Six Songs

"What is best in music is not to be found within the notes." --Gustav Mahler

Someone recently asked me what my favorite song is. That’s a question that people ask (and try to answer) a lot. I never really have a good response; it changes constantly, and it depends on what you mean by “favorite.” Is it your go-to “sit in your room and mope” song? The tune you put on when you’re getting ready to go out with your girls/guys? The song that was playing at the roller rink when you had your first “couples skate?” (Please tell me I’m not the only one who remembers that…) I think the term “favorite” has a lot of connotations with respect to music, and thus makes answering the question, at least for me, quite difficult. But the question got me thinking. Not about what my favorite songs are, but rather, the songs that are the most evocative to me; the ones that when I hear them, I stop for a moment as a memory comes rushing back. Here are my six significant songs. Why six? Because that’s the number of songs I thought of. Also, alliteration is cool.

Into the Mystic, Van Morrison – I’d never heard this song before I met J. When we were going out, we were hanging out at my apartment one Sunday morning in the winter. I was sitting on my bed in my pajamas, and he was sitting across the room. The sunlight was seeping through the blinds, and this song came on. It was gorgeous, and I was blown away by it. J started telling me something, and quite honestly, I can’t even remember what it was. Because in that moment, something clicked, and I knew that I was going to marry him one day. The song was playing in the background when he proposed, as well. Whenever I hear that song, I think of that winter morning when I realized I’d found my husband.

Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana – I honestly don’t remember much of the music that I listened to in my youth. But I remember the first time I heard this song. I was probably 12 or 13, and just getting into the melodramatic teenage angst everyone that age things is mutually exclusive to their life. I borrowed the tape (tape!) from a friend, and hit play. From the opening bars, I knew it was different, but then Kurt Cobain’s ragged voice and raw emotion came right through the shitty earphones of my Walkman. I was entranced; it was such a departure from anything else I’d heard up until then. He railed against conformity, and although the lyrics were at times nonsensical, hearing the song was a defining moment for me; I remember, to this day, hearing it and thinking, “I’m a teenager now.”

Grateful Dead, Sugar Magnolia –No real story here, other than to say that this song completely reminds me of my year abroad and college. Whenever I hear it, I’m wholly and immediately transported.

Song 2, Blur/Hallelujah, John Cale –These two songs don’t seem like they go together, but for me they’re inexorably linked. The evening of September 10, 2001, I was just beginning my senior year of college, and had spent much of the evening writing a short paper on my computer, with my music playing as I typed. The last song I heard before I finished was Song 2 (aka, “Woo Hoo”) by Blur. Consequently, it was stuck in my head all evening, and even the next morning, as my roommate shook me awake.

Unfortunately, the catchy song was quickly forgotten as she wordlessly pointed to the TV, tears streaming down her face. Not knowing what to do (because really, who did?) I walked to school like a zombie, and watched a terrible chapter in history unfold. As I walked back to my apartment a few hours later, feeling less innocent somehow, many people were sort of milling around in the street. It was, ironically, a beautiful day, and many people had their windows open. From a low floor in a nearby building, the unmistakable tune of “Hallelujah” floated out. A few of us stopped and listened; I recognized it as John Cale’s version. A man’s voice from among the small silent crowd that had gathered spoke up: “Can you turn that louder, please?” We couldn’t see the person who’d been playing the song, but he/she complied wordlessly from their apartment. We all stood there quietly, letting the melody wash over us; some crying, some with their heads bent low, and, for a brief moment on a terrible day, we found some comfort. I actually bought the CD shortly thereafter; I’ve never been able to bring myself to listen to it.

We Didn’t Start the Fire, Billy Joel– I know…but a part of me really does love this song. Come on, you know you do, too. I was about 9 when this song came out, and my friends and I all loved it. We spent time trying to write down/memorize all the lyrics. Whenever I hear it now, I get all nostalgic. And then, of course, try to remember what comes after “Nasser and Prokofiev.”

By all means, please feel free to take this idea. If you do it, let me know in the comments; I’d absolutely love to see what songs are meaningful to you. :)

Have a great weekend and a happy New Year!

I Walk the Line Because I am a Rider on the Storm, so Hit the Road, Jack (Or: Why I Hate Biopics about Musicians)

Between family parties, eating constantly, and entertaining at our place, at some point during the long weekend, we found some time to watch Walk the Line. It’s all critically acclaimed and whatnot, so I was expecting to be completely blown away by the film. I...was not. It was okay; the acting was excellent, and Reese Witherspoon looked gorgeous, but I’ve come to the conclusion that I, um…intensely hate biopics, particularly those that are about musicians.

I think, though, that I’ve figured out why, and it boils down to this:

If your life as a musician was crazy/interesting enough to warrant a biographical movie, then you were, most likely, more than a little bit of a douchebag. (See: The portrayals of Jim Morrison in The Doors,* Ray Charles in Ray, and Johnny Cash in Walk the Line.**) And other than, say, a teenage girl who doggedly lusts after the hot and troubled guy at school (the one who was nice to her one time when he was drunk at that party, but then set her hair on fire on three subsequent occasions), I don’t know anyone who enjoys watching an asshole be an asshole for 2-plus hours in real life. I just wonder when it became a good idea to make that concept into a movie.

The other factor contributing to my hatred of biopics is that they quite often just exemplify lazy-ass film making; each movie obviously changes a few salient points, but at the core, they are EXACTLY THE SAME. After careful consideration, I've determined that the formula involves three (3) or more of the following:

• Childhood trauma! (A tragedy involving a sibling is most common. And if you know anything about me, you know I am totally at ease watching children in peril.)

• Success! (Usually accompanied by a cathartic “Screw you, Dad!” scene.)

• Cheating! (A hysterically crying spouse/girlfriend discovering the cheating will figure prominently here. Bonus points if she's flailing on the floor while weeping inconsolably.)

• Drug/Alcohol Abuse! (Maybe he’ll get high, then…[drumroll] look in the bathroom mirror, and disgustedly fling the drugs to the floor! A particularly artsy director will follow one lone pill rolling across the tiles.)

• Inevitable recitation by a character of famous lyrics! (The actual song featuring same will of course play at a key moment in the film.)

• Hitting rock bottom, and of course…

• Redemption!

Come on, directors, get it together. One could practically make a drinking game out of these plot devices. Hmmm...I just gave myself an idea for the next time I have to sit through one... (And this will happen, as I will of course get suckered again into thinking that THIS movie will be different.) Are there any good ones?! Ones where perhaps I won't want to throttle the main character?

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Oh! Also? I mentioned this in my comments here, but I can’t really expect you to go back and check, so it bears repeating: Thanks again to all of you for your bangs-related advice. I still don't know if I'm going to get 'em or not, but at least now I have some fresh perspectives. A very special thank you to the very funny Kate for the salon recommendation and the tip...the only thing better than a really good haircut is a really good FREE haircut :)

*Man, for someone who hates The Doors as much as I do, I certainly have mentioned them a lot on this blog.

** I sincerely hope I didn't offend anyone who loves these guys. However, the thing is, while I know they're amazing artists, their copious talent doesn't make them nice people. Consequently, I'm wholly comfortable saying that I feel they were douchebags.

WWJB?

On Sunday, as our son took his afternoon nap, J and I were watching TV, and quickly became engrossed in a show on the History Channel about the lost years of Jesus. We both become ginormous losers when it comes to all things history-related. Add to that my fascination with learning about foundations of the major religions, and what you have there is a perfect storm of History Channel-induced supernerdery. It’s like when Clark Kent becomes Superman only….the opposite. And with less blue spandex.

Anyway, the show was purportedly going to address the whereabouts of one Mr. Jesus Christ during his lost years, but it really didn’t actually answer any of the questions raised in the beginning. The narrator kept saying crap like, “Could Jesus have lived in [blah] from the years of [blah] to [blah]? Uh…Perhaps!” And then a wild-haired historian wearing a corduroy blazer (of course he was) with an ill-advised denim button-down shirt (with. a. TIE.) would concur. Whenever the narrator would make a particularly ambitious leap in logic, a British female historian with a bun and would mysteriously appear. Her accent exuded authority, and thereby assisted in lending credence to the wacky theories.

I mean, I sort of get that the show couldn’t answer the overarching question, because really, who can? The narrator wasn’t there. Neither, to my knowledge, was Denim Button Down or Bun Lady. But then…what’s the point?

Needless to say, J and I were kind of annoyed at having wasted our time watching a show that essentially concluded, “Ha ha! We just spent an hour asking variations on the same very basic question, and didn’t give you guys any resolution…Suckas!” Consequently, we decided that we could do the same show, but better, and with far more interesting suppositions. All we need now are someone with a posh accent who is willing to acquiesce to our insane speculations, and anyone possessing a button-down denim shirt. Here are our theories for the show so far.

Where was Jesus During his Lost Years 2: Electric Boogaloo

• Backpacking across India;
• Serving as lead singer for The Doors;
• Finding himself at college (Berkeley, most likely);
• Inventing the internet (sorry, Al Gore);
• Watching Lord of the Rings; and
• Hey, what happens in Nazareth stays in Nazareth.

(Any more theories you all may have for my imaginary show are most welcome, of course.)

Edited to add: Blogger, why are you removing all my double-spaces-after-periods when my posts are published?

Seriously.

It's not often (i.e., never) that I write about more serious topics here; I sort of consider this my little outlet from that stuff. But I saw something this week that really affected me, and I've been thinking about it ever since. I'm a little nervous to make what you will soon see is a dramatic deviation from the general tone of this blog (e.g., discussions on unintentionally hilarious children's toys, run-ins with hobos, and lately for some reason, myriad forms of barf). But like I said, it's been on my mind, so I finally figured that perhaps I should just write about it. I promise, I'll go back to talking about my usual crap tomorrow :) I was taking the subway to work on Thursday, and like everyone else, I was in my own little world. The guy to my right was ensconced in the Wall Street Journal. I was reading a great book. (Thanks again, Miss Peach.) A teenage boy across the aisle was checking out the (admittedly nice) ass of a lady standing with her back to him. Seated next to the boy, a woman about my age was staring intently at a creased and well-worn piece of paper in one hand. She had a worried/intense look of concentration on her face, and was fiddling with a tiny diamond cross on a chain around her neck with the other hand. I'm not even sure she realized she was doing it. The hand that was holding the page was shaking a bit. Her fingertips were white from holding the paper so tightly. I watched her for a few moments, curious as to what she could be reading, and went back to my book. At the next stop, an elderly man boarded the train, so I gave my seat to him and got up. I wound up standing right by the woman who was staring at the page in front of her. I couldn't help it; I glanced down to see what she was reading. It was a page of instructions from her doctor related to ongoing fertility treatments. She'd scribbled notes all over it, and the page was wrinkled from her holding it so tightly. I obviously know that some people unfortunately do have a hard time getting pregnant, and throughout my pregnancy, we were incredibly grateful that we did not. In retrospect, however, I truly think that, until the moment I saw this woman, it was all really abstract. I'm in no way saying that I can even begin to comprehend that type of situation now, by mere virtue of briefly observing this woman. All I'm saying is that seeing that paper she was reading with the long list of instructions and drugs to take, made me concretely and literally see exactly what it is that people sometimes have to endure to try to have a kid, and even then it's not a certainty. That paper, and the expression on the woman's face as she kept reading and rereading the page, oblivious to everything else on that train, quite plainly stunned me. I immediately looked away, feeling incredibly bad that I'd seen this, but also feeling something else that I couldn't yet classify. My stop was next, and as I got off the train, I was still thinking about her. She remained in my thoughts throughout the day, and it was not until I got home from work and took my son from his nanny's arms that I finally realized what it was that I was feeling. And it's not pity, or that I take things for granted, or anything like that: I've always felt wholly grateful for our kid, but this brief incident deepened, in a sense, that feeling. I've been hugging him just a little bit tighter, and for just a few seconds more, since I saw what I did. I can't even tell you how much I hope that this works out for her. It has nothing to do with platitudes like "she's deserving" or "she wants it so badly…" Because the truth is? I don't know who she is, or anything about her. All I know about her is that she wants to have a baby, and it's not going so well for her. What I feel now is, quite simply, a sense of gratitude to her for making me appreciate my situation even more. I know she didn't even realize it, and had no such intention, but its the truth all the same. Wherever she is right now, I thank her, and hope that she gets the good news she's been hoping for very very soon. Happy holidays to you all, whatever you're celebrating.

She Bangs (?)

I need a bit of help with something very trivial...I know it’s perfect timing and all, as everyone is off to see their families/friends, and are probably not wasting time online. All the same:

This week, we watched The Devil Wears Prada, which, putting aside Andrea (the heroine)’s unwarranted sense of entitlement, was super cute. I lusted after the clothes, and the plot was entertaining. It also made me want a thick fringe of bangs, just like Andrea got after she had her inevitable makeover, which included, of course, a haircut (by which I mean, removal of the ratty and obvious wig she wore for the first act). This will happen to me on occasion; I get bored with my hair, and decide I need a radical change. I tried to see what I would look like with bangs by smooshing/folding my hair up on my forehead. I finally got it sort of normal-looking, but sadly, I don’t think thick bangs are for me. I was trying to figure out why, and then I realized. As with most things in life, Tyra Banks has clarified matters. Now, by way of background, each season on America’s Next Top Model, Tyra will find some way to dramatically bring up her tale of woe about her big-ass forehead. And each season, she also finds her moment to go “my forehead is so big…it’s a FIVEhead!” And then she cackles like a ninny. The “models” inevitably follow suit. Of course, it’s hard to hear the gleeful laughter over the sound of Tyra's arm popping out of its socket, as she reaches to pat her own self on the back to congratulate herself on her fantastic joke, but I digress. Anyway, I’ve determined that I have the opposite problem: If I may paraphrase Miss Banks (if you’re nasty), I think I have a twohead. (Now, to truly get the effect of her saying this, imagine me wearing a bustier in the middle of the goddamn day, an aggressively shiny skirt one full size too small, and a poorly blended weave. Oh, and an exaggerated sense of what is intended to be gravitas, but what actually comes across as hilarious melodramatics.)

But.

The bangs are so cute, and I’m bored with my hair. I just fear that bangs might make me look like any number of winsome child actors from the 70’s who eventually turn to drugs and crime, and end up on E! True Hollywood Story; it’s not exactly the look I’m going for.

So, I’m torn. To bang, or not to bang? (Hee!) Suggestions are welcome. (Incidentally, I've just learned that it’s really really awkward to take a picture of yourself. As you can see, I am truly a master photographer.) :

Bad Santa

Oh, lord... Here is the scariest Santa you will ever see. He apparently dwells in the window of a candy store by my office. I suppose the fact that he is made of chocolate diminishes his evil somewhat, but still, he scared the everloving shit out of me when I passed by. His eyes! Look at his eyes! (Or, you know...don’t, if you enjoy maintaining possession of your immortal soul and all). The only way I could look at him without getting totally spooked was by telling myself that he’s only making that face because Mrs. Claus is…entertaining him, if you know what I mean, and I think that you do. (Actually? Now that I think about it, that may be even MORE disturbing. Sigh…Back to square one.)

Lipgloss Recommendation? Check. Weird Story? Check. Discussion on Whale Vomit? Check. Yup, Sounds Like I’ve Got Myself a Post.

So, since you guys said that an occasional beauty product discussion would not make you fall dead asleep at your computers drooling, I must now take a moment to rave about a recent find. But first, for my male readers, here is something to keep you entertained while everyone else reads the next two paragraphs: Boobies. Anyway, my usual every day lipgloss is this pale sheer subtle pink one named Glaze. It is lovely, but since it is made by Chanel, it costs eleventy billion dollars. Okay fine, it costs $26. But that’s still a lot of money for glorified Vaseline, I think. As you can see by the attached picture, I’m running low, and while at Target recently (of course), I saw that Neutrogena makes lipgloss, as well. I bought what I thought was a pretty safe color (eerily enough, also called Glaze...The full name, actually, is MoistureShine Lip Soother.) Guys, it is SO pretty, and about a quarter of the price of my other go-to gloss. Plus, it gives you a slight Blistex/Carmex-esque tingle, which is cool if you’re into that (which I am). It is also a sheer pink, slightly deeper than the Chanel gloss, but I’ve told a few people (with diverse complexions) about it, and so far, it seems to be universally flattering. The only down side is that it is sweet, so I lick it off my lips all the damn time. But hey, it’s cheap, so I can just buy (and subsequently eat) more! Here are the two glosses:

Next up--We went to my in-laws this past weekend, and J decided that he wanted to pick up some flowers in the city for us to bring to his mom. He walked into a regular, nondescript florist and told the woman that he wanted her to arrange a bouquet. She then asked “How much are you looking to spend? $200? $150?” J said $40, which, in my experience, is a perfectly acceptable amount to spend on a bouquet. The florist stared at him momentarily, and then said the following (which we have since been paraphrasing and using at every opportunity): “I think that someone in your…situation… would do better to take a look at our small, pre-arranged bouquets.” (While I was not present for this exchange, I can only imagine that the phrase “pre-arranged bouquets” was uttered with the same inflection one might use for “overflowing toilet” or “diseased yak.”) Um, excuse me? “Situation?” J wasn’t wearing a tinfoil hat and trying to pay with Lucky Charms marshmallows. At least I don’t think he was… And finally, what you’ve all been waiting for…the whale vomit! While reading the New York Times today, I came across what is perhaps the best newspaper article ever written. Even the title is amazing: Please Let It Be Whale Vomit, Not Just Sea Junk The article is about some old lady who has what may or may not be ambergris, a very rare (and consequently costly) substance that is, essentially...whale vomit. Awesomely, her sister sent it to her saying she found it on the beach (50 years ago) and had no idea what the hell it was. If what she has is in fact the precious whale vomit, it could be worth $18,000. I’m certain you are all going to click on the link to the article, but if for some reason you do not, here are the glorious highlights: [Ms. Dorothy Ferreira] was soon summoned to show the thing at a town board meeting, after which a story in The Independent, a local newspaper, declared Ms. Ferreira the proud new owner of “heirloom whale barf.”

Larry Penny, 71, director of East Hampton’s natural resources department, said he had no way of making a definite determination, because “we don’t keep a certified whale-vomit expert on staff.”

[Mr. Penny said] “The older folks would always tell us, ‘Keep your eyes open for that whale vomit because it’ll pay your way through college.’ ” If this is not hilarious, I seriously don’t know what is.

Also, when did I become someone who posted about barf (human, and whale) on two occasions within the past 4 days? That's just weird. I just realized that each of the three topics I discussed has mentioned the price of something, so this post actually has a theme! Woot! Yes, perhaps lipgloss, snobby florists, and whale vomit really ARE more alike than we think.

Whisper Words of Wisdom, Letter P (updated)

The lovely Stefanie has assigned me the letter “P” in this here meme. The object? To name 10 things you love that start with a certain letter. When I initially saw that “P” was my letter, I thought to myself “Poh, prap.” You see, at first, I couldn’t think of anything I loved that started with “P.” But the more I considered it, the more things came to me. Behold, my “10 Things I Love That Start with the Letter ‘P’:”

Penmanship -- Not my own, mind you. I have the inscrutable scrawl of a small child just learning to write. I don’t know if it has to do with my being a lefty, but my handwriting is wholly illegible. This is probably why I am fascinated by people who can write neatly. My husband is one of those people; he has beautiful penmanship, and I’m always marveling over it, and oftentimes, I’ll stare intently as he is writing. I’m pretty sure he’s more than a little freaked out by this.

Pop Culture -- I so very much enjoy sitting down on a quiet Saturday afternoon with my stupid stupid magazines, and totally zoning out. If the situation arose where every single “E!” host, US Weekly writer, and “Best Week Ever” talking head were tragically struck down in a freak accident, I am fully confident that, if called upon, I could serve as a perfect substitute for any or all of them. I am not particularly proud of this. The fact remains, however, that I adore pop culture in all its forms.

Pajamas -- I stay in them as long as I can in the morning, and I pretty much strip down out of my work clothes and into them the moment my key hits the lock. I knew I had a problem when one morning, I woke up, and, wearing black pajama pants, thought to myself, “Can I get away with these at the office? They’re black pants; who would know?!” Fortunately, sanity won out, but it was a close one, I must say.

Pedicures -- As I recently mentioned in an email conversation with Guinness Girl, I never used to get pedicures and would just paint my toes myself. (I write tremendously exciting emails, as you can plainly see.) When I was pregnant, however, there came a time when simply seeing my feet was physically impossible, and consequently, the thought of actually reaching them and subsequently polishing my toes precisely was ludicrous. And so, I started getting pedicures, and haven’t looked back. They are a tiny bit of heaven.

Pralines and Cream Ice Cream from Baskin Robbins -- This is, quite simply, the best ice cream flavor evah. It’s been my favorite since I was a little girl, and I have never strayed. I could probably easily write the rest of this list by simply listing foods I like that start with “P,” but I do not want to seem like a little piggie, so instead, I’ll just put them here: Potatoes (all forms. Mashed? Baked? French fries? Chips? Pringles? Bring ‘em on!), peanut butter (Dear son, PLEASE don’t be allergic. xoxo, mom), peaches and plums, pumpkin pie, pecan pie, pickles (dill), pizza, panna cotta with berries, and hot pretzels. Mmmm.

Princess Bride, The -- I know I mentioned my fondness for this movie in my “100 things” list, but it bears repeating. Really, this movie is just so good. I love it so.

Prescriptives Camouflage Cream – I’ve been wearing this concealer since I was 14 years old; I’ve tried others, but this is simply the best one out there...Apropos of which, I have a question. I LOVE when people talk about beauty products/other random crap they like on their blogs. My question is, am I the only one who loves reading that type of stuff? (Compounding this is my tendency to tell my friends whenever I come across something cool that I think they would like as well.) Because if I am not alone, I may occasionally do stuff like that. Again, provided it doesn’t bore people. To wit, my next item (and, I suppose, the one I just wrote):

Pomegranate Mango Body Wash -– This stuff smells SO good, I can’t even tell you. I found it in my favorite store (O Target, how I wish you started with the letter "P"), and it far surpasses the stuff we usually buy from Bath and Body Works (though in fairness, that could also be because they have been coming up with some really weird scent combos lately…but I digress). It's amazing. It's really cheap. Get it. Trust me.

Playing Games -- Taboo, Apples to Apples, Scrabble, poker (all types) Trivial Pursuit, the New York Times crossword puzzle (…does that count as a game? I'm going with yes.)…I love games of all kinds. (Except Monopoly; Monopoly, you can just suck it. You. Take. Forever.) I get all kinds of giddy when I play. Especially when wine is involved.

Puerto Rico – We went there for our honeymoon…I loved everything about it. The beaches, the ocean, the hotel…everything except the motherpucking swan (I’m all about sticking to the letter “P” here), that attacked me in our hotel’s “tranquility” garden. Let me tell you, there is NOTHING tranquil about minding your own damn business, and having a freak-ass swan come flapping out of a pond, completely unprovoked, and lock in on you, for some unknown reason, ultimately deciding that biting your poor, innocent knee is really the obvious thing to do here.

Stefanie, this was so much fun to do :) If anyone else is interested, I’ll give you a letter…just let me know in your comment.

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Edited to add: Panati's Extraordinary Origins of Everyday Things -- I cannot believe I forgot this book; I am a wealth of useless/trivial information, and this book is one of the things that caused me to become so.

A Long, Somewhat Meandering Tale about Vomit that Ultimately has a Happy Ending

Hi, internet. How was your day yesterday? Good! Oh, my day? Well, do you mean before or after I inadvertently sat in the barf? Sigh… This actually has a happy ending, but I think the most effective manner in which to convey what transpired is to simply show you the series of correspondence I was directed to write as a result of the event. Hmm...Upon rereading my initial email, it seems that I may come across as a weird and crazy old lady. This is not true. I am in fact quite young. I never would’ve thought to write this email, but my very smart co-worker told me that Metro-North is very customer service-oriented. And she is totally correct; they are! Here is my story, in complaint-email form: ************************************* To Whom It May Concern: I wanted to make you aware of a situation that transpired this morning. I boarded the 7:48 am Grand Central Terminal-bound Hudson Line Metro North Train at the [redacted] station. There was an empty "three seater" available, so I promptly sat down. A moment after I took my seat, a woman across the aisle took note of the fact that I was sitting there and immediately told me to get up. She explained that someone had apparently vomited all over the three seater that I was sitting in earlier this morning. This had clearly happened much earlier this morning, as the seat was dry, and didn't have a particularly overpowering stench from afar. Once I stood up, however, the back of my pants and coat were caked with the remnants of the vomit. I do not need to tell you about the smell. [Hee! What is wrong with me?! Why was that line necessary?] I of course find this repellent [thank you, entries in the computer thesaurus under the word “gross!”], but what I find particularly bothersome is that, as I mentioned, this had obviously happened much earlier this morning, and no one had cleaned it up, or at the very least, put up a sign. My coat must now be dry cleaned, and I was forced to buy a replacement for my filthy pants once I reached Grand Central. (Of course, I will also have to dry clean the pants.) I would therefore appreciate your prompt reply to this situation, including any potential for reimbursement for the expenses incurred by this event. [I totally hadn't thought to do this, but my brilliant work friend suggested it.] Thank you very much, [Metalia] Here was their response: Unsanitary Car Conditions Incident: 061214-000016 Dear Ms. [Metalia]: Thank you for your e-mail regarding the condition of the "three seater" on the 7:48AM train from [redacted] to Grand Central Terminal. Please accept our apologies for any unplesantness [sic] or discomfort as a result of the situation. Providing a comfortable, and environmentally safe ride on all trains is very important to Metro-North…The condition cited in your e-mail should certainly not be overlooked, and I have forwarded your e-mail to appropriate Operations Services managers for their review. Regarding reimbursement for any cleaning or other expenses related to this incident, you may contact our Claims Services Department at [redacted], and a representative will be more than happy to assist you.I trust taking these steps will be helpful to you. Sincerely, [redacted]

Senior Customer Relations Specialist

*********************************** So I called the Claims department, completely expecting a runaround, but guess what? They are totally refunding me the money for the skirt I bought to replace my vomit-caked pants, as well as my dry-cleaning bill for the pants and coat. Woot! But, I still must ask two questions: *The first, clearly, is: WHY did that have to happen in the first place? *The second, slightly less obvious, question: Why was I uncharacteristically practical/frugal at Banana Republic when I was buying the replacement clothes? I bought a skirt from the sale rack, and the whole time, I could’ve bought this. (A little much for work, but adorable all the same...particularly with the belt that I'm sure doesn't come with it.) Also…

Dear girl ahead of me in line with your hair in an obvious messy “morning after” bun: Bravo on not even attempting in the least to pretend that you didn’t just have a random one night stand. Here’s a list of her purchases: one pair of underwear, one sweater. That is all. (Lest you think I’m jumping to conclusions, her little bag from Rite Aid held deodorant and mouthwash.) Stand proud, girl! Have a great weekend!

You Be The Judge: A Hypothetical Question (With Pictures)

Whoorl's post today just reminded me of something I've been meaning to ask you guys for a while... Let's say , hypothetically, that you have a little boy...

(Love the kid, HATE the guest room comforter, which is somehow in every picture I take. Why?! Must find one where he isn't on that damn blanket...)

(Ah, much better. Super-cute quilt courtesy of super-artistic grandmother.)

...And let's say the little boy's wonderful, responsible, and all-around lovely nanny hypothetically requested that you procure a mesh laundry bag in which to wash said boy's socks. The basis for such request was that the sockthirsty (...what?! Bloodthirsty is a word; this should be, too...) washer/dryers in your building were apparently devouring his teeny tiny socks, and causing situations such as these...

(Think anyone'll notice?)

Anyway, let's continue to hypothetically say that after a search for such a bag, this is what the quest yielded:

(Lindsay, Britney, and Paris, take note: This is a picture of UNDERwear. You wear it OVER your vajayjay. I can make a small diagram if this is too complex.)

...Would you, hypothetically of course, ignore the fact that the bag was festooned with cartoonishly large hot pink bras and underwear, and proceed to use the bag anyway for your male child's tiny baby socks?

Because that, my friends, is totally the (hypothetical) plan.

Metalia Goes to a Hockey Game (Updated)

Yesterday, I attended my very first professional hockey game. It was a lot of fun, due in no small part to the Rangers' victory over the opposing team (I want to say it was the Panthers, but I was a tad too enthralled with my surroundings to say for sure), as well as the amazing seats provided to us via J's company. (Thanks, J's company!) The seats were located in the front row, right on what I believe is technically referred to as "the line in the middle of the rink where the ref drops the puck at the start of the game." (Note: I'm not trying to be all, "ooh, I'm a girl, I don't know sports," because that's simply not true. I just know shit about hockey, and I'm not ashamed to admit that.)

Anyway, because the seats were so awesome, I'd been anticipating certain things. Here is the list of things I'd been anticipating, but never happened:

* Getting hit in the head with an errant puck.

Or alternately:

* Avoiding getting hit by the wayward puck, and instead reaching up and catching said puck like a certain allegedly baboon-hearted star of an old favorite movie of mine. If you actually know to which movie I am referring, you have just become one of my new favorite people.

* A full-on hockey fight. Y'know, with gloves being pulled off, shirts being pulled over heads, and maybe, just maybe, some tooth loss? I desperately wanted to see that.

* Seeing some hockey-loving celebrities.

Now, here's the list of things I hadn't foreseen, but actually did happen:

*Coming across this unfortunately named store in Madison Square Garden:

Hee!

* In terms of celebrity sightings, all we got was....Tom Hanks' scruffily bearded son, Colin. Jealous? Yes, I thought so.

* We saw a hobo (I know; again...) talking to himself while we were in the car on the way home. Now, unfortunately, that in and of itself is not unusual for the city. However, a few seconds later, J starts freaking right the hell out. The rest of us ( i.e., me, my brother, his girlfriend, and friend) start looking around trying to figure out what was causing this. We quickly determined that our good friend Mr. Hobo had dropped his pants, bent over, and was showing everyone his hobo ass and hobo junk; just waving it around brazenly. Did I mention that we were stuck at a red light? A really long red light? And thus were sort of stuck there? Mmm hmmm.

My brother's immediate reaction was, inexplicably, "I thought I was looking at a basket of bread at first." Don't even ask me to explain what he meant, because I was laughing/horrified, and couldn't be bothered with trivial questions such as "what in the hell do you even mean?" We all lost a bit of our innocence, I must say. Poor J; when we all caught our breath and asked him what exactly he'd seen at first, he whispered in hushed tones, "I saw everything."

UPDATE: Ohmigod! I can't believe I forgot to mention these two things in the list of things I hadn't anticipated:

* We were seated directly behind the opposing team (and yes, it was the Panthers)...I could actually see their neck sweat. (Hott!!111) Anyway, as they first took to the ice to warm up (cool down?), one of the Panthers was totally hitting on me. And by "totally hitting on me," I of course mean "displaying ballerina-like feats of flexibility involving bringing his leg up by his head, such that his uh, ostensibly cup-protected area was directly in my eyeline, making uncomfortable eye contact with me all the while." I ask you, WHERE DOES ONE LOOK WHEN THIS IS HAPPENING?!

* Carmine (he had a nametag), the apparent Godfather of the arena, was policing our row to ensure that no unauthorized ticketholders attempted to cut through there to get at the Rangers as they returned to the locker room. People, he clotheslined two small children! I saw it with my own two eyes!

That is all.

"I Didn't Think it was Physically Possible, but This Both Sucks and Blows"

While I have definitely maintained the sentiment I am about to discuss for some time, I must give credit to the extremely funny Guinness Girl’s recent haiku which mentioned this very topic. I had, quite frankly, been hesitant to post about it, because, like her, I feel that it’s an unpopular opinion. But she has paved the way, and for that, I thank her...Because this (albeit trivial) subject has been bothering me for quite a while.

The issue? Jack Black, and the fact that he’s not funny to me at all. I’m sure there was a time, in my halcyon youth, where I found him amusing. And it doesn’t bother me if someone else likes him; it’s just that he’s not doing it for me anymore. He’s smarmy, you can just tell that he thinks he’s so incredibly funny, and he very often appears unwashed. Also? Not to sound petty, but Nacho Libre looked awful, as does The Pick of Destiny. (Note: While I have not seen either, the intense awfulness of both have been confirmed by my friend, K.)

My annoyance with him, however, reached a new high last weekend. J and I were watching SNL, and Tenacious D (the “band” of which Jack Black is a part) was the musical guest. (We have such thrilling Saturday nights, no?) I don’t think I’m exaggerating much (if at all) when I say that it was the worst, most discordant musical performance ever imposed upon the collective ears of mankind since the dawn of time. An affront to sound, if you will. I suppose I could go into great lengths in an attempt to articulate exactly why I can’t stand him, but looking back, I think that our conversation while we were watching him “perform” will probably do it better justice:

Me: Wowwww.

J: I know; this sucks on so many levels.

M: Oooh-his eyes are bulging out again, and he’s gesticulating wildly! His hands flying up into his face…he’s so into His Art!

J: How is that any different from what he’s been doing the past 4 minutes?

M: Touché. Wait, wait! He’s over-enunciating! He almost never does that!

J: By never? I assume you mean that he hasn’t stopped since the song began. Or since he acquired the power of speech.

M: That would be a correct assumption on your part. Oh, there he goes again with his goddamn tongue, and his lalalalalala-ing. You know something, J? I do believe that he uses the word “mighty” in every song. Like “mighty steed” and “mighty robot.”

J: Yes, speaking of which, can you explain to me what the hell a 7-foot tall robot is dancing and attacking people on the stage?

M: I. Don’t. Know. Oh, thank god. It’s over.

And….scene.

Am I alone on this one?! And now, apropos of nothing, here is the newest picture of The Boy:

The Subway...Yes, AGAIN.

You know, if you’d asked me this morning, “Metalia, do you think, at some point today, a hobo is going to single you out and somehow involve you in his list of conditions to comply with a police officer’s request?” I would’ve probably said “no.” But clearly, I would’ve been wrong.

After getting off the subway train this morning (4/5 represent!), I was walking down the platform towards the exit. I, along with a number of other people, noticed that the train wasn’t leaving the station. As I continued down the platform, I noticed a cop, seemingly talking to…the train? Huh. I went in for a closer look. He was not talking to the train, but in fact to a shoeless hobo, who was apparently riding between the train cars with a bag o’ crap at his side. The cop was directing him to get out of there, so the train could leave. The hobo repeatedly refused.

By now, a small crowd had gathered (which included me), to see how this played out. Shoeless hobo got comically belligerent, and began throwing demands out at the cop. Not the demands you’d think, like “shoes” or “a home,” but random things, like “a big-ass pan” and “sunglasses.”

The cop, now exasperated, and probably thinking of the train full of people anxious to get on their way, finally just said “Buddy, don’t make me pick you up; what can I do to get you out of there?!” The shoeless hobo, without missing a beat, lasered in on me with his crazy shoeless hobo gaze, and goes “I want to pet that lady’s coat!!” Oooookaaaayyyy…Please note; the coat that I had on is not particularly fluffy or um, pettable; it’s a regular suede coat. Yeah, this is why I’m not a shoeless hobo; I’ll just never understand their mysterious ways.

Oh! Also?

To the lady on the subway allegedly reading The Holy Bible; I have a few helpful observations/suggestions.

1) Hot pink pleather is an interesting selection as the material in which to cover your Holy Bible.

2) Perhaps it would’ve been more convincing if you had not written “Holly Bible -- by Jesus” on said pleather with a ballpoint pen. (I swear!)

3)And finally, after attracting the eye of a fellow commuter (i.e.., me) with your pink pleather covered Jesus bible, maybe you should have an actual Bible inside, and not what appears to be explicit erotic literature entitled Caramel Flava inside the bookcover.

My words, they fail me.

On Second Thought, They'd Probably Use This On One Of The "Fat Shlub/Hot Wife" Shows...

Did you ever have one of those "sitcom" moments? That is to say, did you ever find yourself in a situation and think, "Okay, if this scene was being pitched in the writers' room at [insert sitcom here], they would reject it, on the basis of it being too sitcom-ish?" Yesterday, we were in the process of droppping off our son by my parents' house, and were headed out for dinner. (Thanks again, guys!) As I passed by my teenage brother's bathroom, I noticed a container of this: My brother Ben has many interesting hair products, and although I believe the back of this particular product claims it is for dreadlocks (which he does not, to my knowledge, technically have), I really cannot be surprised at him and his hair at this point. He is, after all, the kid who claimed a few years back that his hair turned an aggressive shade of orange because of, and I quote here, "the sun." (His hair is, fortunately for him, insanely good now.) Anyway... I studied the container for a bit, put it down, and went down the hall to get ready to leave. Shortly thereafter, I heard my mom go, "Ben, what is this stuff in the yellow jar for?" I had a few options here: I could've walked back and told her it was hair product; I could've waited for Ben to answer her. But no; there are few opportunities such as these, and despite hating myself just a little bit after I said it, I took the sitcom route: "Mom," I said, "That is none of your beeswax!" I know. I know. But don't you see? I had to! Really, how could I not? *hangs head in shame*

Shark and Ewww

The Boy is currently playing happily in his exersaucer, I am...well, here, and J is presently watching a TiFaux'ed episode of Shark, starring one Mr. James Woods. I think James Woods has one of the creepiest voices ever. Not like, ax murderer creepy, but creepy in the sense that you wouldn't be surprised if you found him in your backyard at 3 am, naked but for a tutu and a hat that says "Bass Master" with a picture of a largemouth bass stitched on it, as well as a pair of blue leather gloves. Oh, and he's singing Careless Whisper, and busting a move every time he gets to the line "guilty feet have got no rhythm." (What? I get very specific in my imaginary assessments.) I don't know; he just has one of those voices that makes me think he is, quite frankly, balls-out crazy in real life. Secondly: Dear man in the elevator with me on Friday afternoon, The elevator ride is a total of 14 seconds long. You took it for two floors, which I'll estimate was approximately 5 seconds. So why, dear sir, did you feel the need to fart during this trip? How urgent was that, really? However, I could've let this go if you didn't bolt off the elevator the second the doors parted, leaving me, and me alone, to face a group of people coming on who totally thought I did it? One lady even gave me a very mean look, one which was unmistakably "I'm on to you, fart girl!" Much appreciated, sir. Love, Metalia