.

Amalah, Lovely Soul:

I have a blog. I am not linking the blog here, for reasons that will become readily apparent, but suffice it to say (what a dumb phrase, but I'm always using it) that it's become a pretty major-big part of my life/self over the last couple of years, what with all the expressing going on. (I don't mean that in a lactatory sense, I just mean it like "look at me oooh I'm all verbal and talkin' about my life and stuff!")

I've gone to some (reasonable) lengths to keep family/employers/other people who I wanna freely bitch about away from the precious blog, with much success. But here's the thing - people find it anyway. Strangers. Strangers who just show up to read about my life. And I got a stat counter thingie and it's turning into a LOT of people. Gone are the days of like 6 friends reading my blog to keep up with what's going on in my life. Strangers are reading me. For entertainment.

Kinda like how I read you.

So - my question: how the hell do you deal with it? Does it not fuck with your head a little, to know that some nameless, faceless girl in a city hundreds of miles from you is swigging ginger ale, eating a far too large hunk of swiss cheese, and reading how much you currently weigh? I don't mean this in a personal-safety sense (though I suppose there is that) - I just mean it in the sense of "eek! Go 'way, I'm nekkid!"

Or is it just me and I should hide my journaling away if I can't stand the attention? But I love my blog. And I love that it often seems to bring people some kinda pleasure/enjoyment. (YAY) But I'm sitting here at the end of a long day and wanting to talk in this self-dialogue way that I have, and I can't help but think of the many, many complete strangers who will read it, and then I think "Fuck it, I'll just tell everyone about this cool foot cream I got, hurrah for pedicures."

Clearly, I am conflicted. Please advise. Or just smackdown.

~Increasingly Freaked Blogger

PS: I am glad that people like you are breeding. Gives me hope.

Okay, here's the thing about me and journaling. And this may shock and confuse you.

I'm...not a shy person.

I know! You're totally floored.

So when I started this site in 2003, I made a few basic safety precautions (a third-party registrar, an unlisted phone number, etc.) and then forged ahead using my real, full name and photo. The original motivation was so old classmates/friends/boyfriends/mortal enemies could Google me and be all jealous of my awesome life or whatever, but now it's mostly a sign of how seriously I take my little hobby.

My name is Amy Corbett Storch and I write things down on the Internet, a lot of people read the things I write, and I'm proud of the things I write. Don't steal, feel free to contact me regarding freelance work or book ideas, and tell me you like my hair.

On the other hand, I don't really think too much about the people who read my site. I know they read it, and I know most of them seem to really like it, but I don't obsess over my referrals or break my stats down by IP address and location. I don't use Sitemeter or Statcounter or any of the tools that can tell you tons of information about your readership and just how often John P. Stalkerdude of Provo, Utah hits refresh every hour. Frankly, I don't want to know.

So I just write, without giving my audience a second thought. They're out there, but they're just this big nameless, faceless mass of people. I like to think that most of them are a lot like me. Normal and sane and not crazy people with high-speed Internet and a little too much free time at work.

(Not like I will have free time at work EVER AGAIN. GAH.)

"But Amy, don't a lot of your real-life friends and coworkers read this site? And your family? Don't you worry about what they'll think?"

Again. Not a shy person. People who know me in real life know this. I will talk to you about nipple chafing during pregnancy. I will tell you how I took Clomid. I will say "fuck" in polite conversation.

And the people you don't want to read your blog? Will ALWAYS FIND YOUR BLOG. Coworkers, bosses, etc. Since I chose to write non-anonymously, I was always forced to assume that people at work were reading. Thus, I didn't say anything stupid that would get me fired or blatantly post during work hours or refer to real-life people with vaguely-veiled nicknames. (See Exhibit A: Washingtonienne, The.)

Last night, after our big all-day meeting with Various Important Work People, we all went out for dinner and I admitted to the entire table that I, Amy, keep a blog. (It was relevant to the work-related conversation, I swear.) My boss already knew, and I swear he was smirking at me ALL DAY because we had many work-related conversations about blogs and have you ever heard people who really don't know much about blogs try to talk about blogs? It's MADDENING, and I think my boss was just WAITING for me to snap and yell out that I KEEP A BLOG AND YOU SHALL LISTEN TO EVERY WORD I HAVE TO SAY, FOR I AM INTERNET ROCKSTAR.

So now my boss' boss knows about this site, as well as the author-type person I edit for. *Waves* Hello, author-type person! This is my site. I swear I have never trash-talked you here, and please excuse the horrific grammar and sentence structure on display, but know that I will NEVER ease up on you about proper comma usage.

Do I care? Not really. Should I? Probably. Enough with the rhetorical questions? Most definitely.

So really, I don't know what else to tell you about dropping the paranoia other than to drop the paranoia. It's the Internet, for God's sakes. They're just people out there, who you don't know, and whose opinion about you totally doesn't matter. Especially since they probably like you.

And just be relieved that they aren't your boss, your boss' boss and your author-type person who are currently looking through your archives and reading about your vaginal discharge. That's all me and my brand of crazy, baby.

Hello Amalah,

Hmm...I am very nervous as I am writing this email. I feel like I'm writing to a celebrity or something, which you are of course! I love your website, love your writing, and everything else. I am a really big fan (Not a stalker ;)).

Okay, my question for the advice smackdown is this. I am going on vacation to Egypt in a month. I am not rich or anything, heck I am actually a really poor student. My father is paying for this vacation, which I really desrve btw.So I decided the best way to react to me going on vacation news, is to go shopping and by me a new bag, an expensive one. I share the love of Coach bags with you and I got my first Coach bag last year and I think its time for another one. Do you have any advice on what to buy? I need something that will carry my cute little laptop (its a small Sony Vaio) and other stuff us women carry, especially with travelilng and all.

Help me Amalah, the Queen of everything, spend my money!

Your loyal reader (And yes, your site is my homepage on my computer)

el-amiro, also known as Jinan

Well, I certainly cannot say enough lovely things about the bag I purchased over the weekend: the Coach Patchwork Signature Shoulder Tote. (Which HOT DAMN, is already sold out at the Coach site, but is available all over eBay for...well, a lot more than I paid, especially since I? Had a coupon. Suckers.)

You may still be able to find it in the stores, however, so call around and see if you can find one. It retailed at $378 (in case you want to look for a bargain-priced one on eBay) and is large enough for a Vaio and bottled water and a wallet and plenty else, but it isn't so obscenely huge that you'd only use it while traveling.

If you can't find that bag, my other favorites from the current Coach line are the boxy totes with the funky metallic trim, the Scribble tote (which is a little expensive for a bag with so little actual leather on it, but damn, it's cute), and anything from the Signature Tie Dye line, because they? Are fun.

Dearest Amalah –

In watching reruns of “Raising Helen” on Starz while attempting to unpack our house, a black bag on the show that Kate Hudson carries keeps catching my eye. It is of the larger tote variety with silver hoops on the straps. I have had no luck trying to Google it. With your designer eye, I thought maybe you’d be able to spot which designer it could possibly be and point me in the right direction.

Thanks!
Tonya

Having never actually seen Raising Helen, and only remembering it for the obnoxious Uggs/Hot Pants poster of Kate Hudson, I had to Google a bit to find a photo of the bag in question. I believe this is it?

Honestly? No idea who designed that particular bag. The style (over-sized suede hobo-type bag with funky hardware) is reminiscent of dozens of designers' 2003 lines: Prada, Gucci, Tod's, Marc Jacobs, Bulga, etc.

The fact that this exact bag does not appear to be available on eBay (that great designer bag clearinghouse in the sky), tells me it was probably vintage, or more likely, a super-limited-edition couture bag priced only for celebrities and collectors who aren't parting with it. (Unless, of course, a wise reader knows more than I do, which is highly probable.)

But when faced with unattainable haute couture, you just need to find a reasonable imitation of the item you covet.

(Let me stress, however, that an "imitation" does not equal "knock-off." It's one thing to find something cheaper that took inspiration from something extravagant, but it's quite another to buy a fake because you're too pretentious to admit that you can't afford Louis Vuitton, and too much of a sheep to find something lovely and original in your price range, so you just buy a plastic bag that looks nothing like an actual Louis Vuitton design but sort of has the right logo, even though you are FOOLING NO ONE. If you love the look of a certain brand, save your money and BUY THE ACTUAL DAMN BRAND and be a proud and happy label whore. If you don't want to spend the money, that's totally okay too, just BUY SOMETHING ELSE.)

Man, I hate those fucking LV fakes.

What? Oh, right.

The over-sized hobos are still out there, so keep looking. The Gucci horsebit hobo is nice, and widely available on eBay (just check the seller's feedback and read all the fine print regarding authenticity before buying), as is the Stella over-sized hobo by Posh. And just this weekend I spotted a gorgeous over-sized pink suede hobo/tote kind of bag with double metal rings on the strap at the Lucky Brand store in Georgetown that was just $58. $58! It was totally awesome (and unfortunately not available online, dammit).

Meanwhile, right down the street, dozens of girls were haggling over designer knock-offs and paying $40 for ugly plastic sacks because they had a Kate Spade or Prada logo stitched crookedly on the flaps. Baaaah.

Hey Amalah,

Probably irrelevant background details: I'm 20 and I live in Ireland. So anywho, I'll be visiting Washington in July with my parents and my two younger sisters. We'll only be there for about 4 days.

Now, I'm already an expert on the touristy, monumenty, governmenty stuff to be done around Washington, but I'd love some advice from a local on the other stuff. Mainly, I'd like to know:

a) where we can buy outrageous amounts of clothes, makeup and other stuff to fill the giant empty suitcases we're going to bring (we have a genetic disorder that causes compulsive shopping...or that could just be a really implausible excuse. you decide)

b) if there's an "essential Washington experience". Preferably positive...

c) 21? Seriously? Over here you can drink when you're 18! (Okay, that's not really a question. And google "Ireland"+"binge drinking" to see how well that plan's working out for us.)

d) if you know of any really good (and not v expensive) hotels in the area? I don't mean to treat you like a human guide book but...actually I do.

Guidebooks don't have unbiased and up to date taste in stuff, or husbands with informative blogs. Make up your own vaguely related questions to answer if I'm asking the wrong ones for Washington.

Thanks a million!

Overjoyed about shopping, not about humidity.*

*my pale Irish flesh can't take it.

a) Easy one. Georgetown. There's just about every store on earth, plus a massive, two-level Sephora. Here's just a partial list of shops.

b) Essential Washington experience? Well, most I can think of probably involve alcohol, which yes to c), the drinking age is 21. Getting drunk in Adams Morgan (NOT at the "famous" Madam's Organ, by the way, because TOURIST. TRAP.) and then hitting Amsterdam Falafel with the stoners would be high on my list. Goddamn, that falafel is to die for. I want some. Dessert at Cakelove. Lunch at 2 Amys. A late-late-night run to Ben's Chili Bowl. Breakfast at Eastern Market. No, I don't know why all my essential experiences involve food. This is what you get when your tour guide is pregnant.

c) Yep. Seriously. I get carded all the time too, so...yeah, sorry about that.

d) Um. God, I don't know. When you actually live in a city you tend to not spend much time in hotels, and our families don't like us much and never visit. HA! We've spent nights at the Renaissance Mayflower(NIIIICE), the Hotel Helix (mehhhh), Hotel Rouge (pfffft) and the Georgetown Holiday Inn, which was...well, a Holiday Inn. Family members have stayed at the Westin Embassy Row ("very old-fashioned-like" was the review) and the Park Hyatt on M St. NW, which was very, very nice, but probably very, very expensive.

Dear Amalah,

I really enjoy reading your blog. I just started my own, so I thought I'd put yours as a link so that the 2 people who read mine will go and read yours also.

One question for the Advice Smackdown: What color shoes do I wear with a yellow silk dress to a casual beach wedding?

Yes, I know the picture is tiny but I can't figure out how to make it bigger and I can't find the original picture because the website I bought it at has sold them all. Sorry for the run-on sentence. If you could give me some advice, that'd be great.

Jen

Damn, that picture WAS tiny. I'm not even going to make the effort to upload it because everybody would just squint and squint and be all, "Bwah? What is that?" And then maybe somebody would hurt their eyes and God knows we've had just about enough of that around here.

Anyway. Yellow. Summer. Beach. Wedding.  You wear white strappy shoes with a low heel, or maybe some natural-colored-yet dressy espadrilles if you want some height. (White shoes with a high heel will look vaguely bride-ish, plus, you know, SAND.) Don't go all matchy-match with the yellow.

Dear Amy-

I have a problem with updating my website frequently, or more specifically, not updating it very frequently. If you look right now, you'll see I haven't posted in a long time. My friends all loved it and whine to me all the time to write something new, but I have just run out of interesting or funny thing to write about. How do you do it, with these long and really great entries all the time????

-Stu

"Long and really great entries?" HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Okay, I'll agree with you about the "long" part.

Post-Its, my friend. Post-Its. I keep a little pad of Post-Its and a pen with me at all times, and whenever something that could possibly be even a tiny part of an entry happens -- a botched Starbucks order, an ad on the back of a bus, that one song you ALWAYS THOUGHT was a Sublime song and how you just learned that it wasn't and really, it doesn't sound a thing like Sublime but just came out around the same time Sublime was really big and MAN, you're such an idiot -- I write it down on a Post-It.

Sometimes it's just a topic ("Slim Jims"), and sometimes it's a whole sentence that struck me as funny or clever for some reason ("All day long, the wind, it whispers, "Diana.")  Most of the time I end up trashing these ideas, but every once in awhile inspiration will hit, and it will stick, and 15 minutes later I've got an entry up and written about being late for work that all started with a Post-It note that read "footie sock on car AC vent to dry haaa."

Annnnd...that's enough for today. advice@amalah.com if you want to send in a question of your very own, although I have no idea why anybody would really want to do that.

More Pet Photos Than Are Really Necessary

Big important meetings all day today, folks. Place your bets on the following:

1) How many times I'll need to leave and pee.

2) How many times I'll get distracted by Squishy's acrobatics and completely lose track of the conversation, then totally make some bullshit up to cover this fact.

3) How many sandwiches I'll eat at lunch, and in what manner I will kill anyone who dares comment on how many sandwiches I eat at lunch.

In the meantime, please enjoy some random pictures, taken by our brand! new! camera! A Canon Digital Rebel XT, which is Jason's father's day AND birthday AND Christmas present for the next five years.

(To balance out the gifting universe, I bought a new purse.)

(Coach sent me a 25% off preferred customer coupon! Twenty-five percent off! I couldn't afford NOT to use that!)

(How does one get to be a preferred Coach customer, you may ask? Well, I started getting the coupons and invitations to seasonal unveiling parties right around the same time I added my handbag collection to our homeowners' insurance policy, so I'm guessing you just need to spend gobs and gobs and gobs of money first.)

Anyway. Pictures. Moving on.

Ceiba: Freedom from the lampshade collar! Worms! Bees! Pointy blades of grass to poke in my eye! Awesome!

Amy: Poooooop, dog, poooooooop.

Yeah, I keep posing the same. Positioning my arm like that minimizes the upper-arm pregnancy mushiness and also helps me remember where my waist was once.

She looks how I feel. It's 95 degrees in Washington, DC today and I? Am GOING TO DIE.

Max the Eyeball Mauler: I will not stick out my tongue for the sake of a picture. No, I will not do that.

This was taken after our very tiring trip to the doggie ER, so please excuse the 1) hair, 2) skin, and 3) overalls. All pregnant women are allowed to wear comfy comfy overalls, and you are not allowed to think they are not cute, because we will cut you, motherfucker.

24-and-a-half weeks. My belly button is so stretched out, I recently learned that I actually have freckles in there.

(One day our new camera hopes to take pictures of things other than the pets and my fat ass. Like maybe, Jason! But that would require me learning how to use the new camera, so...no.)

Everything Is Ocular

Last weekend was the weekend we thought we might lose the baby. This weekend was the weekend we thought we might lose Ceiba's eyeballs.

Seriously, y'all, can we get a break over here?

When I came home on Friday I had Big Plans of Doing Nothing. We were going to order Indian food. We were going to sit on the couch. We were going to watch Band of Brothers for the hundredth time and I was possibly going to treat myself to a small glass of red wine, because SERIOUSLY.

But then I opened my front door and got beaned in the leg by my dog, who could not see a BLESSED THING, because both of her eyes were completely sealed shut by goop and pus and eyeball-crust nastiness.

And yet I was determined to save my Evening of Nothing. So I sacrificed one of our guest towels and washed her eyes out with some warm water. Within five minutes the pus reappeared, so I called the vet and tried to convince them to prescribe some antibiotic ointment to me OVER THE PHONE, because apparently I know ALL ABOUT THIS STUFF.

She just has a little eye infection! She had one as a puppy! You gave us medicine that came in a tube! We just need a refill on that tube! Don't question me, AM EXPERT ABOUT THE MEDICINE IN A TUBE.

When the vet refused to prescribe medicine over the phone, I went searching for the eye ointment we used before, because maybe we still had some and it could get her through the weekend yadda yadda Indian food couch sleep.

Finally, my cold dark heart melted and I called Jason and told him to meet me at the vet -- our little tiny girl needed medicine and I was taking her right over. (Our vet is also a 24-hour animal hospital that takes walk-ins on an emergency basis, but I hate doing the ER visits because they cost three times as much and you wait five times as long and there's always violent nature documentaries about cheetahs eating rabbits and baby seals or whatever on the lobby televisions.)

I was so confident in my diagnosis of a blocked tear duct or some other minor eye irritation that I completely missed it when the vet first started talking about ocular ulcers and puncture wounds and surface scratches and you negligent monster you.

"What?"

"Your dog. Her eyes. Are injured. Badly."

"What?"

"There's a deep cut on her right eye that's infected and her left eye shows evidence of an old corneal injury that didn't heal properly."

"What?"

The vet was very matter-of-fact and totally not judgemental but OH MY GOD, I COULD FEEL THE JUDGING, as if I had taken my child to the doctor for a sore throat and was told that he actually had a broken leg. From six months ago, and were you ever going to notice this child has LEPROSY?

"It's a good thing you brought her in when you did, because if this had gone untreated much longer her eyeball would have ruptured."

Oh, EW. And also: BAD OWNERS, BAD!

So we were sent home with a tube of ointment (I KNEW IT), eye drops and a very small lampshade collar. We have to take her back today or tomorrow for another check-up.

ADRIAN! ADDDRIANNN!

I totally think I injured her eyes while cleaning them earlier this week. Jason worries he did it while bathing her last weekend. And man, do we both feel shitty about it.

The most likely suspect, however, appears to be completely guilt-free.

You look stupid, little lampshade dog! Share your kibble or I will bite your eyeballs out a second time!

She's doing much better now, and we got home in time for Indian food and one episode of Band of Brothers.

Wah.

Or, Why I Never Posted an Advice Column This Week

 
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