Holy Crap, Y'all

Dear Jelus H8ters,

Please send me hate mail about my baby registry more often.

Special warm gooey thanks to Nola, Jomama, Kirsten, Jennifer, Todd and Allie. Your generosity and nice wishes just made my whole damn week. Thank-you cards will be sent out all Miss-Manners-promptly-like, just as soon as I stop snuffling over the kindness of strangers and whatnot.

Also when I find the damn stamps.

(A Note From the Management: This is in no way a solicitation of baby-related goods or an insinuation that presents will make everything better for poor, poor little put-upon me, but merely a demonstration that damn, you guys are amazingly great, and I'm beyond touched. But as you can see, we're totally good now, so if anyone else would like to do something, I think it would be extremely excellent if some donations were made to the Susan G. Komen Foundation in honor of Babalah's grandmother.)

A Dog, a Lump & Tampons (In That Order)

GASP...WHEEZE...HUFF...ETC.

The D.C. area was hit with a helluva thunderstorm last night, which good news! It's only going to be 90 degrees today! And there's almost no humidity!

Bad news! It knocked out the power at my office, and while everything essential for actually working has been restored, the elevators are still on the fritz. Which means I...just...climbed...up...stairs...so...many...(gasp)...stairs ...(dies).

Granted, I live on the third floor of a walk-up building, but usually Jason is with me and is willing to put his hands on my ass and give me a boost up each flight. My coworkers were surprisingly unwilling to offer me such assistance.

(HA! ASSistance. GEDDIT?)

(Oh, shut up, I just climbed up four flights of stairs.)

(Here, look at some random pictures. Am all busy today and stuff.)

This is Ceiba, playing our favorite game of "Wave Hands Wildly In Front Of Dog And Watch Her Respond In An Amusingly Manic Fashion." I'd explain the rules of this game to you, but they're really, really complicated.

We always let her win. I mean, wouldn't you?

And this is me, last Sunday, when I excitedly made Jason take a full-frontal photo, because "you totally cannot tell I'm pregnant from the front in this dress!"

I was mistaken. I can see that now.

I also see that I really have no business wearing this dress in the first place.

I was all dressed up and such for a night out with a whole slew of delightful folks from this message board, which is all about food and restaurants and I am way too intimidated by everyone to ever post anything. But Jason does, so I tagged along with him and all the other Internet nerds who are now our people. (They all know who I am, if only because Jason uses this photo as his avatar.)

(T-shirt by bmh, in a much-belated shout-out.)

These people eat weird things, like veal sweetbreads and eyeballs and such. They know about wine and cheese and exactly which street vendor sells the best half-smokes and which restaurant currently serves the best prosciutto. They get very het up about the myth of the unpasteurized cheese. ("It's bullshit! BULLLLSHIT!") And they all wanted to know what foods I've been craving.

I briefly thought of lying and saying something like, "I simply cannot get enough of the cauliflower panna cotta with caviar and black truffle that they serve as the amuse course at Komi, which honestly, serves up SUCH a refreshing take on New American cuisine, don't you agree?"

Just to, you know, not sound like an idiot. Which is exactly what I sounded like when I answered truthfully and said I wanted pudding and Slim Jims.

Of course, I did meet one Amalah.com fan. That's her hand, and that's the kind of animated and intelligent-looking reaction you'll get from me should you ever bump into me on the street. Or in a restaurant. Where I will sit like a fat, pregnant lump.

Amalah.com Reader's Hand: I read your site! It's great!

Amalah's Fat, Lumpy Self: I apologize for subjecting you to the cleavage. I was not aware of the cleavage factor when I left the house.

Amalah.com Reader's Hand: I'm going back to my end of the table now, I think.

(Can I tell you, while I was in Photoshop blurrifying faces, just how tempted I was to give myself a nice, non-flabby arm?)

In other news, I was really excited when the following mysteriously appeared in my office restroom.

Free tampons! In multipack sizes! There for the taking! Impudently placed directly under the tampon dispenser, as if to say, "Fuck you, Tampon Dispenser! Your quarter-eating days are OVER! Free tampons for everyone! Up with the proletariat!"

But then I remembered that I have no use for free tampons right now, and I'm wondering: Is this box a one-time event? Can I take its presence as a promise of more free tampons to come? Or will the Reign of the Non-Dispensing Tampon Dispenser one day return?

I'm thinking, either way, of taking a couple tampons now and saving them for later. Just for the sake of fairness.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

THIS ENTRY DOES NOT CONTAIN FURTHER BITCHING ABOUT THE SUCKITUDE OF PREGNANCY.

(Except for this one part real quick.)

As I was walking from my car to the office this morning, another woman started talking to me about The Heat.

(Good Lord, The Heat. It's all anyone in the D.C. area can talk about now, honestly. With humidity at four frillion percent and temps in the upper 90s and power generators up and dying under the strain of all the air conditioners running at full blast, we're all kind of obsessed with The Heat.)

(We're also kind of glassy-eyed and panty.)

Anyway. So we're talking about The Heat and The Humidity and The Agony, and she made some sympathetic noises about how horrible it must be to be pregnant right now, which YES YES YES! My favorite topic! Let me tell you just how horrible it is!

She mentioned that both of her children were born in the winter. Which, okay, I'm not going to get annoyed with that, unless you make it clear that you were just so super-fertile you were able to schedule a pregnancy at Optimal Seasonal Effectiveness or something.

But then she started in with the "Oh, enjoy it, it goes so fast, it's such a special time, you'll miss it when it's over, these last few weeks are just so magical, blah blah take time to relax and bond with him because of the magic and the specialness."

And then I killed her. The End.

Time for your questions.

Dearest Queen of Accessorizing,

This spring I bought a beautiful new bag (heretofore referred to as The Purse).The Purse is large, as bags are this season. It is also suede. And camel colored. Have I mentioned how pretty it is? When I first got The Purse, it was a well known fact that if you expected me to leave the house you had better check the weather and tell me that it was NOT GOING TO RAIN. Or I would delay our departure by switching purses. But now? Meh...The lazy has set in, and the cost of the purse had erased itself from my memory. So if it's raining? I just try to walk fast.

My very own laziness has caused The Purse to grow a layer of dinge. Which, ew. But am not ready to part ways with The Purse. I have been a vegetarian for almost ten years now, and for many of those years I did not purchase leather products. But over time the beautiful things wore me down, LIKE SHOES AND PURSES! So you see, I am clueless about how I can take care of The Purse. Whatever can I do to clean up the suede (short of dating the lawn boy for a measly $1,000)?

Sincerely,
Cindy Mancini

I own several suede purses, and I am kind of lazy too. I never waterproof them because I had one bad experience with some water-repelling-suede-spray that totally changed the color and feel of a pair of suede shoes, which in and of itself, is probably pretty lazy. I'm sure there are suede-protectant sprays and products out there that are fabulous, but seriously, my vintage Coach Hobos are NOT GOING TO BE THE GUINEA PIGS IN THIS EQUATION.

Plus, in your case, it sounds like the damage is done and we should really be focusing on what you do NOW, not what you should have done and whether it involved Scotchguarding or simply buying a bigger, cheaper purse in which to shield The Expensive Purse in case of rain.

If you've got major stains and water damage going on, you have to take it to a professional. Someplace with a Big Sign that claims to specialize in leather or suede goods is a good start. Or visit a store that sells a lot of leather and suede and ask where they recommend customers take their products. Or, if you bought it at a really nice department or specialty store, you can always go back and look sad and pouty and ask them for help.

Places to avoid: random drycleaners, cobblers, that guy on the corner who always pees in the bus shelter.

After it comes back to you all clean and nappy again, you need to buy yourself a nice little suede care kit. I have an awesome Coach one that came with one of my bags, but it doesn't look like it's available for individual sale.

(Much like those boxes of individually-wrapped snack cakes. Or gum.)

A good suede care kit should contain at least a suede stone and a suede brush. The stone is used to buff out stains and kind of works like a pencil eraser. (DRY STAINS, by the way. Never attempt to clean suede while it's wet. Blot out [don't rub] as much moisture as you can with a paper towel, and then leave the bag to dry completely.) A suede brush restores the nap of your suede and makes it all soft and nice again.

(You can also use a nail file to buff off stuff like mud and raise the nap, and I'm typing this in parentheses just for the hell of it, because I'm using parentheses within parentheses today and CANNOT STOP.)

If your significant other owns any suede or nubuck shoes, you might want to dig around and see if he owns any suede-care instruments. I found that Jason had ALL KINDS of super-neat shoe-care gadgets. I appropriated most of them to care for my handbags instead. He's never noticed, but then again, he's all stylish and stuff and enjoys having a reason to justify buying a new pair of shoes whenever he wants. ("Look! Scuffed! I need these new awesome ones! As seen in this month's GQ!")

(Parentheses!)

Amy,

Two years ago, my hubby bought me a Coach bag as a gift.  I was surprised (it was way beyond our budget).  And I was unsure if I would keep it (after all, I had never been very into purses before).

Well thank fucking Fred Savage I kept it because it is the best damned bag ever.  Every time I use it I feel like I can hold my own against all other women in the world:      You have a bigger car than I?  No matter, I have a kick-ass bag.      You're going to Hawaii for your anniversary?  Doesn't bother me...have you seen my bag? Et cetera.

Which leads me to my problem: I use the bag, um...er...pretty much every day. It is a great black/white signature bag, so it matches everything I wear (which is almost always black or gray slacks paired with a gray or black top...occasionally I throw a colored top in there).

Which leads me to my question:  my black/white signature bag has served me well for two years, coordinated with almost every outfit I have worn, and become a little beacon of happiness that sits on the passenger seat of my car, under my desk at work, in my lap at the doctor's office, etc.

But I must buy another Coach bag.  I have to begin the process of setting up a "bag rotation" plan. So I ask you:  what bag should I buy? What will fit into my life as well as my current little friend, without being too similar to the current bag?  What can stand up to the daily stress (or hopefully every-other-day-stress) that I will put on the bag?  What will be new and different, but still fit in to my current happy wardrobe/bag family? Thanks for any advice.

Sincerely,
kdamnspot

Ah yes, the First Coach Bag. I remember it well. Jason bought it for me for Christmas, and I probably made him take an entire roll of film's worth of pictures of Me With My Brand New Bag. It was a wine-and-black signature with dark brown leather trim, which gave it the amazing bonus power of coordinating with both black AND brown outfits. I carried it everywhere. I bought the matching rain hat. I own it to this day and still use it more than some of my newer, flashier acquisitions -- so deep is my love for that little purse.

(Reaches over, pets bag lovingly, smiles.)

Anyway. Now is an excellent time to shop for an all-purpose, goes-with-everything utilitarian-yet-luxurious purse, as the fall bags are coming out. Spring and summer bags tend to be bright and colorful and cheery, but they look stupid in the winter when you're bundled up like crazy and carrying a lime-green purse with a twee little butterfly on it, or something. And winter bags can be really, really boring.

But fall bags! So fun. Yet classic. Like the absolutely orgasmic houndstooth and suede satchel  I bought last fall (WITH A COUPON, HATEMAILERS, AND ALSO AS A CONSOLATION FOR BEING CRAZY AND DEPRESSED AND NOT PREGNANT SO KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF ABOUT MY SICK, SELFISH HANDBAG HABIT).

Man, I can't wait for The Heat to go away so I can carry that satchel around again. Although I should probably zap it with some kind of baby-vomit repelling spray or something. Or just wrap it in Saran Wrap. That wouldn't be weird, would it?

ANY. WAY. If you can stand it, I'd advise you to wait a few more weeks for Coach to release their full fall line -- I'm seeing some gorgeous wine and black and suede-type bags, but a lot of the summery pinky yellowy bags are still available, which means there are More New Styles Coming Soon. (The fabric collections, in particular, still look very summery. And since these are usually the cheaper options, I'd adopt and wait-and-see approach for now.)

(Did any of you have any idea how overcomplicated I can make a simple handbag purchase? Honestly. I have a friend who has a friend who works for Coach and I seriously bribe her for market information and release dates and WHEN IS THE EMPLOYEE SAMPLE SALE AND HOW MUCH CASH CAN YOUR FRIEND CARRY IN ON MY BEHALF?)

If I had to buy a bag today, and wouldn't THAT just be a shame, I'd go with one of the lovely bordeaux-colored Soho totes, since they look so nice with black clothing without actually, you know, being black. And you can just tell that the leather is like buttah on those babies.

(Parentheses! And these have a purpose! Which is ANOTHER disclaimer to hateful emailers or commenters. Everytime I write about purses I get yelled at. And I'm tired of getting yelled at. I. Don't. Care if you don't like Coach bags or think that any expensive purse is a big fucking waste. Don't fucking buy one. But I collect them, and I collect them very carefully and with as much frugality as the brand allows. [Coupons! Scrap sales!] And they make me very, very happy. And you are free to think that this makes me a shallow, shallow person but since it's my site, I would appreciate it very much if you just shut your goddamn cakehole about it.)

Dear Queen of Everything,

First things first - congratulations on the baby. I'm sorry you're freaking out, and I can't really relate because well, I've never been pregnant, but I'm sure it's normal and very understandable.  I'm also sure you'll be a great mommy. Just by reading your blog, I can tell you love your little boy more than any mother loves any other child out there. (Okay, I"m sure the other moms out there will be jumping my ass, but really.. you can tell you love that little boy a whole, whole bunch.)

Anyway - on to my question.  I recently came into a bit of free makeup. Yes, free makeup. I also have spent tons and tons on other makeup, thanks to my friend having a Mary Kay party a few months ago. I don't know what your thoughts on Mary Kay are, but well, I think it's okay stuff. It makes me feel pretty. But I only own one makeup brush. It's a Maybelline eye shadow brush that I bought a zillion and a half years ago. I wash it, but well, it's THE ONLY ONE I OWN.  What makeup brushes (and/or brush sets) would you recommend? I can't spend a billion dollars, but I'd like something decent. Your help is greatly appreciated.

Manda

PS: I apologize if this question was already asked & answered. I started going through the archives only to get sucked in by every entry I've already read and forgot what it was I was trying to find.

Firstly and thusly, I have no problem with Mary Kay. There's certainly better stuff out there, but for the price and the convenience (if you have a good rep, that is), Mary Kay is quite excellent.

(Random plug: Mary Kay's Satin Hands set. My mother-in-law bought me this set a couple years ago and I STILL have it and I STILL love treating myself to a whole hand-moisturizing-production about once a month and yes, it STILL works. Heavenly.)

As for brushes, the only brush I feel strongly about is the foundation brush. (I'm too lazy to look up the infamous foundation brush how-to entry. I need a freaking macro for it, or something, because I swear, I link to it EVERY WEDNESDAY.) If you use foundation, you should own one, and you should not completely cheap out on it. I love this one. So much.

Otherwise, I think this set from Sonia Kashuk provides pretty much everything else you need. Powder brush (for loose and/or bronzing powder), blush brush (for...duh), that essential little eyebrow-brush-slash-eyelash-comb thing, and then medium, small and angled eyeshadow brushes (essential for shadow AND for blending eyeliner). All for $30! Hooray for Target!

I own probably a dozen extra brushes that I never use (one set, I believe, was a promotional gift from my mom's Mary Kay rep), but I keep them around because one day I might discover what the hell they're all for.

(Seven parathetical references in five paragraphs. Not bad!)

Dear Amalah,

I'm such a big fan of your hilarious, snarky, touching blog.  I desperately need your advice on makeup and the DC summer.

This is my second summer here and I'm not adapting well.  I'm a northern girl and oy, this heat, this humidity!  I get so sweaty just on the 2-block walk from the Metro to work that lately I've just abandoned makeup.  Not a good look because my skin tone needs to be evened and oh lord, the size of my pores.

My normal powder foundation comes off easily and looks too matte and fake in this weather.  But it seems like a liquid one would slide off right away.  What to do?  My skin is combo - dry cheeks, oily forehead.  I use a light moisturizer with SPF.  Should I use primer?  Tinted moisturizer?  Mattifying SPF and tinted moisturizer?  I'm so bewildered!  Please help! Thanks for any and all advice!

Sweaty in DC

See, people? I am not making shit up about The Heat. It is Oppressive, and even worse, it is making us all Look Bad And Not Pretty.

This is my...let me count...SEVENTH summer in D.C. Good Lord. I'm not sure how well I've adapted either, although this particular summer is particularly hellish and will be forever known as The Summer Of My Discontent And Non-Stop Bitching.

But! I have learned how to take care of my skin in this accursed climate, and I will now share my tips with you in list form, because it's easier and I'm all tired and stuff.

1. Consider changing your cleanser. I stay away from creamy cleansers in the summer and use a complexion bar instead -- like Burt's Bees Garden Tomato or Aveeno. I'd rather deal with a little dryness than oil, so I treat my combination skin like it's all oily (which, after a few weeks in This Heat, is usually what happens).

2. Use a clay or mud mask twice a week on your t-zone (or wherever your pores are big and scary and clogged). I use Ahava's mud mask and DAMN, that shit yanks everything out of your pores. EVERYTHING. So I don't recommend it for people with sensitive skin. Your skin may get red and angry, especially if you venture beyond the t-zone. I use the mask for oily skin, but it's available for dry-to-normal skin as well. That might be gentler, but I cannot testify to its pore-sucking power. Jason used this mask for the first time over the weekend (seriously, y'all, The Heat is THAT BAD. It's driving MEN to MASKS, for chrissakes), and he was extremely impressed with all the crap it cleared off his sweaty, manly face.

3. Use an oil-free, matifying moisturizer. I like Shiseido Pureness or Ahava. I have heard such high praise for the tinted moisturizers, but have not tried them myself, for reasons mostly related to laziness. If the makeup regimen I describe doesn't sound like it will provide enough coverage for you, then by all means, buy a tinted moisturizer instead and have years of happiness with it. Then send me some to play with.

4. NO LIQUID FOUNDATION. Or cream foundation. Or liquid power foundation or any of the million other options like that. You will just sweat more, and your pores will become big, foundation-sucking potholes.

5. OIL-ABSORBING SHEETS. Yes, the little Clean & Clear thingies. They are your new best friend. Carry them everywhere. Use one before you put your makeup on. After you get on the Metro. When you get to work. They stop the shine dead and that means you won't be tempted to keep dusting on the powder over and over, which just makes your skin feel worse.

4. Use the sheerest powder you can find. Oil-free, of course. (Neutrogena makes one, as do several of the higher-end lines.) If you can bear appearing in public without makeup, wait until you're on the Metro to apply it. Buy a new sponge-thing for your compact regularly, or wash the existing one out with soap at least once a week.

5. Use bronzing powder instead of blush. Your face is going to get all red and huffy anyway, so go for a casual, sun-kissed look instead of a perfectly-matte complexion and rosy cheeks. Because that? Is just not happening.

6. Drink lots and lots of water. It makes your skin happy.

7. And remember, we're all in This Heat together, so no one's judging you for looking all sweaty or waiting until you're in the office elevator to apply makeup.

It's just too damn hot to judge.

I have nine weeks until my due date. I currently have enough Smackdown questions to last about five more weeks. You do the math. And then send questions to advice@amalah.com. (It's too hot for math over here. Or for being alive, frankly.)

Baby Mama Did A Bad, Bad Thing

Sidenote to "someone who used to care," and who sent the delightful hatemail regarding my whorish decision to post my baby registry online: Yes, my cyber-begging is indeed quite loathsome. Particularly the way I personally force each and every reader to spend their hard-earned money on baby supplies, usually at gunpoint. I totally did not post the registry because people repeatedly asked me to, or so my far-flung family would have an easy way to access it. No, I posted it because I feel entitled to get everything my greedy, selfish heart desires. Clearly, I cannot fool you, dear former reader, as you completely nailed both my motivations AND my financial situation based on the 500 words or so that I write each week. Your ability to document every single dollar I've spent during my pregnancy on extravagant handbags (I USED A COUPON, YOU MORON) and kitchen remodels (HOME EQUITY LOAN, YOU DUMBASS), is very impressive and also a little creepy. And while I am not usually the type who emails emotionally-fragile pregnant strangers to call them names, I DO feel close enough to you to confidently call you a raging, bitter asshole.

Love, Spoiled Materialistic Pig Brat Girl.

P.S. Email again and I'm posting your address. Kisses!

P.P.S. Although I doubt you will since you feel too strongly about my lack of character and concern for starving blog readers in Africa to read the site anymore. Which, hooray! Less asshole, more bandwidth.

I got a LOT of email after yesterday's post, and only some of it was hatemail and/or penis enlargement pill-related.

(Ironically, several messages were, in fact, from readers who wanted to send the babalah a little something, even though I totally was NOT holding a gun to their heads and demanding payment for the hours of timesuck my stupid archives provide. One email was from Bethiclaus, who KNITTED HIM A BLANKET HER OWN SELF, and it made me cry, because y'all! Are too damn sweet. With the knitting. And the caring.)

Anyway. Most of my email yesterday came from other pregnant readers who wanted to confess their sins. And so we confessed together.

We confessed all the horrible things we've done or said, and the even more horrible things we've THOUGHT about doing or saying. We confessed to hating other pregnant girls who only write about the joy and the glowing and who seem to love every minute of their stretch-mark-free pregnancy. (Confession: my belly pictures are stretch-mark free because YOU CANNOT SEE MY ASS OR THIGHS. There. Now you know.)

And we debated whether our crazy pregnant behavior would warrant a coach or a business-class ticket to hell. I don't know if it made anybody else feel better, but it sure as hell helped me.

Well, temporarily, anyway. Until I woke up for the fourth time at 4 a.m. after getting kicked in the ribs AGAIN and then starting thinking about breastfeeding twenty times a night for months on end and dammit, now I have to pee, only when I go to pee, the baby's head is squooshing my bladder in such a way that peeing requires some complex acrobatics involving leg-stretching and bending and OKAY, I'M WIDE AWAKE NOW AND READY TO OBSESS OVER WHAT I WILL DO WHEN I DISCOVER AN EMPTY CONDOM WRAPPER IN MY 14-YEAR-OLD'S ROOM LIKE HULK HOGAN DID ON HIS SHOW AND WHY AM I WATCHING THAT SHOW IN THE FIRST PLACE.

ALSO CELEBRITY FIT CLUB, WHICH I BET YOU FOUR FRILLION DOLLARS WAS ORIGINALLY CALLED CELEBRITY FAT CAMP.

Anyway. I'm all freaked out and jiggy again today. So clearly, it's time for another round of Seekrit Pregnancy Confessions.

Here is a limited list of sins, bad things and crimes against humanity and my pregnant readers and I copped to yesterday over email. I'm protecting everyone's identity, and will not be identifying who thought or did or said what. Including myself, because damn, I already told you about the ass stretch marks, what more do you want from me?

THE GIRLFRIEND'S GUIDE TO (A BATSHIT INSANE BUT ULTIMATELY NORMAL) PREGNANCY

We've called our husband "the biggest asshole on the planet" in the diaper aisle of the supermarket.

We've told him "we'll have sex when I feel pretty again."

We've considered offering a blow job in return for painting the baby's room.

We've thought about kicking the cat for the sheer hell of it.

We've refrained from kicking the cat, but shoved it off the bed instead.

We've begged to be held.

We've kicked our partner away after five minutes of holding because it's too damn hot.

We've called our unborn babies brats.

We've threatened divorce.

Repeatedly.

We've wondered aloud if this whole baby thing was a colossal mistake.

We've compiled a list of our partner's features that we secretly hope the baby doesn't inherit.

We've been disappointed when the ultrasound revealed a girl or a boy because we wanted the other.

We've found that guilt trips are really the best and only way to get what we want.

We've screamed "YOU DID THIS TO ME" and we're not even in labor yet.

We're really worried that our babies will be ugly.

And who likes an ugly baby? Who?

We're worried that there's something wrong with our babies and it's all because of what we ate/drank/did/thought during pregnancy.

We're worried we won't love our babies.

We're worried our babies won't love us.

We're worried our boobs won't work.

We're worried we'll poop during labor and that our partner will see us poop during labor.

We're scared to death of postpartum depression.

When asked how we feel, we always say that we feel great, no matter how fucking miserable we are.

We've cried.

Over nothing.

Over everything.

And we've eaten a combined total of 438 pints of Ben & Jerry's.

Not So Much With the Magical Time Bullshit

Late Friday afternoon, Jason IMed me with the news that Carbon Leaf, our favorite band in the world (and who are also "our" band and ours alone), will be playing  at D.C.'s 9:30 Club in early September. The 9:30 Club, while awesome, is smoky, insanely crowded and standing-room only. And everytime I've gone there somebody has spilled a beer on me.

So I told Jason that I probably wouldn't be up for attending a concert there when I am, you know, NINE MONTHS PREGNANT.

And within five minutes, I was sobbing hysterically.

And typing things like this:

I HATE BEING PREGNANT.

THIS IS TOO HARD.

AND IT'S ONLY GOING TO GET HARDER ONCE HE'S HERE AND WHAT IF I HATE THAT PART TOO?

WHAT IF I DON'T LOVE HIM?

WHAT IF HE DOESN'T LOVE ME?

I DON'T DESERVE FOR HIM TO LOVE ME BECAUSE LOOK AT THE AWFUL THINGS I AM SAYING AND HE CAN HEAR ME AND KNOWS THAT I'M A HORRIBLE MOTHER ALREADY.

(At this point Jason reminded me that since we were instant messaging, the baby probably had no idea what I was typing, also, did I know I had Caps Lock on?)

(No, he said more comforting-like things than that, although secretly I think he is scared to death of Me and My Batshit Mood Swings right now.)

So then I spent the next hour hiding in my office with the door closed while I tried to 1) stop crying already, and 2) clean up my mascara with some napkins I found in a drawer.

There is no point to this entry other than to say: the anxiety level, she is running a mite high right now.

In other news, Jason spackled some holes in the walls of the baby's room. Who, by the way, we're pretty sure almost definitely has a name now. And I did some laundry, reorganized the bathroom cabinets and put all our CDs in alphabetical order. Also, Ceiba peed on my Boppy Pregnancy Comfort Support Pillow.

Spurt

Just to give everybody a little point of reference here...

6 weeks:

30 weeks:

(The Juicy Couture track pants, they howl in protest.)

My belly button (seen here in the "OFF" position) is completely at the mercy of my child's head -- it'll pop out and then mysteriously recede as he flips and squirms and kicks my soft vital organs from within.

At his most active, it looks like I've got a pair of rabid raccoons going at it in there.

As for the girl in the first picture -- who really needs to eat a goddamn sammich or something -- she never, ever expected to get this far, and only posed for that first picture under protest, because something was definitely going to Go Very Wrong.

Nothing has Gone Very Wrong, and for that, she is grateful, and would probably tell the girl in the second picture to shut the hell up with the whining and try to enjoy this amazing time in her life.

She would also tell her to quit with the anxiety over paint and furniture and household clutter. She's no longer living in contant fear that her baby is going to DIE and LEAK OUT every time she goes to pee, and seriously, a dread fear of whether or not the new kitchen cabinets will arrive in time is actually kind of lame.

Then the girl in the second picture would totally kick the other girl's skinny ass, because DAMN, she's really fucking hormonal right now.

Venting Prevents Explos-ion

So. The third trimester. It's normal to be a little freaked out, no? What with the hormones and all?

Here's a list of things that I am freaking out about. Please tell me if this all sounds about right:

1. The Nursery. Not painted. Not cleared out. Furniture not ordered. I know the kid will be in a bassinet in our room for the first few months and doesn't need a pretty room with a diaper stacker that coordinates with the curtains, but I would VERY MUCH BE HAPPIER IF THE ROOM WAS DONE, DESPITE THE POINTLESSNESS. Please do not argue with me over this point. Am crazy pregnant lady, give me some candy.

Also, we really do need at least a dresser, because all the baby clothes we've received thus far are sitting in shopping bags on the floor and are periodically flung around the room by Ceiba. She has already eaten at least one pom-pom off a family heirloom-type sweater.

2. Diapers. I bought a package of diapers and some wipes at the grocery store this weekend so I could feel like I'd accomplished something.

Now I'm concerned that I only bought the little-bitty newborn-sized diapers and this baby is going to be humungous and I won't have the right-sized diapers and Jason thinks we should do cloth diapers at home, mostly because the man has never changed a diaper in his life and doesn't understand that baby poop is a little different than the twee little turds we pick up after Ceiba and Max but also, he's making me feel guilty for not even considering cloth diapers and now there will be no parks or rainforests or clean air for my child to enjoy because I personally destroyed the planet for my own selfish diaper purposes.

3. Pediatricians. As in, I don't have one picked out yet. No sane person has children in the DC area without packing it in and moving to the suburbs first. Thus, I know no one to get a local recommendation from and am just staring at my insurance provider directory in a state of overwhelmed bafflement. (Readers? Upper-NW-DC? General vicinity of Cleveland Park/Cathedral/American University/Sibley Hospital?)

Yesterday, the other OB at my doctor's practice told me that I really "need to get on that" when I told her I hadn't chosen a pediatrician yet. THANK YOU. AM AWARE. HATE YOU. (Dr. Corky St. Clair was off delivering a baby or something, and I SWEAR TO GOD, I loathe this other doctor SO MUCH that if Dr. Corky is unavailable when I go into labor I am seriously crossing my legs and holding it in before I let her near me.)

4. It comes out of where? I'm getting this creeping realization that I am going to actually have to give birth to this child at some point.

5. Baby showers. I have a work shower and a small friends-and-family shower scheduled over the next few weeks. I'm terrified that no one will come to either because nobody likes me very much. You don't have to buy me anything! Just show up for cake and make me look popular! Please?

6. Work. So much to do. SO. MUCH. If I ignore my Inbox for five minutes there are suddenly 400 million fires to be put out and decisions to be made and then the phone rings and I hide under my desk because I CANNOT HANDLE THIS AND WANT TO LIE DOWN. I'm tired and getting sort of swollen and cranky.

I'm finding myself sort of hoping that my doctor will tell me to go on bedrest for some non-dangerous reason, like because I'm pretty and I deserve to not have to do anything for 10 weeks or so. At yesterday's visit I was kind of gunning for a slightly elevated BP level, or something. But nooo, both Dr. Corky AND Dr. Cold Dead Fish say I'm doing "great" and can work until my due date and ISN'T THAT FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC.

7. Money. Some people, got to have it. Some people, really need it. Dollah dollah bills, y'all.

8. Cancer-causing household toxins. I forgot to vaccuum this weekend and I swear I heard the cat making funny breathing noises in his sleep last night, probably because of all the carpet dust bunnies that are giving him kitty lung cancer.

9. The Money Pit. THE CONTRACTORS ARE NEVER, EVER GOING TO START WORK ON OUR HOUSE. Which means they will never, ever finish, and that spare kitchen table will never, ever get the hell out of my bedroom.

10. My Mom. Well. Yeah. Cancer. SO NOT COOL, UNIVERSE. SO VERY NOT COOL.

11. Katie Holmes. Seriously. Won't somebody help her?    

12. Daycare. We're on the waiting list at five places. Of those five, I like three. Of those three, we have a decent shot at getting into one. We just won't know until the end of the year, which means I have many more months of lying awake in a cold sweat while I worry about this issue. Yay!

13. Daycare, Part 2. As I drove in to work this morning, I briefly daydreamed that it was January and I had a small infant in the backseat and was on my way to a daycare center. The mere thought of actually having to drop my gorgeous boy off at daycare reduced me to crazy, crazy tears.

14. Daycare, Part 3, The Revenge. Typing that just now made me think about it again and I cried. Again.

15. Then again, a postcard from my salon telling me that my hairdresser has left for another salon also made me cry. So I may possibly just be a little insane.

16. Am dirty sell-out whore and nobody will read me anymore and people will send me emails about how I used to be cool but am now just some shill who will do anything for a buck.

Yes, the ads. I hate them. I don't want them. I feel very dirty. Hopefully, in a week or two, there will only be ads that have specifically bought space (with my approval) at amalah.com instead of the generic feed of Fabulous Work-From-Home Opportunities and Low-Cost Linux Hosting. And maybe there will be some craptastic swag. But the wall, it has been hit, and this site needs to start pulling its financial weight a little better.

Honestly, I'm just shooting for break-even at this point, and I promise to keep it all to a minimum. Really. Because I do really hate that shit.

However, may I also add that DANNON FRUSION® FRUIT AND YOGURT SMOOTHIE BEVERAGES ARE DELICIOUS AND DELIGHTFUL? ALSO AN EXCELLENT SOURCE OF CALCIUM! TRY ONE TODAY!

P.S. I'm really doing okay. Really. Do not feel the need to rush to offer comfort and/or assvice because hey, I've been a drama queen since I was three years old and now have the banner image to prove it. I'm forging ahead with some promising freelance ideas and new book pitches and have about five hundred solutions to the maternity leave issue to choose from. Am actually feeling quite excited about all the opportunities that quite literally sprang up overnight. I just need to get my fat ass in gear, and now that I've vented and freaked out in a nice, orderly list form, I feel just fine.

P.P.S. Except that I really am concerned about Katie Holmes.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

GODDAMN. IT IS HOT.

STUPID CITY THAT WAS BUILT ON A STUPID SWAMP WITH THE HUMIDITY AND THE WHATNOT. FEET ARE TOO SWOLLEN FOR CUTE SHOES. HAIR IS LIMP. MOOD IS CRANKY.

LET'S GET THIS ADVICE THING OVER WITH BEFORE I MELT OR RUN SOMEBODY OVER WITH MY CAR.

Dearest, Smartest, and Most-Worldliest Amalah,

I am going to be 26 soon, and have been married for a little over a year to my wonderful husband.  The marriage was sort of a surprise to both of us, having both been consummate singles with no real plan of finding "the one" ever in our lives, EVER, but we have found each other and are madly in love and etc etc etc. 

My question is about children, since I know nothing about them or the gestation process which comes with them.  I have plenty of years left with viable eggs and spanking-fresh ovaries, but my husband is 11 years older than me and we spend a lot of time talking about when we should have children.  I mean, I'm ready now in the sense that "yeah, a baby would be nice because I'm female and married and mostly ready to procreate," but I'd like to wait until we're more financially stable.  The husband had pretty much written off children because of his late-in-life bachelor stage, but he would like a baby as well, but has the opinion that we should wait another year or so, which makes sense because he's still getting used to the fact that he's married.

So, here's my conundrum: How long should we wait  before kids?  We're both ready now, but we keep putting it off until "we get a house."  Until "he gets out of the navy."  Until "we have more money in the savings account."  We keep seeming to put it off, which is fine with both of us, but I keep wondering if we should be waiting SO long because he is so much older than me and I don't want him to be 80 when our kids graduate the oh-so-expensive college that they'll probably want to go to.  We're both ready in a sense, but there are so many factors to factor in....  What do you think?

Queenie

I think you should not care what I think. Or what anybody thinks. There are only two people who should be involved in this decision: you and your husband.

For starters, you should both really, really want a baby. You should feel ready to give up the life you have now and turn everything topsy-turvy and upside-down because you really want a baby that badly.

You should also realize that there will never be "the perfect time" when the stars align and your bank account is overflowing and you find the house of your dreams and look! The previous owners left us a crib and a fully-decorated nursery! It's a sign!

And you should remember that trying to get pregnant can sometimes take a lot longer than you think it will. This is Jason's advice to any of our friends who are debating the To Kid Or Not To Kid Question. He was understandably freaked when I went off the pill several years ago (mostly because of my dad's poor health and a complete freak-out on my part when I imagined having a child who might never know him). A year later, he was puzzled and a little frustrated. A year after that, he was all, "Okay, WHAT THE HELL."

(Five minutes after that, I was pregnant.)

But more than anything, don't let people like me scare you with stories like that. Don't let your family be all up in your "So when are you going to have a baaaayyy-beee" grill. Don't let your friends sway you with the "It's the greatest thing we've ever done! Join us! JOOOOIN US!" crap. Don't do anything just because you feel like it's what you "should" do.

Have a baby because you want to, when you want to. Enjoy your time alone with your husband, and make sure you're really ready to say goodbye to that for another 18 to 20 years. Go on some vacations.

And then one day, when you look at someone else's tiny baby, you may feel your chest go tight and your arms will ache and you'll be overwhelmed with the urge to smell that baby's head. Then you'll know. It's time.

Dear Amalah,

I'd bet dollars to donuts you have covered this before but, unfortunately, beauty and its related paraphernalia are not my strong suit (which is why you won't be seeing pictures of me on my blog). People get to talking about Bed Head this and emulsifying that and my eyes glaze over.

Anywho, I am about to go get an awesome haircut next month when I go to California (yes, I have to travel 1500+ miles to get a decent haircut. I live in Hell, also known as Oklahoma). What I'm in the market for is a good styling product. I currently have some Paul Mitchell garbage-in-a-can and some sorry, half-assed excuse for hairspray (also Paul Mitchell) that manages to, at the same time, both NOT hold my hair in the slightest AND glue the top layer together in a crunchy mass. My hairstyle is going to be short and I have to blow it dry to get it to lie flat. (It's board-straight except it flips up at the ends.) It's very thick and fairly fine. Also I have Issues with excess oil production so I don't want anything that's going to make me look like a big fucking slimeball who never showers five minutes after I've put it on.

Something readily available in the stores would be good, though if the best solution involves a purchase at a salon I'm cool with it. Thank you!

Mary B.

Well, in my experience, no matter what your Styling Issue is, Paul Mitchell is NEVER the right answer. Loathe, hate, seethe.

(Apologies to anyone who loves Paul Mitchell products and...oh, fuck it. No apologies. Get your own advice column and keep your defensive huffiness out of my comments section. Is too hot for this shit.)

From your question, however, I'm not quite getting what your actual Styling Issue is. Frizz? Volume? Cowlicks? A refusal to blow-dry straight?

Believe it or not, I do not advocate the use of styling products JUST FOR THE SAKE OF USING STYLING PRODUCTS. Especially on fine, oily hair. If your hair is doing what you like it to do without any products, then great! Don't use any.

I own a lot of styling products just because I like to wear my hair in a lot of different ways, not because I actually goop on 17 different products every morning. Some days, I don't use anything other than some leave-in conditioner on my somewhat-frizzy ends. Other days, I go all out with the root lift spray and straightening gel and spray shine and texture paste.

So Mary, if you're reading today, leave a comment and let us know exactly What Your Hair Does That You Wish It Didn't, or What You Wish Your Hair Would Do That It Doesn't (besides the oil production issue, which I covered in last week's Smackdown), and we shall pool the collective Hair Talents of all Amalah.com readers and offer some specific suggestions.

Beyond, you know, that Paul Mitchell products are crap in a can.

Dearest Amalah,

Not so very long ago you shared your sacred advice on how to get knocked up with me. And like any loyal Amalah reader, I followed it. And VOILA! Here I am, 16 weeks pregnant.

Now, not that I'm not grateful for the previous advice, but I forgot to ask you something: Once you get pregnant, HOW DO YOU STOP THE PUCKING????? I mean, I'm in my second trimester already!! Don't you think this should have STOPPED by now? How did you finally get it to go away, oh wisest of expectant mothers?

Love,
Bellabelly

(Since this question was sent to me, oh, four hundred weeks ago, I sincerely hope that Bellabelly is no longer puking and that my answering this question now will only help other pregnant women currently caught in the Evil Grasp of the Puking, and that Bellabelly can leave a comment along the lines of AM FINE NOW, BITCH, THANKS FOR NOTHING.)

(Although, if the puking hasn't stopped, she has my deepest sympathies, but also my command to NOT EVER TELL ANOTHER NEWLY PREGNANT WOMAN ABOUT HER NEVER-ENDING PUKING. People LOVED to tell me about some woman they knew who had morning sickness for the full nine months or until she stopped breast-feeding or some other horror story, and they are SO LUCKY I felt too sick to murder them, because SHUT UP. NOT HELPING.)

I tried EVERYTHING to stop the puking. (Well, everything short of the prescription drugs like Zofran, which I was not NEARLY sick enough for, although that didn't stop dozens of people from telling me that my doctor was an idiot and an asshole for not putting me on it, because apparently, some doctors are prescribing the stuff to anyone who wants it. And not to get all Tom Cruise on you, but that's just wrong and insane. Zofran is serious stuff for SEVERE morning sickness, not for someone who is tired of throwing up once or twice a day. I could keep my prenatal vitamin down and never got dehydrated, so I didn't need it, so please stop questioning my medical decisions.)

(Beware the tangential soapbox!)

Anyway, I tried every folksy remedy people threw at me. Sucking on lemon candies made me gag, and after finally tracking down a ginger ale that had actual ginger it in (because everyone told me it would be SO much better than the sugar-water stuff at the grocery store), I couldn't even take a sip without puking it right back up.

What did help? Well, water, saltines and Canada Dry. Eating whatever sounded relatively good to me at the time, regardless of nutritional value. If I got worked up about not eating enough healthy stuff and then tried to eat the healthy stuff, I learned that I would just throw up the healthy stuff so why bother? Eat the goddamn chicken nuggets and be done with it.

I took my prenatal vitamin at night, with some crackers, and never threw it up once. I tried adding a vitamin B6 supplement too, but didn't feel a difference.

My mother-in-law gave me the best advice: a heating pad (set on low) right on the belly, as if you had really bad menstrual cramps.

I didn't really see what good this would do, but OH MY GOD, THE RELIEF. It totally stopped the dry heaving (which on some days was even worth than the actual puking -- I just walked around gagging on like, oxygen, and feeling like I would projectile vomit at any moment).

I still wasn't able to really EAT until week 16 (although I noticed a marked improvement right at week 13). And I still can't really handle chicken in anything other than a processed nugget form. Oh! And let's not forget all the heartburn, ingestion and constipation that starts in earnest during the second trimester!

Pregnancy: One Big Joyride Down the Gastrointestinal Tract.

Dear Amalah, Oh Sassy Goddess of Life,

I have a question. And I'm not quite sure if you can answer. But you seem to know everything about everything and so here goes.... I'm now a stay-at-home mom. In my "previous life" I paid the bills by writing. (At one point I was a reporter. When I needed more money to get OUT of my parents' house, I worked at an engineering/architectural firm writing (corporate) magazine articles, newsletters, press releases and white papers.) 

My dream has always been to write for magazines. There's FINALLY a very cool local fitness/health/fashion mag in St. Louis and I'm DYING to write for them. They do look for freelance writers, but I'm guessing the competition is tough. Its the ONLY local mag worth writing for.

How in the HELL do I get their attention? (I've already written the editor an e-mail about how I LOVE their mag and offered my services). I found out the next issue would cover plastic surgery. I told them I've had a procedure done and journaled the experience. SO are they interested? I haven't heard anything from them yet. Was this completely lame? How do I get my foot in the door? I would give them the story for FREE just to have the experience.

Also, the women who started the mag are very hip chickies that look like they are MAYBE in their late 20's. I'm a stay-at-home suburban mom in my 30's -- so very white bread. So very mom-ish. Definitely NOT sassy and sophisticated like you are. (At least not anymore.) And ok. I really don't know what my question is here but....

How do I get my foot in the door? I really don't have any real contacts in the magazine arena. And besides its been forever since I've been PAID to write -- for this mag or any national one for that matter. If by some act of God, my work is accepted what do I charge? How do I determine what I charge. Can they read the "momishness" in my work? Will that help or hinder me? Eeek!

Signed,
Dying to feel like a person instead of a care-giving robot who spends too much time playing with Matchbox cars and reading "Walter the Farting Dog".

GOD. I DON'T KNOW. Does anybody know? Because DUDE, I just this minute found out that I? Really, really need some extra money all of a sudden.

I talked to my HR department about maternity leave MONTHS ago, and I was directed to our company intranet and the information about short-term disability and blah blah blah. "Short-term disability payments continue for a maximum of 12 weeks," the friendly intranet told me. Perfect!

And HR said not to worry about filling out all the actual paperwork until closer to my due date, so la la la, I lived in happy 12-weeks-of-short-term-disability land until today, when I actually went to get the paperwork so my doctor could fill out his part at my check-up this afternoon.

And the friendly intranet left off a CRUCIAL BIT OF INFORMATION, which is that while yes, short-term disability will continue for a maximum of 12 weeks, when you're talking pregnancy, they'll only pay for six weeks after delivery.

SIX. WEEKS. After that, you're unpaid. Unless you have lots of vacation time, which I? Do not. And I? Am a colossal idiot. I KNOW, OKAY? PLEASE DON'T YELL AT ME FOR MAKING STUPID ASSUMPTIONS OR WAITING SO LONG TO FINALIZE EVERYTHING. BAD STUPID AMALAH, YES, WE GET IT.

Jesus Christ. We still need a fucking CRIB, and like, STUFF, because all I have are some onesies and a bib and two receiving blankets, and we've already put down deposits on all the home renovations and we did stupid things like buy a new car and a camera and I bought that new purse and who knows if daycare will come through right at 12 weeks and JASON is freaking out about six weeks of unpaid leave and if JASON is freaking out than we MUST be royally and totally SCREEEEWED.

(pant, pant)

So hello! Magazines! Newspapers! Would you like a freelancer? Perhaps a funny story about blogging culture? Fake advice columnist? Anything? I need money.

Normally, this is where I put the advice@amalah.com link and invite your questions, but since today's column has imploded so spectacularly  into chaos and panic, I'm just going to sit here and hyperventilate for a little bit.

The Many Loves of Amalah, Part Fin

SO. I TAKE IT Y'ALL LIKE SEEING INDULGENT BABY PHOTOS AND SUCH, EH?  AND SEVERAL OF YOU REQUESTED MORE? WELL, I WILL GIVE YOU MORE. BUT I WILL NOT STOP YELLING BECAUSE I AM AN OVERLY VERBAL THREE-YEAR-OLD WHO IS REALLY PISSED ABOUT SOMETHING.

Specifically, many of you requested "mall bangs" photos. And really, I looked. But I could not find any mall bangs photos. This is not to say that I did not wear mall bangs, because I did, and lo, they were multi-layered and gravity-defying, but I just don't seem to have any photos of said bangs in my possession.

I did find one photo of me with about half my hair pulled into a ponytail on the side of my head, and I may also have been wearing a fanny pack in this same photo, but you know what? I'm not going to post that one. I embarrass myself for your pleasure enough as it is. No one needs to see half-head ponytails and fanny packs.

Besides. There's enough mockery-inducing material in this little gem:

(Click for bigger version, duh.)

THAT, my friends, is a newspaper clipping from February 1997 about the re-release of the original Star Wars.

It is also a glimpse into the first date between Amy Corbett, 19, of Levittown, and Jason Storch, 20, of Newtown Borough.

Yes. Our first date made the newspaper, for we were that important. Also, we were stupid, because we didn't realize that you had to buy tickets for Star Wars waaaay ahead of time.  So we bought tickets for Jerry Maguire instead, and Jason casually assured a second date with my fabulous self by buying Star Wars tickets for a show the next day. Sneaky!

And there happened to be this random reporter hanging around the theater lobby, looking for Star Wars freaks to interview. And behold, the freaks, they were us.

For the record, the whole "Maybe I'll dress up like Han Solo" quote was a JOKE. A JOOOOOKE, as was my "Oh, would you please" response, but apparently, SARCASM DOES NOT TRANSLATE INTO THE AP STYLE.

And "self-admitted Star Wars maniacs?" The hell? I believe I copped to being a "big fan," but the word "maniac" was never used.

Anyway, after our Big Interview, we were walking to Jason's car to go get dinner or something before the movie, and the reporter shouted at us.

"BY THE WAY, ARE YOU DATING?"

To which I cheerfully replied, "Oh no! We're just friends!"

And then we got in the car and I realized that Jason looked absolutely crushed.

Why did I not realize that we were on a date?  Because I'd known Jason since like, junior high. He didn't want to date me then, even though I had super-hot permed bangs, so why would he want to date me now?

Well, possibly because I no longer owned a bathing suit that looked like this:

(In case you are too busy and important to read the entire backstory, a quick recap: Jason and Josh were best friends. Nicole and I were best friends. I liked Jason, Jason liked Nicole, Josh liked me so I transferred my liking of Jason to Josh, Josh was sort of not quite entirely stable, I broke up with Josh, he went more unstable, I took him back only to get dumped a few weeks later for some girl who rode my bus.)

(And apparently, my dear friends Not A Clue and No Idea hung out with us sometimes.)

Lord. Church youth groups are such SOAP OPERAS. No wonder we were known for putting on super-melodramatic musicals together.

I believe this play was about some kid with cancer who was totally upbeat about it because he had Jesus in his heart, and he helped all of his friends come to terms with his death through song because Jesus is awesome and also, it's pretty easy to feel great about Jesus when YOU AREN'T THE ONE DYING OF CANCER.

Or it was a play about some kid with cancer who was totally bummed about it because he didn't have Jesus in his heart, but all his friends helped him come to terms with his death through song because Jesus is awesome and also, it's pretty easy to feel great about Jesus when YOU AREN'T THE ONE DYING OF CANCER.

And the guy in the suit is an angel who Teaches Everybody Lessons. Probably through song.

Regardless, I look spectacularly awesome in my over-sized tee, as does Jason in what appear to be sweatpants of some kind.

Anyway, flash forward back to 1997. A few weeks before the whole Is This A Date Or Not A Date Date, Jason and I bumped into each other at Barnes & Noble. It'd been YEARS since our last pool party or theatrical performance together, but we recognized each other instantly. (I was actually there with this guy.)

So Jason tracked down my email address and really just wanted to get back in touch with his old friends and only came over to my house that day to fix my computer and then it was taking longer than he thought so he suggested we go get some lunch and then the movie theater was RIGHT THERE so why don't we see if we can get Star Wars tickets? See? So not a date!

God, I was so stupid. But hey! We cleared things up right then and there that yes, this was a date, and it was actually going awfully darn well, so why don't we kiss or something because OH MY GOD, I HAVE LOVED YOU FOR YEARS AND YEARS.

And then I think everybody knows the rest of the story.

You Will Never Ever Guess Who Bought Herself A Scanner This Weekend

No, really. Just TRY and guess.

I am now scanning photos like a crazy photo-scanning fiend for no particular reason, except that I CAN and it's EASY and LOOK HOW CUTE I WAS ONCE.

(Also, HELLO. Look at that nose, and look at this one. Hmm? You see it?)

What makes the whole scanner acquisition even more delicious is the fact that I recently organized EVERY PHOTO IN MY HOUSE into a variety of photo boxes and albums. The baby's room is not painted, we have not ordered furniture, actual food products are still not allowed in my kitchen cabinets, and for reasons too bizarre to explain there is a spare kitchen table sitting in the middle of my bedroom. BUT AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, OUR PHOTOS ARE ORGANIZED.

So would you like to see some photos of my pre-Amalah.com life? Too bad! That's what you're getting, and will probably get all week, until I get bored.

Baby Amalah, who looks an awfully lot like her little bald grandpa in this picture.

Also, the 70s, they were a very yellow time.

Long-time readers may recall the story of Allison Last-Name-Withheld-Because-She-Was-And-May-Still-Be-Evil, my first-grade archenemy. That's her, right in front of my bowl-cut, gapped-tooth self. DO NOT BE FOOLED BY THE ANGEL COSTUME, PEOPLE, SHE IS CLEARLY UP TO NO GOOD.

Approximately five minutes after that photo was taken, I entered my "awkward stage," which would continue until college, so very little photographic evidence exists during that time.

Well, no more angel costume for me, that's for sure.

I HAVE ILLEGALLY OBTAINED ALCOHOL! WHOOO! AND I AM WEARING A HAT! HEEEEEEEE.

(That's a poster of Leonardo DiCaprio on my door, people. It was a very weird time in my life.)

A photo from the horrific Dharma-from-Dharma-and-Greg-Haircut-and-Those-Fuzzy-
Mules-I-Wore-Everywhere Period. GAH.

(I remember those cut-off shorts, too. I wore them until they very literally disintegrated off my body.)

It was around this time that I met this one guy. I think his name was Jason, or something.

This is us on St. Patrick's Day in Philadelphia. I do not remember ever agreeing to wear a hat, especially a hat that seems to be missing a substantial chunk of itself, but I definitely remember that I was no longer wearing the hat when I was puking in the parking garage a short while later.

I do remember Jason holding my hair though.

It wasn't all drunken debauchery, of course. Here I am on Christmas morning (exact year unknown, because there is only so much organizing a girl can do after years and years of photo neglect), surrounded by my loving family. (Or at least my dad and the top of my sister's head.) I am holding up the battery-operated nose-hair trimmer that my older brother thoughtfully purchased for me.

Another Christmas (some years later, judging by the hair growth). I believe this may have been one of the holidays AFTER my parents decided to allow wine back into the house. Am just guessing though.

 

Meanwhile, I was still pretty darn crazy about this Jason character.

We got engaged, and I had a bridal shower and got lots and lots of casserole dishes.

Here I go for a demure, bride-like pose with my big ribbon bouquet, but I think the effect is a little ruined by the fact that you can see up my dress.

We were married on August 8, 1998. I was 20, Jason was 21.

If this photo had those little thought-balloon things, I'm betting about half the people in this photo are thinking, "It won't last, and I wonder if anyone's running a divorce pool. I could hit the ATM before the reception."

HA HA SUCKERS. YOU OWE US A BIG FAT PARTY.

Jason: (through gritted teeth) Do we really have to go to the reception?

Amy: (hisses) Shh. Just smile for the camera, and then I'll tackle the limo driver, steal the keys and we'll drive to Atlantic City.

We didn't do the garter toss, so I did the classy thing and put it on Jason's head for some reason.

But can we just talk about how skinny I am? Please, let's all talk about how skinny I am.

(This is what happens when you get married before the full onset of puberty. Also before you are allowed to buy your own beer.)

And then we bought a cat, who may or may not be posessed by the devil.

(Had enough? You've probably had enough. I'll stop now. But I cannot promise to stop for good, because like I said, all my photos are organized by category and subject into half a dozen adorable little photo boxes, and it is so, so satisfying to take a picture out, scan it, and then PUT IT BACK IN ITS PROPER PLACE. HOLY GOD, IT IS BETTER THAN SEX.)

P.S. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everybody who commented on my last entry. Your words and prayers and stories were just what my mom and I needed to read. We both really appreciate it. And for everyone currently fighting breast cancer or supporting somebody who is (and DAMN, there are a lot of you), we're praying/hoping/positive-vibe-sending right back at you.