Never light a cigarette at a gas station, lest you should ignite the few drops of gasoline that have spilled en route from tank to pump, or the gallons that have choked unstoppably forth from the nozzle when some yuppie idiot girl on her iPhone pulls it from her car before it’s done pumping and without making sure the nozzle lock is off — and as she stands there, unable to figure out how to make it stop, looking around idiotically for help, the highly flammable liquid spews and splatters all over everything (her car, her yoga pants, her knit Ugg boots, and yes, the ground), and her fluffy little dog leans out the window and sneezes in protest at the chemical smell, as if trying to tell the idiot girl to just shut the damn thing off already — before, finally, the gas station attendant comes rushing out to help, and they both proceed to wipe out on the little lake of gas that has formed and is, surprisingly enough, quite slippery.

And never use your cell phone while operating a gas pump, lest you should be that very girl.

Now, does anyone know how to get the smell of gasoline out of my boots? They’ve already been through my washing machine twice …

I’ve had a bit going on lately, so I’ll have to keep this fairly concise.

My sister has entered her dog, Rosie, in the Dog-a-holics‘ Treat of the Month contest using a photo I snapped of her in Nashville.

If Rosie wins, her picture will be on a box of dog treats (and she will get free treats, too!).

This is Rosie’s moment to shine! Please visit the Dog-aholics blog to vote for Rosie. If she wins, I’ll post a picture of her doing her happy dance. Her tail wags her entire body.

Dear President-elect Barack Obama,

I could not be more thrilled by your victory. Our victory. Just knowing that a biracial man — a man raised by a single mother from Kansas and her parents, a man with the middle name “Hussein,” a man who comes from lesser means than I — can actually become president is a triumph for the American spirit, and for the world.

I haven’t felt this patriotic, well, ever. I came into political awareness just as a great president was being put through the wringer for lying about his indiscretions. Then an election was stolen from the people, by a proud ignoramus who is as close to American royalty as we come. And the second time around, my fellow citizens chose to follow him again.

I was left feeling disillusioned — with the leaders of our country, with the way our system works, with the smarts of “my fellow Americans.” But, with your election, I finally believe that this really is a country where the little guy can rise above. You have empowered a generation of young people — people who, someday, will have kids who roll their eyes when we talk about how we felt the night you were elected president, the same way we have scoffed at our own parents’ crazy hippie ideology.

Anyway. You may also be interested to know that you have now cemented your place as number one on My List, which is the cause of much self-loathing for me, because I also have a big crush on your wife and kids.

Speaking of those kids. During your victory speech in Grant Park, you so adoringly said: “Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the White House.”

(Incidentally, this was the moment I chose to start crying.)

Barack (may I call you Barack?), I am heartened to hear that you intend to keep the long-standing tradition of pets in the White House alive and wagging. I understand Malia suffers from allergies, and so you are looking to add a non-shedding, “hypo-allergenic” breed to your beautiful family.

If I may, sir, I’d like to offer a word of warning: Stay away from the Wheaten Terrors.

This summer, the American Kennel Club held an election for the best canine candidate for the Obama family. The winner, with 26 percent of the vote, is the poodle. A close second, with 25 percent of the vote, is the Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier.

My fear, sir, is that you will overlook the poodle as you endeavor to choose a breed that does not connote elitism, and in so doing, you will opt for the more spirited, spritely, approachable qualities that characterize the Wheaten Terrier.

I know what you’re thinking. Here is a dog that is non-shedding, grows to just 30-40 pounds, and is known for being friendly, intelligent, and great with kids. The adorable puppies are born entirely black, but they eventually turn varying shades of brown and beige. Perfect for your family, right?

DON’T DO IT, sir. Do not be fooled by the spin doctors. When they say “friendly,” what they really mean is “jumps on you incessantly when you walk through the door, refusing to stop and often resorting to biting when ignored.”

“Good with kids” means “loves hard,” as in “has no qualms about knocking over a three-year old to give her a toothy kiss.”

“Intelligent” really means “conniving,” as in “intentionally doesn’t do her business on her walk, so you will be forced to take her again in 15 minutes.”

“Spirited” means “bossy,” “stubborn,” or “selfish.” As in, “looks you in the eye to make sure you see her peeing on the carpet,” or “determined to spend the entire evening with her head in the garbage can, no matter how many times you yell, swat, or do the Cesar Milan-style hand-bite to the neck.”

And then there’s the underwear-chewing, and the destruction of anything that costs more than her life is worth.

Just trust me on this one, sir. This animal does not belong in the White House.

Your humble servant,

Amanda

P.S. Here’s a photo or two of my own Wheaten Terror on election night. You see?

I made the mistake today of going out into the real world wearing yoga clothes.

Being that I work from home, I tend to forget that the vast majority of the population does not live their lives wearing Lycra pants and a hoodie. After all, I only emerge from my house to go across the street to the gym (where everyone is wearing spandex), or to walk Molly down the block and back (where, if I’m wearing anything other than PJs or yoga clothes, the neighbors start asking questions about where I’m headed off to, looking so nice). I live in yoga clothes, changing out of them only at nighttime, to put on my comfy pants.

I am fine with this. In fact, I think I look my best in yoga or otherwise lounge-y clothes. I am far more confident about my appearance in spandex or pajamas than when I’m all gussied up. I can’t wait until the day I turn 60 and it finally becomes appropriate for me to shop at Eileen Fisher. I knew Rob was “the one” the day he remarked that I looked better in my beloved gray pajama pants than in a dress.

So it’s easy for me to forget that I shouldn’t go straight from yoga to, say, the Department of Motor Vehicles and the Social Security office downtown to finally officially change my name, lest I should attract unwanted attention.

Spandex is a privilege, not a right — and this is a lesson I am beginning to learn the hard way.

Of course, I have made this mistake before. Last winter, I left my yoga studio in Nashville, picked up Molly, and started the drive up to Chicago for the weekend. I made it all the way to central Indiana before having to pull over at a truck stop to gas up the Honda. And wouldn’t you know it, no sooner than I stepped out of the car did the truck drivers start in with the commentary.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Who doesn’t like to be called “Hey Gorgeous” once in awhile? And one of the guys practically fell all over himself to scrape the ice that had accumulated on my windshield. 

I made a mental note never to wear yoga pants out again. But today, I did.

I dropped off my yoga mat at home and, without changing my clothes, headed out to go downtown. I hadn’t even made it to the Sedgwick L station when I heard from behind me:

“Girl, you’re pretty juicy for a white girl.”

I looked up to see the man pass me. He’s black, a little disgruntled and insane-looking, quite possibly on his way to the rehab facility/homeless shelter next to the L station. He’s pushing a shopping cart full of cans, but he pauses, craning his neck to take a second admiring look at my, erm, juiciness.

Now, ordinarily, I am not offended by whistling and ogling and so forth. This is mostly because I don’t get hit on too often, so, hey, I’ll take what I can get.

But juicy? Really? He obviously meant it appreciatively, but I had to bite my tongue to keep from demanding, “ARE YOU CALLING ME FAT?” (I figured the best way to kick off an afternoon in the social security line was not by confronting someone who’s on — or worse, not on — something.)

White girls do not want to be juicy. In fact, we go to great lengths not to be juicy, or even to appear to be juicy. When we put celebrities on the covers of magazines, we airbrush out any and all traces of juiciness. We aspire to be completely juice-free.

When I called Rob to whiningly ask if he thinks I am fat, he maintained that juicy just means “sexy,” with no allusion to size or shape or muscle tone whatsoever.

I know better. So does Urban Dictionary, which defines juicy as:

1. Description of a girl’s high sex appeal and shapely figure, often related to the curves of a round butt or large breasts; thick and curvacious.
2.  Laced with PCP, as in, “Man, I’m ripped. Was that chronic juicy or something?”
3. As in Juicy Couture, a cheap but overpriced brand of tacky velour sweatsuits bought mostly by preteen girls and white-trash middle-aged women who think they’re on the cutting edge of fashion. 

Thick and curvaceous? I am now feeling very distressed about the size of my derrière. I mean, I know I’ve been getting a little jiggly, ever since I started up with all those smoothies on our honeymoon. I know I’ve gained back, like, ten of the 20 pounds I lost a few years ago, when I was at my juiciest. I just didn’t think it was that … noticeable.

Ugh. Why do I always allow the offhand commentary of the homeless to usher in a major personal life crisis? 

Oh well. I’m off to make banana bread out of the healthy bananas I bought with the express purpose of letting them over-ripen so I could make some sugary, carb-filled banana bread. I’m putting chocolate chips in there, too. And I will probably have eaten half of it before the night is over.

So stick that in your juice box and suck it.

It is not a good idea to move one month before you get married.

It is not a good idea to forget that you don’t own a swimsuit until exactly one week before you leave for your wedding in Hawaii.

It is a good idea to start using Crest White Strips seven days before your wedding. I’m three hours in, and already my teeth are so sensitive that even the thought of eating makes them hurt. Which is of some consolation when you are trying on swimsuits in a department store dressing room and wondering why you haven’t felt inspired to start dieting until RIGHT NOW.

It is not a good idea to take even one day off from writing thank-you notes for the multitude of gifts from your registry that arrive on your doorstep each day.

If you would like to single-handedly destroy the environment, I would recommend registering at Williams-Sonoma. The amount of boxes, wrapping paper, and bubble wrap used for each shipment is staggering. The sheer volume of packing peanuts alone is enough to endanger at least three species. More often than not, a huge box will yield the tiniest item, but you have to actually break a sweat to get to it. It’s like those Russian nesting dolls. Seriously:

Today’s delivery, weighing 13.3 pounds and measuring 19 by 19 by 18 inches

was full of mostly packing peanuts

and a big white box (which was wrapped, but I forgot to take a picture first)

Inside the big white box were three smaller boxes (and some more packing peanuts)

And inside THOSE boxes was a lot of bubble wrap.

And nestled inside the bubble wrap there were four salad plates, four bread plates, and four pasta bowls.

Elapsed time: 23 minutes, most of which was spent trying to corral the packing peanuts, which go flying in every direction, which makes the dog want to eat them even more.

The big picture:

And just when I’m starting to get half a mind to call Williams-Sonoma and complain about their packaging materials, I spot a notice printed on one of the boxes:

Now there is just no way in hell I’m making a special trip for all these flipping packing peanuts. Rob already complains that I have two garbage cans in the house (one for garbage, one for recycling) and that I want him to help me load up the car with the absurd amount of cardboard boxes we have accumulated between moving and getting married so I can take them to the recycling facility, because Chicago STILL DOESN’T RECYCLE.

So yeah. That’s what I’ve been up to for the past month. Unpacking boxes.

We’re getting married in TEN DAYS!

Rob just read this and said, “I think I got the wet feet.”

I am hereby outing myself as a half-assed vegetarian. That’s right. No meat for me.

I mean, the more I think about it, the more it grosses me out. And then I saw PETA’s “Meet Your Meat” video, as narrated by Alec Baldwin (who I can’t take seriously in this video because I keep correlating his voice with his character on 30 Rock, and that’s just funny). This video is violent and disgusting and disturbing in so many ways, not the least of which is how the cows and pigs trudging pitifully to slaughter look EXACTLY like Molly.

However. I love bacon. I love everything about it – the aroma, the flavor, the texture – except that it comes from a poor little piggy that was born to die and lived its life confined to a tiny, filthy pen. And did you know that a pig is smarter than the average 3-year old? Or that they can experience complex emotions?

And even the free-range ones that frolic in clover until its time to be humanely killed and sent off to Whole Foods, well, they still look like Molly, so that’s out, too.

So after much thought, I have decided to become an ovo-lacto-pesco-baco-tarian. That would be a vegetarian who eats eggs, dairy, fish, and bacon. Though, to be perfectly honest with you, the eggs are going to go soon, because you know my feelings on birds, as well as the fish, because they gross me out too. Dairy, on the other hand, I have decided is OK, so long as it comes from happy cows. Because I truly could never part with ice cream.

Anyway! I did have a point, and my point is BACON SALT.

That’s right. Bacon Salt. Just when you thought salt couldn’t get any better, along comes the bacon fairy, sprinkling applewood smoked goodness all over the land.

And get this: it’s vegetarian, kosher, and noncaloric.

The geniuses behind this product are two self-described “Bacontrepreneurs” who came up with the concept while discussing their mutual love of bacon. And indeed, the Bacon Salt motto is “Everything should taste like bacon.”

As one testimonial on their website puts it, “Why would you have fries when you can have bacon fries?” EXACTLY. This stuff can go on everything. The Bacon Salt blog even has a recipe for a bacon-flavored martini! And they now have a “natural” version that is gluten-free and low-sodium, though I can’t imagine how “natural” it could possibly be. I  mean, no meat, no sodium, no gluten, no calories = no good. Unless of course you put some chemicals in there. Yum-o.

Did your day just get a little brighter? Cause MINE SURE DID!

The best advice I can give any bride is to STAY AWAY from The Knot message boards.

It was the influence of many wedding-obsessed “Knotties” that I came up with the brilliant idea of making my own wedding invitations. Why not DIY? That way, I could save money and still have really nice invitations

Here is the result of many months and many tears and many fingernails bitten to the quick:

Now kids, this is not something you should try at home.

The bridezillas on the Internet will shriek “YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF! DIY!” But no one tells you that it is impossible to match the ink color to even the same ballpark of the shade of the paper on a home printer. No one tells you that no pen known to man will write on metallic envelopes. No one tells you that you will spend hours slaving over the design and layout, only to have the print shop ultimately screw it up anyway.

And just when you think you are out of the woods, you realize that, after biting off all your nails and spending the better part of three months slaving over the invitations, though it will have cost about half as much to make them yourself, but you wish you had just ordered invitations that were half as expensive in the first place. Even if they aren’t as nice. No one gives a crap about the invitation. Including you.

From now on, I’m saving every wedding invitation I get so that, years later, when the couple is visiting me, I can whip it out and rave about the font they chose or how nicely the paper matches the ink or how they worded the reception card. Because, even if it doesn’t look like much, it cost at least seven dollars and/or your friend’s sanity.

Here’s the kicker: this is a destination wedding, so nearly all of these invitations went to people I KNOW are not coming, to be opened, glanced at, and tossed into the recycling bin.

Rob was right. We should have done an E-vite.

I got an email today with a petition to make September 11 a national holiday. This one was written by the son of a firefighter who died in the collapse. It called for the holiday to honor our nation’s firefighters, but I found many others online petitioning to call 9/11 “Unification Day,” a day to protest the so-called “War on Terror,” a day to remember the victims, and so on and so forth.

It’s a nice idea. The cynic in me doesn’t think that typing my name on an email constitutes a legal signature, let alone the issue of relevance of an email forward to “The Government.”

Oddly enough, tonight is Baskin-Robbins’ annual 31-cent scoop night, tantamount to a national holiday as far as I’m concerned. This year they are scooping up cones for a quarter, a nickel and a penny — that’s less than a postage stamp, folks!! — in honor of America’s firefighters. Not sure that the firefighters get anything tangible out of it, but I’m sure my brother the firefighter would be happy for me and my cheap scoop of cookie dough.

Is it mere coincidence that I should get the petition on this, my favorite holiday? You see where I’m going with this: combining the Baskin-Robbin’s concept with a September 11 national holiday. Something about the American dream … liberty, justice, and cheap ice cream for all  … celebrating our freedom and honoring lives lost by enjoying America’s favorite dessert …

Too gauche? I suppose you are right. It worked out better in my head. This is why I’m not in marketing.

The winner of the a cappella tournament I run will be performing on The Today Show on Sunday morning at 8:30  and 9:30 EST!

The bad news: They decided not to interview me.
The good news: They decided not to interview me. No risk of the verbal diarrhea I tend to get in front of cameras and microphones. And no need to look purty at that ungodly hour, after a VERY long day on Saturday!

Dear Steve Jobs,

I am writing to thank you for your awesome repair service. My PowerBook G4 is out of warranty for repairs, and when the port for the power cord and the battery died last week, I pretty much thought I was screwed. I run a small business from my home and my computer has everything I need — and it is the dead middle of my busy season.

On Wednesday morning, I tearfully handed my computer to the technician at the Genius Bar, wondering what on Earth I would do with myself for the next 7-10 business days. In desperation, I drove eight hours to my parents’ house in Chicago, where I would at least be able to e-mail my clients and employees.

On Thursday evening, I humored myself by checking the status of my repair online. I was absolutely flabbergasted to learn that my computer had arrived at the off-site repair facility that morning, had been repaired, and was already on a FedEx truck en-route to my home.

In fact, a delivery was attempted at my door on Saturday morning, before I could even get myself back to Nashville!

And then (and I know this has more to with FedEx than Apple, but kudos to you for choosing a great carrier), on Monday morning, having prepared myself to spend the entire day at home, looking out the window and waiting for my delivery, my doorbell rang at a quarter to ten! My computer had arrived in just enough time for me to get to my favorite yoga class.

If I wasn’t one already, that alone would have been enough to make me a lifelong Mac-lover. And your speedy repair and return service just sealed the deal, not to mention the benefit of having a Genius to turn to in person, rather than some script-reading ninny in India. You are obviously running a business that truly understands its clients’ relationship with its products.

I love you, Steve Jobs. And I love my computer! My only complaint is that, with this machine working like new, I don’t have an excuse to buy the new MacBook Pro with multi-touch technology when it comes out … when is that going to happen again?

Thank you thank you thank you!

Yours truly,

Amanda