Before I begin, let me take a moment to say a big huge slobbery THANK YOU to everyone who has left nice comments or sent me email or poured their heart out or shared their story or made funny faces or distracted me with shiny objects or let me vent all over their inbox or just "been there" for me over the last week. THANK. YOU. Without you and the ability to translate my freak-outs into words on this site, I am sure I would be even worse. And that's a scary-ass fucking thought. So thank you. (Yes, YOU.) And to the raging asshats who did the complete opposite and said mean things? STFU. I don't share everything on this site, so you don't know the fucking HALF of what I'm struggling with and how dare you diagnose what "my problem" is based on two or three euphimistic posts. In the words of a very wise woman: Shut up and then shut up some more, asshole. Also, get your roots done. Whee. That felt nice. Speaking of feelings (FEEEEEELINGS), I think it's time that I officially announced that this site has drunk the Garden State/Zach Braff Kool-Aid and is damn... Read more →

Well then. When I said I'd be back "tomorrow," I obviously had some pretty high hopes for my weekend, none of which included spending the majority of it in a panicking panicked ball of panic. And when I said I'd be back with "the funny," I was obviously on crack. At some point last week, I began to suspect that my meds were not working. I was right. They failed in a spectacular fashion. Insert your own damned clever crash-related metaphor here, for my brain is muddy. I swing wildly between why-even-try-anymore-depressive lethargy and manic, holy-shit-I'm-going-to-have-a-seizure-or-heart-attack-or-tumor-like-thing-and-die panic attacks. I hyperventilate and tremble and then my legs give out and I curl up in the fetal position and stare into space for hours. I lock and relock doors. I pace and jitter and nervous tic and cry because my puppy is not eating enough and is going to die. Jason is going to get sick of babysitting his wife because he's afraid I'll hurt myself and leave me for someone healthy. Or at least someone who will put her clothes away and not cry about it, for the love of God. Then there are moments where everything is fine. I make... Read more →

No post today, obviously. Am too busy having a heaving all-about-me panic attack over this entry. I'm not that sick. And yet I'm sicker than that. Oh my God. Help. (Will be back tomorrow with the funny and the whatnot. Must go walk howling dog now and make smiley face at neighbors.) Read more →

Due to a shortage of questions and an overabundance of dog pictures, this week's advice column is kind of a mess. Or maybe just a jumble. Or even better, a potpurri of fragrant Amalah deliciousness. If you hate it, it's your own damn fault for not sending me clever advice-type questions. The address is advice[at]amalah.com. Or amy[at]amalah.com. Or amalah[at]gmail.com. It really doesn't matter, because they all go to the same inbox, because I'm clever like that. Also sneaky and probably up to something. Anyway, pick a damn address and send some damn questions for next week. Or no treats for you. Go in your crate and think about what you've done. How my new meds are supposed to make me feel: Happy! Joy! Life is joyous and full of promise! Also bunnies and sunshine! How my new meds actually make me feel: Lfjhdlfsodfu. Despair. Hate. Anfdlue. And also zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Oh Mighty Amalah, My husband suggested that tonight we clean & organize our house. We live in a small apartment and it makes sense to keep clutter low. We both like a clean home and I was telling him yesterday how crowded it was starting to feel at home. But Amalah,... Read more →

OK, OK. Let's get this JournalCon post done and over and over and done with so I can get back to talking about my dog. And myself. My pretty, pretty self. Verdict on JCon: Yay. Mostly because I spent all my time hanging out with these clowns: SNOBBY WHORES ARE WE. But we are merry snobby whores, so you can just suck on it. We also brought Ceiba, who was not a snobby whore but was merely a lap whore. Was way more popular than me. Left to right, top row then the bottom, just like reading a damn book: 1) The happy yet rather ragged-looking family. Amy's doing that weird squinty eye thing she does when drunk. 2) The amazing Dawnie. 3) The amazing Martha and also the amazing Chickie's amazing husband who is, as you may have heard, amazing. 4) Chickie and the Chicklet, who shall be mine, because I waaaaaant her. 5) The babies vie for the title of Official Mascot of JournalCon, or at least a comfortable spot to lie down on. 6) Cute puppy photo or shameless attempt to see up my skirt? You be the judge. I pussed out and slept a lot, for... Read more →

This is where my JournalCon Aftermath post is supposed to go. It is not here yet. It is probably still drunk or something. It might still be waiting for karaoke to start. Snobby whore. In the meantime, Coleen and Martha drew some Judith Light fan art for you. Please enjoy. I love my friends. Couple of drunk bitches. Also snobby whores. AND simple alcoholics. (Yeah, the actual JCon post will be a lot like this. You might want to check back in on Wednesday if you want to stay out of squee-range.) Read more →

OH MY GOD. JOURNALCON IS TODAY. TODAY. I SHOULD BE THERE NOW BUT AM GOING TO BE LATE BECAUSE I MUST WORK AND ALSO FREAK OUT A LITTLE. ALSO CAPS LOCK. Okay. Will try to calm down. Will just take a look at the things on my to-do list: 1. Get swag. 2. Get extra-special swag for extra-special people. 3. Let hotel know we are bringing a dog. 4. Get haircut. 5. Paint toenails. 6. Wax eyebrows. 7. Lose 5 pounds. 8. Buy booze. 9. Buy booze that I will not drink until JCon. 10. Buy cigarettes. For other people. Really. 11. Buy pepper spray in case any of y'all are The Crazies. 12. Grow long, healthy and beautiful fingernails. 13. Get prescriptions filled. 14. Pack. 15. Repack. 16. Pack for dog. 17. Repack for dog. 18. Heap love and praise and adoration on cat. 19. Be at hospitality suite at 6:30 p.m. to be nice to attendees. 20. Learn how to be nice. 21. Select entry(s) to read at the Invited Reading Panel For Invited Important People 22. Not obsess on the incorrectness of entry(s) because it should be entry(ies) but that isn't right either. 23. Practice reading entr(ies)... Read more →

In which I do not talk about my dog at ALL, not even her pooping habits, except to point out that I now say "poop" instead of "shit" because my puppy is an innocent, darling little girl who will not learn that sort of language from me, except for when I said "fucking bitch in a blanket" to her this morning when she pooped on the floor. Ahem. Got a question? Send it to [email protected] and I will maybe answer it next week, because I have to go home and not curse at my dog some more. Dearest Queen, I am in need of a job. Preferably one that pays piles of money, and involves sitting at a desk with a computer so that I can spend most of my day blogging. However, my resume doesn't seem to be evincing much interest in spite of my overpriced education and all those Real Jobs I once held before giving it all up so that my kids could tell me all day long how mean I am. What is the ideal job for me, and how do I get it? Once my dream position is landed, I promise to buy pretty shoes... Read more →

Holy crap. I have a DOG. How did this happen? I’m still not really sure. Prior discussions of a dog have always gone like this: Amy: Wah. Am bored. Want a dog. Jason: Will you wake up on the weekends to walk it? Amy: No. No I will not. Jason: Then I don’t think we should get a dog. Amy: Okay. Let’s go buy me new shoes instead. Why Ceiba? But then, you know, shit happened. It’s been a bad summer. When I looked at Jason all teary and blue and said, “I want a dog,” a few weeks ago, he didn’t ask about waking up on the weekends. He thought it over for a few moments and said, “We should get a dog.” So we started looking. Our requirements were as follows: 1. Dog must be smaller than Max so Max will not get his fat precious ass kicked. 2. Dog must not be poofy, puffy or sheddy. 3. Dog must not yap yap yap all the livelong day. 4. Dog must be a girl as Amy has dog-penis issues. 5. Dog must be insufferably adorable and delicious. Right before we left for Miami, we submitted some applications to... Read more →

Hi. Guess what we did on Sunday. This is Ceiba. (SAY-bah.) Everybody say hi to Ceiba and tell her she's pretty. You can tell her she looks like a rat, but only if you do it affectionately. She's a four-month-old Miniature Pinscher. Wee. WEE. Four pounds. Won't get much bigger. Will fit in your freaking pocket. Paging Paris Hilton and etc. Her ears are taped for cosmetic reasons...in a week or so they'll stick straight up like a Doberman's. Whatever. Stupid. The breeder did it. The breeder was a tad Best-In-Show-type scary. Breeder: Blah blah blah pedigree champions purebred blah Us: We do not care. Give us cute puppy. Squishy. Breeder: Dog show! Also? She uses a litter box. A. LITTER. BOX. We're still doing the whole crate-training-housebreaking process, because we like to make things difficult. Also, cleaning up pee is fun! For the whole family! And it's really hard to focus on your own personal drama hell and mental funkitude when there are PUPPY BLADDER CONTROL ISSUES at hand. I mean, I have priorities. For real. Read more →