Her Fanbase is Skewing Younger

Two videos in a row? Fucking cop-out, man.

But I thought some of you -- particularly those of you who declared Noah some kind of musical prodigy a couple weeks back -- might be interested in Noah's opinion of the new Britney Spears single?

I mean, everybody's got an opinion on her comeback chances, but WHAT DO THE TODDLERS THINK?

Personally (and provided that Death Is Not An Option), I prefer Gimme More, but Noah seems to dig Cold As Fire.

Noah and Brit Brit from amalah and Vimeo.

It's got a better beat than the Wiggles, I'll give it that.

(Have a great holiday weekend, peeps. Don't sprain anything while busting moves at da clubs.)

Multimedia

Okay, now that I think we've got everything working with the new design, and now that my designer is off to Ecuador, thus fleeing the country and my emails, let me see if I can completely blow it the fuck up by posting a video window that will probably be too wide for the margins. Come on, it'll be fun!

It seems like people are still questioning the proper pronunciation of "Amalah." AIM-a-la. Like how you pronounce Amy? AIM-ee? Oh, whatever, here's me having a conversation with my dog about it.

AIM-a-la from amalah and Vimeo.

I probably should have enunciated Ceiba's name a little better too, now that I think about it. Her name is SAY-bah. Again, whatever, I don't even correct our vet anymore.

Just be happy I didn't name my kid D'Artagnaienalyah or something. Because you know it was on our short list.

Speaking of Noah, hey! Remember that time we qualified for free speech therapy? Our first session is on Tuesday morning.

He's made some progress in the past few weeks, although nothing to suggest that a true language explosion is right around the corner -- he's still gaining language right in step with a five- or six-month delay, but progress is progress, and I'm extremely confident that he's going to respond really well to the therapy. Plus, it's like free babysitting. I plan to paint my toenails.

We scored a gigantic set of Signing Time DVDs this week. My expectations were...not very high, since I've been faithfully signing (More! Milk! Eat! All done! Cookie! Cracker! WTF!) with Noah for over a month now and he's shown the same level of interest as back when I tried the infant signing with him. Which to say, zero. Mom, you're so lame.

But we started watching them about two days ago, and Noah...well, he likes them, but he likes pretty much everything on the glowing teevee box, especially since we've drastically limited his intake of Dora and Blue.

Well, let's not get CRAZY here. We do need to be good playdate hosts, now.

He wanders in and out of the room, which is fine, since I prefer that to the enthralled, slack-jawed video stare (see, uh, above), but I doubted he was actually taking any of the signs in, especially since he continued to pointedly ignore my clumsy attempts to sign along.

This morning he finished his milk and cereal and then, without a moment's hesitation, he said "eat" for the very first time while making the sign for "more."

Uh. Holy crap.

Baby Einstein? You just got PWN3D.

Oh. Right. Hi.

Uh. Surprise!

(Hit refresh if you don't know what I'm talking about.)

Should I have said something? Given you a heads up that omffffg, the site is going to look all different tomorrow? I actually meant to, but then I forgot. Also am ovulating, and thus very busy.

Anyway, yes. Site done got all redesigned all good and fancy like. Obviously, not by me, since I coded the last design, which I am pretty sure was held together with duct tape and DOS. Sean Slinsky did this one for me. (Sean is actually Nothing But Bonfires' Holly's Sean, which I'm sure he appreciates being called.)

I'm sure he also appreciated my input and instructions, which consisted of me saying things like: I don't want the site to be so damn pink anymore, but I want you to still use the same picture, which is damn pink, but you know, make it less damn pink.

And then I emailed him a photo of Jason's boxers. I am a joy.

But! As you can see, he did a totally kick ass job and I love love looooove it. He made Typepad do things that Typepad doesn't really like to do, and Typepad was all, Oh Sean, you're so dreamy, anything for you, Sean, and he added some cool thingies (check out the links to mah other stuff like Mamapop and behold the cool RSS feed; it's like I'm living in some kind of crazy futuristic world where information flows like wine) (also OH MAH GAH THERE'S A DAMN SEARCH FUNCTION), but for the most part I think everything is still where it used to be, so please no more disoriented weeping.

If something doesn't look or function right, let me know, but first know that I may only care if you are seeing it in Firefox/Safari/Opera/IE7, and even then I will only care a little about IE7.

PS Categories are only working for recent entries, since I went years without using them and it's a huge pain to go back and assign them now, but I'm working on them. For you! And your browsing pleasure.

PPS I am freaking exhausted now and need to go lie down, even though I did nothing more strenuous during the entire switch-over process than a thumbs-up, we're a go for relaunch, 10-4. But still. I HOVERED.

PPPS / UPDATE: Yeah. Let's just pretend I don't have a Links page right now. We will fix. Fixed and fabulous, dawgs.

Or: An Important Reminder Why I Should Probably Shut Up About Flight of the Conchords Already

So the first thing you need to know about going to see Rent on Broadway is that there is a crazy line before the show. It snakes around the block. It crowds the sidewalk and yes, all those people have tickets.

As I mentioned on Friday, we actually saw Rent before, ages and ages ago. Probably the first cast after the original cast left. It was good. We clapped and I cried and then we got on with our lives. I don't believe there was a line.

As we approached the theater Jason went pale. Jason hates lines. He hates anything remotely resembling a line.

"We have tickets, right?" he asked, "That's just the line for those cheap tickets, right?"

I glanced at my watched and shook my head. "The lottery already happened."

We wandered through the crowd towards Will Call -- past many people fanning themselves with Ticketmaster printouts -- and I tried to figure out what I was missing here. There was no line at Will Call. We all had assigned seats. They never start the show until everybody is seated.

I collected our tickets from Will Call and joined what turned out to be a secondary line out on the sidewalk: the Line For People Who Are Not Waiting In That Goddamned Line.

"Is it like, the Star Wars line?" I asked. "Are people doing it for...fun?"

We stood in a line outside the Uptown Theater in DC once, for the first Star Wars movie. We waited for an hour and a half and Jason was ready to claw his face off, especially after he had the brilliant idea of escaping to Starbucks, only to discover there was also a line there, and he returned coffeeless and kind of wild-eyed and subsequently hated the movie.

"Lines are never fun." Jason said. "There's got to be another reason."

The Goddamned Line started to move, and people at the front of the line started to whoop and cheer, and some of the people in the Line for People Who Are Not Waiting In That Goddamned Line stepped forward and casually assimilated into the Goddamned Line. Nobody protested or complained, and Jason grabbed my arm and we followed suit, even though I cringed and died a little because holy crap, we just cut in line. We could go to jail! Imaginary Authority Figures! Noooo!

At this point I was still beyond baffled about The Line, because seriously, what's the point of getting someplace all early to stake out a spot in line if you aren't even going to defend that spot in line?  Start a fight! Roll your eyes! Register a disgruntled HEY! Something!

But I decided that maaaaaybe it was time to Let It Go. Just a little bit, anyway.

I should back up and mention that the primary reason we decided to see Rent again was the return of two of the original cast members, and because I was able to get us third-row seats. They were too far over to the right side of the stage to be considered awesome, but still. Third row! We could actually see faces! We might get sweat on!

Sigh.

Ok. So the first two center rows of the orchestra section are sold for $20 right before the show in a lottery system. I knew about this, but never had the patience or the copious free weekends in New York to participate. And then -- this I did not know -- other unsold and "undesirable" seats get sold at a deep discount to anybody who didn't win a $20 seat. The majority of these undesirable seats are the close-in rows at the far ends of the theater. Next to our seats. Since we were total suckers to pay full price. Suckers! N00BS! Yuppie scum!

Whatever, I liked our seats. Some of the blocking on-stage meant we spent some scenes staring at people's backs, but hey, I can watch the movie at home. I came to see Mimi's ass in close-up and to see if she wears Spanx underneath those blue pants. (Negative. Hot damn!)

The problem with our seats were all the people sitting right around our seats. We were smack-dab in the middle of the crazy fanatic section. The woman next to me had seen the show 350 times. A few of them were planning to enter the lottery again that night. The girl behind me was breathlessly and EXTREMELY LOUDLY explaining every possible obstructed view we might encounter to two "virgins" behind her.

"WE'RE GOING TO MISS MIMI'S ENTRANCE BECAUSE SHE COMES IN RIGHT HERE BUT DON'T WORRY SHE COMES RIGHT UP TO THAT MICROPHONE LIKE TWO SECONDS LATER BUT WE WILL MISS IT RIGHT WHEN SHE WALKS ONSTAGE FOR THOSE TWO SECONDS BUT HEEEEE WE'LL GET A GREAT VIEW OF ROGER'S ASS YOU WILL KNOW WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT WHEN YOU SEE IT HEEEEEEE I WANT TO HAVE HIS BABIES."

At this, the woman next to me piped up that his wife might object to that, and then the entire group started chiming in about how beeeeeeautiful his wife was and she's soooooo sweeeeeet, what, you never met her? Oh, I met her. She's sooooo nice.

There's always something a little cringe-worthy about witnessing unabashed fandom like that -- when it's like listening to a toddler explain their favorite episode of Elmo's World but you know, coming from a fairly grown-up person. I was once completely obsessed with Les Miserables, but I was 12. And believed that only Eponine really understood me, what with that fucking popular rich girl Cosette stealing her crush and all.

At one point they all quibbled over who had fewer straight friends.

Anyway, the show finally started (one girl said it always starts about 10 minutes late, but was quickly corrected by someone else who said no, seven minutes late), and the girl behind me promptly burst into tears. She cried through most of the first act, and then screeched out I LOVE YOU!!!to Anth0ny when he stepped close to our seats to deliver a line. Anytime Anth0ny or Ad@am did anything, half the audience erupted into ear-splitting screams. It was bedlam. They were rock stars. They were the Beatles.  (The poor girl from  American Idol was all, "Fuck, man, I bet Frenchie Davis didn't get upstaged like this.)

The thing is, they were amazing. If you haven't seen the show...oh man. RUN. DON'T WALK. Particularly if you can see the current cast. I cried through most of the second act -- not the blubbery omg squee sobs of the girl behind me, but just a sort of constant leaking from my eyeballs that I could not control. I noticed the one other guy in our section wiping his eyes several times.  Jason turned to me after a couple songs and simply mouthed the word "WOW."

In the end, though, we were the only ones sniffling. The fans around us were too preoccupied with getting the standing ovation started (standing up before the final notes of the show were even over) and then hightailing it outside to wait for autographs. And I wondered how effective the show could possibly be after 25, 50 or 350 times. At what point do you stop seeing the story and hearing the songs and start only seeing the tiny mistakes in timing and hearing the missed notes?

Maybe never? Or maybe around the same time you find yourself arguing over whether John or Frank or Harry was the better conductor with somebody during intermission?

I think twice is enough for me, though.

La Vie Boheme

Real entry coming, just as soon as I figure out the best way to make gentle fun of these people without them hunting me down and killing me. Or hunting me down and explaining the show's rich history and synopsis and lyrics to me. In painstaking, breathless detail. Again.

(Guess where our seats were! Guess!)

(sticks index finger in mouth, pulls thumb trigger)

In the meantime, tell me if this is not the most exquisite bedhead you have ever seen in your life.

Still Alive

Child is wandering around in a droopy diaper and oh look, a box of playing cards, how fun will that be to clean up, but yes. We are still alive.

Jason may or may not come back tonight, thanks to the crazy weather in Chicago.

*sticks fingers in ears, lalalalalalalaaaaaa*

We're actually supposed to go to New York tomorrow and see a show. A very expensive show that we can't really afford, but that's what happens when you stumble across Rent on HBO right during Seasons of Love and decide that your life will not be complete until you see the show on Broadway, possibly forgetting THAT YOU ALREADY SAW IT ON BROADWAY. Your life will not be complete until you see it AGAIN, is my point, and anyway, it was very late and seemed like a good idea at the time. Right now it's not looking good, unless I go by myself. Which we all know is probably a bad idea, what with the trains and the likelihood of me getting on the wrong train and ending up in say, CHICAGO.

But again, we are still alive. I actually do kind of enjoy having the place to myself sometimes. I can dance around the living room with my iPod and a hairbrush, I can eat gigantic bowls of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese for dinner and I can watch all the girly movies I want.

Oh! The irony!

So yeah, we're keeping ourselves pretty entertained over here.

Happy!

Boo-hoo!

Surprise! (We're still working on this one. He's got the Macaulay Culkin face-slap down pretty well, though.)

Pffft!

Roar! Outside voice! Show Mama your tonsils!

The Suicide Hours

Jason is in Chicago for the rest of the week. A last-minute business trip. I am not a fan of the last-minute business trip.

I am a fan of my husband coming home at a reasonable hour, preferably right before the hour when I lose my flipping mind over being cooped up in the house all day with only a toddler for company, a toddler who is pulling out the measuring cups and spoons for the millionth time and yeah, it was cute this morning but it is NOT CUTE ANYMORE ARGH STOP WHINING STOP CLIMBING ON ME STOP HEAD BUTTING ME WITH YOUR GIGANTIC HEAD ARGH OH LOOK IT'S DADDY HOW WAS YOUR DAY, DEAR? WHAT? SORRY, I CAN'T HEAR YOU I AM ALREADY UPSTAIRS CURLED UP IN MY CLOSET AND HAVING A NICE CONVERSATION WITH MY SHOES.

(Yes. He really does sort them out like that.)

The god's honest truth is that by 6 pm or thereabouts, my patience is pretty much tapped out. Noah's running around like a spaz, hollering for DADA DADA DADA DADA and there are chicken nuggets in the microwave that I know he won't eat and I'm rubbing my temples while spooning applesauce into a Dora bowl that I KNOW will end up upside down on top of the dog who is YAP YAP YAP YAPPING because OMG, THERE'S SOMEONE ON THE SIDEWALK ACROSS THE STREET and the cat is underfoot begging for food that I KNOW he'll sniff and turn up his nose at, and then the dog will eat it and puke it up in our bedroom later and all I need in the world is for Jason to walk through the front door and...I don't know. He doesn't really DO anything, except maybe temporarily distract me from my very mean thoughts about a matching set of dog/cat/toddler crates.

That, and he speaks English.

(This photo should be accompanied by the sweet EH EH EH EH EH sounds of a tantrum windup.)

(Beware the edible-looking feet: they are filthy because I don't bathe my child much sometimes.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to retrieve all the parts to my KitchenAid mixer from in between the couch cushions while Noah naps,  and then perhaps I should just go ahead and stick some Pinot Grigio in the fridge. 

The Excitement of a Tuesday

Uh, sorry about not posting yesterday. Technical issues, you see. You wouldn't understand. I barely understand.

I have been completely unable to access Typepad or any Typepad-run sites (like....THIS ONE and THIS ONE and THIS ONE), and after spending several hours assuming that it was some kind of massive platform-down-kabloom thing, I finally figured out that no, it was just me. Sad, technically-challenged and smelly me.

Amy: w w w dot amalah dot com.

Internet: loading loading loading loading loading
Internet: *gasps, wheezes, gives up*

Amy: What up, Typepad?

Typepad: We're just fine over here, actually. Are you sure you are connected to the Internet? Is your computer plugged in? Is it on? Is it, in fact, actually a computer or are you trying to surf the web via a cardboard box again?

Amy: JASON! HALP!

Jason: Uh. Try unplugging things.

I tried unplugging things ("power cycling!") and rebooting and even attempted to compose an entry on the iPhone before I finally just gave up and started scouring the web for Flight of the Conchords MP3s.

I am more than a little pleased that I finally figured out what the problem was, especially since the problem was coming from our firewall, which is not something I know anything about. In fact, I am not really sure I even knew we had a firewall. But we do, and it recently decided that my blog was malicious. Malicious! aMaLAHcom iz HAX0R!

Of course, it's not like I had anything super-interesting to write about yesterday. The firewall was not preventing the free exchange of ideas and stifling my creativity, since I probably would have just talked about one or more of the following:

1) The new dishwasher, which is finally installed, after the first guy who came to install it told us he couldn't install it until we replaced a valve, and after the second guy who came to replace the valve flooded the basement, and after the third guy who came installed it wrong, and after Jason finally Googled dishwasher installation and installed it his damn self.

2) I hate blinds. I hate shades and I hate curtains and I hate shopping for them and I hate forgetting that I haven't bought any yet, usually right when I walk in front of the window naked.

3) Ceiba has an eyeball infection and I have to give her drops, and then after I give her the drops she walks into things.

4) Noah noah noah noah cute cute cute cute going to be the death of me. Last night Jason let him stay up until 10 pm to watch Cars simply because Noah was willing to sit and snuggle with him while the movie was on. We're DOOMED.

(A month ago asking Noah to "show Mama happy!" got me photos like this. Now?  I get this.)

Amalah's Got Talent

But not as much as her kid, who is clearly ready to cut a demo.

Twinkle twinkle...sort of from amalah and Vimeo.

(Please note that you should never put your barely suppressed stage mother tendencies ahead of your child's physical safety. Wow. That's some gooooood parenting right there.)

(Also good parenting: the absolute and very last diaper in the entire house is the one currently on my sleeping child's butt. That's gonna be a FANTASTIC post-nap jaunt to the store, let me tell you.)

Oh, this is just awesome.

For all the self-professed appliance whores in our audience, here is a picture of our new dishwasher.

Isn't it great? I'm sooo glad we sprung for the stainless steel. I just love the way it reflects the light from the inside of the cardboard box.

*head explodes*

Yeah. So of all the home improvement projects we've taken on since moving -- electrical panels! hardwood floors! windows! identifying the 17 various shades of yellowish-beige paint in various finishes! -- I really didn't think a new goddamn DISHWASHER was going to be the most angst-ridden or the one that would set off a chain reaction of other issues and expenses and OH HAI, IM IN UR BASEMENT, LEEKING RUSTY WATUR ALL TEH FUCK OVER.

*bloody headless neck stump explodes*

I don't even know. It's a valve thing. Apparently, in addition to fancying himself some kind of an electrician who installed all the light switches in the house backwards and upside down, and who hooked the ceiling fan up to a switch in the freaking attic, the previous owner also did his own plumbing. Using parts he found in the street. And gum.

Anyway, I am kind of...dealing with this today, which in MY WORLD means hiring a professional. And then hovering nearby while wringing my hands helplessly. And then throwing a shitload of towels at the problem.

(Video of Noah's "singing" will hopefully be ready tomorrow. My head needs about 24 hours or so to regenerate.)