metalia

To market, to market...

2009-12-03T00:17:00.007-05:00

Whenever there’s an article in a prominent news source (by which I mean Us Weekly) about celebrities “partying” too much, I never understand what it means. Or, to put a finer point on it, why that specific term is used. I mean, you want to say “coking it up, Requiem for a Dream-style,” okay, but I hear partying, and I literally picture Lindsay Lohan and Adam Levine wearing little party hats and glow necklaces, laughingly doing the Electric Slide, and yes, maybe this is all culled directly from my Bat Mitzvah memories, but regardless, IT’S WHAT I SEE.

And perhaps, now that I think about it, this is all a function of how unspeakably lame I’ve become in recent years. Exhibit A: We spent the weekend at my parents’ house, and given the gift of free babysitting on Saturday night (thanks, Mom and Dad!), we took the opportunity to…go food shopping.

(College Me is SOOOO disappointed in Modern Day Me right now. Why, she even put down the Irish Car Bomb she was drinking to mock me. WITHERINGLY. Fortunately, she is wearing her stupid newsboy cap so it’s hard to take her seriously.)

ANYway, off we we went to the supermarket at nearly midnight, and the night out, plus the emptiness of the store conspired to make the supermarket The Official Place Where I Do Dumb Things. Let me lay it out for you in quiz form:

~SUPERMARKET SWEEP!~

1. You’re in the spice aisle. Getting spices and whatnot. Your husband approaches with the cart. What do you do?

(a) Calmly place the two glass jars in the cart.
(b) Toss the glass jars at him, shrieking “THINK FAST!”
(c) Commence shaking the jars like maracas, growling “oh, yeahhhhh! Let’s get this party STARTED,” in what you think is a fairly good impression of Gloria Estefan, but in all likelihood just makes you sound like you have a speech impediment.
(d) Dance-chase said husband into the next aisle, still shaking the spice jars, stage whispering that the rhythm is going to get him.
(e) Both (c) and (d).

2. You and your husband are purchasing fruit when some big band Muzak comes over the loudspeaker. What do you do?

(a) There IS only one real option here: West Side Story rumble walk.

3. You are in the dairy aisle, and spot an aerosol can filed with waffle batter. Let me clarify: SPRAY WAFFLES, Y’ALL. You then notice it has the following name:
What do you do?

(a) Whuh? Why is this funny?
(b) Dissolve into a GIGGLE EXPLOSION BECAUSE (ORGANIC!) BATTER BLASTER HAHAAAA.
(c) Tweet about Batter Blaster, and the humor inherent therein.
(d) Both (b) and (c).

4. You have recently learned a few basic moves from the Thriller dance. Your husband –a much better dancer than you BY FAR—locks eyes with you and commences a dance-off at the other end of the otherwise-empty dairy aisle, all the way down by the yogurt. “Weird!” you think, “So uncharacteristic of him!” What do you do?

(a) Figure it has to be a trick, ignore his Mr. Schuester-like moves, and continue perusing your Coffee Mate options.
(b) Naïvely assume that he has embraced the art of the dance-off, and is conveying this message to you through (what else?) dance.
(c) Commence excuting the few Thriller moves you have mastered with great fervor.
(d) Notice said husband has stopped dancing and is standing there, holding back laughter, as the purpose of his move bustin’ was NOT, in fact, to engage you in a dance-off out of the goodness of his heart, but rather, because a burly gentleman had, unbeknownst to you, rounded the corner of the dairy aisle and your husband KNEW you'd not be able to resist the lure of a dance-off. Aaaaand, now there's a large man standing there, arms crossed, smiling. On the bright side: he applauds.
(e) GAHHH, (b) through (d).

5. A bit wounded after the Great Dance-Off Debacle, you find yourselves in the baked goods section, square in front of a blank giant birthday cupcake-cake. What do you do?

(a) Duh, keep walking. It’s after midnight and you guys don’t need a damn cupcake-cake.
(b) Stand there for a full three minutes, debating the pros and cons of the cupcake-cake and why it should come home with you.
(c) Miraculously resist temptation.

Eyes on your own paper.

Presenting . . . The New Moon Rap!

2009-11-24T20:04:00.008-05:00

Yesterday marked our sixth wedding anniversary, and we celebrated with dinner, a movie, and spending Sunday night at a lovely hotel, where I was elated to discover that our room phone very strongly resembled Zach Morris' ginormo cell phone.

Happy Anniversary, love!

Yesterday, I asked J to accompany me to a viewing of New Moon. I cited unassailable points such as Hey, It's Our Anniversary, and of course, Hey, Who Dragged Me to Umpteen Harry Potter Movies (Wherein I Personally Lost The Will To Live, And Also Remain Awake, As Evidenced By That One Harry Potter Movie Where I Fell Asleep To The Point Of FULL-ON DREAMING, And Also Drooling, And Yeah, I Was Pregnant, But I'm Sure I Would've Still Passed Out Because: Boredom)? OH RIGHT, IT WAS YOU.

We saw New Moon.

And, well . . . I felt compelled to write a rap ode to it. (If you've read the book but haven't seen the movie yet, don't worry; I'm not really giving anything away. The movie is pretty faithful to the book.) Happy Tuesday!

The New Moon Rap

Yeah, y'all know me, my name is Bella Swan.
I have a thing for a vampire who's oh-so-very wan.
Edward's his name, built like a damn marble sculpture.
Knows Shakespeare and shit, my dude is mad cultured.

His hair is gorgeous, and a sight to be seen.
Though it clearly ain't never been touched by Pantene.
It's shiny and flowing just like Niagara Falls.
Like Paul Bunyan's ox Babe, his 'do is ten feet tall.

But something bad just happened, hit me right in the gut.
It was my birthday and I got a paper cut.
No, really. That's it. It was nothing worse than that.
Then Jasper tried to eat me and so Edward knocked me flat.

Now time out for just one sec (this is kinda gross to mention),
But it's something that I feel needs a bit of attention.
If just a little paper cut made Jasper misbehave,
How do them vampires deal when I surf the crimson wave?

But back to the story at hand, though, herrre!
Edward abandoned me to . . . keep me all secure?
Look, I'm clumsy on the best of days, concussions to my gourd.
I'm fallin', I'm slippin', I'm like ex-prez Gerald Ford.

So how exactly is it smart to leave me all alone?
It's truly quite a wonder I don't got more broken bones.
Oh! A lady vamp--Victoria-- is out to kill me good.
So of COURSE it's wise to leave my ass out there in the woods!

I soon realize I "see" Edward when I act super dumb.
Hangin' with Polanskis and racing bikes for fun.
I decide I'mma become an adrenaline junkie.
There's been no worse idea since ABC's Love Monkey.

I enlist Jacob to help, and with him, his hot ab muscles.
Them cougar hos be trippin'. Don't fight me, hos, I'll tussle.
I want him! I don't! I'm so damn undecided.
I hate him! I love him! I totes just wanna Ride It!

Jacob soon mysteriously abandons my ass, too.
He gets all enraged and then treats my friend Mike just like a poo.
I'm mired in what's become a very deep personal hell.
But with these boys all leaving me, I wonder...do I smell?

Surprise! Jacob's a werewolf; lycanthrope if yo' smart.
He fursplodes out his cutoffs, they shred and come apart.
And Jacob's doing wolfy things, he has no time for me.
So of course I run off, and cliffdive into the sea.

"Sound Decisions" is my middle name, but fortunately I'm buoyant.
Alas Alice, Edward's sister (she's USUALLY clairvoyant),
She sees me drown, she doesn't see that Jacob comes to save me.
From Victoria the vampire, and the crotchety-ass ol' sea.

But now poor Edward thinks I'm gone; that I kicked the bucket.
So he decides to go and tell the Volturi to suck it.
What, ya'll don't know about the vampires Volturi?
They melt you like the sun does to a wee snow flurry.

And how will Edward go and stick it to the man?
Drain a rabbi in Times Square? Hit a nun with a van?
No! Edward goes about his shit much more starkly.
He'll...step into the sun, so his skin turns all sparkly?

Yo, don't ask me, people, I'm just a mere human.
I lack the understanding of vampire acumen.
So Alice and I set out to stop my darling Ed.
Prevent the Volturi from up and killin' him dead.

Dudes prancing 'round Voltura in red shrouds with quite the sheen,
Was like something straight outta Eyes Wide Shut's deleted scenes.
No orgies here, though; just peeps blocking me from my run,
Somehow, I reached Ed before he sparkled in the sun.

Some crazy vampire shit went down...hey look! Dakota Fanning.
And some vampire tackled Edward, just like Peyton Manning.
We left Voltura promising that I'd be turned VAMPIRE.
The Cullens had sworn up and down- Volturi don't like liars.

So here we are, a promise made, soon I shall be undead.
I don't want to spoil things, in case you haven't read.
For what it's worth though, I must say, now that we've gotten back,
I'd still rather totally do those dudes in the wolfpack.

Five things I learned in Chicago--and elsewhere--this week

2009-11-19T23:17:00.014-05:00

1. I AM APPARENTLY DEEPLY OBSESSED WITH FOOD.

Perhaps it's Chicago's food more than anything, but I reread my (primarily food-related) tweets as my trip was drawing to a close, and I was like, "damn, self." And also "I need another cookie, maybe, to deal with this news." That town is full of crazy delicious food in general, but it's ALSO a big-ass hub of the best kosher meats, for some mysterious reason, which means that we come prepared during our visits. Preparation can be loosely defined as "procuring a bag of near-NASA-levels of insulation-related technology, so as to collect and store sundry cured meats, including, but not limited to, hard salamis, sausages, and something called 'beer sticks' which looked promising." It's not that we don't have kosher meat in New York--we do--it's just that it's much better in Chicago. Plus, doing this affords us the opportunity to make numerous "I got your sausage RIGHT HERE"-type jokes, which are, I believe, a foundation of every healthy marriage. (Note: this joke also works with hard salami.)

2. JOHN IS DEAD.

I don't really know who John is, exactly, but this is what a crazy hobo very somberly said to me and Kristin as we were strolling across Bridge Over That River, I Know It's Called the Chicago River, But Does That Bridge Even Have a Name, Shit I Am Embarrassing Myself Bridge. And you know me, I take the hobos very seriously, no matter the city. So, my condolences to all those who knew and loved John.

As for my time with Kristin, as Im sure you already know, she's just fantastic. This was evidenced by her patiently listening to my earnest retelling of the plot of Vice Versa (yes, I KNOW you haven't seen it. NO ONE has), and we talked and laughed and it's honestly because I was so engrossed in hanging out that I forgot to take a picture. (BOOOOO, self.) But take my word for it: fun was had.

And speaking of fun, we also had a fantastic time hanging out with my cousin and her husband (Remember? We went to Chicago for their wedding in June?) While this picture was not taken during this trip, this does provide some insight into the grace and refinement that so exemplifies our relationship.

3. I AM GENERALLY HOPELESSLY IMMATURE, YES, BUT COME ON.

Okay, this was technically in Newark Airport, but I was on my WAY to Chicago, so it counts:

HOT ERUPTIONS? Really? Just...really? My brother (and a few others) have pointed out the hilarity of the "MoonSteamer" drink option, as well.

The fact that we were served warm nuts on the plane certainly didn't HELP matters.

4. I CANNOT BE TRUSTED TO "JUST QUICKLY BROWSE" J. CREW'S CREWCUTS SECTION.

I've just started perusing their little girl stuff, since Lo is getting big enough to wear it, and...well. I know this is Internet Blasphemy, but I think I like their little girl gear more than the stuff in my size. Look!

Lucky for me, the prices are super reasonable. (I KID.)

5. HAAHAAAAAA

The three things that made me laugh the hardest this week:

A. This recap of a stunningly awful Gossip Girl episode.

B. Pale is the New Tan (via Sundry)

C. This:

Have a great weekend!

Top Five Freaky Fictional Five

2009-11-15T14:08:00.008-05:00

I am currently sitting here in beautiful….Newark Liberty Airport, waiting for my flight to Chicago to depart. [Spoiler alert: I have since landed. Safely, even!]

I’m doing my best to distract myself, since, as I’ve mentioned time and again, I’m among the world’s most nervous flyers. And you know, people are always saying things like “oh, take a Valium!” to me when I bring up My Flying Issue, as if I just have Valium lying around, and AS IF they’re not talking to the girl who called Poison Control ON HERSELF because she got her hours mixed up while in a post-wisdom-tooth-extraction-related narcotic haze, and inadvertently took a Percocet two hours early. And was concerned, you see, that she had overdosed. On one Percocet.The poison control woman? She was LAUGHING AT ME. POISON CONTROL. I place the blame for my attitude towards all drugs--legal and illegal--squarely on the “Jesse on Speed” episode of Saved by the Bell and the COCAINE KILLS YOU DEAD EVEN IF YOU TRY IT ONE TIME, REGINA MORROW Sweet Valley High book. I’VE GOT MY EYE ON YOU, FLINTSTONES GUMMIES.

And J made an excellent point to me on our way over here, which is that when you TELL people you’re a nervous flyer? Inevitably, someone will say to you “oh , really? Huh. I’m a GREAT flyer.” And then laugh smugly. WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ME, ASSHOLE? Does your lack of fear somehow negate mine? Is it supposed to make me feel better? What? WHAT IS YOUR POINT? TELL MEEEEEEE.

Damn. Clearly, I really, really need to distract myself, and I believe I have the perfect solution. I was chatting with Mommy Melee on Friday, and I learned that she was putting together a post with her Top Five Fictional Guy Crushes. She told me she’d love to see my list, and really, Maria is up there, in terms of people I adore and want to make happy, so here we are. Given my decidedly odd taste is secret crushes, I decided to mix it up a bit, and create my top Freaky Fictional Five, my list of really odd fictional guys upon whom I crush. The most interesting part, to me, is that it includes MORE THAN ONE MAN NAMED HANS:

1. Hans Landa in Inglourious Basterds – I know. I KNOW. I’m Jewish. This dude plays a HOMICIDAL NAZI in the movie…and yet. AND YET. He’s oddly charming, and beguiling and speaks, by my count, four languages in the film. I…yeah. The heart wants what it wants, people.

2. Turtle on Entourage – Because he seems like he’d be appreciative, you know? But...then again, he’s dating Jamie Lynn Sigler, so he’s probably all high on himself now, and thinks he’s better than me, and I’d be all, “we ARE TOO going to see New Moon tonight,” and he’d be all, “the Knicks game is on, brah, nothing I can do” and adjust his stupid Yankees hat, and then I’d get mad, like, hello? I’m not your brah, and furthermore, IS THAT A NEW GODDAMN YANKEES HAT, AND OMFG HOW MANY SNEAKERS CAN ONE GROWN MAN OWN, OHHHHHH, DON’T YOU START WITH ME ON THAT DRESS, I NEEDED THAT DRESS FOR WORK, THAT’S RIGHT, ONE OF US HAS TO WORK, OH REALLY? REALLY? I WASN’T AWARE MOOCHING OFF OF VINCE COUNTED AS ‘WORK,’ NO NO MY BAD, REALLY. GO. HIS COUCH AND EVER-DWINDLING WEED SUPPLY CLEARLY NEED YOU. Whatever, Turtle. Don’t call me.

3. Heath-Ledger-as-Joker.

4. Jason Segel, specifically when he’s playing the lecherous, bearded, tracksuit-wearing friend in Knocked Up.

5. Alan Rickman, specifically when playing Hans Gruber or Snape. Or , you know, both. Wow. HUH. Now THERE’s some creepy fanfic for you.

What about you? Top Freaky Fictional Five? GO!

Happy, happy

2009-11-11T20:51:00.008-05:00

I’ve never really been much of a dweller.

By this, I do not mean that I am challenged by the act of living in a specific location, choosing instead to wander the country like a hobo named Snaggletooth Mary. (Alexa? Is that…is that a real person?) No, what I mean that when shit gets me down, I do my very best not to let it KEEP me down. I drive J crazy with this (in a…hopefully endearing way?), always trying to find the bright side like a damn Disney Princess. I’ve been having a bit of an icky week, and I try here—and in life, really—to focus on the good things. So indulge me, just for a post, in my Disney Princess ways, would you please?

1. My return to my beloved hobby, making useless Venn diagrams out of songs and movie lines. Here's the latest:

2. The Anya Marina cover version of T.I.'s "Whatever You Like," a rap song that I secretly lip-sync to while driving, and by "lip-sync," I mean "yes, there is lip-synching, but also, butt-in-seat dance-bouncing and the miming of the line 'gas up the jet for you tonight,' because, sure, I totally know what that looks like, considering I don't even know how to pump gas in a car." The original is awesome and raunchy, but this gorgeous (yes, really) version--which is slower, stripped-down, guitar-driven, and sung by a sweet-voiced girl--is even better. And...dirtier, somehow.

3. This picture:

4. My new perfect flat brown boots, which I got on CRAZY SALE.

5. The song "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers, which Ali brought into my life. (Here's the video, in the event you, you know, don't implicitly trust my music taste:)

6. The fact that I have a husband who asks the right questions.

7. This site. (Its title is NSFW, but the site itself is lovely; full of happy-making pictures and quotes.)

8. This heartbreakingly beautiful picture, which I found on said site. (Which reminds me: Thank you, Veterans.)

9. The fact that I have been petrified to make challah (a type of braided Jewish bread, is, I guess the best way to describe it) since, well, ever, and I'm pleased to say that I? HAVE MASTERED IT. I shall now buy this shirt to wear while baking it each week. Look! It includes glitter:

10. Stovetop popcorn. (It's so much better than microwave! Why was I not informed?!)

Ahh. Feeling better already. So, what's been putting a smile on your face this week? Come on, spill it! It'll make you (and me!) happy. :)

The Radiator Rap: Because I got the music in me.

2009-11-05T22:09:00.008-05:00

So, it appears I took something for granted in my last post, and that is that most people have either experienced or know about heating systems in old apartment buildings. Many of you were mystified--flummoxed, even--that we have precisely zero say in the temperature of our apartment, and asked me to explain it. And I tried--I really did--to write a straightforward, explanatory post about radiators. But hey! You know what's boring? Straightforward, explanatory posts about radiators. You know what's (hopefully) NOT boring, though? RAP SONGS ABOUT THEM.

Yes, seeing as I haven't worked on a rap since Duck This Shot: The iPhone Rap, I figured it was time to give it another go, and attempt to enliven the generally staid world of heating systems. And so I set about working on my rap...

...which was interrupted by the arrival of the Penis Snuggie.

J had told me earlier in the day that he had something "awesome" to bring home, so I was eagerly awaiting a bucket of cash, a new camera, or possibly, a pie. It was, in fact, a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Snuggie.

Which, as Twitter swiftly informed me, prominently featured some found porn:

Many people weighed in, and long story short, I have now garnered the nickname Mother Teresa of the Scrotum Blankets. Thank you, Slynnro. Anyway, this (UNDOUBTEDLY educational) rap required photographs to illustrate my point, and so I decided to document it while wearing the Snuggie. Because: Snuggie.

Without any further ado....THE RADIATOR RAP, Y'ALL:

City living is the illest,
Ain’t no better place to be.
But today I’m gonna talk to you
About apartment heat.

Pre-war buildings are the shit, you know
They’re sturdy and so spacious
Higher ceilings, wider doorways,
So good if your bum’s curvaceous.

Yet they have one awful feature,
Like that King in Gladiator.
Ruinin’ it for everyone,
Is heat by radiator.

The steam comes up a’clankin,
Makin my crib hot and dry.
A thermostat? You playin’!
Or just maybe very high.

Can’t control a radiator,
Ain’t no dials there, or valves.
They’re old as dirt, they’re aged,
Like mah granny with her salves.

My skin is oh-so-scaly,
Grody hair in a bandana.
My legs feel just like my pet snake.
(His name’s Tony Montana!)

I gotta fight the battle,
Not with whittled shivs or guns.
I got another plan, you see,
To make the dry heat DONE.

Desperate measures here are what we need,
This situation’s dire.
Gonna call my rhinestone guy,
Bling out my humidifier.

Aw, Sheet.

2009-11-03T00:06:00.002-05:00

Last week was hectic for me, filled with a gala, brunch with friends, lovingly stalking Ali and her crew, and of course, a spirited fight with a pervert con man-cab driver. I’d write about it all, but, well, it’s pretty self-explanatory. What I REALLY need to talk about are my damn sheets.

And really, you know what seems like a good idea? Fleece sheets. I mean, who doesn’t love fleece? It’s soft! It’s cuddly! And last, but certainly not least, it’s fleecy! It seems perfect for bedtime! J and I had gotten a fleece sheet set (TONGUE TWISTER!) a while back, and given the past (particularly chilly) few days, we decided to bust them out the other night.

This would prove to be the biggest mistake of our lives. Well, this week, anyway.

Fleece sheets, you see, are a good idea in theory only, much like low-fat cheese, balloon-related hoaxes, and that one time I had four (4) tequila shots at a bar and decided to go to visit the bathroom in said bar, located down a steep flight of Deathly Bruise-Inducing Steps, while wearing stiletto boots. Ah, college.

But back to our sheets, and with it, the collective idiocy of me and my husband:

By way of background, our apartment building is full of a particularly ornery breed of Crotchety Elderly Folk. This carries with it many implications, but chief among them for this tale, that our building is kept at the approximate temperature of hell for most of the year, so as to quell their whining. (At least about the cold.) Like the morons that we are, we momentarily forgot about this, and put the fleece sheets on our bed. I felt a vague sense of dread, but shook it off, because hooray! New sheets!

Later that night, I donned a pair of velour pants and a tank, and hopped into bed. Somewhere around 1 a.m., I woke up, feeling trapped. Or perhaps, more accurately, ACTUALLY TRAPPED. NOT UNLIKE A DOLPHIN IN A TUNA NET. Because as it turns out, velour and fleece? LIKE VELCRO. Half asleep, I woke J to assist me by sort of…kicking in his general vicinity with my bound legs. “These pillowcases!” he moaned. “There is no cool spot!” I agreed as enthusiastically as one can while still basically in REM sleep, and he helped to free me from my not-so-metaphorical shackles. We fell back asleep, but I then woke up an hour later, sweaty and uncomfortable. The sheets were cooking me alive. As I tossed around, unsuccessfully trying to find a comfortable place, J woke up and whispered, “It is like sleeping on a bear. Not a rug, M. A living, hibernating bear.” Which then devolved into an impromptu game of "What Else Is It Like Sleeping On?" featuring entries such as "Tony Manero's leisure suit, apres disco," "one of Bill Belichik's grody sweatshirts," "Barry Gibb's chest hair," and "OH MY HELL, IS IT REALLY 2:27 A.M.? WHAT THE HELL ARE WE DOING?!"

Somehow we made it through the night, and this is the part where you think I tell you all about how we immediately changed the sheets in the morning, right? Because it should be a foregone conclusion? Yeah, well, due to a combination of laziness, stupidity, and a secret but earnest desire to get a “full sheet wearing” (my ludicrous concept and phrase, thank you) out of the damned things, we’re still living with them, days later.

It is, at this point, a war of attrition.

The sheets remain, but we’ve abandoned the pillows entirely, choosing instead to rest our heads on the (cotton) pillow shams. Each night, J kicks the top sheet so far down that it’s basically on the floor, and I kind of wrap myself in the bedspread, eggroll-like. I don’t know what we’re hoping for...that the sheets disintegrate from the combined power of our hatred for them? That they’ll magically replace themselves? That we’ll spontaneously enter a new Ice Age tomorrow, and there we’ll sit, wrapped smugly in our aggressively warm bedding? Whatever it is, I hope to god it happens soon, because the end of the "full sheet wearing" cannot come soon enough.

Show me someone who says they WOULDN’T watch this, and I’ll show you a liar.

2009-10-25T22:50:00.005-04:00

The other night, I attended an open school night for one of the places we may be sending T next year. I was sitting next to a friend of mine, and amidst the talk of class projects and school philosophies, we kind of stopped paying attention, and started talking about the things we were doing during the week. She then told me that she was going to be attending an adult gymnastics class the following night. Until that point, neither of us had known about the other's, uh, Gymnast Past, but she told me that one of our other friends—who also used to be a gymnast-—was going to the class with her, and she told me to come, too. I had trained as a gymnast for over seven years (and it is a total coincidence—I swear—that I mentioned it the other day). It was a huge part of my life for such a long time, and, well, an honest-to-god talent that I kind of gave up on, once I hit high school and had no time to keep it up.

I proceeded to spend the next 24 hours excitedly bouncing around, and mentally picking out my outfit for class. I had these grand plans of donning creepy-ass American Apparel-type workout gear, but when the time came, I actually began thinking STRATEGICALLY, which is perhaps the most pathetic admission I’ve made in recent memory. I told myself about how it was time to Focus and Get Serious about my Craft, and so I put on a sensible gymnastics outfit, one that was short on charm, but long on practicality: sports bra, black tank, and black capri yoga pants. No hot pink skintight AmApp harem pants for me.

Sometimes, I feel like such a disappointment.

We arrived at the class, nervous and excited, and immediately began expending our nervous excitement by essentially harassing the tiny teenage gymnasts who were on their way out, staring at us curiously. It was bad, by which I mean, we LITERALLY SAID things like “we used to be good, tooooooo! Enjoy your talent while you cannnnnn!” Under the guidance of our teacher, we stretched, did some basic tumbling, and then we began actually attempting to do our old tricks, and half-jokingly-yet-not-really performing portions of our old routines. It became clear that letting 15 years elapse since your last gymnastics session—-while inevitably painful the next day--does not, in fact, kill the muscle memory required to execute a back handspring. We all had a fantastic time, and unanimously decided to return this week, and it was right around this time that I realized this could totally be a TV show.

Think about it: Take a bunch of aging former gymnasts-- definitely past their prime, but still talented-- and place them in a competitive reality-type show, wherein we attempt to regain our flexibility, relearn our (DATED) routines, and maybe, just maybe, fit into our old competition leotards once again. I’m not quite sure what the winner would get (toaster full of cash from Crate & Barrel?), or who would serve as judges (Dream Team: Mary Lou Retton, Bela Karolyi, Bobby Knight), but I do believe the show will be called Backflipping the Clock. Although I'm totally, TOTALLY open to suggestions.

(Come on, you’d watch it, right?)

Snotty People

2009-10-19T23:18:00.003-04:00

This past week was a milestone of sorts: It marked the first time both kids were sick at the same time. I know! It IS weird that they don’t make a Hallmark card for that. I’ll spare you the details, but in summary, we had a snotty, feral baby with a high fever and four molars breaking through simultaneously, as well as a toddler with a cold, who was exceedingly surly and prone to statements such as “I need soda now. It will help my heavy nose feel better. I love you, Mommy.” Which, I mean, I don’t even know what to say to that. Except that “Heavy Nose” is totally going on the list of potential singles for my hypothetical band, the Rapturous Zipper Protuberances, so named for the best spam subject line I have ever received.

I mention all of this because, well, I love both of my children dearly, but hot damn, BOTH of them sick at the same time was…difficult. J and I kept eyeing each other suspiciously if the other so much as looked at the front door: “What are you doing?” “Taking out the recycling! Jeez!” “THEN WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR PASSPORT, ASSHOLE?” “I WAS JUST INSPECTING IT! NOT FLEEING THIS PLAGUE-RIDDEN HOUSE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!”

Fine, perhaps it wasn’t that bad, but it was a bit stressful.

And you know, I tried, I really did, to find some useful ideas online for how to distract miserable sick kids, and make them more comfortable, but they only responded to my well-intentioned YET INSIPID ministrations (“juice? extra pillow?”) by escalating their moaning. I realized the guidance sucked, threw the metaphorical playbook out the window, and…behold!

I share with you here my patented (read: not patented) five-step program, What To Do If Your Children Are Sick At The Same Time:

1. Deal With Their Noses. Because My God. -- Difficulty Level: Easy to Medium, depending on your puppetry skills

Hey, you know what sucks about cold-having, teething babies that don’t know how to blow their noses? Everything! But more specifically, the fact that, if your baby is anything like mine, he/she flails wildly about if they so much as glimpse the tissue approaching their wee, raw nose, and then! THEN! Heaven forbid you actually make tissue-to-nose contact, they act as though the tissue is CRAFTED FROM PRESSED BATTERY ACID. COATED IN FIRE ANTS. ILL-TEMPERED ONES. And let’s not forget the aforementioned “heavy-nosed” three-year old, who kept sighing and generally looking like a sad-eyed Precious Moments figurine whenever I suggested that perhaps he could entertain the thought of blowing his nose.

My solution came to me while giving them one in an endless series of baths: I was cleaning their faces with their washcloth puppets (you know, like these) ,talking in a ridiculous and embarrassing puppet voice, and I realized they were not making a PEEP. I pressed my luck, quickly tickling them with said puppet washcloths, and then, while they were still giggling, attacking their noses. Miraculously, it worked.

I kept the gig up, assigning each of them a washcloth puppet Specifically Designated for the Gross Cleaning of Noses. The distraction of the puppet was effective, earth-friendly (like I’d give a badger’s ass in this situation, but still), and afforded me the opportunity to work on my puppet voice. Which in case you’re wondering, sounds like a Barney/Yoda/Grover hybrid. Everybody wins! Including the planet! YOU’RE WELCOME, EARTH.

2. Sacrifice Yourself on the Altar of Dignity, aka, play The Tent Game -- Difficulty Level: Medium to Hard, depending upon ease of tent procurement and relative size of your butt.

My kids were whiny and listless, so I figured that perhaps breaking out some of the toys they hadn’t played with in a while might perk them up. They have this tiny pop-up tent thing which hasn’t seen the light of day in MONTHS. They asked me to play in it with them, but alas, my ass couldn’t fit through the tent door. (In my defense, it’s REALLY SMALL. The tent door, that is. Not my ass. CLEARLY.) Naturally, they thought this was hilarious, and begged me to try to get in again. And so it was that I spent the better part of an hour dramatically and loudly lamenting the size of my posterior precluding me from getting through the door. Occasionally, I’d mix it up and have them try to shove me through, kind of like a circus elephant into a train car, which they found humorous.

3. Godzilla Baby Wars --Difficulty Level: Easy

Build elaborate block tower with older child. Call “Oh, GodZILLaaaaaa!” to baby child. Predictable results, easily repeated, perfect for those run-out-the-clock situations.

4. Putting To Use Oft-Overlooked Hobbies -- Difficulty Level: Easy, for YOU.

My friends, I was a gymnast back in the day, and wouldn’t you know it, children love watching people do somersaults and cartwheels. And YES, I may have done about 73 of them over the past few days, but dammit, the sick kids were happy. You may not have been a gymnast, but perhaps you know magic tricks? Juggling? Drawing cartoon characters? Trust me, there’s something to entertain them. Just put away the 12-sided die.

5. Bubbles! -- Difficulty Level: Easy

Oh my god, LIFESAVER. You know that scene in Knocked Up where Paul Rudd is all, “I wish I liked ANYTHING as much as my kids like bubbles”? It’s kind of true.

Fortunately, they both seem to be on the mend, but I know at the first sign of the next round of sniffles, the tiny, dignity-destroying tent is coming out again. Sigh...Whatever works, right?

Wednesday: The day I imitate Whitney Port, and steal my kids' hair products.

2009-10-14T20:43:00.010-04:00

1. I have been watching --with an appropriate amount of shame-- The Hills and The City for...well, a while now. And you know what? I accept the fast and loose definition of the shows' versions of "reality" as an added level of hilarity. (Particularly in the case of The City, which bears only the faintest of passing resemblances to living and working in the actual city of New York.) However, something that happened on this week's episode of The City that made even me say, "forgive me, but this is just too much. And also, it's AMAZING."

As you may or may not know, Whitney is trying to start a fashion line. At one point during the episode, we catch a glimpse of Whitney's "sketches," which are--without hyperbole--the worst, most unskilled renderings in the history of anything, ever, and I include therein the drawing of a snowman in a top hat I drew with a ballpoint pen between my toes, drunk, at 3 am one night during college JUST TO SEE IF I COULD.

The point here is that her drawing of shorts? WAS A PICTURE OF TWO SQUARES. ATTACHED. THAT'S IT. And lo, it was HILARIOUS, because everyone is taking her seriously, and talking about what she Needs To Do For The Line, when in fact what she needs to do is back slowwwwly away from the sketchbook. It's...it's important to take stock of yourself and your abilities, which is why I personally have shied away from careers in professional dance, cleaning, and... trigonometry. It all reminded me very much of the scene in Not Another Teen Movie where Jake is talking to Janie about her masterpiece of a painting, describing its beauty, its soulful qualities, and then you see it... and it's a stick figure with a smiley face. I've taken the liberty of reimagining Whitney's sketchbook for you here, based on actual drawing discussed and displayed on the show: 2. Admittedly, humor is subjective, but I was unable to breathe when watching this SNL skit this past weekend. The dipping did me in:

3. I have a post up over at BeautyHacks, and I'm kind of in mad love with the product. (Also? Kind of touched that the creators of the product found the post, and reached out to me via Twitter to thank me. INTERNET MAAAAGIC.)

4. I need help with an admittedly insignificant problem: Does anyone know of a product for hair that gets knotty incredibly easily once the weather turns fall-like? Because the minute I step outside, my hair becomes an untenable rats' nest, and my desperate solution involved stealing my children's detangling spray, and while I am enjoying both the apple scent and its tear-free properties, I am hoping that there is perhaps a more sophisticated answer out there, by which I mean, "a bottle that does not prominently feature a freaky looking purple cartoon octopus." Help.

5. I needed five things, because I'm delightfully OCD like that. Uh...I like pie.

Ask a Jew! Episode 5: Totally Random Questions Edition

2009-10-07T16:48:00.004-04:00

If you read my last post, you know I’ve got The Pleurisy. And if you follow me on Twitter, you know I’ve now been stricken once again, with some sort of awful, suddenly-manifesting deathflu. All I know is I’m shivering, sweating, and generally acting like Mrs. Snow in Pollyanna. I stayed home from work today, because my philosophy is “if it hurts to blink and your leg stubble feels achy, perhaps you should not be around other people.” WISH YOU’D HAVE TAKEN THAT APPROACH, MYSTERY PERSON WHO GAVE ME THIS ILLNESS. A POX ON THEEEEEE!

Anyway, because it presently hurts to perform even the simplest of tasks, I’m currently bundled in my bed, trying to catch up on anything on my “To Do” list that can be accomplished from amidst a pile of fluffy blankets. And as it happens, “Finish writing ‘Ask A Jew’ post” dovetails very nicely with that.

Usually with these, there’s some sort of theme, but these questions are all over the place, which should be fun.

Before we get underway, my standard “Ask a Jew” disclaimer: I am not an expert, nor do I claim to be perfect in my observance. This is my understanding and my interpretation. Yours may be different, and we can both learn something from each other and be right, in our own ways. In fact, I’d LOVE to hear if you know of a different explanation, but please, be courteous.

So! Let’s get this started, shall we?

What's up with the whole tribes thing? Do you know which tribe you're from? Are priests all from Levi? Or is that sort of ancestral detail long gone?

OOH. Love this question! Eons ago, we had Jewish “forefathers,” one of whom (Jacob) fathered 12 sons, each of whom became the “tribes” of Israel from which we believe that all Jews are descended. (Want their names? Why not! I’m sure you’ll see some familiar ones in there: Reuben, Simon, Levi, Judah, Issachar, Zevulun, Dan, Naphtali, Gad, Asher, Joseph, and Benjamin.)

As time went on, a broader overall delineation was made, and all Jews were classified as either Kohen, Levite or Israelite. The “Kohen” group describes all descendants of Aaron (the brother of Moses). They were the high priests of the nation…royalty, almost, and to this day, men from the Kohen group perform certain special blessings in the Jewish prayer service. (It has nothing to do with the last name “Cohen” or “Kohen,” by the way, but many people with those names are, in fact, from this group.) The "Levite" group is composed of the descendants of Levi, and they were appointed to assist the Kohens, and be dedicated, so to speak, for their service to God. They specifically got this privilege because they were the only tribe that didn’t worship the Golden Calf when, you know, that went down. The "Israelite" category is a catchall for the rest of us. Yes, my friends, I am an Israelite. As you may imagine, I have zero idea what tribe I’m initially from. I'd say a vast majority of the Jews who are not of the Kohen or Levite group don’t know their tribes. Most within the Kohen and Levite group, however, are well aware of their status, as it carries with it certain responsibilities that have been passed down for generations. Fascinatingly, there is actually a KOHEN GENE. Seriously. It was discovered about a decade ago, is called the Y-chromosome Alu Polymorphism (YAP), and appears in almost all who are of the Kohen group. Cool, right?

I'm invited to an Orthodox wedding. The Chuppah is at 6, and "Kabalat Shabbat" is an hour and a half earlier. First of all, what is that? Second, is that something I should go to, and if so at what time?

I’m going to make an assumption here and say that perhaps the invitation said “Kabalat Panim” and not Kabalat Shabbat.” (Yes? No?) The reason I say that is because most Orthodox wedding invitations (and thereby, weddings) include a reference to something called “Kabalat Panim.” I mentioned it in my Jewish wedding post, but in short, it’s like a cocktail hour/smorgasbord wherein the bride is brought into the main room, seated in a throne-like chair, and all the guests come by to greet her.

What is the correct term for someone of the Jewish faith? (i.e., someone who practices Islam is a Muslim, someone who practices Catholicism is a Catholic, and someone like me who is "Mormon" actually prefers to be called "LDS".) I've seen and heard conflicting things and I would never want to be offensive.

I receive this questions (or forms of it) constantly. The answer is, simply, “a Jew.” I love easy answers!

Can you tell us about Jewish education? Do Orthodox kids all go to religious schools? Is there an option for additional education if they go to public/secular schools?

I’d say that—based on my knowledge--MOST Orthodox kids do go to Jewish institutions, at least for elementary school. (And I should point out that there are some amazing schools--e.g., Solomon Schecter--for Jews who align more with Conservative and Reform branches of Judaism, and want their children to attend a Jewish school that fits with their philosophy.) I happen to have attended Jewish private schools for the entirety of my educational experience, but as with most things, I’m sure the answer varies based on one’s situation. Private school—particularly Jewish private school—is, uh, prohibitively expensive, so there’s nothing WRONG if one cannot/does not attend such a school. Apropos of which (and as it relates to the second question), there are a number of organizations that operate successful afterschool/Sunday morning programs to address the needs of kids who don’t attend Jewish school.

[Regarding Sabbath…] If it begins on Friday night before sundown, what if you're still at work then? Do you leave early so you can be home when the Sabbath begins, or do you begin observing while you're still at work?

Great question! Essentially, the Sabbath starts when it starts, so I make it a point to be home when it begins, no matter what. Sabbath commences shortly before sundown on Friday evening, so in the winter, when it begins reaaaaaally early, I work from home on Fridays. (I am fortunate in that I have an understanding employer.) That makes it easier to prepare without ducking out super early.

How do men keep their yarmulkes in place? (Pins? Glue? Another accessory I am not aware of?)

Hee! Standard bobby pins are the norm, HOWEVER OMG. This reminds me of two Very Important Yarmulke-Related Things.

1) When my brothers were little, my grandmother was running some rummage sale at her temple, and she brought over some things she thought my mom could use. Among other items was a bag of these “sparkly yarmulkes,” which my brothers wore for a few years. UNTIL MY PARENTS REALIZED THEY WERE NOT YARMULKES AT ALL, BUT PASTIES. YOU KNOW, FOR THE COVERING UP OF STRIPPER BOOBS. I swear I am not making this up, and I MUST find a picture of one or both of my brothers wearing said “yarmulkes.” Again, by which I mean “PASTIES” OMG.

2) J and I found these gems in his old room on a recent visit to his parents’ house. Apparently, around 1987 (judging by the yellowed label), someone apparently had the brilliant idea to invent something called the “Kippon!” an adhesive-backed Velcro strip for yarmulkes. Yeah. Again, NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Hope this answers your questions. As always, feel free to ask away!

********

On a related note, I have a post up over at Work It, Mom! today, all about easy tips for putting together a fun, unique Halloween costume for your kid. And yeah, I do not celebrate Halloween, but I do celebrate Purim, and have a bit of experience in the costume-making (or buying. WHATEVER) arena. Check it out!

Because there's no "So! You Have Pleurisy" Pamphlet: A Fake Q & A

2009-10-05T23:14:00.006-04:00

My friends, I am currently afflicted with pleurisy. Pleurisy, you say? YES, PLEURISY. And while other, more exciting illnesses like H1N1 and gonorrhea hog the spotlight, the motto for this affliction should be “Pleurisy: it IS a real sickness. YES, IN THIS CENTURY.”

I think that this (hilarious and old-sounding) illness does NOT get enough airtime, and so I stand before you today, armed with a (fake) Q & A to inform you all about pleurisy. I also feel that pleurisy is precisely the type of affliction that you’d expect to befall a fusty old dowager at the turn of the century. I mean, remember An American Tail? And more specifically, the fancy lady mouse named Gussie Mausheimer, who was all “wewease the secwet weapon?” OF COURSE YOU DO. Well, the minute they said “pleurisy” to me, for whatever deranged reason, THAT IS WHO I PICTURED HAVING IT. And as much as I’d like for her to host the Q & A, her inability to pronounce most letters would undoubtedly grate after about two questions. So, I’ll have to resort to a totally made-up character for this fake Q & A. I shall name my fake dowager…Miss Vickie, after these here potato chips. Mmm, Lime & Black Pepper...

AHEM. This is my story. (Well, and that of Miss Vickie, the fake Victorian-era dowager):

Merciful heavens! I fear my corset must be laced far too tightly. I…It can’t be pleurisy, can it? Whatever would the symptoms be?

Good question, Miss Vickie! Put simply, the symptoms of pleurisy include, but are not limited to, waking up and feeling as though William “Fridge” Perry is sitting atop your chest, and a tiny Chuckie doll is simultaneously stabbing your ribs from within.

What is this…Fridge? “Chuckie doll”? Are you daft? Need I call the physician for a leeching?!

Sorry. Sorry! I’ll put it in your terms: It feels as though President Taft sits atop your chest, while a wee demon simultaneously stabs your ribs from within.

How dreadful! What did you do once you felt this pain?

Well, naturally, I consulted Doctor Google.

Oh! Is he new in town? Does he make a reliable, robust poultice? Tell me, how is he with his lancings?

Sigh…No, it’s a computer…inter--hey, word up, fake q&a lady: I’m not going to play “What’s that giant metal bird up in the sky?!” all day like we used to do to the actors when we visited the Magical Colonial Village, so get used to words like “hospital” and “x-ray.”

Oh. Surely. I’ll try to follow along.

Good! So, as things got progressively worse, I told J, and he felt very strongly that we should get me to the ER. We were in Long Island by my in-laws celebrating the Jewish holiday (Sukkot). Which: convenient from the standpoint of the whole emergency babysitting thing. NOT so convenient when taking into account that we don’t drive on Sabbath or the holidays (except in cases of emergency). And I hadn’t taken my wallet. Which contained my insurance card and license. BECAUSE WE DON’T DRIVE THEN! SO WHY WOULD I HAVE NEEDED IT HAHA IT’S NOT LIKE THERE’S EVER ANY OTHER REASON TO HAVE IDENTIFYING DOCUMENTS ON YOU HAHAAAA. *maniacal laughter*

As we drove along, I asked J if this hospital was any good. He looked up thoughtfully, and said “It's really closeby. But…I think this is the place where they dump gunshot victims.” I laughed, which hurt my poor ribs, but then it hurt even more when I realized that he was totally not kidding. A small pile of BLOODY ASS CLOTHS was just…sitting there, in the parking lot. Quelle fantastique!

I decided not to fret about that, and instead focused my attentions on the fact that I had no ID whatsoever, and for all they knew, I could be some teen hooker on whom J had taken pity, Eddie Murphy-style. I was all fired up, prepared to deliver a stirring speech along the lines of, “I know you have to treat me no matter what! I watched ER for 30 LONG YEARS!, but it turned out to be unnecessary. They allowed me to hand over J’s insurance card (he’s under my policy, and…I may as well be talking Swahili to my Canadian friends right now, yes?) and I was sent to triage, where I was asked if I was pregnant no less than four times. (Spoiler alert: AM NOT.) I was shown to a room where I underwent a bunch of tests which were inconclusive, and so I was recommended for a chest x-ray. I should at this moment point out that I was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. And so, when the nurse arrived to summon me for the x-ray and said “can you walk?” I assumed she meant IN THEORY. Not in ASS-FLAPPING-IN-THE BREEZE PRACTICE. I mean, I wrapped myself up in the gown and all, but seriously? Give me a robe! A second gown! A cafeteria tray! SOMETHING.

That sounds detestable!

Indeed, Miss Vickie. Indeed. My doctor came back to give me the news of The Pleurisy shortly thereafter. J and I just kind of laughed-- because—what? Pleurisy? --and then immediately decided to append “The” to “pleurisy” because it just made it funnier. I also took to referring to it as “the black lung” and “the consumption.”

How did you treat it? With a stout poultice, right?

ENOUGH WITH THE POULTICES. MY GOD. Sadly, there’s no real cure for viral pleurisy (which I had), other than Motrin, time, and rest.

I know not of Motrin, but I am aware of the concepts of time and rest. Huzzah! Did you spend the rest of the afternoon alternating between your solarium and sauna?

Funny story about that, Miss Vickie. J’s parents had taken the kids off to the synagogue, and the house was fully locked. They were not expected back for hours. J was wearing jeans, and I, pajamas and a toothpaste-smeared hoodie. (I HAVE THE PLEURISY, OKAY?) Not exactly synagogue material, you know? We finally found a basement window we could jimmy open, and I, um, climbed on J’s shoulder and sort of…smooshed myself through the laptop-sized window to gain access to the house. Apparently, we live in a CBS sitcom. As you can imagine, that felt awesome on the ol’ pleurisy-ridden lungs.

It is my hope that in sharing my tale with you, you can attach a face and a voice to the Rodney Dangerfield of sicknesses, PLEURISY. It afflicts real people. And there are dozens of us. DOZENS.

On being the pie, and not the yarn ball

2009-09-30T00:40:00.003-04:00

This past Saturday was my birthday. And man, every year on my birthday I get annoyingly introspective. And I know we ALL do that on our birthdays, but mine inevitably falls out on/around Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year, when we believe our fate for the year will be decided) or Yom Kippur (our “Day of Atonement” when our fate for the year is officially “sealed”), so I'm a real pleasure to be around at that time. I feel like most people hear “New Year's,” and you think “sparkly fake glasses and champagne.” (And also, if you happen to be in Times Square, “public ass-grabbings by drunken European tourists.”) Whatever. Point is, you’re probably not thinking about...you know, this:

On Rosh Hashanah it will be written and on Yom Kippur it will be sealed: how many will pass [from the earth], and how many will be created; who will live and who will die; who at his time, and who before his time; who by water and who by fire, who by sword, who by beast, who from hunger, who by thirst, who by storm, who by plague, who by strangulation, and who by stoning. Who will rest and who will wander, who will live in harmony and who will be harried, who will enjoy peace and who will suffer, who will be impoverished and who will be wealthy, who will be degraded and who will be exalted.”(translated by me and also, Wikipedia)

This prayer is a key part of both the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, and it never fails to make me freak out, just a little bit. Because it’s scary, for sure, but also, like I said, in conjunction with my birthday, it makes me get all reflective about myself. At the risk of boring you (you know, even more than I have already with THE QUOTING OF PRAYERS, MY GOD, I am sorry for that), I’ll just say that after thinking about my 28th year, there’s no denying that it was, well, a really good one for many reasons.

That being said, I must admit that I feel like kind of a lazy douche.

I realized that a lot of the things that made my year great were things that happened to me, as opposed to things I actively made happen for myself. (Again: Lazy douche.) After thinking about it, I started thinking about the things I want, and what goals I could accomplish if I actually…attempted them. I have a grand and storied history of flinging myself into random new hobbies with GREAT FERVOR, and then growing disinterested in a matter of weeks. Or—-let’s be honest—-days. The massive yarn ball, for instance, that was supposed to be a baby blanket (FOR MY FIRST BABY), and yet, there it sits in my nightstand, judging me silently, getting all tangled up in my defenseless beaded necklaces, and generally being a smug-ass metaphor for my tendency to abandon projects midstream.

And so, I figured I should make a list—I do love lists so!—to force myself to focus on things I want to do over the coming year. Some of the items on the list are silly (e.g., learning the Thriller dance), some are less so (forcing self to drink more water, showing the kids more of the city, etc.), but all of them -—for a variety of reasons-—are important to me. Simply writing them down, and having the stupid list staring me in the face, boxes unchecked, MOCKING ME, compelled me to start crossing shit off. “Perfecting key lime pie,” you are officially ACCOMPLISHED. And DELICIOUS.

One specific item on the list is Really Up There, as far as goals go, and that is, uh, writing a book. I never before considered this, ever, but this is a very specific book, and one that was directly inspired by a suggestion that Roxanna made to me. I did not and do not fancy myself any sort of author, or memoirist, or diarist or whatever the hell, but this book...I dunno. I kind of feel like I can...maybe do it? It’s something I know, it’s something different, and something I feel like I can (hopefully) do well. It’s flowing already, and I mention it here only because doing so makes it more real, more "official," and commits me to it even further. It’s probably misguided and naïve to bother with it at all, but I’m trying (trying!) to view my ignorance as optimism, instead of colossal, times-wasting stupidity.

There are a metric ton of quotes out there about trying and failing, but I’m going to tailor their general message for me and just say that this year, I'm gonna aim to be the pie and not the yarn ball. Here’s to 29.

And...SHE'S OFF.

2009-09-24T21:23:00.002-04:00

There's clearly a part of me that feels a flurry of high-pitched, shrieky encouragement accompanied by incessant clapping is a GOOD thing. (Fortunately for you, it's only six seconds long.)

Mothers, lock up your sons. She's perambulatin'! from metalia on Vimeo.

Ruminations on superior blogger outreach, and Nicolas Cage in a bear suit.

2009-09-24T01:03:00.007-04:00

In the past year, I’ve seen an increasing number of discussions about poor marketing towards bloggers. Some of what I saw was constructive, and some of it was—-let’s be honest-- a pile-on. What struck me was that when I started thinking about it, I had a really hard time coming up with shining examples of people going on and on about good marketing. I'm as guilty of that as anyone else. While I think that good outreach should feel seamless and not ham-fisted, that doesn't mean that I can't take a minute and acknowledge the hard work that made it so.

The point of all of this is to commend Huggies (and Edelman, the PR agency through which they are represented) for their blogger outreach. I went to an event yesterday, and—wait. WAIT. Before you roll your eyes at me and this post in general, and before you tune out, thinking this is going to be a fluffy puff piece, just know this: I took off work yesterday to attend the event, went to the supermarket afterward…and then worked until 11:30 last night playing catch-up. I was in my office at 7 this morning doing the same. It's now a little after 1 a.m, and...well, here I am, writing the post that I wanted to write all day, but had no time to compose. I say this not because you need or want an accounting of my days and nights, but just to point out that, well, if I’m taking time out to write something here, it means something to me. Because I’m exhausted, and honestly, all I want to do right now is watch Glee and eat Chocolate Chex, and SLEEP, but–and no one hinted, requested or begged that I write this— good service deserves to be commended.

The email that I got inviting me to the event was targeted towards me, and contained a few relevant details which showed me that the sender had recently read my blog. I cannot tell you how that little bit of detail made me appreciate the time she took to do so. Every logistical aspect of the event was taken care of, and when I say every last detail, I mean “clean, safe carseat in the car that came to pick us up, crib waiting in hotel room, and all activities taking place in walking distance of hotel.” (Lo was invited to the event as well, which was to promote Little Movers diapers). Everything was genuinely kid-friendly, which made for a truly enjoyable experience, all around.The other bloggers were lovely, and Lo and I both had a great time with them. As an added bonus, we got to meet the gorgeous and incredibly sweet Angie Harmon, her baby Emery, and her husband (former NY Giants cornerback, HOLLA!), Jason Sehorn.

There was no hard sell here. We happen to be a family that bought Huggies before anyway (COSTCOOOO), but there was no obligation, direct or implied, set forth for the bloggers, to use, write about, or endorse the brand in any way. (My words, not theirs.) Again, I think quality outreach should be highlighted, and I appreciate all that went into creating this event, as well as the invitation that was extended to me and Lo to participate in it.

* * * * * * * *

I, uh, feel like such a namedropping douche right now, especially after mentioning Angie Harmon and Jason Sehorn, but the Fashion Week post where I talked to January Jones (OKAY, it was only for two minutes, BUT STILL.) can be found here.

* * * * * * * *

Speaking of January Jones, can we talk about Mad Men for a moment? Specifically, THE RIDING MOWER? OMG, what the HELL? I mean, I...wha? WHAT?

* * * * * * * *

I've kind of...had this years-long hatred of Nicolas Cage's acting skills. I can't recall if I've ever mentioned it here, but believe me, it's intense. Anyway, one of my friends who knows this about me sent me the following two clips. I have seen the movie in question, and I swear to you, IT IS REALLY LIKE THIS. I showed these to J earlier this evening and we laughed so loudly that we woke up T. Which, really, is just one more reason to hate Nicolas Cage. I'm crossing my fingers that it isn't one of those things that's only funny if you've seen the movie. (You'll tell me one way or the other, right?)

Watch this first to get a general sense of the unintentional hilarity. I call it "NOT THE BEEEEES!":

And then this:

I cannot begin to describe to you the immeasurable glee these videos bring me.

So, lists are My New Thing now, it seems.

2009-09-21T00:46:00.002-04:00

1. Happy New Year to my fellow Jewish friends!

2. I hadn’t really verbalized this here, but I was starting to get the eensiest bit worried about the fact that Lo didn’t really seem interested in the whole walking thing. I mean, she was cruising, and she was getting the CONCEPT of walking, kind of, but her idea of getting it was “one step, two step, fling self bodily towards parent.” We'd decided that if she really wasn’t progressing by 15 months, I’d call the pediatrician and try to pass it off like I was casually speaking, all breezy-like, when in fact I was reading from a prepared page wherein I'd outlined my concerns, and as such, we would then undoubtedly have a super-stilted conversation where I would say things like “I am well, thank you for inquiring.” (Am I the only person that WRITES SCRIPTS for Difficult Conversations?) Well. As luck would have it, she took a whole mess of steps yesterday (15 months old TO THE DAY, wouldn’t you know). Every time she did, we’d lavish praise upon her, to the point that when we didn’t leap around shrieking “YAYYYYY!” and clapping, she would give us this quizzical look, all “Are you not recalling what comes next?” Clearly, this is an excellent precedent to have set.

3. It’s my birthday on Saturday. And I tell you, HONESTLY, that I completely forgot until J brought it up this morning. Isn’t that sad?

4. Regarding my last post, I did, in fact get to meet someone from Mad Men; specifically, January Jones. I know. I KNOW. I’m writing a whole post about that (as well as some of the other people I spoke to and events I attended at Fashion Week) for BlogHer, and I’ll post a link once that’s up. Also? While I’m on the subject of future posts, I have an “Ask a Jew” post I’ve been working on FOREVER, which will be posted soon. (I haven’t forgotten!)

5. So, it was a resounding “YES” on the release of my workout playlist, then. It's an ever-evolving, work in progress, so feel free to add your favorites! Wait--scratch that; PLEASE add your favorites!

Britney- Toxic, Womanizer, Circus, Radar
Rihanna -Disturbia
A.R. Rahman - Jai Ho (the Slumdog Millionaire song)
Bloc Party- Banquet
Cobrastyle- Robyn
Eye of the Tiger - Survivor
Hazy Shade of Winter- Bangles
Hung Up - Madonna
I Fell in Love with the DJ - Che'Nelle
Low- T-Pain
Right Round - T-Pain
Thriller/Beat It/Smooth Criminal - Michael Jackson
Hot Like Wow - Nadia Oh
So What - Pink
Mercy - Duffy
Next Episode - Snoop
Ooh La La- Goldfrapp
LoveGame/Just Dance - Lady Gaga
Party Up (Up in Here) - DMX
SexyBack-Justin Timberlake
Sour Cherry- Midnight Boom
Stronger- Kanye West
Pump It – Black Eyed Peas
Very Loud- Shout Out Louds
A-Punk / Walcott- Vampire Weekend
Wake Up -Arcade Fire
Hoedown Throwdown - Miley Cyrus (Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.)
Work It- Missy Elliot
Bang Bang - K’naan (Feat. Adam Leviiiiiiiine...I have to say his name like Maya Rudolph on SNL. It’s a compulsion.) (Thanks for the suggestion, Casey!)
Enjoy!

Five things of (mostly) trivial importance that I'm nonetheless sharing

2009-09-16T23:51:00.000-04:00

1. We now have a refrigerator in our bedroom. A few weeks ago, after my brother's wedding, he was engaged in the time-honored tradition called "Congratulations! You Moved Out! Now Remove Your Damn Shit From Mom and Dad's Garage Before They Give It Away." J and I were at my parents' house that day, and as my brother was moving stuff, J spied my brother's minifridge, left over from college, sitting unwanted in a corner. Somehow, J decided that our current refrigerator was now INSUFFICIENT for our beverage needs, and that we needed to take the minifridge home. I still do not entirely comprehend the presented rationale, but I'm vaguely recalling something about "saving time walking all the way to the kitchen if we need a drink." And let's be clear, here: We do not live in the the Bachelor mansion. Or the Real World house. Or even one of those double-wide trailers from Wife Swap. Our dwelling is a NEW YORK APARTMENT, which are not exactly reknowned for their size. The kitchen is, TOPS, 30 steps from our bedroom. I mean, really.

However, I'm all about The Strategery, so I was like, "J, if you're willing to come to a detente with regard to your ill feelings towards my Clothing Chair of Doom, then I'll allow the minifridge in our bedroom." And he was all, "DEAL!" and now there is a wee refrigerator up in here, AND my chair still has Monday's blouse, Tuesday's trousers, and what appears to be a book jacket splayed across it. Everybody wins!

I must admit, though, that having the fridge in here? Is...well, I'm kind of enjoying it. Cold water in the morning? It's here! Frozen Rolos craving during Glee? They're here! Diet Orange Sunkist at 2 a.m.? OH, YOU'D BEST BELIEVE IT'S HERE. Shhh. Don't tell J that I'm enjoying it. [Sneakily sips cold soda, eats 37 frozen Rolos.]

2. I keep seeing previews for the remake of Fame, as well as the season premiere of The Hills, which seems a good a time as any to mention that I have huge, undying girlcrushes on (former SYTYCD contestant/now-Fame star) Kherington Payne and Kristin Cavallari. So...I have a type, apparently?

3. This.

4. I've taken it upon myself of late to craft The World's Most Perfect Workout Playlist. It's a work in progress, sure, but I'm quite proud of it. Is this something you'd be interested in seeing here?

5. Okay, so this one is actually noteworthy. YOU GUYS. I am doing Fashion Week-related stuff tomorrow evening, stuff about which I'm so excited that I am loath to get into detail. And that's NOT to be annoying, and invite you to be all "OH METALIA,WE ARE EVER SO CURIOUS! DO TELL, PLEASE!"

(And for some reason, as I'm typing that, I'm hearing that statement in the voices of the children from Mary Poppins, but that's neither here nor there.)

No, I do this FOR FEAR OF JINXING, you see, the tempting of fate, so I'll just say that it involves, among other things, potentially meeting someone from a show that we all know and love, which rhymes with...Shmad Shmen. (See? Take that, fate.) I'm nervous and thrilled, and generally wriggling around like a puppy, so I'm getting through the anticipation the same way I handle all Big Things, both good and bad: I just tell myself that by this time tomorrow, it will have happened. I know, I know. Barf. Fetch me a desktop sand garden, for I am BRIMMING with zen!

(I will of course tell you the HELL out of whatever happens tomorrow night, I just gotta get through it first!)

(Wish me luck! EEEEEEEEP!)

Gah-Guhm, Gah-Guhm

2009-09-14T22:56:00.004-04:00

When I was about nine years old, one of my friends had a sleepover party, and as we all made our way down to her rumpus room (that’s a thing, right?), she breathlessly bragged about the movie her mom had rented for us to watch. “It’s DIRTY DANCING!” she stage whispered.

I came from the type of house where you did not watch PG movies without parental guidance, and you CERTAINLY didn’t watch PG-13 movies before you were 13.

This would change in later years, as the house rules became increasingly lax with each successive child, to the point that my youngest brother, my curfew-free, sweet-talking youngest brother, was somehow permitted to have a hookah in his bedroom (“it’s decorative,” he’d explain patiently), and dye his hair colors not usually found in nature (“it was the sunlight,” he’d calmly repeat), BUT I DIGRESS.

With that in mind, though, you would not be surprised to learn that I was therefore thrilled to see this illicit movie. I mean, it was clearly not meant for people our age, what with the rating, the title, and the couple totally almost kissing on the cover, my god. So off we scampered, giggling, and munching popcorn. I remember only a few random details about the evening in general, such as the fact that we all made fun of one of our friends there because she brought her blankie (What?! Nine-year-old girls are arguably the biggest assholes in the world.), and that I was wearing a Strawberry Shortcake nightgown. However, I remember with almost eerie clarity the experience of watching Dirty Dancing for the first time.

Even though pivotal portions of the plot went over my head (“Knocked up”? Crazy old cougar woman draping herself all over Johnny? Dirty knife and a table? Lisa storming off from Robbie in a huff? WHAT DID IT ALL MEAN?), I was transfixed. As a bunch of awkward Jewish girls from the mean streets of suburban New Jersey, we all kind of...related to Baby, and swooned along in unison as she (SPOILER ALERT! Heh.) got the guy. I watched it time and again over the coming years; it was on WPIX almost every Sunday, and on a seemingly endless loop on TBS. I hacked my jeans into cut-offs like Baby’s, and purchased a poster of Patrick Swayze in a form-fitting black tank top (ooh, la la!) which I strategically placed behind my door, so I could gaze upon his visage. I do believe I employed the term “hunky” to describe the poster, at the time.

That movie is a touchstone; who among us hasn’t said something AT LEAST as moronic as “I carried a watermelon” when chatting with a cute guy? Who among us hasn’t jokingly-haughtily pantomimed “my dancing space/your dancing space” after hitting the dance floor at a party? Or used “Real original; the Pachanga.” as a subtly derisive catchall for someone else’s dull-ass idea? And yes, upon reflection, perhaps the last one is, in actuality, just a super weird thing that only I do, but the point stands. The movie was a huge part of a collective pop culture experience, due in no small part to those iconic moments (and of course, the legendary placement of Baby in the corner, and Johnny’s subsequent chivalrous defense).

Dirty Dancing is cheesy, contrived, and the acting is occasionally (unintentionally) hilarious. But honestly? It’s one of the few things I’ll watch from any point, should I happen across it while flipping through the channels, EVEN IF it’s playing with commercials. And honestly, in this day and age, I can’t think of a greater testament to a movie’s power than that. Rest in peace, Swayze.

Last week, five senses-style. (Alternate title: My clever ploy to force you to look at vacation photos.)

2009-09-08T21:21:00.016-04:00

I was thinking that there was no real way to classify all the experiences of our vacation in an organized format, and then, after making a list of some highlights (no, YOU shut up.), it hit me: It all actually broke down quite nicely into the five senses. Which sounds kind of odd, nerdy, and gimmicky, but honestly, this post was destined to be all over the place, and this construct kind of reeled me in a bit. (I *think* I may have done a post in this style eons ago, but really, who can remember? Onward!)

TOUCH

Remember how I talked about the evil clown my family made me pose with at the county fair? Yeah, here she is. EMBRACING ME. And I swear to you, I have dissolved into actual shudders thinking about her stupid clown perm grazing my neck and shoulders, and her foam clown boob hitting my arm. My enjoyment of this experience is palpable, is it not?

Here, however, are some decidedly less clown-filled "touch" moments:

SIGHT

Oh, WHERE to begin with this one? I suppose the following picture best exemplifies the manner in which this particular sense can be assaulted, courtesy of a booth at the county fair. Feast your eyes. FEAST THEM, I SAY.

I am in dire need of both a dreamcatcher pendant and pensive horse t-shirt.

Later in the week, I got together with Torrie. Now, it's mildly hilarious that we live, like, 10 miles apart, and yet it took respective family trips to the Poconos to get the kids together for a playdate...

...and of course, some good old-fashioned scrunchie posing at, uh, Ye Olde Scrunchie Standde...

...but I'll take it.

Finally in this this category, I submit to you this picture, taken as we were entering the stadium during T's first professional baseball game (what up, Scranton Yankees?). I adore it.

We (and he!) had a great time:

TASTE

One night after the kids were asleep, J, my brother and I went on a late-night run to the supermarket because...I don't know. It's all about simple pleasures up at the lake house, people. I'm absolutely certain the cashier (erroneously!) thought we were high, considering that our purchases consisted of oddly-flavored chips, assorted candies, soda, and...a 7Up Creme Cake. I was frightened, intrigued, and hungry (BUT not high. NOT HIGH, I SWEAR.) so into our basket it went.

We got back to the house and everyone mocked my purchase, myself included. But then I tried it, and it was absolutely amazing, so I wandered around literally FOISTING large hunks of cake on people at nearly midnight, which is both considerate and healthy. And my entire family--well, all of them who went along with my cake foisting ways--had precisely the same reaction: Supplementary mocking, followed by acceptance of cake (ostensibly to shut me up), begrudging tasting of cake, shocked widening of eyes, and MAD DASH BACK TO CAKE. YOU KNOW, SO AS TO EAT MORE OF IT. Moral of the story: 7Up cake is delicious.

I did not try this freaky-ass hamburger cake (which we also spied in the supermarket that night), but something tells me it does not taste as good as the 7Up one.

SOUND

J and I became obsessed with Iron & Wine's cover of the Flaming Lips song, "Waitin' on a Superman" during our trip. The lyrics are kind of depressing, but the sound is gorgeous; I defy you to find a more perfect windows-down-driving-on-quiet-moonlit-country-roads-at-night-just-enjoying-the-ride (but-also-hoping-Kurt-Russell-slash-Stuntman-Mike-isn't-driving-the-Death-Proof-car-behind-you) song.

Other trip faves: Andrew Bird's cover of "The Giant of Illinois," (see above, re: depressing lyrics, pretty sound), Sufjan Stevens' "You Are The Blood," Belle & Sebastian's "Sleep Around the Clock," Prince's "Kiss," and Miley Cyrus' "Hoedown Throwdown." I...can't explain that last one, really, other than to say that it's kicky! I work out to it! The kids like it! Or...something! (J would like the world to know that he is horrified by my repeat playing of said song, he had nothing to do with it, and would very much like it to go away.)

SMELL

The interior of our (relatively new) car decided yesterday that it wanted to smell awful, and it is a mystery as to how this occurred. Perhaps you, unlike me, have never walked home from school one rainy middle school day and put your wet wool sweater in a plastic bag, proceeding to forget about it, and then, finding the forgotten, moldy sweater almost two months later, now possessing an almost intoxicatingly overpowering stench, not unlike that of an ancient cat, but I tell you, if you have done that? It's not a smell you forget. Anyway, our car smells like that. Oh, and also, the inside of a bowling shoe. It came out of NOWHERE, which is the most maddening part. J and I literally sniffed the car from top to bottom, searching for an errant sour milk-filled bottle, or, (God help me) a dead animal, but found nothing. The odor is just...there. Unfortunately, this can mean only one thing: a trip to our scary car wash for one of their classily-named car air freshener sheets!

Smelly car and freaky clown aside, however? Vacation was perfect.

Vacation, So Far

2009-09-01T20:45:00.007-04:00

Ooh, look at that! The wifi is functional!

I am writing this, beer in hand, on a so-comfortable-it-should-be-illegal couch, in a lake house in the middle of the Pocono mountains. I'm full of barbecue and fresh-picked corn. J is to my left, eating sour gummy...amoebae, or something (seriously, these things look horrifying), my kids are napping upstairs, and my parents are chatting on the deck. In short, it's downright blissful. Since J spent most of last night ensconced in a Very Important Fantasy Football Draft, I figured that I, too, could take a few minutes now and reacquaint myself with the internet.

1. I, uh, wasn't kidding about reacquainting myself. Our connection here is intermittent, and I'm woefully out of touch. That being said, am I to understand that Macaulay Culkin really fathered Blanket Jackson? I...what? WHAT? Really? Can that possibly be true? Because I just heard two women discussing it at the County Fair, and I wanted to ask them about it, but I didn't want to be That Girl, you know? The one who pops up in the middle of your private conversation, with a grin that, to her, appears totally friendly and normal, because she is trying to show you that she's totally sane, but to the people she's interrupting, appears half-crazed and menacing? And really, I know of which I speak, because there are some right lunatics that frequent my grocery store, and if ever I run into a friend there, and talk about ANYthing, say, birch beer, I can guarangoddamnTEE you one of them will pop up, all "you think you know about birch beer? I CAN TELL YOU ABOUT BIRCH BEER, YOUNG LADY."

2. Our movie selection up here is limited, and someone to whom I am married suggested that we watch Twilight earlier this week. And really, I can't think of a better movie to watch in a remote cabin in the woods, surrounded by the forest, and deer which may or may not be shapeshifters. WHAT THE HELL, J. And speaking of which, Jonna had mentioned a few weeks ago that while also in her family's lake house, had nightmares about True Blood's Maryann climbing the cabin walls, and, you know, ripping out her heart. To which I say, THANKS, JONNA, because while you know I love you, I'm now I'm similarly afflicted with this fear. Other pop culture- induced lake house fears include Cabin Fever plague, sundry Twighlight Zone-ish things, Friday the 13th, and finally, that movie I can't remember right now, but Liv Tyler screams and those freaky homicidal maniacs wear masks and talk calmly to them. Oh, and the creepy mask-wearing girl swings slowly and creepily on a swingset.

3. I now kind of hate my entire family (well, all of them who are currently here with me) because they made me pose with an INDUBITABLY MURDEROUS LADY CLOWN at the county fair we attended earlier today. (She was making balloon animals for the kids, sure, but I was on to her little game.) I was holding Lo at the time, so they were all, "oh, the baby will LOVE the clown! let's get a picture!" COULROPHOBIA IS NO LAUGHING MATTER, ASSHOLES. When Maryann and/or the creepy mask people come in the night, don't expect me to protect you. (Picture of me and lady clown to follow. I'm sure I look enthused in it.)

4. J and I took a trip to WalMart yesterday. "Quel romantico!" you're probably thinking. But the thing is, we don't have one nearby at home, and we kind of look forward to our yearly pilgrimage there, because, really, the things I learn. For example:

~People (hunters, I'm hoping, and not fetishists?) apparently require various forms of deer excrement for...well, for what, I don't know, but it's packaged and sold in a store, is what I'm saying.

~ HAHAAAA. I'm sorry. I'm 12. But this is the best-named product ever. EVER.

~Randy Jackson has an eyewear line. All the jokes I'm coming up with are annoyingly predictable ("You did your thing; you took those frames and made 'em your own," etc.), but something about this is so delightfully random.

~Also, I'm sorry AGAIN, but the people of WalMart site? IS FUNNY BECAUSE IT'S TRUE.

~Perhaps it's that I'm in Pennsylvania (i.e., official Gosselin territory) but I noticed an alarming amount of Kate Gosselin hairstyles on women in (and out) of WalMart. ON YOUNG GIRLS, EVEN.

5. I am terribly sad that karaoke night--which used to be the highlight of our time up here...for me, anyway--is no more. However, its absence does leave me with more time in the evenings to booby-trap our windowsill against the aforementioned malevolent forces, so I suppose its for the best.

6. T just woke up, so I'm off to play our newly-invented game of WonderPets, which involves hiding a baby penguin doll, and then eating celery (licorice) when we "find" it.

Life is good.

The Wedding, as Told Via Fake Q & A With a Bridezilla

2009-08-25T20:17:00.020-04:00

As I mentioned once or twice or 47 times recently, my brother's wedding was rapidly approaching. It took place this past weekend, and here's the part where I ramble on about it. Time for a fake Q&A? I THINK SO. Since it's a wedding, I shall make the interviewer....uh, a Bridezilla. Yes.

My wedding is going to be the best ever. I'm having a green wedding. My flowers are going to be flown in from Tahiti. I have no idea why everyone is calling me a hypocrite. THEY'RE JUST JEALOUS. Also, my engagement ring is bigger than yours. TOP THAT.

Uh...do you have a question?

FINE. Sigh. How did your dress come out? My stupid whore of a Maid of Honor said my demand for her to wear a corset under hers was "unreasonable" and that she was "six months pregnant." I hate her.

Well, crazypants, I really loved how my dress came out! I wrote a whole post about it here, but here's the gist. I scrapped my initial ideas, because I fell in love with this dress ("sleeves" added), which we (by which I mean, "my dressmaker") modified to make a little more modest for purposes of my brother's Orthodox Jewish wedding:

Here's how it looked:

I guess it's okay. My, you look. . .tanner than you usually do, Metalia. DID YOU GO TO TAHITI TO SNOOP ON MY FLOWERS? THEY'RE PRECIOUS RARE TAHITIAN GARDENIAS! IM'MA CUT YOU, BITCH!

Calm down, Bridezilla! I did no such thing! As you can see, the dress color for the bridal party was champagne, which, while pretty, does nothing for my pasty, pasty skin. And so, I set off on an exhaustive search to find the best airbrush tanning salon in Manhattan. I think I found it; this place received consistently high marks across various city search-type websites, and one of the awards in Allure Magazine's Best of Beauty issue. SOLD! I went with the lightest shade, and it looked (I hope!) completely natural, streak-free, and (most importantly) NOT ORANGE. (No one paid me to say this,obviously, but I highly, HIGHLY recommend them.)

I cut work to go tanning last week for the wedding. Tanning is super important. So is hair. How did you tell the stylist to do yours? I might copy it for my wedding, only it will be much prettier, since I will add sparkle-coated butterfly clips. And also, because I hired both Ken Paves and Frederic Fekkai to do my hair for the wedding. I'm going to pay them to fight to the death, and the winner will do my hair.

I believe my exact words to the stylist were, "Grecian-beachy, half-up, but for the love of God, DON'T MAKE ME LOOK LIKE SARAH PALIN."

That sounds totally reasonable and easy to achieve to me! Now I think we're finally on the same wavelength. And since we're there, I'll admit that chatting with you takes my mind off of that lazy-ass flower girl I have. My sister is all, "eight-week-old babies can't walk! You have unrealistic expectations!" I think we all know who's being unrealistic here. . .ABOUT MY HAPPINESS, WHICH IS PARAMOUNT. Speaking of kids, how were yours at the wedding?

Um, well...you know how I was all list-oriented? And hyperorganized about the wedding?

[Shrugs, applies rhinestones to nails.]

Well, I was. Anyway, there was one item I SHOULD have included on my many lists, namely, "do not allow child to bash face in, three days prior to wedding." Because...yeah, that happened. (It was a total fluke; he literally tripped, directly into the corner of a wall.)

Anyway, it was PITIFUL. He barely noticed, but...just--oy. OY. Magically, however, his puffy little eye went down pretty quickly, and then I, um...may have had the makeup artist at the wedding cover it up a bit. Here he is (walking down the aisle with my sister-in-law's nephew, hand-in-hand in their tiny tuxedos, OMG):

Sadly, we currently have no good pictures of our family together, but you'll have to take my word for it that we were all there, were all smiling, and had our eyes open at some point:

(Totally stole this from my uncle's Facebook page.)

I would have forcibly strongarmed the photographer into following me and my family around until a perfect shot was obtained, but I guess you have an. . . interesting set of priorities. I KNOW what's important, I guess. For instance, I'm forcing my fiance to do a 24-minute choreographed ballet, contemporary, jazz and hip-hop medley routine for our first dance. It's the simple things like that which truly matter. Did you do any dancing at the wedding?

You know what, Bridezilla? I am...well, more than a little scared of you. And I'm about to run away screaming in the opposite direction, so I'll just answer your question with some pictures. And yes, I think it's apparent that we sooooo think we can dance.Or at least make very compelling Dance Faces. (Having a rough day? Feeling a bit down? I do believe these pictures will snap you right the hell out of it. It's clear that we are ridiculous human beings.)

(All silliness aside, many, MANY congratulations to my little brother and my new sister-in-law! I couldn't be happier for them. And! Happy Birthday to my amazing husband!)

The upside to the Obsessive Preparation Wormhole

2009-08-18T23:51:00.006-04:00

It’s funny, in retrospect, how very little I cared about most of the details of my own wedding. I just wanted to marry J, you know? I cared about my dress, obviously, and—much to the poorly-hidden chagrin of certain family members—having a bouquet composed solely of dark, burgundy-colored roses. That was…pretty much it.

It’s funny to me, therefore, that with my brother’s wedding rapidly approaching (this weekend!) I find myself BOGGED THE HELL DOWN with details. It’s not that I WANT to care, but, well, there were toddler-sized tuxedos to find, and jewelry to procure, and THE TINY BARRETTES, WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE TINY BARRETTES? And the packing lists, and remembering toys for the kids, and clothes to change into afterward, and AHHHHHHH.

I’ve been sucked into some sort of Obsessive Preparation Wormhole, which is not necessarily entirely a bad thing, as there have definitely been some memorable moments. Take, for instance, the portion of the list I’ve tackled so far this week:

1. "Research the Earring Issue"

Lo received a gorgeous pair of baby earrings from my in-laws for her birthday, and so I decided the wedding would be a perfect time to get over my crippling fear of changing her starter earrings (which she’s worn since her initial ear piercing, last October), and put those bad boys in. Yeah, well, as it turns out? “Starter” is apparently code for “these fuckers ain’t budging, EVER.” And while I’d love to have the option of occasionally changing her earrings, I’m loath to maim her baby ears in the process. I’ve tried four times now to get them out, but it’s not working, and I honestly feel like I’m defusing a bomb with each attempt, because she has this charming habit of whipping her head around like a Slayer fan, SANS WARNING, while I'm doing so. Babies, man.

At a complete loss, I added the above item to my ever-growing list of stuff to do, and went a’Googling in order to see if there was a quick solution for removing starter earrings. (Spoiler alert: no.) While I was unsuccessful in that endeavor, my search did bring me to numerous crazy message boards, where a surprising amount of people made impassioned statements to the effect that parents who pierce their kids’ ears are essentially guilty of child abuse. This really only wants to make me pierce her navel, I’M SORRY.

(Obviously, if you can help my clueless ass, I’d be forever grateful. Should I try…olive oil? Dish soap? Prayer? WHAT?)

2. "Figure Out Hairstyle for Wedding"

The dress I’ll be wearing to the wedding has a lot of flowy elements to it, so I figured loose, beachy hair would be the way to go. Again, Google figured prominently in my research, which led me to two notable things:

A. It seems that many people take “beachy” quite literally, and interpret the term by PLACING STARFISH IN THEIR HAIR. I’m not talking about a starfish clip, or like, some cute tiny pin in the shape of one. I’m talking a big-ass, honking, actual dried starfish, as large as a regulation baseball, if not bigger.

B. Somehow, typing my query about beachy wedding hairstyles brought me to Yahoo Answers, which is a veritable treasure trove of hilarity. As I learned, there’s a “related questions” field on the bottom of each page, and dude. Duuuuude. A sampling:

“Which item from the ‘As Seen on TV’ section of Walgreens would make a good wedding present?”

“How can I get married online?”

“I told my fiancé marrying him would be a mistake. Now what?”

“Can you ‘write off’ wedding gifts like ‘contributions’?”

“I am 14 my bf is 18….can I marry him?”

Oh, god.

(Speaking of hair, I'm featured in a Hair Share post on Hair Thursday. Check it out, and answer for yourself the --unasked--question of why I do not do more video posts.)

3. "Get Strapless Bra"

As I mentioned in my last post, the dress I’m wearing necessitated the purchase of a really good strapless bra. As such, many people suggested simply going to a dedicated bra store and getting a proper fitting. Which, you know, makes a remarkable amount of sense. WELL. I did just that, and now, so as not to offend any of my gentlemen readers, I’ll use the innocuous (and sports-related!) term “gonzagas” in telling the forthcoming tale. As in, “Hey, get a load of those gonzagas.”

I headed to a Very Prominent Bra Store to kick off my search. I asked for some assistance, and the bra…technician (?) told me to follow her into a fitting room. I figured she’d whip out a tape measure or something, and measure me over my shirt, but no, she told me to take off my shirt and bra. There was NO TAPE MEASURE. She simply…eyeballed the area, and then went off to find some suitable bras, while I stood there, recovering in shock. In retrospect, I guess I should have prepared a bit more for the experience, since everything I know about bra fittings is gleaned from reading Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.

None of those bras that she returned with fit, so she called in another, more senior consultant so they could figure out what the problem was. Together, they stared at me some more, and the second one got All Up In My Gonzagas. I mean, at least get me some Mardi Gras beads, ladies.

They determined that I was a 28C. Or a 30C. I mention this only because THAT IS NOT EVEN A REAL SIZE THAT EXISTS IN THE WORLD. I’ve come to suspect that bra stores make their market off of the old “most women are wearing the wrong size braaaaaaa!” chestnut, and the attendant shock factor of telling a lifelong 32B that she’s actually a 46AAA.093*$, or something. I’M ON TO YOU PEOPLE.

They made me, like, lean into the bras they brought me, and manhandled me more than the most overzealous lactation consultant (trust me, I know of which I speak), and all the while I stood there with the Jasper Cullen Mask of Discomfort and Fear plastered across my face. Happy place. HAPPY PLACE.

After all that, they had nothing that fit my (APPARENTLY FREAK-SIZED) chest, and so, I…walked out, pretended the entire incident never happened, went to Victoria’s Secret, and picked up this bra (as recommended by Bethlaws06, Green is the New Dots and one anonymous reader)...

...In my regular size.

4. "Find Man Carrying Hand Saw on Public Transportation"

Okay, that wasn't actually on my list, but this totally happened today. And no, I do not have a picture, because he was a man carrying a handsaw (albeit in a plastic bag) on public transportation.

*********

(I'm finally....finalizing the next installment of "Ask A Jew"...if there's anything else you'd like to see addressed, just let me know!)

Tit for Tat

2009-08-12T21:22:00.014-04:00

I'm going to be honest with you here; I need your help. With a few things, come to think of it. But I feel exceedingly guilty just asking for help without offering anything, so I'm going to give you some things in return.

Thing 1: Cultured Butter

Okay, I can't actually GIVE you cultured butter, but a few people asked about it after I mentioned it in a recent post. As I mentioned then, Jonniker brought it into my life through the magic of Twitter, and I am eternally grateful. It's made from fermented cream, and through the magic of...culturing(?), you get a butter that has a much richer and more...buttery flavor. Yes. It's really good, to the point that I was tempted to, um, put some on a spoon and eat it. Alone. I didn't, because that's deeply gross, but the point is, I considered it.

Thing 2: My Phone Case

When I recently posted my Fake Wig Saga, a few people also asked about my blinged-out phone case visible in some of the shots. I actually received the phone case as a gift from a company my husband works with. Once they so generously offered to make one up for me, my friend Kate allowed me to "borrow" this design of hers for the phone case decoration, and voila:

It's Swarovski crystal-encrusted, and basically belongs in the hands of anyone on Cribs who has ever uttered the words "This is where the magic happens." But! Let this be a lesson to you: Ordinarily, I probably wouldn't have pick something like this out in a store, but I have fallen in serious love with this case (clearly, since I use it every day). It's a total conversation starter (I've literally gotten stopped in the street by people inquiring about it), and I smile every time I look at it. Seriously, sometimes a little bedazzling in your life is a good thing.

Thing 3: ZOMFG KIRSTIE!11!!

Are you following Kirstie Alley on Twitter? No? DO IT. You're welcome. (To give credit where it is due, Stefanie brought her into my life, and I must now pay it forward.) Like most people, I generally loathe celebrity Twitterers, but she is like someone's dotty great aunt, or something. I may have called her "a TREASURE" to her (Twitter)face last night. She calls her followers SWEET CRESCENT MOONS, for crissakes. I'm not made of stone.

Thing 4: The Game is Afoot, Charney!

We all know how I feel about American Apparel. And if perchance we don't all know that, the answer is: "consistently enraged." (Though in the interest of full disclosure, I do love their baby basics, like karate pants, and staples, such as t-shirts, tanks, and not, you know, HIGH-WAISTED GOLD SPARKLING HOTPANTS.)

Seeing as how I have no apparent problem taking terrible and unflattering pictures of myself lately, I passed the American Apparel store today and thought to myself, "it is HIGH TIME I actually try on some of the abject fug that passes for clothing up in this piece." Behold!

Up first, please feast your eyes on a backless one-size-fits-all tunic, complete with blousing and extra-long fringe! Next, can I interested you in some hot pink shredded leggings? Perfect for working out. Let me hear your body talk, people!

There's a special place in hell for this next garment, which manages to cut the wearer in EVERY. SINGLE. UNFLATTERING. SPOT. ON. THE. HUMAN. FORM. It's kind of impressive, actually. Observe:

Finally, I bring you Barbie Dress. I hope you like my side ponytail! I'm acting all shy and demure, but you just KNOW I'm itching to hop into my Ferrari and head off to the Dream House with Skipper. This little exercise actually helped my rage dissipate somewhat, and so, I would very much like it to be Part I of an occasional series, entitled "WTF, AmApp?!" That is, assuming they don't catch wind of me and ban me, my children, and my children's children from their stores in perpetuity. Fingers crosssssed!

Okay!

Now I feel sufficiently satisfied to ask you for your help. I need guidance on the following.

1. I've started drinking gin, since it screams "summer" to me. However, what is there to do with it besides mix it with tonic? What do YOU do with it?

2. My brother's wedding is rapidly approaching, and my dress is almost done. Said dress will require a good strapless bra. For those among you whom God has NOT truly blessed in the, uh, maraca department--if you know what I mean, and I think that you do--what (padded) strapless bra would you recommend that won't have me ducking into corners to hoist up My Business every twelve seconds at the blessed event? Because I want to dance and mingle and celebrate, and not have to worry about The Hoisting of Business.

3. Er, also regarding said wedding...where would one find tiny, ballet-like flats for a baby? I just last week realized I needed to find black tuxedo shoes for T, and let me tell you, THAT is not an easy thing to find, and so you'd think I'd have realized that Lo needed some sort of footwear for this thing to go with her fancy-ass dress, but no, so I--OH GOD MY MOM AND FUTURE SISTER-IN-LAW READ MY BLOG. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL, LADIES! I'M ON TOP OF MY GAME AND WHATNOT, AND TOTALLY DIDN'T ALMOST HAVE BAREFOOT CHILDREN AT THE WEDDING.

Uh, anyway, I'm having a shocking amount of difficulty locating this particular style online, and so, I turn the question over to you, in the event any of you have some good leads.

Many thanks in advance for any guidance you can offer!

Weekend in review, and a Kristin Stewart impression

2009-08-10T22:24:00.019-04:00

Yesterday was undoubtedly one of the most fun days we've had in quite a while.

Wait.

I didn't mean to make it seem like we're usually rending garments and hurling fine china at each other's heads over here, but it was just one of those amazing, heartwarming days where everyone behaves, you get to experience new places and things through your kids' eyes, and only one person has to pee in a plastic cup on the ride home. (Hint: The person in question is recently toilet trained, and was all, "Oh, I don't have to go! I am offended at the mere suggestion, Mother" mere MINUTES before we got stuck in horrific, bumper-to-bumper traffic for nearly two hours, with nary a patch of grass in sight to...christen. Awesome.)

We spent yesterday morning with good friends who recently moved out to Long Island, and as such, we haven't seen them as much as we'd like. Which sucks, since not only do we love them, but T and their daughter adore each other, and were thisclose when they lived here. We took the kids to Adventureland, a mini amusement park for kids.

DIGRESSION: J and I are two of the twelve people in the Western Hemisphere to have seen the *movie*, Adventureland, starring one Kristin Stewart. (One-sentence review of the movie: Great job evincing '80s look, sound, and mood, PISS-POOR JOB CASTING MISS ONE-NOTE MCGEE.) I love Twilight-related shit as much as the next person, but it's clear to me she is of the Hair Mussing School of Dramatic Emoting. I have my impression of her down to a science, and will often do it for J, completely unbidden. He is so lucky to be married to me. What's that? You want to see it? Well, okay. It's a four-tiered process, but one that can easily be mastered with a little practice and black eyeliner:

STEP 1: FIND INSPIRATION. AND EXCESSIVE BANGLES.

STEP 2: INCESSANTLY FUTZ WITH YOUR HAIR. APPEAR TO BE SLEEPY OR PISSED. MAYBE BOTH. LET THOSE BANGLES SHINE!

STEP 3: LOOK REALLY, REALLY HIGH.

STEP 4: PUT IT ALL TOGETHER!

And...SCENE. Now you, too, can perfect your Kristin Stewart impression in the comfort and privacy of your own home! Patent pending!

Where was I? Ah, yes. Adventureland. The kids had a great time, and we kicked things off with a trip on the carousel. I love how I try to project an air of casual nonchalance here, which is belied by my VISELIKE CLAW ARM. It seems I am fearful of an Unfortunate Merry-Go-Round Incident.

Lo was a tad overwhelmed by the lights and noises and therefore decided to engage in some baby yoga to find her zen. Or whatever it is that Yoga People say.

We then made our way over to the...car...carousel...bumper...thing? I'm clearly not well-versed in Carny Lingo. Anyway, point is, my boy made a beeline for the Ghostbusters truck. Considering the present haunted state of our home, I AM CERTAIN THIS CANNOT BE A COINCIDENCE. SAVE US, TOOPWEETS! YOU'RE OUR ONLY HOPE!

Our time at Adventureland over, we said goodbye to one set of friends, and then spent the afternoon at the beach house of (the parents of) some other good friends. Now, my kids have seen LAKE beaches before, but never the "real" beach. They were amazed. T ran around with our friends' son (one of his best buddies), watching fishermen, jumping in the water, and digging in the sand. It was so gratifying and sweet to watch him experiencing the ocean for the first time, and enjoying himself as much as he did. (I wish I could post the pictures of the boys playing together, but I forgot to ask our friends' permission. D'oh!)

Lo had a great time...eating sand. I took this shot, thinking it was all sweet and beachy, only to realize a split second into it that GOOD LORD, SHE WAS MUNCHING ON SAND.

I spent the next hour or so saying insightful things such as, "Why are you eating that sand?" and"Please, love, stop eating that sand." Then, of course, I started, like, trying to REASON with her, and use LOGIC, which, as we all know, are the joint specialties of the 13.5-month-old set. ("That sand is gross! There could be diseases in that sand! MY HEAVENS, DOES THE GRIT NOT DISGUST YOU?")

Of course, she did also find the time to perfect her "Donnie Wahlberg in NKOTB circa 1991" impression... (See? Our dramatic talents are genetic!)

...and practice her walking. (Any month now...)

We finished the day off with a fantastic barbecue back at the beach house, and then set out for our trip back home.

All told, it was a perfect, PERFECT day.

Five Reasons Why You Probably Do Not Want to Come Over Right Now.

2009-08-05T23:49:00.009-04:00

Reason One
J and I have lately become obsessed with watching Antiques Roadshow. I cannot pinpoint when this happened, exactly, but here we are. It has everything: The oft-clueless yet lucky sons of bitches who are all, "I found this rusted can in the alley behind the meth lab!" only to be informed that said can is worth $12,000! The crazy experts, such as Alleged Artwork Connoisseur Who Touches The Books With Her OIL-FILLED HANDS AND OH MY GOD EVEN I KNOW TO WEAR THE COTTON GLOVES, AND MY ART EXPERTISE IS CULLED ENTIRELY FROM SEEING THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR THREE TIMES, YOU ARE KILLING ME HERE, LADY! And of course, Pocketbook Savant Woman Who Wears Hats, Necklace, Pin and Bracelet Made From What Appear to be Many Lacquered Cherries! We find this show to be RIVETING.

In and of itself, this is pathetic, however, the other night, someone brought in a samurai sword, and all I could think of the entire time was how great it would be if the appraiser gasped, shrieking "It's Japanese steel! Hattori Hanzo!" and then dropped to his knees, reverentially weeping. This is an actual thing that I thought. Like, for real.

Reason Two
I have become an insufferable butter snob. (Thank you, JONNIKER. No, seriously. Thank you. I just feel bad for anyone who ever tries to feed me crap butter ever again.) If you come over, I will likely talk your ear off about the virtues of cultured butter, and then make you eat some.

Reason Three
I recently purchased a cotton dress that I promptly and accidentally shrunk. I've since taken to wearing it around my house like a tiny nightgown, pretending I’m on So You Think You Can Dance. I mean, I kind of always do some weird Mia Michaels-type interpretive dance steps to the kitchen for snacks during the show’s commercial breaks, but…everyone does that, right? Right? Anyway, the point is, this dress is totally Opening Sequence Dancer Intro Material. You know, the part where you’re watching, you’re enjoying, and are all, “oh, cute nightgown-dress-thing, Kayla! So funky! So flowy, and –OH GIRL, THERE ARE YOUR UNDERWEARS.” And granted, they’re always wearing boy shorts underneath, but still. It’s…DISCONCERTING, is what it is. So, yes. I’ve taken to wearing this dress frequently (for it's quite comfy), and any time I AM wearing it, I have a great deal of trouble keeping myself from doing high kicks, spins, and Intensely Expressive Hand Movements, even when I am engaged in decidedly NONdance-related activities, such as Passing Olive Oil to my Husband for a Stir-Fry.

Reason Four
As you may know, our apartment is haunted. As such, I’m a little overzealous, shall we say, in terms of identifying potential supernatural activities. It’s quite unfortunate, therefore, that my son has developed a DELIGHTFUL habit of late, called “waking up in the middle of the night and just…standing there. Yep, right over there, in the hallway outside our bedroom.” My god, you guys. Can I tell you how scary it is to be, say, innocently walking to the bathroom to hang up a towel, and seeing a figure just…standing there? Or waking up at 2:00 AM, sensing you're being watched, only to see that…you are? Of course, every time this happens, I don’t realize it’s him at first, and proceed to freak the fuck out, involuntarily emitting a high-pitched scream. Which, in turn, scares him. I wish I could train myself to realize that this is my son, going through a new (AND HEART ATTACK-INDUCING) phase, but alas, I do not, and instead immediately jump to the conclusion that he’s either a vengeful leprechaun, or one of the Children of the Corn. I of course come to my senses after a second, but it's a looooong, shriek-filled second.

Reason Five
The children ate Brussels sprouts for dinner.

So! Who wants to come over?