metalia

It seems that all I can write about lately is trivial things. Why is that? Is it possible that I'm starting to have a mild freakout about the fact that I'm due in a little over a month and am trying to distract myself? (Especially because--unlike the first time around--I really, really haven't done all that much in the way of preparation?) MAYBE.

Is it because I am getting bigger by the day....

...and have no energy to do anything more complex than devour obscene amounts of Trader Joe's Cheese Puffs, let alone attempt to write deep and/or cogent blog posts? POSSIBLY.

Whatever the cause, I see no reason to stop the trivialities tonight. And so, in honor of the season finale of America's Next Top Model, I bring you the following poem about my sad, sad love of the show. (If it seems familiar, it's because it was part of my guest post on Casey's blog a while back. See above, re: NO ENERGY TO THINK.)

The Models (In the style of “The Raven”)

Once upon a weeknight dreary,
While I pondered week and weary
After concluding that all of Wednesday night TV was a bore…
Suddenly there came a sound, of 20 girls jumping around,
Each one looking more and more like a tarted-up old whore.

“’Tis some commercial!” I muttered, “for some tarted-up old whores-
“Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was way back in September,
Before reruns had concluded and TV was good again.
Eagerly I hoped for my shows, because the reruns really did blow.
Wished for my shows to return, and end this dullness evermore.

Back I turned to watch the antics, of the girls, more and more frantic.
As they jumped around while crying, pictures in their hands.
Deep into the distance, peering, long they stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams, and hoisting up their cans.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a woman, with a weave in her hair,
Appeared before the girls and softly whispered “hush” to them.
Wearing a tunic with golden glitter, “Ty” selected her picks of the litter,
Thirteen girls to appear on a little show called ANTM.
Quoth the Tyra, “Keep it fierce.”

The year was ’03, there was nothing else on; I was quite hooked in short order.
Bald caps, swimsuits, catfights, and the occasional eating disorder.
I always laughed aloud at Tyra’s sanctimonious speeches.
As if she alone could stop the wrath of 13 rampaging bitches.
Quoth the Tyra, “Keep it fierce.”

Five years of the show have now passed by, and with them, memories,
Some good, some bad, some dumb (like the thing with the vandalized brownies).
But still I watch this ridiculous show; I can’t lie, there have been some tears.
‘Cuz though it’s dumb and laughably fake, you can’t deny that the girls? WERE FIERCE.

(FYI, my money's on Anya to win.)

Labels: pictures, preggo, too much tv

I was IM’ing with the lovely Susan Wagner earlier today, discussing a multitude of beauty products. As we fully acknowledged our mutual product addictions, she wondered aloud (well, on IM, anyway) what rehab for such addiction would be like, and quickly concluded that it would involve you giving up all of your good stuff, whereupon you would be handed a Chapstick and some Dove soap. THAT’S IT.

*shudder*

As we speculated about the horrors of product addiction rehab, I began to think about the circumstances that would get you there. And that’s when I remembered one of my secret favorite train-wreck shows, Intervention. My god, can you imagine an episode about lip gloss addiction? I can, and it would be AWESOME. So much better and less depressing than the ones about compulsive shopping...or, you know, crystal meth. Here’s how my segment would go:

"I started out kinda young, I guess...dabbling in Chapstick when I was 8, moving on to Wet n' Wild by 10...by 14, I was ponying up the big bucks for Revlon Colorstay. Rich Raisin was my preference...an older cousin introduced me to it. If only I’d known then the choice I was making...It’s been years, man. And I can’t stop. Sure, I’ll slum it at Target and Rite-Aid, but when I need a real fix, what they have to offer just won’t cut it anymore.”

[Cut to me entering Neiman Marcus. Turning to camera.]

“Yep, here I am. Again.” *weeps*

[Cut to the Nars counter. The makeup assistant’s face is blurred out as she counts out my cash and hands me a tube of gloss.]

The intervention would take place in Sephora, after I’d received a (fake) 50% off coupon for the store; all my friends and loved ones would be waiting for me there, prepared to address my little problem and forcibly take away my makeup bag. I'd run crying to the bathroom, presumably to reflect upon the error of my ways and contemplate lip gloss addiction rehab, but the cameras would catch me frantically applying the teeny lipgloss I had attached to my keychain...JUST IN CASE.

Annnnnd.....scene.

Now, admittedly, I don’t buy a new gloss every week. (And I am the total opposite of a gloss snob; I’ll buy anything that looks good, regardless of brand.) But I have amassed quite a collection. See this? This does not represent all of my glosses; it came from ONE BAG:

And so I thought to myself, wouldn’t it be fun (for me, anyway) to do a little lip gloss timeline? Taking you from my youthful mistakes to my present-day favorites? (Answer: Yes. Yes, IT WILL BE FUN, DAMMIT.)

Age 8-14: Cherry Chapstick –I was not allowed to wear any makeup WHATSOEVER until I was 14. The only concession my mom made to this hard-and-fast rule was Chapstick…which, by the way, is still in my beauty arsenal. I resented this rule at the time, but considering that 11-year-olds are getting highlights, and 10-year-olds are getting bikini waxes, in retrospect, perhaps it was good that I got time to be a kid.

Age 14-15: Revlon Colorstay Raisin Lipstick –The next few years were not kind to me. I kicked things off with this long-wearing lipcolor, which hit the lipstick trifecta of being: (a) matte; (b) drying and flaky; (c) A REVOLTING SHADE OF DARK ORANGE. Did I mention that I wore scented body glitter simultaneously with this lipstick? Because I did.

Age 16: "Adult" Film Star Lipstick – I moved on, but didn’t wise up, as my next makeup decision was to rock the ever-classy “pale, pale lipstick, dark, dark lipliner” look favored by women with names like "Candy Rainns" and "Destiny Heavenn". Needless to say, I thought I looked foxy as hell. The sad thing is, I'd tried this look a few years before...

...and then did it AGAIN. Because clearly, I don't learn from my mistakes.

Age 16-18: Clinique Tenderheart Gloss – Heather B. and I were just talking about our respective Clinique Stages, and how every girl goes through one. Mine involved Tenderheart. My mom had received it in one of those “gift with purchase” bags from Clinique, and she gave it to me. It was THE FIRST LIP GLOSS I EVER OWNED. The shine! The sheer color! The texture! I was immediately obsessed, and pretty much abandoned lipstick from that point on. Thank God. This stage also involved their Almost Lipstick in Black Honey. I also topped everything with either MAC Lipglass in Clear, or Urban Decay XXX Shine Lip Gloss in Love Junkie.

The crazy shine imparted by both of these glosses, however, resulted in the unfortunate side effect of them being STICKY BEYOND ALL REASON, and so it was that I perennially walked around with locks of my hair glued to my lips…and then like, having to physically PRY it off, only to be left with clumpy strands of gloss-coated hair that nothing but a good washing would get rid of. Neat!

College years/Early 20’s: Drugstore Diva –Living on my own for the first time, I didn’t have tons of cash to blow on makeup. I needed to save it for necessities like alcohol and cheese puffs. And so, I did most of my makeup shopping at the Duane Reade drugstore around the corner from my apartment. Neutrogena MoistureShine Gloss in Dreamy figured prominently in my routine, as did Almay Ideal Lip Gloss in what I believe was a wine color. I also still wore the supersticky Urban Decay gloss. Because I was an idiot.

Present Day: My top five favorite glosses actually all appear in the picture above. Here they are--in no particular order--with my comments:

Alba TerraGloss in Garnet- Don't be put off by the hot pink gloss that appears in the link! It's actually much tamer than that, more of a neutral/reddish color. I saw this separately on Whiskeymarie and Kerflop, and after asking them both about the beautiful lipgloss they were each wearing (and getting the same answer), I ran out to get it. It's gorgeous, sheer, and tastes vaguely like vanilla frosting. Mmm.

Kiehl's Lip Gloss in Goldenberry- A recommendation from Whoorl, I wear this or the Alba gloss every day. It's a perfect sheer pinky peachy, whatever-y color. This one tastes like mango. Mmm. (Are you sensing a theme here?)

Chanel Glossimer in Sirop - Once again, I urge you not to be put off by the frightening coral shade this gloss appears to be in pictures (um, and in person). Yes, I know it looks like it would go perfectly with a floral pantsuit, orthopedic sandals, and an Early Bird dinner, but I'm telling you, this is one of the most gorgeous, subtle shades I've ever come across. And by "come across" I of course mean "stopped a woman in the street for, in order to ask her what lip gloss she was wearing." (True story.)

Nars Lip Gloss in Foul Play- My search for the perfect nude lip gloss has taken me far and wide, and I can say with great certainty that THIS IS IT.

Nars Lip GLoss in Rose Birman - The good people at Sephora describe this shade as a "sheer raspberry cream." which I guess is pretty accurate. This is my go-to shade for any event that requires me to style my hair, put on heels, and generally look the part of a grown-up.

You know, I'm sure, what I'm going to ask you now, right? What are your faves?

Get to it! (Pretty please.)

(PS: Happy Mother's Day, fellow mamas!)

Labels: lists, makeup, nostalgia, questions

I'd been feeling a tad bummed lately about not being able to go to BlogHer this year. I mean, the prospect of having a new bebe mitigates that (like, A LOT), but even so, I had such a great time there last year, and would love to see/meet so many of the people who are planning to go this year. Plus, I've been so spoiled the past few months, getting to hang out with Moose and Holly in San Francisco... Ali in NYC... as well as these lovely ladies... ...And y'know, pretty much seeing Heather B. more often lately than I see most family members. (I'm SORRY, Grandma! I'll call more!)

Yes, I was seriously going through Blogging Goddess Withdrawal (look it up on WebMD), so just imagine my glee when my internet soul sister informed me that she would be making a quick trip to NYC...and then Heather told me she'd be coming to town too, and pulled together a group of Blogging Goddesses the likes of which NEARLY MADE MY HEAD EXPLODE.

I'm not kidding: (l-r: me, Isabel, Deb, Sarah B., Whoorl, Heather B., Rebecca)

I had a fabulous time with them, and have concluded that, rather than dwelling on not going to BlogHer, I should focus my energies on planting my ass firmly here and just sort of mentally willing every blogger I adore to keep visiting NYC. It should work, right?

Of course, since the evening was so unbelievably lovely, something had to come along and muck it up, and that something was a New York City cab driver named Singh.

Singh picked me up after the get-together, and we began our drive to my home. (And although this has nothing to do with anything, recounting this tale reminds of the time I was in college, got into a cab with some friends...and noticed on the driver's ID placard that the driver's name was Mahboob. MAHBOOB, people. I mean, my God, it's funny now (to me, anyway), so just imagine the impact this name had on a group of extremely drunk college students. Unfortunately, this was back in the time before cameraphones, so there was no way to capture an image of THE BEST NAME EVER.)

Where was I? Oh yeah. Singh, that bastard.

So Singh and I were driving along, we hit a bit of traffic, and he veered off the highway. I couldn't really understand what he was saying, but I picked up a few words, specifically "bathroom" "subway" and "leave." I was slightly alarmed, but told myself had left because he was trying to take side roads to escape the highway congestion.

I asked in a nervous, yet jovial! booming! cheerful! voice where we were going, and I again caught him saying something about the subway.

We soon pulled up to an actual subway station, and I asked him what was going on...and pieced together that he had to go to the bathroom, so he was kicking me out of the cab, and telling me to take the subway. A subway that goes nowhere near my home. Did I mention that it was late at night? Because it was.

He asked me to pay, and (despite being the type of person who recently tipped after an awful haircut) I vehemently refused to give him the full fare. He told me that the subway would be quicker than the highway. I explained that I didn't really care about his thoughts on the most efficient means of transportation for me, I just wanted a cab ride directly to my house, and that he shouldn't have picked me up if he couldn't provide this service. He told me, "bathroom! bathroom!" again, and pleaded with me to leave the cab. I did...but not before writing down his name and cab ID. Singh sped off, presumably to go to the damn bathroom, and I waited on the street corner for almost ten minutes until an available cab came along.

Now...here's my ethical dilemma:

I was obviously PISSED about this turn of events, and would like nothing more than to report ol' Singh for some vague violation of the NYC Taxicab Rider Bill of Rights (yes, such a thing exists), and generally being an ass for leaving me against my will on a random street corner late at night. But...cab drivers in NYC aren't generally known for their wealth, and the guy probably had to go to the bathroom quite badly. So...do I report him and risk him getting fined? Or do I just let the offense go and hope some good karma will come my way in return?

What would you do? I'm genuinely curious.

Labels: blog friends, I love the internet, NYC, pictures, questions

Today we’re going to talk about bras and my butt! Perhaps if there’s time, we’ll have a virtual pillow fight in our pajamas!

(I KNOW this post is going to be irredeemably girly.)

(I apologize in advance.)

(But I'm still unpacking from Passover, dealing with a toddler who has both a double ear infection AND a stomach virus, and forcing myself to finish the Most Depressing Book Ever, so I need a little levity.)

So the reason I was asking about wearing black bras under white shirts the other day is because I recently (inadvertently) engaged in such activity. I was planning to wear a dark top that day, but decided upon a white button-down shirt at the last minute, but forgot to make the appropriate undergarment-related adjustments (i.e., putting on a light-colored bra instead of the black one I was wearing). I went through an entire day like this, and no one said a thing to me. Not a word. And so when I realized my error—ONCE AGAIN, AFTER A WHOLE DAMN DAY HAD ELAPSED—I began to reflect a bit. Did people think I did it on purpose? Did they not want to offend me? I MUST KNOW.

While we’re on the subject, though, I do want to talk about my bras in general. Did I say talk? I mean RAVE. Ordinarily, I loathe Victoria’s Secret bras with a blazing intensity. In my past experience, I have found each and every one I tried on to be a pinchy, ill-fitting, pointy, quadraboob-inducing devil bra. And so I truly have no idea what recently possessed me to give their bras another shot. Was I high on the fruity fumes of their aggressively-scented store? Possibly. All I know is that I found myself in their BioFit section and took the opportunity to try on a few. People, this bra is MAGIC. It’s cut differently for each size, and—oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say that its “cup-specific lift and shape provides natural enhancement for a personalized fit and customized curves.”

Precisely.

GO GET IT.

And now, continuing with my Girliest Post Ever, I have bit of a confession. I was walking downtown last Friday in my skinny maternity jeans that I have convinced myself I will wear forever. (In reality, I will probably never want to look at them again once I have the baby, but whatever.) I was passing by a building site, and a construction worker…complimented my posterior.

To be more specific, he called it “luscious.”

I know it’s clichéd.

I know I should have been offended.

But honestly, people?

I’m now officially eight months pregnant, and couldn't help but be secretly flattered.

Even if the compliment DID come from a grizzled, lecherous construction worker.

Labels: clothes, embarrassment, NYC, preggo

The one good thing about kicking off your morning by inadvertently spilling a cup of fresh pee all over a bathroom is that you know your day can only get better from there.

(A note to my ObGyn’s office: For the love of God, get sinks with THICKER EDGES!)

As you may have surmised, I had a prenatal checkup yesterday. And as I am rapidly learning, I’m apparently incapable of getting through one without incident, and hope they don’t think I was trying to get them back for The Glucola Incident. In any case, the day did get better almost immediately, as Peefest ’08 was followed by a glimpse of Kawika at 31 weeks: I know I’ve been AWOL lately; or --considering my sporadic posting habits-- more AWOL than usual. You see, I’ve been celebrating Passover (specially themed “Ask A Jew” post to follow!), which involves lots of eating, traveling, time with J's family and mine, and of course, using all of my strength to refrain from publicly mocking one of our family members for reading a book during our time together entitled Desperately Seeking a Duke. Did you ever see that episode of Friends where Joey finds Rachel’s trashy book about the vicar? THIS BOOK ACTUALLY HAS A VICAR. And a Marquis! And someone named Rafe! How could I NOT make fun?

Oh, and speaking of awful literature, I must bring this book to your attention. I first heard about My Beautiful Mommy this last week from a friend who works in publishing, and I was HORRIFIED. It's a children’s book which invites you to “join a young girl as her Mommy goes through her plastic surgery experience and learn how the entire family pitches in to help Mommy achieve her beautiful results.”

Um, oh my God?

I seriously never believed there could be a more disturbingly hilarious children’s book than the one about Latawnya, the drug-addicted horse, but clearly I was wrong.

And since I’m all over the place today, you hopefully will not mind if I leave you with a simple -- yet random-- question: Have you ever purposely worn a black bra under a white shirt?

Labels: books, embarrassment, pictures, preggo, questions

So the past week has been interesting. I spent a lovely and not at all stressful afternoon at the hospital last Friday, dealing with Scary Pregnancy Things. The upshot of the ordeal was that both I and bebe were fine, but I was instructed to spend the weekend on “modified bedrest,” which, in case you weren't certain, is incredibly dull. But I shan't dwell; thankfully, I’m now back to my regular routine, and I’ve given my growing fetus a stern talking-to.

And speaking of which, one of the benefits of finally starting to look obviously pregnant is that occasionally, people will offer you their seats on the subway. I say occasionally, because I ride the train during the morning rush hour, when more often than not, young, douchebag businessmen will elbow you in the kidney/beat you about the head and face with their Louis Vuitton briefcases (OF COURSE that’s the bag they have) to get to the elusive empty seat. And then, even if they notice your belly, they will not get up, but rather, look with abnormal interest at their newspaper/subway advertisements for shady podiatrists/iPods-- ANYTHING to avoid the sight of your pregnant belly (and with it, the feeling like they should perhaps get up and offer you the seat). I see this every day, people. You could be ACTIVELY BIRTHING A CHILD ON THE TRAIN, and they’d just stare intently at the ad for Dr. Zizmore’s miracle chemical peel (now, with more fruit acids!).

All of this to say that there are a few kind souls who--when they see a visibly pregnant lady dragging ass out there--will offer up their seats. One such woman was on my train the other day. I was standing there in heels and suit, when she looked up from her book and smiled at me. She then offered me her seat, and told me that I should thank “my man” because she could “just tell that [I was] well cared for, by [my] grooming.” (Like a purebred dog, or something? I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS. HELP ME.) My alarm bells were going off, but she gestured to her seat once again. It was only then that I noticed she was wearing mismatched bedroom slippers, one of which said “Life is Good!” under a picture of an embroidered, smiling daisy.

(The other slipper, in case you were wondering, was blue plush, and sort of nondescript.)

(Well, I guess as nondescript as a slipper on a subway can be.)

I weighed my options...and decided to take the seat. And in so doing, officially became the type of person who knowingly takes seats from crazy people. What have I become?! I am not proud.

I’ve spent the past few days distracting myself from thinking about this by devouring the delicious Canadian chocolate the lovely Angella sent me (Aero chocolate bar! Where have you been all my life?) and catching up on my new favorite obsession, How I Met Your Mother.

Did you people know that this show is HILARIOUS? And if so, why didn’t you tell me?

Labels: I love the internet, notes from the underground, NYC, preggo, too much tv

I’ve made no secret of my boundless adoration for really awful and/or cheesy movies.

I not only own Center Stage on DVD, but VHS, as well. FOR THAT IS HOW LONG I HAVE LOVED IT. I could, if called upon, perform dramatic reenactments of key scenes in the seminal Judge Reinhold/Fred Savage film, Vice Versa. And spontaneously breaking out into songs from Grease 2 is pretty much an everyday occurrence in the Metalia household. (“Let’s bowwwwwwwl tonight…”) Oh, and I’d be remiss in omitting the fact that I have seen Flash Gordon MORE THAN ONCE, and not one of the times involved me watching it against my will, eyelids propped open with toothpicks, Clockwork Orange-style. Yes, I truly thought I was inured to the shock value of the whole Shitty Movie Genre.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for Howard the Duck.

Howard the Duck, for those of you who don’t know, is one of the worst films ever made. And it’s not just ME saying that, but like, EVERY CRITIC IN THE WORLD. I only caught the tail end of it (I’m so punny), but was simultaneously horrified and transfixed. I have the same reaction when I watch Mariah Carey sing, or see pictures of The Pregnant Man. Anyway, I’ve spent the past few days learning all about the movie, and using all of my willpower to refrain from checking if it’s available on NetFlix. Steel yourself, as I am not making any of this up:

Howard is a duck (duh), and by “duck,” I of course mean “a large, anthropomorphic, horny duck wearing a Miami Vice-style suit.” He lives in Duckworld, which I think is in outer space, but is just like Earth, only with ducks. Or something. My god, recapping the movie IS ACTIVELY MAKING ME DUMBER.

Anyway, he’s at home reading Playduck magazine (I SWEAR) when he inadvertently gets beamed to earth by a “laser” (I’m doing Doctor Evil air quotes as I type that. I can’t help it.), and he winds up in Cleveland. Naturally. Even MORE naturally, he meets Beverly (Lea Thompson), a singer, who he rescues from hooligans using his skills of Quack Fu. Please, please don’t ask. She introduces him to her scientist friend, Phil (TIM ROBBINS, WHYYYY?) who figures out how to beam Howard back home. This however, is not before a battle royale with the Dark Overlord (again, I implore you: don’t ask) and a POSSIBLE CONSENSUAL ADULT RELATIONSHIP between Howard the Duck and Beverly the Lea Thompson.

People, it is hard for me to adequately convey just how awful this movie is. Well, at least the parts I saw. All I can say is that I didn’t realize just how far-reaching its effects were until J and I watched the news right after we saw the end of the movie. There was a brief segment on President Bush getting to throw out the first pitch at a baseball game. And then this happened:

11:15 pm

Me: Oh my God, J! I just thought of the BEST idea ever for an awful movie!

J: What is it?

M: Okay, so there’s this president--who I envision will be played by a Quaid brother, by the way--who is going along in his presidency, doing fine, but he can’t help but feel like he’s missing out on something. Something special. Something life-affirming.

J: Okay, keep going.

M: Then he’s told he’s throwing the first pitch out at a baseball game. You know, all ceremonial-like.

J: Uh huh.

M: And it turns out..he’s TOTALLY AWESOME at pitching.

J: Oh, no. I see where this is going.

M: [ignoring this] So the team wants to draft him.

J: Well, obviously.

M: Right, but he’s still the President, so he has some tough decisions to make. I’m envisioning a long, midnight walk by the Lincoln Memorial for that scene.

J: M, does this end up with him being both a major league baseball pitcher and President of the United States?

M: YES! Yes, it does!

J: I think the awfulness of Howard the Duck has gotten to you.

M: Admit that this could totally be an actual movie, J!

J: It could. What’s the title going to be?

M: SHIT. I have no idea.

J: You let me know when you come up with something. Love you, good night.

M: You, too.

Four hours later…

M: J! J! I’ve got it!

J: [sleepily]: Wha?

M: COMMANDER IN CLEATS: “Lefty politics, righty at the bat!”

J: It may be 3 in the morning, but I have to admit that’s actually perfect. Also, you are insane.

To focus the attention away from the fact that I STILL honestly believe this could be a real movie, let’s talk about you:

What’s the worst movie you’ve ever seen? (Also, do you believe that Commander in Cleats could be a real movie? DO YOU?)

***UPDATE***

A) I'm also guest posting over at Loralee's site today. I know, I know: Metalia? Two posts in less than 24 hours? Trust me, I'm as surprised as you are.

B) I'm giggling over your comments, and I'm stealthily adding some of these movies that I haven't yet seen to our NetFlix queue.

Labels: embarrassment, movies, us

This weekend was fabulous for a number of reasons, big and small:

• A blog (and now real) friend of mine got some amazing news she’s been waiting to hear for some time.

• I was informed that I have neither gestational diabetes nor anemia.

• I discovered that Trader Joe’s sells garlic and herb pizza dough.

• And of course, I got to get together with these lovely ladies for brunch.

Oh noes! I’m not in the picture! We can fix that.

(For you see, after our brunch, Heather B. and I spent a few hours walking, shopping, and laughing to the point of audibly snorting. At one point, we were in H&M and I stumbled upon the World’s Most Hideous Jacket. I decided that it would be HILARIOUS to try it on and take a picture, and Heather obliged. Lest you think alcohol was involved, I am 7 months pregnant, and she was a tragic victim of NYC’s new “no alcohol served in restaurants before noon on Sunday” rule.)

• …Which brings me to my next good thing: The fact that I now have the perfect picture of me looking batshit crazy to insert into other pictures. Not only can I conveniently insert myself into pictures where my presence would (sort of) make sense…

…But I can also shake up international diplomacy with my Fonzie face:

AWESOME.

• My secret crush, Christopher Walken, hosted Saturday Night Live this week. This was my favorite sketch:

• Finally, I got to spend some quality time running after Toopweets at the park yesterday, and got this sweet picture of him, staring at an airplane:

A great weekend, all around. Up next: Stay tuned for my critical exegesis of Howard the Duck.

Labels: bebe, blog friends, I love the internet, pictures

So remember over a week ago, when I was all, “Help me pick out what to wear to the fancy dinnerrrrr!” and you came out in droves with advice?

Well, the black outfit was the winner. In the end, I suppose it was more fitting for the event in question, and afforded me the opportunity to get some cute new shoes to go with it. (More on those in a minute.) That said, I do still love the brown lace outfit, so if one of you would like to throw some sort of fancy ball/party/bar mitzvah/cotillion/box social and invite me so that I can wear it some time before the end of this pregnancy? That would be AWESOME. I promise I'll behave.

Here’s what the full outfit looked like:

Thanks again for your advice!

* * * * *

In other news, I had a checkup with my (very cute) obstetrician today, which included my gestational diabetes test. This is noteworthy not only because hot obstetrician and I randomly discussed the finer points of making beef jerky, but also because…I actually took my gestational diabetes test.

You see, I have been trying to take the test for three weeks in a row now. Due to circumstances beyond my control, however, my appointments kept getting messed up in random ways. And each time, the mess-up happened AFTER I had already drank the wretched glucose drink (“Glucola”) for the appointment and was about to hurl, and my fetus (let’s officially call it Kawika, Heather B.’s original suggestion) was hopped up on the sugar and performing Rockette-like kicks against my ribcage.

The first week, it turned out they had given me the wrong date, so the office was closed...

And then last week, I drank EXPIRED GLUCOLA, which would have rendered the results of the test invalid...

I'm happy to say that this week, it finally worked out, and I showed that test who was boss. (Oh, and here are the shoes that I wore with my black outfit to the dinner.) I must say, I will laugh my ASS off if I actually have gestational diabetes after all that.

Incidentally, I just learned that my cute obstetrician IS ALSO A VOLUNTEER FIREFIGHTER. So in addition to delivering bebes and curing his own beef jerky, HE SAVES PEOPLE FROM BURNING BUILDINGS.

Be still my heart.

* * * * *

J is in Vegas on another business trip, and this time, I made him bring his camera, in the event he happened upon any Gossip Girl stars again. Naturally, since he came prepared with the camera, it has not happened. YET. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I’ll be taking my usual, sane approach to him being out of town.

* * * * *

(Pssst: Another “Ask a Jew” post is in the works. I have a lot of questions to answer from the comments on the last one, but if you have any more, please feel free to submit them!)

Labels: clothes, pictures, preggo

I had a busy weekend, chock full of family, assorted social events, and my introduction to the cinematic atrocity that is Howard the Duck. And of course, I attended the dinner in the “winning” outfit that you selected.

And while I will write about all that very soon, it’s going to have to wait for a bit. You see, I need to ask you all to help me with something. Something much bigger than me, and something much more important than the types of things with which I usually request your assistance.

As many of you know, I went to BlogHer this past summer, and roomed with the lovely Emily. Not only did we have a great time together in Chicago, but we’ve also maintained a close email/blog friendship since then. Unfortunately, Emily recently emailed me with some very sad news: Her good friends, Brian and Katie, have a little girl (also named Emily) who has just been diagnosed with cancer. Specifically, a cancerous tumor the size of a baseball at the base of her brain.

Emily is 16 months old.

She’s a trooper, though, and miraculously made it through a 12-hour surgery, where doctors were able to remove 50 to 70 percent of the tumor. Still, the cancer has spread to her spine, and she has a long road ahead of her which will likely involve a lot of chemotherapy.

Although they live in the DC area, Brian and Katie have decided that Savannah is the best place for Emily’s treatment. They are going to be staying there for an undetermined amount of time while the doctors do what they can to get Emily cancer-free. In order to make this work, Brian, a teacher, had to take an unpaid leave of absence. Katie is a stay-at-home mom. Obviously, their priority now is spending as much time with Emily as they possibly can, and doing whatever it takes to make sure their little girl gets better.

Just thinking about their expenses right now has my mind reeling. Their bills are going to be staggering, particularly considering that they have no income right now. And so, when my friend Emily asked me to spread the word about their situation, I of course told her I would. I wanted to help in any way I could, and publicizing it here is one of the ways I’m doing it.

And as for what I wanted from you? If nothing else, please go to Emily’s blog and read the full story of this wonderful family, and this unfortunate situation they're going through. Please have them in your thoughts and prayers. They’ve told Emily that--more than anything else--that’s what they need right now. If you want to help out with their expenses, anything would help, and Emily has set up a “donate” button on her site.

Should you want to spread the word even more, consider linking to Emily’s post in one of your own this week, and getting the word out to your own readers. I truly thank you so much in advance for anything you do.

Labels: I love the internet, seriously