Wednesday Advice Smackdown

FUCK. ALL. Y'ALL.

No, I don't really mean that. I'm projecting my anger towards the innocent Internet, but really, I think it deserves it today.

The morning thus far:

I woke up super-early after having a NIGHTMARE about the Wednesday Advice Smackdown. Questions were pouring in at breakneck speed, including one from my actual real-life bona fide Internet archenemy. About GRAMMAR. And I didn't know the answer. And Google wasn't working. And then more questions came and I woke up all in a panic and wondering how in the world I ended up with an Internet archenemy.

To calm my nerves, I went right over to Nordstrom.com to check the Ugg status, and lo and behold, they claimed to have the Sundance boot (the only one I like, as I maintain that the others are still kind of bleh) in size 7 in Sand, which is my second color choice so CLOSE ENOUGH.

But Nordstrom LIED. They are not available. They are already gone. I cannot have them, ever, and it is like, 25 degrees today and I'm cold and also tired because I WOKE UP SO DAMN EARLY.

Also, do you think I got to work on time today? Or even early? No, I did not, because some stupid people insisted on getting into an accident this morning. (I can call them stupid because they were all fine and standing around on the curb sipping their Starbucks and staring as the tow truck loaded up their huge-ass suburban assault vehicles and I glared from behind a police car because some BITCH would NOT LET ME MERGE, LIKE I WAS SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHICH LANE THE ACCIDENT WAS IN AND PLAN MY MORNING ACCORDINGLY.)

*breathes*

Stupid people. And stupid styrofoam cups at work that don't fit into the complicated coffee pod machine we use so I cannot get coffee because the manual one is being used for DECAF and JESUS, even the car accident people got their damn coffee this morning.

So. Who's up for some advice from Ms. CaffeinelessCrankyPants?

Amy,

So which would you really rather have: a pair of Uggs or something from Tiffany's?

-Jason

Oh! Well. DUH.

Dear Amy,

For some inexplicable reason, I find myself reading Dear Abby in my local newspaper each day (even though the advice that she gives is clearly inferior to yours).  I find it oddly relaxing to read other people's inane problems while I eat my toast and jam in the morning.

But, speaking of inane problems, this letter (I swear, I'm not making this shit up)took the cake:

DEAR ABBY: I am 13 and in seventh grade and I have a big problem. I don't know my multiplication tables. I'm afraid if I tell my teacher, she'll get mad. What should I do? -- AFRAID IN COACHELLA, CALIF.

Now, instead of berating Afraid in Coachella, yelling "haven't you grasped the concept of rote memorization?", telling AIC to learn how to count on her fingers really quickly, or asking "why the hell are you wasting your time writing me instead of, oh, LEARNING THE DAMN TABLES?" (all of which I probably would have done), Abby offered the following advice:

DEAR AFRAID: Tell your teacher NOW, before you fall further behind. Explain that you need extra drilling, and that you sincerely want to master the problem. The squeaky wheel gets the grease -- and your teacher won't be angry.  Teachers are there to help you learn, including extra help when you have difficulty with a subject.

I'm wondering how you would have answered the question.

Also, do you know what 8 x 4 is?  I can never remember that one.

--Martha

Dear Afraid in Coachella, if that is your real name, and I doubt it:

It's letters like yours that killed Ann Landers, you know.

Because hi, YOU MORON. I bet you wrote this letter hoping that I'd be all, "Oh, you POOR DEAR. You clearly have a learning disability that is totally not your fault and you should be excused from school altogether because lo, how hard it must be for you."

Well guess what, bitch. Dear Abby didn't get her damn coffee this morning and is going to tell you exactly where to shove your multiplication dilemma.

Up your ASS, that's where! HA! I'm clever.

Have you ever heard of flash cards? Or, I don't know, those activity books they sell at the Wal-Mart for 3-year-olds? I mean, you can do the damn nines on your fingers and the rest you just need to memorize like every other child in the history of childom has done. You know how you know like, every lyric on your 98 Degrees album? That's called memorization. You can do it! But I won't help, and your poor teacher has bigger problems to worry about than you, what with all the guns and gangs in schools today.

So I advise you to take a big dose of shut the fuck up followed by a little do it yo' damn self. And don't ever write me again, you fool retard.

Love,

Abby v.2.0

dear amalah.

i think my baby is sick. she makes me hold her when i really need to go peepee and she keeps licking at my boobs, leaving  wet spots on my shirt. do i deserve a present-- such as a peppermint mocha from starbucks even though i have no money?

your friend,
the sarcastic journalist

EW. Do children really do that? Yuck. Maybe I don't want one. Maybe I would prefer something from Tiffany's.

As for the peppermint mochas, a word of caution. Once upon a time, my friend and I were waiting in line outside a big-deal big-big-screen movie theater in D.C. for one of the Harry Potter movies. We decided to get some Starbucks as it was cold. And we were also bored.

I got a gingerbread latte and she got the peppermint mocha. La la la.

So the whole time during the movie I kept smelling Altoids. I figured someone around us must have an Altoid Problem and kept eating them and DAMN, that's a pungent smell. I glanced at my friend who was also sniffing the air and we kind of laughed, like, DUDE, I'm sure your breath is fine by now.

It turns out that no one had an Altoid problem. The peppermint smell was coming from MY FRIEND. And not her breath. Her SKIN. The oil from the syrup was oozing out her pores and she smelled minty from head to toe and apparently did for the rest of the day. That ain't right, people. Peppermint is a delightful smell and taste TO A POINT, but once you're literally sweating minty freshness it's a tad nauseating.

So I don't believe a peppermint mocha is the solution to your boob-licking problem. The baby will probably be all, "Ooh! Mommy tastes like candy!" and go all crazy with the licking...only to throw up on you once she realizes you are perspiring toxic levels of icy cool freshness.

Go chew some garlic instead.

Queen of all things pretty and presentable,

Please help! Am attending a wedding this weekend. Have cute dress, cute shoes, and even cute purse. But? Am in desperate need of some sort of cleavage. Or something. All the push-up bras in the world don't seem to be helping out my cause. And, while my collar bones are great they are also sharp and might cut someone standing nearby. How can I obtain even the teeniest bit of voluptuousness in the next three days (without drinking straight-up buttermilk, I mean)?

~Nola~

ps: Any thoughts on how I should wear my hair?

(Hmm, I seem to remember requesting that the dwindling number of men in the audience send in some manly questions about beer and trucks to offset all the hair talk. Instead, this week is the Boob Advice Smackdown.)

And hi! You sent this question last week! Which means the wedding is over and your hair was done and your boobs were hoisted without any advice from me.

And yet the world is still spinning on its axis. Hmm.

But! There is always a next time, right? Damn people with their damn weddings. So from one flat chest to another, here are my top suggestions.

1) The Angels Uplift Bra.

2) The Very Sexy Seamless Push-Up Strapless Bra.

3) Duct tape. And no, I am not kidding. And no, I am not providing how-to photos. But yeah. Use one piece across both boobs, sort of underneath and around the sides until they're all pressed together. The key is to still wear a padded bra over your taped boobs and to also be very, very drunk by the time you have to rip the tape off.

Or you could just learn to be comfortable with your body, flat chest and all, but let's be honest -- what are the chances of that actually happening?

Dear Amalah,

I need some advice on furniture.  My fiance and I are getting rid of a giant old desk (which I love, but really, is way too big for our condo), and making room for an expanded living room which will feature two loveseats (a big improvement from our current one).

Our current loveseat is an ugly, flowery piece of poopy-caca inherited from my parents, which we've slip-covered with nice taupe-ish fabric.

Should we a) buy two new matching loveseats, b) buy two new loveseats in different (yet complimentary) colours, c) keep the current loveseat and add a new one in a matching or complimentary colour?

The current loveseat is a sofabed one, and is heavy as monkeylovin' hell.  I'd like to get non-sofabed ones, as they are much easier to handle when moving to a new place, but then people can't stay over as easily (it's a one-bedroom condo).

So, really, this was a two-part question, and perhaps had more cohesion than necessary for the W.A.S., but hey, I just type the words that I think of.

Thanks, and all the best,
Joey.

I had to write out actual real-life notes to keep this question straight. I work hard! This is what I've written:

Ugly sleeper loveseat -> slipcovered -> want second loveseat -> two new ones or just one, lose the sleeper or no -> heavy + guests = have these people ever heard of a couch?

My head hurts now. Firstly, what's the deal with the loveseats? Is the room too small for a real sofa and maybe one of those big chairs for when you want to snuggle? Because I'm concerned that the two loveseats will mean the two of you will each stretch out seperately, which is bad for togetherness and also your back, unless you're both really, really short.

But if you must do the two loveseats, I'd advise that you ditch the slipcovered one, unless you can send me a picture of it and prove that it doesn't look like the ugly couch Jason and I slipcovered when we first got married. Since we were beyond poor, we didn't really have any better options, and thought it looked great.

It did not look great. We didn't even have the money for a real slipcover, but instead spent a whole $50 at Linens n' Things for one of those pre-made slipcovers. I get twitchy just thinking about that couch. When we finally had a little more money we bought a floor sample sofa that, while slipcovered, was at least professionally slipcovered, and we tossed the old old couch off our apartment balcony and into the parking lot.

And some long-time readers may remember what became of the floor sample slipcovered sofa, or "Old n' Busted," as it came to be known.

So. Get rid of the old loveseat when you get rid of the desk. Buy two new loveseats in a matching neutral fabric. Then get a lot of constrasting fun pillows in different yet complimentary colors and patterns. Try to get one of the loveseats in a sleeper style, but only if you are paying other people for delivery and only if you actually, honestly, deep down in your heart WANT overnight guests or if there is a perfectly lovely and reasonable hotel nearby.

Fuck Tony Robbins and Dear Abby. I gots all the life-changing advice you need right here at advice@amalah.com, suckahs.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Our office Christmas party was yesterday, and I had such high entry-related hopes for it. But alas, it was very tame, and no one fell down, not even me.

Although there was a very dangerously slippery-looking dance floor, and my friend Sprocketeer kept daring me to go sliding across it on my knees while singing, "LET'S GET THIS STAR-AR-TED." I declined, but am still laughing at that mental image today.

But today is Wednesday, which means it's time to smack some advice down. So let's get this star-ar-ted with a question from Tonya:

Dearest Queen Amalah –

I have been wrestling with the idea of starting my very own blog.  I have had a Live Journal thingy going for a couple of months now with very little traffic (although I have read your entry on how to up your traffic, therefore the shameless plug of my own journal here).  My writing is nothing like that of the great Amalah, but there are things I feel I could offer the Internet community.  Like my cat!  The Internet NEEDS to see pictures of my cat!  Currently it is more of a weight loss focused journal.  But some day my husband and I would to travel down that road from “Childless & Happy About It, Hence All the Drinking” to “Trying to Conceive” to “Can You Believe What The Little Terror Did Last Night?”  Not to mention that I have a laptop at home & cable Internet, ensuring a drunk post or two.  My question is, what is the best way to go about setting up a blog?  Do I go to Typepad or attempt Moveable Type?  Or should I just start with Blogger or some other like service?

Also, and more importantly, how do I come up with a good tag line for my blog?  It’s kind of like giving yourself your own nickname or catchphrase, something I’m not sure of how to go about doing.

Your Loyal Subject,

Tonya

You should definitely start your own blog, but only if you promise not to be better at it than me. Also promise to not call it a blog, because I hate that word.

"Blog: Because Web Log Is Two Letters Too Many!"

(Heh. That would be a good tagline for your site. But too bad I thought of it first.)

Ahem. What? Oh. Your site. I'm partial to TypePad, because it gives you all the features of Movable Type without all the "HTML" and the "code" and the "make one mistake and fuck up your entire site forever" hassles. Plus, you don't need to install anything or find a hosting provider and stress about your server sharing bandwidth with some freaky porn site that involves clowns and pies.

But you do need to pay money, which is why a site through Blogspot might be better for you. I have two problems with Blogspot sites, because I am a Snooty Whore:

1) BLOGspot. There's that word again, and now it sounds like something you sneezed all over your pants.

2) TypePad and MT let you have your own jazzy little domain name, as opposed to www dot bloggityblogblogblog dot blogspot dot com.

(Wait, I lied. I have more than two problems.)

3) The comments suck. SUCK! I don't WANT to comment anonymously or log into the fake Blogger account I created just to avoid having to comment anonymously. I want to comment so all your readers will click on my link and go, "Hey, this site is even better than the one I was just reading! Awesome!" Blogger comments defeat me here.

4) Standard templates. There are some cool ones, but you're sharing them with 800 gajillion other blogs. (Although the same problem applies to the basic TypePad account, so pony up the money for a Pro subscription and you can CSS your little heart out or pay someone like me lots of money to design it for you.)

5) There are some CRAZY, CA-CA-CRAZY, BITCH FOOL ASS CRAZY people with Blogspot blogs. I fear it attracts them. Perhaps Blogger offers discounted broadband to insane asylums or something. I mean, I was just looking at a site the other day that looked  like Crazy vomited all over Blogspot and this site contained everything that didn't make it into the toilet.

But it's free. And easy. And also free, so you don't need to be like me and despair over your bandwidth overages and worry about having to sell out and get Google ads or offer Queen of Everything trucker caps or something.

(Although perhaps my problems will all be solved now that I've gone and bashed on Blogger and I will have no more readers, ever. For I am bitch. Also the Blogger people might come break my kneecaps.)

Amalah,

For my birthday I was given Sebastian Potion 9.  I am to assume this is some sort of hair stuff, as I got it from a friend who works in a salon.  Have you heard of this, and if so, in your unerring hair wisdom, could you tell me what the heck to do with it?

-Heather

I have not a clue. I've never used it, but according to the Sebastian people, it will fix everything that is wrong with your hair and also program your VCR. It appears to be either a hair moisturizer or de-oilifier or volumizer or de-frizzer or shinifier or split-end-mender or magic potion of love. Or all of the above.

Here's my Universal Advice for Mysterious Hair Products. On a non-important-day when you have no plans whatsoever, pour a small amount in your palm, rub your hands together and then run your fingers through towel-dried hair from roots to ends. Comb through. Style as desired, squint at reflection in mirror and declare it the Best Hair Day You Ever Had.

Or get back in the shower and re-shampoo if your hair looks like shit.

Amalah,

THERE ARE NO SEPHORA STROES IN VANCOUVER! Though I just found out there's one about an hour twenty minutes from me in Washington State. But before I drive all that way, have you smelled Peony Fleur de Sephora? Is it very pretty? I heart peonies. Do I want this fragrance? What other pretty, light & flowery and/or citrusy fragrances do I want? I have and like Clinique Happy (I KNOW; massive popularity makes it less likeable, but what can I say?)

I've also LOVED Calvin Klein's Eternity for, like, ever, but I've never gotten any and I've wondered if liking it puts me into the category of Total Fragrance Dorkness. I mean, Eternity was the "it" girl for a while in high school, along with Colors de Benetton, Tribe! (Barf), and Ex·cla·ma·tion! (Double barf). I feel the same way about Sunflower by Elizabeth Freaking Arden; like it, sometimes love it, but does that make me an Eau de Loser? Am I a total fragrance dorkwad? What do I do?

Help me Amalah-Wan-Kenobi, you're my only hope!

Totally Ignorant

Gah! Colors de Benneton! Ex·cla·ma·tion! Sunflowers! You are looking at my adolescent fragrance hall of shame. (Along with Drakkar Noir, which every single boyfriend I had wore, so I would always get this weird feeling while making out with Boyfriend v.3.2 that I was back with Boyfriend v.2.1 who always reminded me of Boyfriend v.1.0. Yew.)

Oh, and this one time I got a free tiny wee sample of Lancôme's Trésor, and I made it last for three years. And then there was the Tommy Girl, like, decade.

I've never smelled Peony, so I will ignore that aspect of your question entirely and tell you about the perfumes I currently wear. (Amalah Stalker Wannabes, sharpen your pencils.)

Marc Jacobs. Yummy and properly expensive and since I love Marc's clothes and handbags so much I have brand loyalty to buy his perfume. (Which I'm sure he PERSONALLY created in his lab, spending hours and hours perfecting the balance of gardenia and musk. Marc! Marry me!) This perfume has flowery undertones with some spiciness. Or something. It smells pretty and makes Jason kiss my neck a lot. I would very much appreciate the Shimmer Body Powder, in case anyone was wondering what to buy me for no special reason.

Ralph by Ralph Lauren. This is my "casual" perfume. I cannot explain the distinction, but every woman needs at least one dressy fragrance and one casual fragrance. Although her decision to wear one instead of the other may have nothing to do with her wardrobe or her plans for the day. All women out there understand, I'm sure. This perfume is citrusy yet sweet and reminds me of the beach. It also gets my neck and cleavage area a lot of attention from Jason. Lucky bastard.

Got questions? Send them to advice@amalah.com and then wipe that fool milk mustache off your face.

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Gah! Work! Excuses! Long lines at Nordstrom's when I went out to buy socks for the poor children that my office collects socks for and I'm not even going to go into that! Anyway!

The Smackdown is late, and as of this moment it is incomplete. Jason is whacking me with the TV remote and whining and waving his hand in front of the computer screen because he wants to go out for dinner. NOW. NOWNOWNOWNOW.

So here are two questions. Two or three more to come later, AFTER dinner, AFTER wine. So check back! (Unless there are already four or five questions posted when you are reading this, which means you have ripped a hole in the space-time-blog continuum and you should run for your life.)

AMY - STOP TYPING I WANT PIZZA WHO CARES ABOUT YOUR DUMB ADVICE. LOVE, JASON

My Dearest Amalah, Who I Trust Has The Answers To All Of My Problems:

I recently bought the most beautiful new black suede boots. I am smitten with them.  They fit me perfectly in every way, but are more than just a wee bit snug when I zip up the top inch or so near my knees.

Now, I am aware that my butt and thighs might be considered "problem areas" by some and that they could use a little bit of work, but I was heretofore ignorant of the fact that my calves could be lumped into that same category.  I've always been under the impression that I have lovely, somewhat shapely calves, even possibly THIN by my relatively judgmental standards.

What to do?  I've worn the beautiful boots several times, and this problem isn't going away.  And I'm NOT giving the boots up.  Have you seen how beautiful and perfect they are?  I have been searching for them for years.

Do they make garters for calves?  Or control calf pantyhose?  Or am I just doomed to a life of numb lower extremities?  Any advice would be welcome.  As long as it doesn't involve telling me to diet or exercise or stop drinking wine, as those concepts are fundamentally opposed to my central belief system.

-Martha

(Before I get to Martha's question, let me revisit my own boot dilemma. Yes, I am taking them to get repaired this weekend. They are too pretty. Plus, I am not that wasteful and spoiled. In the meantime, I remain in mourning for them, wearing all black. Because black matches the brand new boots I just bought.)

And yes, Martha, you'll want to click on that link. Same damn boots, only in crocodile. So I can personally attest to their beauty, grace and lovely table manners.

But maybe we should switch, because the crocodile presents the opposite problem -- I have extra space through the ankle and at the top. I worry they look clunky, but like you, I love them too much to care and would sooner pad my ankles with tissues like a bra than send them back.

(And I'm not implying that my calves are twigs and yours are tree trunks. The boots are different. Clearly, this is all Ralph Lauren's fault, and he owes us free clothes for our troubles.)

Anyway, try buying knee socks from the girls' department. They'll be tight, but it will be an evenly distributed tightness (rather than a tight pinching just under your knee). This should be more comfortable. Or it will just make your entire leg completely numb below the knee. Can you live with that?

Yeah, I thought so.

Dear Amy aka The Queen of All-

Is it appropriate to drink on an airplane, and if so, how much?  More importantly, how much is too much to drink on the 7:30 from San Fran. to St. Louis?

-Stu

Appropriate? Good God man, it's necessary. Have you seen Castaway? Lost? ALIVE? With all the plane crashes and the fire and the dying? Is that really something you want to face sober?

Not me. If my plane is going down in a fiery inferno, I would like to be wasted. Especially since survival could mean being stranded for years with either a volleyball or some cannibals.

Although the cast of Lost is pretty hot. I wouldn't mind being stranded with them. So before you order that first drink (and remember you'll want one drink per each 12 minutes of flight time), take a look at your fellow passengers. Are they cannibals? Professional volleyball players? Hot?

(If they are all three, up your alcohol consumption to one drink per seven minutes of flight time, because no matter what, you are in for a fucking weird flight.)

(Also, you know how fucking weird I am? Writing about plane crashes does not unnerve me in the slightest, yet this story completely freaked me the fuck out.)

LAVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

(HI, I'm back from dinner. Where I got free wine because my husband is a food god and also because I told the waitstaff about Snarkywood and they loved it. Because who doesn't love Downward Spiral Britney?)

Anyway. Advice? Are you kidding me? Now? At 11:37 at night? No. Just...no.

More questions tomorrow, because I am so lazy and tired and also there is the SICKEST episode of South Park EVER on right now and I am so extremely disturbed. I think I kind of want to pray. And then go beserk with the Comet on the bathroom floor. Because ew.

What?

Right. Tomorrow. More advice and then lots of other hysterical stuff that would really make an excellent book so you should send me money because my GOD, I am brilliant.

*weeps*

Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Dear Amalah,

Are those black fishnet stockings you are wearing really work-appropriate? Come on now.

-An anonymous coworker all up in yo' grill

Well, as the ONLY person here today who did NOT get the memo that we could dress casual? I think y'all look like a bunch of damn slobs.

Grr. GRR!

Okay, on with the real Smackdown. This week's questions were extra-super-girly, so guys? Sorry. I mean, I'm not giving advice on yeast infections or anything, but it's all make-up and fashion and stuff. So maybe next week all you boys can ask questions about burping and how to get laid in under three dates. The address is advice@amalah.com. Go for it.

Dear Amalah,

I don’t know if I’m the only fingers-applying-foundation person to think this after reading your post, but – apply foundation with a brush? I suppose I knew in the back of my mind that it was done, but I honestly have never given a lot of thought to the advantages. I just thought it was another option...now I’m not so sure, since you seem to know a lot more about makeup and various beauty products than I do. Is there a special kind of foundation that you have to use, in order to apply it with a brush? (I currently use foundation from Mary Kay, that comes in a little tube, and – horror! – pat on with my fingers.)

-Zandria

Ok, let's think about this for a minute:

Fingers = dirt + germs = oil = zits = unpopularity + dying alone

My mother was an extremely wise woman (even though she let me go off to college without ever telling me to pluck my eyebrows). The day I entered puberty she came to me with a tub of Noxzema and this advice: "Keep your damn hands away from your face."

Touching your face causes blemishes, people. Do you not know how dirty your hands are? Everything they've touched? Everywhere they've been? The amount of fecal matter found in even the most spotless bathroom? (Sorry, there are Krispy Kremes in the kitchen and I'm trying to resist.)

If you rub makeup into your skin with your fingers, you are piling on the oil and dirt and basically sealing it into your pores with a protective layer of flesh-colored cream. Now: I don't have great skin. It's tempermental and likes to respond to high-pressure situations by breaking the fuck out. But switching from my fingers (or even worse, one of those makeup sponge things that are the equivalent of rubbing your face with a toilet brush) to a foundation brush CHANGED MAH DAMN LIFE.

(Also the discovery of the Burt's Bees Garden Tomato Complexion Soap, available at odd places like Whole Foods and Border's Books, but good Lord, it's the best.)

So allow me to walk you through the process. (WARNING: AMALAH WITHOUT MAKEUP ON AHEAD. AAAEEEIIIII!!!)

After you've washed your pretty little face, get out your moisturizers. Ideally you should use one for your face and one for your eyes and neck. I use Ahava, who really need to send me money. Also more facial moisturizer, as I am almost out.

Use the tip of your ring finger to apply moisturizer around the eyes. Tap lightly, don't rub, don't shoot your eye out with your BB gun, etc.

Obviously you'll need to use your hands to apply the facial moisturizer. Apply a thin layer and rub in lightly. LIGHTLY. (I believe this may seriously be the worst picture ever taken of me. But I share for the good of complexions everywhere, because I'm good like that.)

This is a foundation brush. Also a toilet, but that's a whole other photo essay. You want a solid brush with synthetic bristles, as they are easier to clean and retain less germs. A good brush will cost about $20 to $40, but will save you money on foundation in the long run as you'll waste less product. (Fingers, sponges and natural bristles will absorb your makeup.)

Squirt/pour/pump your foundation onto the back of your hand.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Welcome to the most boring photo essay ever, boys. Perhaps next week you can submit some questions about sex? Or hookers? Or beer? I like beer.

Apply the foundation in wide semi-circles starting at your nose. Gently use the top of the brush to conceal those nasty eye bags. Also, those are not zits on my forehead--those are scars from the time I donated precious life-saving forehead cells to starving children in Africa. Totally.

Wash your brush out with warm soapy water.

Ta-da! You are a now a movie star. Time to go grocery shopping.

Dear Amalah,

I have these Ugg boots that I absolutely love.  They are ugly but oh so warm and fabulous and so make me feel like I'm walking on a cloud.  However, I find myself in a quandry. 

Yesterday, while at our tiny post office, an acquaintance (yes my village is that small, we see people we know every friggin' day) admired said boots but was quick to point out an apparant faux pas.

"Aren't you supposed to wear those over your jeans?"

Huh?  "Huh?"

"Yeah don't you wear those with your jeans tucked in?"

"Well I don't really know, I know they are warm and squishy and make my feet feel good."

"I'm not sure but anyway, I like them!"  said the observer.

Bitch.

So anyway, I find myself in a quandry.  Do I make myself a slave to the fashion trend, even though I feel a little like Sissy from Urban Cowboy when they are tucked or do I just wear them however the fuck I want to wear them because I live in gee dee village so remote and isolated, no one besides said bitch will care? Oh yeah and because we have about a foot of snow on the ground.  Have asked my trusty friends but since you are the queen of everything, I thought I'd ask.

See this photo and yes I realize I need to mop my kitchen floor. 

You so rock.

-Chris

Ugg. Ugh!

You probably aren't going to think I rock anymore once I tell you that Ugg Boots are the ugliest fucking things in the entire world, except for maybe these.

I hear they are super-comfortable, which does nothing for me, as I have not felt my feet since 1996 when I tossed out my combat boots in favor of stiletto mary janes. You want comfortable footwear? You stay home and wear fuzzy slippers. You go out in public? You wear cute shoes that pinch.

I'm sorry, that's just how I feel. Uggs and Mukluks and Hush Puppies are against my religion.

But as I can tell that you are really attached to your sherpawear boots, I will address the tucked/untucked debate. There's something about tucking the jeans in that screams "fashion victim." There's something about leaving the jeans out that screams "let's pile in the minivan and go get Arby's." But if you must make a decision, let me remind you that discussing what Paris Hilton does (as I noticed your commenters did in favor of tucking), is NEVER, EVER the right answer. Gah.

Dearest Benevolent Monarch,

My [college] roommate is a crazy bitch.  She has made my life a living hell for the past 11 weeks.  For example, she does not have class until 11 am, I have class at 8 am. I have to get ready IN THE HALLWAY so that I don't disturb her! She speaks ill of me to everyone she meets, and says that I am a loser for blogging/reading blogs.  What would be the best way to exact revenge upon her?

Your loyal reader until the bitter end,

Rachael

I had a bitch-ass roommate too for a semester. She turned our room into a nail salon so it always smelled like acrylic tips and polish and got drunk and cheated on her boyfriend in the bottom bunk and played gangsta rap all the time except for this one Garth Brooks song she liked to line dance to (I've Got Friends In Low Places) and her favorite movie was Dirty Dancing and she stole stuff. She also decided she hated me about halfway through the semester and started talking shit about me because I like, WENT TO CLASS and fucking STUDIED AND SHIT.

I was clearly a huge pain in the ass. Lord.

I exacted my revenge several ways:

I made ramen noodles in the room every damn day even though she hated the smell.

I dropped her VHS of Dirty Dancing behind the dresser and told her I thought someone stole it.

I told her all sorts of horrible ghost stories about the campus and how our dorm once was a hospital for an influenza outbreak and that bodies were buried in the intramural fields. She believed me and started staying in her boyfriend's dorm a lot more.

I helped her change her password to Penn State's online student services site so I was able to access her grade reports and print them out so others could see that it was, in fact, possible to have a GPA of 0.32.

I changed her email password occasionally, just to fuck with her.

I told her boyfriend she was cheating on him.

Good times, good times. I'm sure you can think of something similarly creative. Like telling her the wrong date for class registration so by the time she registers there are only 8 a.m. classes left. And then she can get her sorry ass ready in the hallway.

(Which...dude. No. Stop doing that. Let the poor princess learn that sometimes you just have to wake up before the absolute last minute in life.)

(Also try putting Garth Brooks on in the morning. She'll LOVE that.)

Have a happy Thanksgiving everybody. We're cooking! Really! And I will post about it. Eventually! I will also try to get my mom and dad involved in an entry and will see if I can get either of them to include the F-word. So yeah, I'm gonna be pretty drunk for the next two or three days. Yay for pilgrims and smallpox!

There Are Pet Photos at the End, Promise

SMALL TRAGEDY OF THE DAY #1: My hosiery had an unfortunate encounter with my car door, so I had to take them off. I'm wearing knee-high boots, but you can still see my knees, which is asbsolutely SCANDALOUS at my office. Bare knees! With no nude nylons to preserve my modesty! Can pasties and g-strings be far behind?

This tragedy is further tragidized, however, because I did not shave my legs. Thank the lord for blond hair and all, but eesh. I feel yicky.

SMALL TRAGEDY OF THE DAY #2: Red pen. Explosion. Carnage. Permanently stained skin. Bah.

And now, a bonus Wednesday(ish) Advice Smackdown question, as it is of the utmost urgency:

Dearest Q to the E-

Tonight I am making Jell-O shots for a bachelorette party this weekend.  While they may be an immature and trashy shot, they are liked by many participants on the bachelorette bus.  My question is, how do I make these and still make them tasty and not taste like you just drank a liter of vodka?

Your follower-
Tonya

An impromptu Recipedown! Awesome!

Okay, Jello shooters are easy peasy. One small package of Jello (I prefer lime), one cup boiling water and one cup vodka. Mix the Jello and the water, stir, add vodka, stir again, pour into wee souffle cups and chill. Or freeze.

The seekrit is DO NOT USE SHITTY ASS VODKA. This strips the shooters of all camp value and demotes them right down to trailer trash nastiness and visions of frat boys passing around the Mad Dog 20/20. So buy nothing that comes in a big plastic jug with the name of your local liquor store on it in a medieval-looking font.

You buy Grey Goose. Or Belvedere. Expensive, but for real, the rest of your party essentials are freaking gelatin and paper cups. You can splurge here. Also, put the vodka in the freezer for a few hours BEFORE making the shots. Vodka kept anywhere other than the freezer is Vodka Cruelty and I believe we can end this horror in our lifetimes. We just need to work together.

Next weeK? A Very Special Thanksgiving Recipedown, as I show you how to make the World's Very Best Thanksgiving Everything, or at least how to make your husband do it.

And for now? Some random photos from my camera because I can't think of anything else to write about, and oh my God, did I honestly start off this entry by talking about LEG HAIR?

Jesus. This entry was doomed from the start. Gimme a Diarist award! Send money and book deals! I am the next Bridget Jones! Only skinnier! And hairer!

Only Max is aware that the evil Vacuum Cleaner lurks behind them, creeping ever closer, waiting for the perfect chance to devour them all. Your only hope is to blend into the couch.

Jason: The fear is his eyes amuses me. Mwa ha ha.

Ceiba: I wonder if I left the iron on.

(Well, yeah. She's pretty in sepia. Shut up.)

Ceiba: *dreams of shoes, maple syrup and becoming the Ultimate Fighting Champion*

Ceiba: Look! I'm a mummy! Look! Kitty! Look at me!

Max: *will not look*

Amy: *will kill camera operator*

Care Bear PJs: *are adorable*

Amy: HA! Let's put my "I Voted" sticker on the dog's butt. I bet that has NEVER BEEN DONE BEFORE.

Jason: Yeah! And let's put my Livestrong bracelet around her neck, because we are SO FUCKING TRENDY.

Ceiba: *chomp*

Wednesday Advice Smackdown!

(Hi. Yes. Well, it still is technically Wednesday, is it not? And this is a Wednesday Advice Smackdown, right? So shut your yapping. And go read today's Snarkywood, because it rocks much, much harder than this entry.)

(MELISSA GILBERT, PEOPLE. WE MAKE FUN OF LAURA INGALLS WILDER. HILARITY ENSUES.)

Dear Amalah,

Um, I think I've lost my favorite BCBG dress along with a cute work-appropriate dress from Banana Republic. How did this happen? I'm going to a wedding next weekend and I NEED that dress. I bought cute new shoes to go with that dress! What should I do? Who can I blame (besides myself, obviously)? GAH.

-Wardrobedly challenged

You know, as a professional and fully accredited fake advice columnist, I pride myself in remaining detached from the hordes of problems and dilemmas that flood my inbox. I don't take my work home, so to speak. Except for tonight, when I didn't have time for lunch and am actually writing at home. The Simpsons is on. Jason will be home soon bearing burritos. The rum and Coke are plentiful.

Where was I going with this? Oh. Right. Sometimes an advice question comes along that really rattles me.

Like this one.

How could you lose your dresses? Are you sure they're really lost? Have you checked under the couch? In the car? Have you put up flyers in your neighborhood? WHY ARE YOU WASTING TIME TYPING QUESTIONS TO ME WHEN YOUR DRESSES ARE OUT THERE LOST AND ALONE?

I'm very upset. I need more rum.

Wardrobedly, there are two theories. Both of which put the blame squarely on someone other than you. Obviously, theory number one is your dry cleaner. This is why I only go to dry cleaners where absolutely no employee is remotely my size.

Theory number two is a tad more disturbing, and therefore much more likely. Your boyfriend is a cross-dresser, and has stolen your dresses for the upcoming Miss Man of La Man-cha-cha Drag Beauty Pageant.

Check your other drawers and I'm confident you'll find that several shaping foundation garments are missing and a lot of stretched-out fishnets. If you want to see your dresses again, help him. Support him. Make sure he wears cute shoes and doesn't overdo the rouge. Also tell him that no one ever won a drag pageant in anything from Banana Republic.

(Jason has arrived with burritos. Love him. Also salsa.)

I have run out of ideas when it comes to gifts for my mom. She likes cats and things and I already got her a Burberry purse for Christmas, but since her birthday falls three days after that, I need something else. Any ideas? Help please. Thanks in advance.

-Zoey

So you know when MY birthday is? Huh?

TWO days after Christmas. I win!

This is my list. Perhaps your mom will want some of it. Because I also like cats and things. Mostly expensive things.

A second TiVo
These earrings
Also these
This necklace
But I would also accept this one
Ooh ooh ooh this watch!
Everything on my wish list
A poncho, even though I sort of hate myself for wanting it
Lots and lots of PetSmart gift cards
And absolutely everything from Sephora, but especially this, this, this and this
The removal of the Old n’ Busted Couch from my house.

And that's it! Well, besides all the shit I will buy myself on the Amalah Shopping Spree Extravaganza that will pretty much begin this weekend and continue until December 28th, 2077.

(Reason #34793479354 Why I Love Jason: He just picked up this new photo frame we got over the weekend that has a picture of two little kids in it and said, "It came vit zee frame.")

(I just about died laughing. I am very, very easily amused.)

Dear Amalah,

I have never before been compelled to ask for advice from you.  But upon seeing your shoes on your desk in the post about your new! office!, it struck me that I indeed have a question.

What is your policy on shoes without socks?

I noticed that I could see your bare feet in the shoes, but perhaps you were wearing (gak) nude nylons. I guess what I really want to know is, what are all the sexy, hip girls doing these days?  Granted, I live in Canada and am into cool and sexy boot season, which necessitates socks.  I'm really asking this question in advance of next spring.

Thanks,
Pink Stiletto

Excellent eye, Pointy Shoe, as I was indeed not wearing socks. Nor was I wearing nude nylons, because as you said, gak.

I hardly ever wear socks. Why? I don’t know. I used to be all hardcore on the anti-sock stance in high school, as I refused to wear socks ever, with anything, no matter what the weather. Socks were for squares, dude! Or your PARENTS.

It is only by conferring with my contemporaries have I learned that a lot of people my age did the no-sock thing in the 90s. I was horrendously uncool, so I’m retroactively proud of myself for accidentally riding an actual trend. (Most of the trends I followed existed only in my own head, like the little stars I drew all over my hands every day in first period for two years or the fuzzy lavender tights I liked so much.)

I’ve softened in my old age, however, so I will wear socks. Sometimes. I think I own a pair or two. I prefer those leetle footie things though.

You know what I hate though? Novelty socks. I mean, I’ve got some Christmas socks and I think a pair with some ducks on them, but those are strictly pajama/floor skating socks. Never in public. If I see you sit down and spot a pair of brightly colored Tweety Bird socks I will mock you. I will point and I will talk about them on the Internet.

I don’t care what the temperature is or how close to frostbite my toes are: I don’t do Tweety Bird socks.

(Although: Care Bear socks. I might do Care Bear socks. But you know, ironically.)

So, how lucky am I that I have been reading your column and now sport a pelt of fantastically lush and silky hair?  LUCK-freakin'-Ucky.  Hells yeah.  Thanks!

So I feel I can trust you with this question of highly embarrassing nature.  I?  Am getting tiny little red broken something-or-others on my cheeks.  Not so close that you would see it from just talking, but when it is me and the wee cursed magnifying mirror - oh yeah.  I can see myself looking like Teddy Kennedy in a few years.  Obvious solution?  Stop drinking?  Lets take a moment to consider. And... we're done. 

So any other tips?  Long, long ago (pre-wedding), I went to a dermatologist who zapped them with a needle (ughh!) and said it was just my fair Irish skin oh-so-sensitive to cold and sun.  Now, I live somewhere's new.  I noticed my new GP has a butt-load of broken veins on his face, so I'm not sure if he would know a good dermatologist.  Help!  Oh so very, very grateful!

Spammit

Honestly? It sounds like you have the Plague. 

BRING OUT YOUR DEAD!

(Jason just shouted that upon seeing the crazy French woman on tonight's episode of Lost, and again, cracked me the fuck up. Am easy. Am easy movie reference slut.)

What kind of makeup do you use? How do you apply it? If you use foundation, try Sue Devitt's Triple C-Weed Foundation, which is light and fluffy and made from 70% water. This is a good thing, except that it costs much, much more than one would think seaweed and water would cost.

And do not. DO. NOT. Ever. Apply foundation with your fingers. Or a dirty germy sponge. Get a nice synthetic foundation brush and wash it out every day. This will keep the oils and dirtitude crap off your face and your skin clear.

Also try like, I don't know, not sticking your head in the deep fryer at work anymore. That's really, really bad for the complexion.

Got a question? Care to show off your superior question-asking skills? Simply transcribe your query into your electionic mail protocol interface and insert advice@amalah.com into the message destination mailbox field. Ta-da!

A Little Cop-Out

Oh my GOD y'all. What a day. What a fricking freaking fucking day.

I have a cold that will not quit, a sinus headache and a hacking cough like my three-packs-a-day uncle. Who died. And who I just made up because I couldn't think of anything and I needed a simile. I also stepped on my dog this morning and dropped the can opener on my cat. Then I ruined my Spiga shoes by spilling a gingerbread latte on them.

Then? When I went to write today's entry? I had this great idea to do a Drunk Amy Retrospective. Links to my drunk posts and a series of vignettes about Things Amy Has Done While Drunk And Found Out About Later. It was going to be brilliant. And then I looked at the calendar.

Wednesday. Shit.

So I compiled all of this week's Advice Smackdown questions, which were all wonderful, but I just wasn't feelin' any of them. Or even feeling them. Everything I wrote was just blah blah lame lame jump the shark blah. I just wasn't up for the hair advice as I had the worst stringy flat frizzy hair day ever today, combined with winter-onset dry skin and two nasty premenstrual zits. (Just except for the actual "premenstrual" part, as I STILL DO NOT OVULATE OR MENSTRUATE BECAUSE MY OVARIES ARE RETARDED.)

So I hope no one needed really urgent advice this week, because I suck. I also look as shitty as I feel if that's any comfort.

And now? I have just finished watching A Little Princess, which I TiVo'd last week and have been waiting for Jason to work late or go see strippers some night so I could wallow in my little-girl-sappiness. (Me: "But it was directed by Alfonso Cuaron! Who did Y tu Mama Tambien! With the threesome! So it's cool!" Jason: "Whatever.")

And lord, I cried like a baby. Full-on heaving sobbing with hiccups and tears and runny eye makeup. (Waterproof my ASS, Loreal.) It was the best cry ever. Even better than Steel Magnolias with Sally Field crying in the cemetery just before Olympia Dukakis is all, "Hit [Shirley Maclaine]!" and they all start laughing through the tears which is Dolly Parton's favorite emotion.

That scene doesn't hold a fucking candle to the end of A Little Princess. See, she's all hungry and tired from being a servant and she recognizes her father but he doesn't remember her because he has amnesia from the nerve gas from the war and Sara is all "PAPA! PAPA!" and sobbing and then the police drag her away in the rain and then that mystical Indian dude is all "SCHWAA WAA WAA WHAMMY" and her father is like, "SHIT!" and runs outside and screams "SARAAAAA!" just as the police are taking her away and the evil school mistress is all, "Fuck." and then they all hug and are crying and happy and wah.

It was awesome. I think I might watch it again.

So there's really no way I can do an Advice Smackdown in this schmoopy sappy state. I have absolutely no edge tonight. I really would just like to tell you stories about magic and how all people are good and all girls are princesses and la la la.

And y'all would just fucking hate that. So piss off. Til tomorrow, anyway.

Advice Smackdown, Part II

Yeah. So, sorry about the abruptly truncated Advice Smackdown yesterday.

Me, Last Tuesday: Wah! Send me questions! Now!

Y’all: Ok! Ok!
Y’all: *send dozens of excellent questions*

Me, Last Two Wednesdays: Meh! Never mind!

First, there was work. Then? There was a burned-out light bulb in my sensual office mood lighting. Then? A headache from the vile scorching ceiling lights I had to use instead.

After work? There was my rock star food critic husband who wanted to go out for dinner to a new place. Then? There was wine. And then Lost. And then baseball!

You see? There was simply NO TIME for any further advice. None!

(Official Amalah Stance on the World Series: Although we are usually a staunch Yankee household due to husband’s upbringing, I was all about the Red Sox. This caused more than a little marital strife, but as I am from Philly, home of the Curse of Billy Penn, I really, really needed to see that a city’s curse can eventually be overcome. In like, 80 years or so. Go Phillies!)

So the Smackdown will continue today. Because seriously? I’ve got nothing better to write about. Hooray for fall-back plans!

First question coming soon, right after much coffee and maybe a nap…

Dear Amalah,

Recently I have become ALLERGIC to make-up. I threw away practically all of my make-up, which was mostly cheap drugstore brands anyway, because ALL OF IT was making my eyes super-puffy and I was turning into Puffy the Puffy-Eyed Pufferball every time I put on even a teeeeeeny bit of mascara. On the verrrrry tips of my lashes. Or base. Thinnnnly spread. And my eyes would say, "I think you need to rip us out, now. Seriously." and swell to the size of Jumbo Jet Puffed Marshmallows.

So I might begin trying some other make-up brands, to see if any of THOSE turn me into Puffy the Puffy-Eyed Pufferball. Upscale, classy, Amalah-style PRETTY make-up. But I don't know where to begin. Oh Great Amalah, WHERE SHOULD I BEGIN?

Yours in Make-Up and Pretty-Thing Love,

Puffy the Puffy-Eyed Pufferball

Years of wearing theatrical pancake make-up turned my skin into a bitter and hardened old lady who don’t get irritated by nothing, because she KNOWS irritation and you young whippersnappers don’t know how good you’ve got it. I’m not allergic to anything and frankly can poke my eyeballs directly with a mascara wand with no effect. So your question is kind of out of my area of expertise, since I only care to know about things that actually apply to me. And also myself.

But I consulted with a friend who claims to have highly sensitive skin…to the point that it gets red and angry if she just WALKS BY the Maybelline display at CVS. Her advice? Almay on the drugstore end; Prescriptives on the high end.

And this is why God invented Sephora. You can go play with all the high-end make-up before you buy it, so you can go there and conduct highly unethical experiments on your own eyeballs without having to fork over money. So go, but do not go near anything that is not clearly labeled “Hypoallergenic.”

Also! Eye makeup remover. For sensitive eyes. Try Clinique. Do not argue and do not say that washing your makeup off with a general cleanser is enough. It is not.

Also also! Buy some nice brushes. Don’t use those crappy little spongy brushes that come with eyeshadow. Don’t use your fingers. Wash your brushes every day with warm soapy water.

Also also also! Replace mascara every six months or less.

(Good God, when did I become the Makeup Nazi? You know there was a time when I owned exactly one Maybelline pressed power compact and a Revlon lipstick in a color entirely too dark for me? And now I’m suddenly the Voice of Makeup Reason and Extravagance? The hell?)

Dear Amalah,

I have no knitting or hat making abilities whatsoever, sorry.  Instead I'm sending you a picture of me in a silly, silly hat.  Of course when I forced my husband to take my picture in the Coach store, I was sure I'd think of some utterly clever way to work it into a smackdown question, but no.  It turns out I'm not the least bit clever.

So here.  If this doesn't convince you NOT to drop another hundred clams at Coach, I don't know what will.

Your loyal fan,

Amanda

PS - Any advice on how to get my evil hair to stop doing that evil thing it does in the photo would be loverly.

OK, let me state for the record that I never once considered getting that hat. Not. Once. I tried it on at the store and Jason and I both cracked up, because that is a pimp hat. I don't care that it says Coach on the inside and is trimmed in the finest vachetta leather: that's a Snoop Dogg Pimp Hands Hat.

I do own two Coach hats, however, and I'm not apologizing. They are fucking adorable. I bought one on eBay and the other was a birthday present from my friends. And I repeat: are fucking adorable and I look super cute in them and they are not pimp hats.

Also, what evil thing is your hair doing? I see hair being...well, hair. Curly hair too, which I do not have, at least not since my dear friend Humidity went away.

If I had your hair? I would use Cat Walk's Curls Rock Curls Booster on it, then emulsify some Bed Head After Party into my hands and give my hair a few good scrunches.  Then I'd spray it with Bed Head Head Rush Spray Shine. Then I would put on my cute non-pimp Coach hat and post more adorable pictures of myself on the Internet.

Dear Amy,

To paraphrase the inestimable Sars, I super extra hate this goddamn job. For the record, I got my bachelor's degree in English, with a minor in Women's Studies. I know. So practical, and it really comes in handy at my nonprofit grunt job. Here's the real problem: lately my boss has been on my ass about taking sick time, even though a)it's not excessive, b)I always try to make up the time, c)I've got plenty of sick time still coming to me, d)I'm legitimately sick, and e)I usually drag myself in even when I'm feeling like hell. Oh, and I am an awesome worker, which my boss freely admits. There's not a chronic medical problem serious enough for me to talk to HR, as was my boss's suggestion, but at the same time I do occasionally need to take time off.

These are my options as I see them: I could get myself fired (which seems to be looming on the horizon anyway) and collect unemployment while I'm in grad school. I could suck it up and try to keep this job by, you know, never getting sick ever ever again. Or I could look for another job, one that is actually more in line with my dream profession, which is journalism. So, any suggestions, O Queen of Everything? Also, any advice on how to land another job without losing this one in the meantime? (Also also, sorry for the crazy length; feel free to abridge the hell out of this.)

--Fraulein N

Step 1) Get flu.

Step 2) Drag sad sick ass in anyway.

Step 3) Lick everything in boss' office.

Step 4) Repeat as needed with with cold sores, stomach ailments and intestinal parasites.

While your boss is sick? Interview your sweet little ass off. Don't go on unemployment, because it sucks. You have to go to the UNEMPLOYMENT OFFICE and wait in line with UNEMPLOYED PEOPLE who are sometimes unemployed because they are DIRTY and CRAZY and OTHERWISE UNBALANCED.  And then you fill in sad little forms and give them to someone who totally thinks you're lying about being unemployed just because, and then after you go through all of this they give you a tiny little check that comes out to be about a nickel for every dollar you made before.  Before taxes, which they STILL MAKE YOU PAY, YOU, THE UNEMPLOYED.

Oh! And then you have to tell them about any interviews you go on so they can call the people post-interview to find out if they think they will offer a job to you, the unemployed slob who is totally mooching off the government and getting like, $200! A month! Get a fucking job you hippie!

And then? If you get offered a job? You like, HAVE to take it, because unemployed slobs are not allowed to be picky. So you end up taking a shitty job where your boss makes you pick up her dry cleaning or find out what happened to that one restaurant she ate at that one time that isn't there anymore but could you find out WHY it closed and could you do it now?

Yeah. This happened to...um. My friend. Yeah. She said it really sucked ass and you should find a job that will offer tuition reimbursement for grad school, because that infomercial dude is on CRACK when he says the government wants to give you money to go to school.  The government would like to give you anxiety attacks and maybe an ulcer, but it really REALLY doesn't want to give you any money.

Dearest of the Dear, Her Royal Highness and Prettiness, Not To Mention Wittiness Who Owns The Cutest Of The Doggiest:

Please help.  I will be applying for several jobs in the coming days and while my cover letter and resume are stellar...STELLAR, I tell you, I do lousy, lousy, lousy in the interviews.  Because you are the Queen of Everything, that means you are the Queen of Interviews.  Here is my problem:  I get nervous.  I get nervous and start sweating and sitting on my hands in an attempt to prevent them from flailing about uncontrollably.  I apparently believe that the correct answers are posted somewhere on the ceiling of the interviewer's office and, sometimes?  I'm not really good at using flowery language.  As an example, had I ever been a janitor in my lifetime, I would never have thought to say, "Custodial Engineer", I would have just said "janitor".  So, when they ask me those questions where they want the truth but everyone really knows that they don't really want the truth, they want to see how well you can b.s. your way through the answer, I either blurt out the truth or I say, "Weeellllll..........." which is followed by a long, what I hope appears to be a thought provoking pause so that they think I'm highly wise and am flipping through my Thesaurus in my brain but of which has yet to successfully fool anyone.

In other words, how DO I answer, "Why do you want to work here?" without bluntly telling them, "Because I need a job."

Thank you your fantastically, fabulously, stunningly beautiful gracious and kind Queen of Everything.

Signed
~Someone Who Never Says, "Expanding My Horizons" In My Objective On My Resume

(Again, somehow I went from someone who Was Complete Unemployed Basketcase and Could Not Get a Job Anywhere That Didn't Totally Suck to the girl who Knows All About Jobs and Interviews. How did that happen?)

(Oh, wait. The unemployed basketcase wasn't me. That was...my friend. Yes.)

You know what? You need to CHILL OUT. Nobody wants to interview anyone who's all, "I'm a self-starter! I'm proactively synergistic! I quantify concrete deliverables!" Hate people like that.

I actually prefer people who aren't polished interviewees. I hate the interviews where the candidate is practically screaming  "I TOOK A COURSE ON HOW TO INTERVIEW! PLEASE NOTE MY FIRM HANDSHAKE AND ENDLESS SUPPLY OF CANNED ANSWERS! MY BIGGEST FLAW IS THAT I WORK TOO HARD!"

All that says to me is that you've been on too many damn interviews and should probably have a job already. Stop "looking for the right fit of opportunities to develop your existing skill set that will utilize your experiences and challenge your professional growth." Pick a job and shut up. They're pretty much all the same.

So stop thinking of yourself as a lousy interviewee. Instead? You are the no-nonsense candidate who will cut through the bullshit and actually speak plain English. Your resume speaks for itself. You only showed up for a free bottle of water and to see if this job is even close to worthy of you and your kickass cover letter. Oh, and to check out the office restrooms. Make sure they provide seat covers. Trust me on that one.

Real & Actual Wednesday Advice Smackdown

Oh my god. The Wednesday Advice Smackdown is actually happenings on a Wednesday, and in true Smackdown format. Is miracle.

You may remember the drill (but I don't blame you if you don't, since I have been a huge ass slacker about this for weeks). Questions will get posted throughout the day, all day, as I have slack-off time from work, which really means whenever I decide to cut-and-paste a question from the document that I wrote last night, from home, on my own free time, because I am a good worker who does not slack.

In other news, I had a therapy appointment this morning so I am feeling very balanced and healthy and qualified to boss you around. No progress is being made on the compulsive, relentless lying, however.

I have tons of questions for today, but I might like yours better. Or I might answer it next week and go for the world record of Keeping Up With My Own Damn Regular Features. So send them to advice@amalah.com, suckah.

Amy-

So, I am making plans to go home for Christmas on leave, but I realize that means I will have to deal with my semi-psychotic family.  Usually I manage by drinking in excess, but I was wondering if you had any other little tricks to keep myself sane.

-Stu

Heh.

Let me give you a little glance into Christmas with the Corbetts (which, in movie form, would probably be slated for a Halloween release instead of December).

My parents used to not drink. And by “not drink,” I mean “nobody drinks in our house, you bunch of degenerates, so pass the damn sparkling cider.” Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Easter. Booze-free.

So every year, seven grown children with families and serious chemical dependency problems would descend on my parent’s house for the holidays with more smuggled booty stashed in their luggage than on a flight from Columbia. Mini liquor bottles, cigarettes, flasks, travel cups, rolling papers and bottle openers.

Every Christmas eve, my sister and I would claim that we had a lot of presents left to wrap. Which we did. On purpose. We’d wrap gifts and chug wine using my niece’s little cartoon Dixie cups that would disintegrate if you left the alcohol sitting in them too long. My niece called these little cups her “Rinse & Spit Cups,” which was adorable, and even more adorable when her alcoholic mother and aunt used them for cheap wine and/or Tequila shots.

(I later bought my sister a lovely silver hip flask and had it engraved “R & S.”)

My other sister and I would make a big show of having some “sister time,” since you know, we missed each other SO DAMN MUCH, and would insist on getting out of the house together for a couple hours to “talk.” And of course, that was adorable too, since we would talk at the bar while we slammed as many beers as possible...usually about how much the holidays sucked ass. It was a great bonding experience.

(Once? Around Thanksgiving? We weren’t able to swing the sister time since my parents wanted to order a pizza and watch movies with us, which was fine, since we just offered to pick up the pizza from the place that was right next to a bar. We did shots and came home with a complicated story about how we had to wait because they’d put anchovies on our pizza.)

Anyway, my parents drink now. A vacation in Europe reawakened their love of getting hammered and now we all argue over whose turn it is to bring the alcohol to dinner.

But you know? It doesn’t make as much of a difference like we always thought it would. My family is still my family, drunk or sober or high or otherwise medicated. And my family is absolutely batshitfucking crazy. Jason and I are planning to take a vacation this Christmas. To anywhere that my family is not going to be. I advise you to do the same.

(HI MOM I MADE ALL OF THAT UP FOR ARTISTIC PURPOSES FOR REAL.)

Dearest Queen of Everything,

My husband gave me a gift certificate to a fancy shmancy day spa for my birthday a few weeks ago. He told me to go and pamper myself, but I am unsure exactly of how to go about this.  Sad but true, I have never been to a day spa.  One time I got a massage, but it sucked.  I've had a few manicures, but never a pedicure.  I've never had a facial nor have I had any sort of mud wrap.  I get my eye brows waxed regularly if that counts for anything.

I was hoping that you could give me some pointers as to how I can pretend that I have some class and money when I finally end up going to the spa.  (Since you are the Queen of Everything, I assume that you get these sort of things done to you as regular up keep and that they would be a common occurance for you.)  You have impecable taste when it comes to handbags, makeup, hair products and puppies, so I figured that you would know how to best use my gift certificate.

Thanks,
Myllissa

You send gift certificate to me. I will try all services at the spa and then tell you which ones are the best. Then you get those. Problem solved.

Y’all, I would KILL for a decent massage right now. Especially one from a strapping young masseuse named Todd, to whom I have pledged my eternal love. (Mir: "Honey, Todd is a masseur.") He rubs my temples with oil and gives the world’s best scalp massage and when he has me flip over onto my stomach he puts hot towels all across my back which is like, GAH. The best thing ever. My fingers are getting all squooshy just thinking about it. Plus he is hot and has very, very strong hands and he is very, very concerned about my stress level and recommends I take more vacations. And once I get dressed and leave he’s always waiting outside the door with a glass of water and another gentle reminder to take more vacations.

Sigh. Get a massage and request a male masseuse. (Mir: "Masseur!") You will feel pampered and beautiful and twee and petite. Don’t forget to shave your legs and tip 20%.

If a person leaves her bed at 6:45am and heads into a 20 hour day very day for 11 weeks, at which point she will have 3 weeks of 17 hour days (plus Christmas!  the parties!  the shopping!  the family figh...get togethers!) before she repeats the cycle 4 more times, how long will it be before said person self-explodes?  Because, uh... a friend of mine was wondering...

You're a peach.

-b.

B, are you supporting a cocaine habit? Are you a hooker? Have you been sold into white slavery? Do you not feel “safe” at home?

Because seriously, what the blooming fuck?

You quit that job. You come work for me as my assistant. I may throw the occasional pen at your head but I will not make you work 20 hour days. At first.

Because I might be working 20 hour days soon if I don’t hire someone pronto, as I just got out of a meeting where I proposed not one, not two, not three, but FOUR gimungous projects for myself that are all smashingly good ideas, but will involve so much extra work my head is spinning. I am obviously not well. Please go get me a skim pumpkin spice latte and a cookie while I curse my stupid industrious self.

(Holy merciful crap, people! Work! Everywhere with the work! Why do I try to sound smart in front of important people? Why do I open my mouth and talk about fabulous ideas instead of staying quiet and status quo? WHY?)

Amy,

I feel bad you lost all your advice emails so here's an easy question that is STILL super important and will probably help tons of people who live/visit DC and read your site.  Anyhoo, I have to go to DC all the time for training and I'm starting to get tired of ALWAYS eating at Maggianos and then going to ... don't laugh this wasn't my idea... Coyote Ugly.  I was able to get our group out to Adams Morgan last time and we hit some of those bars, but I want to know what fun places locals go to eat and drink!   I mean, I can go to the damned Cheesecake Factory in a dozen different cities!  (Not that I am disrespecting the cheesecake, by any means).  So where do you recommend a group of mid-20-somethings go to eat, drink and be merry?

Suzie

P.S.  That totally wasn't me dancing on the bar last August, I SWEAR.

MAGGIANO’S?

CHEESECAKE FACTORY??

COYOTE UGLY???

*smack smack smack smack smack*

This is really a question for my husband, the rock star food critic, who has not only been interviewed as a “best D.C. blog” for a prominent D.C. magazine, but was actually RECOGNIZED at a RESTAURANT this weekend and given FREE WINE because of it. THAT is a reason to blog, people. Free wine. Press. Prestige. Etc. I mean, I won’t bash the occasional wish list purchase and whatever, but wah. My traffic runs circles around him and yet HE’S the fucking celebrity.

(Oh, while I was typing that? The receptionist just called to tell me some flowers had just arrived for me. Am SUCH. A. BITCH.)

Anyway. Yeah. You’re going to some craptastic places there. Seriously, you might as well just wear matching red t-shirts that say, “Mrs. Mark’s Third Grade Class Goes To D.C. ’04.”

Instead, try one of the following Patented Amalah & Friends D.C. Nites Experiences:

METRO, RED LINE, CLEVELAND PARK:

Dinner: Spices for sushi & Japanese food
Dessert: Bardeo for wine and cheese
Drinkables: Aroma, in the back on the funky couches

METRO, RED LINE, ADAMS MORGAN/WOODLEY PARK

Dinner: Afghan Grill
After-Dinner-Dinner: Meskerem
After-Dinner-Dinner-Tapas-Drinkables-Crossover: LeftBank (Be sure to try the tea-infused martinis for eleventy hundred dollars. Are worth it.
Drinkables: Felix
Post-Drinkables: Reef
Post-Drinkables-Place-To-Sleep-It-Off: Tryst
Morning-After Breakfast: The Diner

METRO, RED LINE, DUPONT CIRCLE

Dinner: Heritage India
Dessert: Homemade donuts & Mexican chocolate at Komi
Drinkables: Wine bar at Sette Osteria
Dancing/Post-Drinkables: Red

METRO, RED LINE, CHINATOWN

Dinner: Capital Q
Drinkables: Jaleo for sangria
Dancing/Drinkables: Home

METRO, GREEN LINE, U St./CARDOZA

Dinner: Kuna
Post-Dinner-Dinner: Dukem
Drinkables: Chi Cha Lounge
Post-Drinkables: Local 16
Nightclub/Concert/Drinkables: 9:30 Club
3 a.m. Post-Drinkables: Ben’s Chili Bowl

(For anyone who is buying the booze I would be happy to give a guided tour of any of the above Amalah Experiences.)

Complaints & Advice & Such

I'm still alive. I'm sure you're all relieved.

Seriously, I will be the first to admit that I am the BIGGEST baby about being sick. I'm a nightmare. I expect the entire world to stop spinning until I feel better. And the entire world needs to bring me tea and sympathy and soup. So when I'm feeling shitty and I have to go to work? Holy hell, that's just tragic.

And yes, I know October is not flu season. Shut it. I know the damn flu when I get it. I don't need no stinking CALENDAR dictating my diagnosis, thank you very much. There's actually been a strain of stomach flu wreaking havoc in the DC area for a few weeks now and I seem to have picked up some sort of bizarre hybrid strain of it.

I never, ever get flu shots either, because I never, ever get the flu. Except when I get flu shots. Huh. The last flu shot I got was in college and good lord, it very nearly killed me. And I thought I was being all grown-up and responsible by getting the shot without anyone telling me to and I called my mom to proudly report on how well I could take care of myself. And she was all, "NO! YOU DON'T GET THE FLU SHOT! YOU ARE ALLERGIC YOU BIG DUMMY. WHY DO YOU THINK I HAVE NEVER TAKEN YOU FOR A FLU SHOT EVER? WHAT KIND OF MOTHER DO YOU THINK I AM?"

Oh!

See, I am allergic to antibiotics. All. Antibiotics. Penicillins, erythromycins, tetracyclines, sulfas, you name it. Swell up like beach ball. Hives. Fever. Drama. And duh, people with allergies like mine are not supposed to get flu shots or certain other vaccinations. (Like the chicken pox vaccine, which I learned the hard way TWO WEEKS BEFORE MY OWN WEDDING. Bah! Whole other story there.)

(I'm very much about the sentence fragments and angry capital letters today. Not sure what that's about.)

Anyway. That was the end of flu shots for me as I was plowed over with the flu for a month. La la la.

But! Am better today. Still have a wicked hacking cough and a headache and my back is hurty and sore. Food is not my friend, unless it is chicken soup food. But I do feel better.

In fact, I feel better enough to write a Special Bonus Friday Edition of the Wednesday Advice Smackdown. Since y'all were so good about sending the resident idiot all new questions after she deleted all the old ones, I will answer a few today. The rest? On Wednesday, just as God intended.

Dear Amalah, Queen of Everything,

I need your help.  I've recently discovered knitting. Yes, knitting. The "hello, I'm someone's grandma..here's an ugly sweater and some mittens you will never wear" knitting.  Except I'm not anybody's grandma, and I haven't made a sweater or any mittens yet.  I've made hats. And scarves. And a purse.  But I live in Texas, so the only thing that might get any actual use would be the purse. I'm addicted. I can't stop. I knit when I walk, when I wait for the bus, when I'm on the bus. I knit during dinner and tv-watching. I knit in bed.  I've considered taking it with me to the bathroom, but have actually put my foot down there, and set it down. At work? I sneak away from the counter where I work to secretly knit a few stitches here and there. It's a disease. And it's spreading.. to all of my friends.

And yarn? Don't even get me started on all of the yarn I've bought and am currently drooling over buying.

How can I curb this addiction and become a normal human being again??

Signed,
My name is Manda, and I'm a knitting addict.

Dude, seriously, what is with all the knitting? Everybody knits now. There are knitting blogs. Knitting blogs! What's next, um…shit. Was trying to think of some funny thing like "paint-drying blogs" only not so bloody obvious. Cannot. Moving on.

I do not knit. I do not do anything crafty like that. I don’t remember the last thing that I made with my own two hands that did not involve ice cubes.

Many of my friends knit. And yet I have not received any scarves or sweaters or anything. I'm a little ticked about this, because DC gets very cold and windy and I could catch a cold if I don't have a scarf. Or the flu! Again!

What an inconsiderate bunch of bastards I have for friends. For real.

Anyway. I have no advice on how to deal with a knitting addiction. Perhaps try replacing it with a more conventional addiction? Alcohol? Cocaine?

Or maybe you could knit me a damn scarf. Make it stripy and trendy and match my purse.

Question for the Empress of advice....

What should I be for Halloween? I mean here's the thing..I wear glasses. Without  them I have all the ocular power of that skater girl in "Ice Castles". So anything I throw on has to include the specs in the mix.

Any suggestions?

Pratt

(Ice Castles? What?)

(Also, why have I not been invited to any Halloween parties? What the hell is wrong with my friends? Is it because I don’t knit?)

Anyway, a few costume suggestions that could involve prescription eyewear:

1)  Harry Potter (get someone to make you a scarf)
2)  Warren Buffett
3)  Pirate Ghost
4)  Tina Fey
5)  Naughty Librarian
6)  Naughty Warren Buffett
7)  Milhouse
8)  That one guy in that show who wears glasses
9)  Dilbert
10)  St. Hubbins, the patron saint of quality footwear

Ok, so I love you and all and am all about helping a sister out in her time of need when she needs people to give fake advice to. Also you make me laugh until I start choking because I have the Vulcan Death Flu and when you are laughing you can't sneeze and all the snot runs down the back of your throat and so, the choking. And if it weren't for you I would never have known about hot saucing and the brilliance that is Lisa Welchel and my life would be sadly incomplete. Anyway, here is my question, oh brilliant Amy:

Having recently gotten off the zany fun that is the infertility roller coaster, Mr. Ex and I decided we should try to, um, renew the part of marital relations where it is actually fun and, you know, not scheduled and mechanical and about the temperatures and the charting and the shots in the butt and whacking off in the doctor's office (that's him, not me). I seem to remember at one time that we actually enjoyed this activity, but it's kind of a blur. Any suggestions for, er, getting the Hot back after a couple of years of "What, you're ovulating AGAIN?" would be greatly appreciated. 

Also this is not technically advice but WHAT is WITH the women on The Apprentice this year? How is Carolyn restraining herself from punching them all in the face? Because that is what I would do. Except for Lil Stacy who I would just step on.

Love,
Jen(noS)Ex

HAAAAAAAAAA! NO MORE LIL WEE STACY! FIREDFIREDFIRED. I could not be happier about last night's episode. Unless someone personally brought me Wee Stacy and let me smack her precious snooty little face.

(At this point Jason will be IMing me to remind me that Stacy is a "person" with "feelings" and I shouldn't be so "mean" and "violent" all the time. Whatever.)

Anyway. Sex after infertility. Christ. The hell if I know. I certainly wouldn't recommend going on a cocktail of numbing antidepressants, that's for sure. I shall spare you the details, but wah. Wah wah wah.

I'd recommend taking a vacation though. Get a cheap flight and spend all your money on an upgraded room and room service. Get champagne delivered with your breakfast each morning.

If you can't afford to actually fly anywhere, just take a couple days off and stay in your own city. Again with the nice room and the room service and champagne and a big tub or shower. Lounge around and anytime one of you says, "I'm getting bored, why don't we actually *do* something?"

Well then, you do each other. "Fuck," as the common people say.

Good luck, and please don't tell me if you decide to reincorporate the shots in the butt for fun. Because ew.