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.