You're Awesome.

Yes, you! Really! Now that I have your attention, I must say that I am telling the truth; I've posed random questions to the internet at large here before, and you have inevitably come up with fantastic suggestions and advice, in such cases as The Big Bang Question, or even more recently, what in the hell to do with a rashy baby belly dear god make it stop, the poor baby, he is ever so itchy. And so, I have two (2) more questions to throw at you. If your past responses are any indication, I'll no doubt be well-equipped with useful information in no time: Question 1 Next month, J and I are headed off to Las Vegas for a few days. (Let's put aside my utterly crippling fear of flying for a moment, because there's no way anyone can come up with a solution for that.) Anyway, I'm very excited, as I've never been before. Although J has been, he is going to be spending much of his time there doing work-related stuff (i.e., the basis for the trip), so I'm going to be on my own during the day. Barring the possibility that any of you will perchance be there at the same time (Dear Universe: Pretty please? Smooches, Metalia), what's a girl to do? I know that gambling is a given, but we'll definitely do that at night, so I don't want to do too much of that during the day. Particularly by myself. I have visions of a grizzled old trucker named Smokey taking me under his proverbial wing (and by "wing," I mean "sweat-stained flannel shirt reeking of cigarettes and loneliness") and getting me addicted to craps. I'm not sure what a good idea that would be. It would be pretty unfortunate if J returned to the suite only to find that said suite had been stripped and sold for parts. Lap dances and legalized prostitution are a few of the options I know I have, but I am considering making a run for public office soon, so I'll put that on hold. (For now.) Consequently, if you guys have any suggestions for fun stuff in Vegas that one can do on their own, I'd absolutely love to hear it. (Oh! Obviously, I'm planning on putting in much "lounging by the pool" time, so book suggestions are most welcome, too. ) Question 2 I'm getting a little tired of Blogger lately. When we first got together, everything was just dandy. Blogger treated me like a princess, and accepted my blog posts willingly. We often worked together well into the night, happy and exhilarated that everything was going so well. Lately, though, Blogger's been something of a lazy ass douche. It won't post things properly, it takes away my "double spaces" before starting a new sentence. It inexplicably changes fonts mid-post, and won't let me change it back. It makes the fonts super-wee for no apparent reason. Then Blogger drinks all my wine, and won't get the hell off my couch. I ask Blogger what I did wrong, and what I could be doing differently, but each time, it just shrugs its proverbial blog shoulders (bloulders?) and goes off in the corner and strums its guitar while I dream longingly of something different...something better. So. All this to say, if I were to leave Blogger, um.... how, exactly, would I go about doing that? If I wanted to get my own domain name, and someone to make me a pretty site (or even just a template, I don't care), in your experience, how much would that run me? Can I do it myself? Could the content from this blog transfer over, or is it a fresh start? Has anyone else tried Snapple's new "Out of the Blue-berry"Iced Tea, and if so, do you believe, as I do, that it may be laced with crack, such is its goodness? Also, what is it with me and obsessions with new drinks lately? Is it more difficult to handle your own site than it is to deal with Blogger? Any answers you can provide to any or all of these items (even the drink questions that I sneaked in there; they're equally important, if not more so) is, as always, much appreciated. ***************************** Oh, also? My demon flu has dissipated somewhat; thanks for all your well-wishes. I'm still VERY stuffed up, and everything sounds garbled to me. Consequently, when I was playing with Toopweets earlier this evening, J and I had the following incredibly intelligent conversation: Toops: [Insert baby giggles here.] J: [Something I can't quite make out.] M: Did you just ask if we have any more Caesar salad dressing? J: I said, is there any sweeter sound than him laughing. M: I see. Well in that case, no. No there is not. But there is Caesar dressing on the second shelf in the fridge. You know, in case you do want some. J: Um, thanks. Annnnnd......scene. *************************** Thanks in advance for your advice! :)

The Plague

Y’all, I am sick.

I’m so sick, I’m even allowing myself to use the word y’all, despite having never lived farther south than New Jersey. Which reminds me—when we were on the road on Friday, we saw a NJ license plate that said “BADA 8ING.” I swear. But I’m digressing, as is my habit. Where was I? Oh, right—SICK.

I have what I believe is known as Martian Death Flu. I’ll spare you the boring symptoms, and fill you in on the funky ones, which include your eyelashes hurting, old lady-esque joint pain, inability to swallow,* and weight loss (which in my case, is actually not good). Side effects include only being able to eat peanut butter cookies with peanut butter-filled Hershey kisses stuck in them, toast, and tea. Oh, and frozen mini egg rolls. Hey, the heart wants what it wants.

Thank God the nanny did not flee upon seeing my fright wig rat's nest hair, froggy voice and pallid visage (I’m well aware I could’ve just said “pale face”, but I was reading Poe this morning. Among other things, which I’ll get to momentarily…). Because she is a glorious angel from up on high, she instead chose to stay and take care of the boy, so I am free to sit here, alternating between watching TV, eating questionable foodstuffs and staring at my bookshelves.

While gazing vacantly at my books, I found something that I thought was lost. The Most Hilarious Book Ever. I’ve posted about this before, and as I mentioned then, we haven’t the faintest clue as to how this book appeared in our house. It doesn’t really matter. For it is awesome. And by "awesome," I mean "really really frightening."

The book in question is a book about “teenage issues” which attempts to be cool, and fails miserably. The entire thing just brings to mind a father crashing his daughter’s birthday party wearing a leather jacket and his old jeans from high school. (My dad never did this, but sitcom dads always did, so in my mind, this actually sometimes happens.)

The book makes me cringe with practically each page I turn, as it tries sound “hip” and “with it.” I use those words because that is exactly what the book sounds like. When discussing birth control options, for instance, the book breaks each one down into, among others, the following categories: Cool and Uncool. You know who else classifies things as cool and uncool, Book? Eric Cartman. I don’t think that’s the voice of authority that you were looking to associate yourself with.

The book is unique in that contains something which will forever go down in my personal category of “paragraphs that make me want to die.” (This category didn't even technically exist until I read this book.) In said paragraph, the author discusses “her scent,” and why she is okay with not smelling like … “berries or mountain mist.” Um…okay. I didn’t know that mountain mist had a smell, but I stand corrected. Disturbed, and corrected.

There's also a section on drug abuse, and the authors helpfully include a list of “natural highs” as alternatives for drugs. Itching for a fix, are you? Well then, why not go fly a kite? (No, really. That’s an actual suggestion.) Or sing out loud on the top of your voice? How about running through a sprinkler?

(There! Still want that heroin? I didn’t think so!)

Like communism, the book is actually a good idea in theory.** In practice, however, it’s wholly disturbing.

Glarrrf.

Huuuurrrrk.

Pardon me.

Yes, you, over there. 

Do you mind passing me my left lung?  Oh, I’m not choosy.  If the right one’s closer, I’ll take that for now.

Hmmm...You know, I do believe that this book is exacerbating my illness.

I’m off to the doctor in a bit, where he will hopefully prescribe me some magical medicine that makes all this go away.  

If only he could do something to make me forget about the book.

*(It’s taking ALL my strength to refrain from writing “That’s what she said.” Oops. Oh, well. Whatever, I’m sick; I’m entitled.)

** Lest you think I’m actually a communist, please note that this was lovingly borrowed from this Simpsons quote:

Marge: I really think this is a bad idea.

Homer: Marge, I agree with you -- in theory.  In theory, communism works.  In theory.

Two points to anyone who actually got the reference.

Sweet Fancy Moses

Whoa.

Until I read your comments on this post, I did NOT realize how many closet fans of the “stupid dancing movie” genre there are. I myself have a shameful love for these movies, too (of which Center Stage is my absolute favorite).

Unfortunately, they all have the unwelcome side effect of making me think that I too, can dance, when in fact, I cannot. If my hips tell you otherwise, DO NOT believe them, those cheeky bastards. Hips do lie sometimes, despite what you may have heard to the contrary.

I don’t know what it is; I’m ordinarily not particularly suggestible. I didn’t watch Mission Impossible and think I could become a (wee, Scientology-obsessed) spy. Nor did my viewing of the Saw trilogy compel me to become a sanctimonious, tricycle riding, puppet-faced murderer (YET). But there’s something about the dancing movies that makes me think that I can do it, too. And this is problematic, for I am, without a doubt, the worst dancer in the history of anything ever.

I am in awe of people who say things like, “Oh, we’re going out dancing at a club tonight.” What does that even mean? You go OUT for the express purpose of dancing? Aren't you afraid? Don’t you need a manual, or at the very least, a choreographer to show you the program beforehand? Anytime one of our friends throws a party in a club, I try to avoid dancing at all costs. If circumstances ultimately force my uncoordinated ass on the dance floor, this is a breakdown of what my dancing looks like:

Are you jealous of my mad skillz? I thought as much. If you weren’t before, perhaps the haunting image of the forgotten Step 6 will sway you: Clap hands! Clap hands! Annnnnd…point fingers in the air!

It’s not like I never attempted to learn. In college, when going out was a weekly (if not nightly) event, I decided to try in earnest to learn how to dance. I’m sure for some that would involve taking lessons, or asking a more coordinated friend, but my method of choice involved the purchase of Britney Spears’ dance video. Naturally.

Oh, come on. The box said I would see her dancing in concert! And music videos! And let’s not forget the promise of sun and surf! Sun AND surf?! How was I to resist the lure? I’m not made of stone, people!

As I’m sure you can imagine, it did not go well. Even if I were to have mastered the intricate choreography of “Oops…I Did it Again!” (which I most assuredly did NOT), I would’ve felt quite the fool actually performing the dance anywhere. So, that ended poorly. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, but no, following that was the Great Save the Last Dance Incident of ’01, which I shudder to even think about, let alone describe. I’ll leave it at this: “A mess of synaptic misfires resulting in a very distant relation of hip-hop dancing.” Trust me.

And yet.

Despite my desire to actually learn how to dance, and my repeated failings related thereto, I’m okay with being a really, really shitty dancer.

Because there’s one person who loves my dancing.

A few weeks ago, Toopweets was having an uncharacteristically rough morning. He was teething, and was pissed off (inconsolably so). Out of sheer desperation, I turned on the radio, heard Regina Spektor, and started my patented dance routine. Like magic, his tears disappeared. He started cracking the hell up. Clapping, even.

I'm not sure if he was laughing because he actually liked my dancing (doubtful), or because he, at his tender young age, was actually laughing AT me (more likely), but either way, it cheered him up.

He may be 8 months old, and a bit of a drooler, but I’ll take it.

Weekly Roundup List

(AKA-- I hope this isn't the first time you're coming here, because ordinarily, I strive to write coherent paragraphs. ) I give you the following: Crap that I loved and hated in the past week.

But wait! There's a twist!

Crap I Loved/Hated This Week... FIVE SENSES EDITION

*******

SIGHT

*******

LOVED-- These movie quizzes. The actors have been photoshopped out of each scene, and you have to figure out what movie each picture is from. (See example below.) Help, I'm obsessed.

(Photo Credit: FilmWise)

HATED -- Trying to watch Scrubs reruns on Comedy Central, and getting constantly bombarded with commercials for a new show called The Naked Trucker and T-Bones Show. Now. I've never actually seen the show, but the commercials alone make me want to vomit in terror. And also, I'm inevitably eating dinner when the commercials come on, and the two men who star in it.....well, to paraphrase the Sea Captain on The Simpsons...

Picture Credit: Comedy Central

"....Arrrr...we're not attractive."

Not cool, guys! Not cool!

*******

Taste

*******

LOVED--Dunkin' Donuts White Hot Chocolate; I finally tried it, and it is divine. It is perhaps even better than my other new love, the Starbucks Cinnamon Dolce Latte.

HATED--Realizing the guy at the deli gave me scallion cream cheese on a cinnamon raisin bagel. Gross on any level, but the involvement of raisins, for me, makes the situation even MORE horrifying.

*******

Sound

*******

LOVED --"Love Will Come Through" by Travis; my most recent iTunes purchase. It is gorgeous. You'll adore it too, I promise.

HATED -- The wheezy, bear-like snorfling of a snoring guy sleeping next to me on the subway. Needless to say, that was the day I forgot my iPod. Aces!

******* Touch *******

LOVED -- The new non-murderous oven! I can hardly believe it's real. It's all I can do to keep from hugging it. Seriously.

HATED -- Toopweets' fat baby belly is incredibly dry and rough. I've tried Baby Aveeno, and Aquaphor, but no dice. ANY suggestions are much appreciated.

****** Scent ******

LOVED -- Bath & Body Works Brown Sugar and Fig Shower Gel. I just got this on Sunday . I hesitate to recommend it outright, because the scent is kind of cloying, but also awesome in a way I can't explain. Oh, wait. I don't have to; the Bath & Body Works people did it for me:

Fragrance Top Notes: Fresh California Fig Fruit, Passion Fruit, White Peach Fragrance Mid Notes: Vanilla Orchid, Sheer Jasmine, Muguet, Yellow Freesia, Coconut Milk Fragrance Base Notes: Vanilla Bean, Fig Leaves, Caramelized Sugar, Maple, Velvet Musk .

Mmmm.

HATED -- The decision by a woman on my train* to open and subsequently devour a big ol' smelly tuna sandwich. Lady! It's an enclosed train car! Have a heart!

*Hmmm; I just noticed how many of my "hates" are commute-related. I don't know what to make of that.

Movie Review I: Step Up (No, Really)

I’ll just come right out and say it.

We may have just watched Step Up.

Don’t you look at me like that! Look me in my virtual blog-eye and tell me you yourself haven’t watched a wretchedly horrible movie that you KNEW would be horrible, but just had to watch anyway!

Mmm hmmm. Thought so.

Before you ask, the reason we didn’t turn it off was because it was so incredibly terrible that it became comical, and thereby unintentionally entertaining.

For those of you who don’t know, Step Up is a groundbreaking cinematic experience, by which I mean, it was clearly cranked out by a participant in a “Shiteous Screenwriting for Hacks 101” class. (Check your local Learning Annex for schedules!)

The plot involves a boy from The WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS with NOTHING TO LOSE who NEVER STICKS WITH ANYTHING. But he LOVES TO DANCE. (I must acknowledge that he's actually an amazing dancer.) The name of the actor who plays the role of the boy is Channing Tatum. This is a stupid and probably fake name, so I shall call him Stockard O’Neill. “Now, Metalia!” you’re probably thinking, “Why aren’t you calling him by his character’s name?” Well, my friends, that is because his name was not actually uttered until (by our count) well into the second act. (I smell an Oscar nomination for film editing!) So Stockard he shall be.

Stockard/Channing is friends with two brothers who are walking ethnic stereotypes in a number of potentially offensive ways that I will not even touch. The younger of these brothers wears a belt that electronically scrolls his name across the buckle, but might as well (spoiler alert!) scroll the phrase “I will be killed at some point during this movie. Since this film has reduced me to an insulting stereotype, please note that it will be from a combination carjacking/drive-by.”

As noted, Stockard/Channing is from THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS, and he and his friends GET INTO MISCHIEF after they break into a prestigious arts school, The Maryland School of the Arts. (Maryland readers: Does this place actually exist?) You know it’s an arts school because there are kids dancing by their lockers (of course!) and violinists playing Pachelbel’s Canon in the halls. Not, you know, in their respective classrooms, or anything. No, since it’s an arts school, these things simply must be done in the hall.

Needless to say, Stockard gets caught, is arrested, and is punished by the judicial system. Prison time? Probation? Ha! Those are ridiculous options. Instead, the judge, quite naturally, sentences him to “serve at the scene of the crime” and become a janitor at the school. Justice is truly blind. Or really, really high.

Side note: I suppose I should point out that the ladies LOVE Stockard/Channing. I’d describe him to you myself, but I decided not to bother when I saw that a fan on Step Up’s own Myspace page had done a much better job:

“ok channing is really hott and i cant get ova of how hott he is so like yeahh and to all of you bitches who think hes ugly nad weird go screw yourself and like channing yur sooo hott and my sisters have obsessions wit you...your the most hottest dude ever!!”

Uh…word?

The obligatory love interest is Jenna Something (In the movie, her name is either Nora, Dora, or possibly Laura. Enunciation was not of any importance to the characters in this movie. Except one, who I’ll discuss in a bit.) Noradoralaura is very different from Stockard; she is the star dancer of the school, and is incredibly disciplined.

Weirdly, Rachel Griffiths, of all people, puts in a cameo as the school’s director. Apparently, her method acting involved overenunciating, and putting “h”s in all of her words; much like this: “That whhhhould be youhhhhr rhhhhisk!” It’s not at all absurdly distracting.

Unfortunately, NoraDoraLaura's dance partner breaks his ankle right before the BIG EVENT THAT IS MENTIONED IN THE FIRST ACT THAT IS, LIKE, SUPER IMPORTANT AND WILL FIGURE PROMINENTLY IN THE DENOUEMENT OF THE MOVIE. (In this instance, such event is called “Senior Showcase.”) She needs a new partner, Stockard needs SOMEONE TO GIVE HIM A CHANCE…will it all work out?

I don’t think I need to tell you that it all does. But not before Stockard/Channing actually utters this line: “I'm fighting…fighting for something that's real for the first time in my life!”

Yes you are, Stockard. Yes you are.

The Devil's Music

Anything too stupid to be said is sung. --Voltaire

This weekend, J and I went to go get some professional pictures taken of Toopweets. We were spurred to do so by our desire to capture the wonderment and joy of our son through the magic of “real” photography, the fact that we haven't taken him for pictures in a while, but mainly, because they had sent us a coupon for a free 11 x 13 photo. The pictures went swimmingly (I just love that word). My one issue? The wildly disturbing music that they played in the studio. It's something that I have since learned is called…Kidz Bop. I died a little inside as I wrote that, you should know. But still, I wrote it. I do it all for you. (Bryan Adams and I always did think alike. It's uncanny.) Upon listening to (sigh…) Kidz Bop, the genesis of this "music" seemed (to me, anyway) to be perfectly clear. Some record executives got together and had the following conversation, whilst apparently doing massive amounts of blow. I imagine that it went a little something like this:

*****

Exec 1: Hey! You know what would be a great idea for a new album?! Exec 2: What, mon frere? E1: Let’s re-record today’s modern hits-- E2: I love it! Roll with it, baby! ROLL. WITH. IT. E1: I wasn’t finished yet. E2: That’s what she said! HAHAHAHA! E1: Good one! Oh god, I love The Office. That Michael Scott is the man. Wait! What was I saying? E2: I do believe it involved Circus Peanuts. E1: Yeah, those little guys are alllll right. No, but that wasn’t it. Oh, right. My plan. Yeah, so as I was saying…I want to re-record today’s modern hits…but have KIDS SING THE SONGS! E2: It’s brilliant! I only have a few concerns. Concern the first: What if the lyrics are inappropriate for kids? E1: Nonsense! No one ever listens to lyrics! E2: Point taken. Concern the second--How will everyone know that our new CD is cool? E1: Oh, I’ve already thought of that. And I answer your question with a question: Would a “z” in place of “s” at the end of the word “kids” alleviate your concern? E2: Oh, HELLS yes. E1: Yeah, I had a feeling it might. Let’s get this bad boy started!

*****

So Kidz Bop is the worst kind of music; cloying, icky-voiced children singing, among other things, songs by Avril Lavigne, Britney Spears…and Jessica Simpson. Now, the entire album is an affront to the concept of music, but people. There is a fine line between “annoyingly bad” and “borderline pedophilia.” I think that line is crossed when you have 6-year old girls sing a lyric that involves the phrase “Nothing but a t-shirt on.” *shudder* If you haven’t heard Kidz Bop yet, do yourself a favor, and…uh, continue to avoid it. This has been a public service announcement. Here are the pictures, taken as we listened to the dulcet tones of elementary school children singing some Evanescence shit about life being SO HARD and the WOUNDS, and OH, THE PAIN! (So basically, as I wasn’t paying any real attention, it could’ve been any Evanescence song.) (I imagine a conversation taking place about 15 years from now, wherein I am harangued by Toopweets for posing him with rose petals. Dear Toops-- Sorry kiddo, I couldn't resist.)

Insert your own clever "bear" pun here.

********************* Seeing as I am in such a musical mood today, I realized that in my rambling digression in my last post (i.e., where I rambled on at some length about replacing our oven which nearly killed us repeatedly), I mentioned that I made up a song about the devil oven to the tune of “Goodbye, my Lover,” but I neglected to actually post the song. Horrors! I know, you were all dying of curiosity, weren't you? Anyway, without further ado, here’s my song:

How you disappoint me, you let me down. Your pilot light went out, and my cake didn’t brown… Goodbye my oven, You’re not my friend, Pilot light blew out… Nearly were the death of me.

Hey, it's better than anything you'll hear on Kidz Bop. Look for it on my upcoming album, Metalia Singz.

Some Days, These Posts Just Write Themselves...

I think I have a problem, guys.

I'm apparently a crazy old lady. Let's call her Gertrude. No, wait. Blanche...because Blanche was the "sassy and sexy" one on The Golden Girls, right? And if I'm going to be a crazy old lady, I'd at least like to be a cool one. Anyway, Blanche emerges when people do bad things. Just like Ali Larter on Heroes, only without all the murder, amnesia and online stripping for repressed Japanese office workers. (I’m only working the domestic market, yo!)

Allow me to explain, if I may, because I think it’s quite necessary after rereading that last paragraph. I had an experience today which spurred this realization (which I'll get to momentarily), but looking back, I think things first started in our old apartment. We lived in a lovely building, but we had the dubious luck of living in the one really awful apartment in the building. Why so awful, exactly?

Well.

You know how "they" always say that location is the most important thing to look for in a home? The apartment directly above ours housed approximately 17 people (not exaggerating, unfortunately) who all kept odd hours. I don't know what they did, the logistics of sleeping 17 people in a two-bedroom apartment, and, perhaps most fascinating to me, how they worked out the shower/bathroom schedule. What I DO know, however, is that at least one of them had a penchant for incessantly IM'ing people.

From a computer kept on the bedroom floor directly above our heads.

With the speakers on high volume.

Between the hours of 1 and 3 in the morning.

Every damned night.

Now, I'm not saying we're entirely quiet, but night after night of hearing "Brrrooooo-dooop!" was driving us slowly mad. I'm sure a common reaction after a month of listening to this would be to go upstairs, knock on the door, and politely address the situation. Blanche, however, had other ideas. After one too many nights of awakening to this at 1 am, I/she clearly thought the situation could be handled in only one way…

That way involved my broom, the ceiling, and way too many shrieked curses to possibly list here. I was like a cartoon of a deranged old lady getting angry at street hooligans or something. The only thing that possibly could’ve made it more of a stereotype is if I was brandishing a rolling pin and wearing beige shoes with some sort of supportive arch system inside.

I manage to keep Blanche in check, most of the time. And usually, I’m sort of non-confrontational (read: Run the other way and hide curled up in the fetal position). I’ve realized that she only really emerges when people are utter and total assholes...

Like this morning, for instance. I’m working from home today, but I had to quickly run to the electronics store to purchase an extension cord for our new oven, which is arriving in just a few hours.

(Side note: J and I loathe our current oven with much intensity, and are counting down the minutes until the new, shiny, sexy and ostensibly FUNCTIONING oven arrives later today. The old oven is quite possibly a relic from the Roosevelt Administration (Teddy, not FDR), and it has a pilot light which routinely blows out. This is loads of fun, because the thing about a blown-out pilot light? Is that you only realize that this has happened once the smell of gas fills your home, thus requiring us to light it again with a match, and then run away, fearing for our lives.

I may or may not have composed a farewell song for the old oven. It may or may not be entitled “Goodbye, my Oven” and it may or may not be sung to the tune of James Blunt’s “Goodbye, my Lover.” But I, as I very often do, am digressing.)

Anyway, the electronics store. The parking situation by the store is insane. It’s extremely difficult to find a spot in general, but it’s particularly difficult when you drive an environment-destroying, gas guzzling, huge-ass SUV, as I do. I finally spotted a...spot, and began edging over to parallel park in it. But I wasn’t anticipating something. NERDY DUDE ON A MOTORCYCLE.

NDOAM came flying around the corner, and, ignoring the giant black SUV with its signal on, attempting to park, flew into the spot into which I had been backing up. He hopped off his hog, and took off, quickly walking towards the stores.

Now, if this had been a Mentos commercial, I would’ve made a comically frowny face, popped some Mentos, and then lifted the motorcycle with the help of burly strongmen who just so happened to be participating in a weightlifting competition across the street. Then, NDOAM would return, and spotting the muscle-bound guys bench pressing his motorcycle, would exchange a look of gleeful understanding with me. We would nod at each other, and then I’d brandish my Mentos and we'd cackle like ninnies.

As this was real life, however, I continued circling the block, fuming. I mean, it was “my” spot. And he could’ve parked that tiny thing anywhere! If he’d even asked nicely, I’m pretty sure I would’ve let him park it in my trunk. I found another spot (though it took 10 minutes), and walked into the electronics store, still quite pissed off. I got what I needed, and was on my way out, when who should be walking down the street, but Nerdy VonSpottenStealer (from Tragicfashionville).

I assessed him from afar, taking in his sky blue corduroys, leather jacket with the Tasmanian Devil on it (klassy!), and long, balding, ponytailed hair (you know what I mean, right?). I decided that the chances of him beating my ass/stabbing me were fairly slim. I approached him:

Me: Excuse me.

Nerd: Yeah? Do I know you? [Note: Who SAYS this in real life?!]

M: Oh, I think you do. I was in the black SUV that you stole the spot from, and I just want to say that what you did wasn’t very ni--

Nerd: [interrupting] You weren’t completely in it yet. Finder’s keepers, lady. [I SWEAR he said this!]

At that, I kind of lost it. And Blanche took it from here. Restraining the urge to bop him on the head with my bag (a classic old lady move, if there ever was one), I/Blanche turned towards him, smiled, and said, “You’re never getting laid as long as you wear that jacket.”

I know; totally not the wittiest comment ever, and a bit of a cheap shot. But can you blame me?

In honor of discovering Blanche, my newfound internal crazy old lady, AND the ass who stole my spot, I present to you a song I just wrote, called “Mister, You're Being a Douche.” It is sung, of course, to the tune of “Thank You for Being a Friend.” -- The Golden Girls theme song:

Mister, you’re being a douche, You traveled down the road to find a spot. Your pants are blue, and your jacket has Taz on it... But if you bothered looking, As you drove your stupid “hog” on by, You would see, me parking my big SUV In the spot that you just stole, Mister, you’re being a douche.

Sigh...someone pass me my shawl.

And The Winner Is...

After much careful consideration, the impartial J and I have selected a winner in this contest. The winner is Libragirl! Also, may I just say -- you guys carry some weird shit in your bags. Libragirl's entry won because it hit the mark of being the most random and gross (i.e., undergarments THAT DON'T BELONG TO HER, THAT SHE DIDN'T PUT THERE. Barf). Libragirl, email me your address, and your prize will be on its way shortly! Also, this was fun, and I want to do it again. I just need inspiration for a new contest. (Any ideas?) Finally, this doesn't in any way count as an actual post, and I'm fully aware of that.

Reading Between the Lines

When we were at my parents last weekend (i.e., the visit wherein I obtained the Spelling Bee pictures), I also stumbled across my fourth grade Creative Writing booklet. This was, essentially, a year-end project for each grade in my school, which necessitated each student to submit stories and poems that they'd written during the year. The pieces were then laid out, and handsomely bound, by which I of course mean, taped onto paper, and photocopied. Fourth grade was apparently a big year for acrostic poetry. For me, anyway. (I completely forgot these even existed; did anyone else have to write acrostic poems in elementary school?) What's that you say? You want to read my poem? Well, all right. But perhaps you should remove your socks first, as the awesomeness of my words may knock them clean off: The tawny color of a tiger Is as beautiful as Gold. And when it twitches its Ear, it Reflects against the Sun. There may or may not be an accompanying illustration of a tiger, which, yes, I drew. I'll give you a minute to bask in its glory. Anyway, the thought occured to me that an incident which transpired last week could be made much more fascinating and expressive through the magic of acrostic poetry. Behold: One thing you should never do, unless you absolutely Have to, is assume. For example, I stepped on a guy's toe this morning in Starbucks. Under the impression that he was a he, I turned and said, "Sorry, sir!" Can you guess what happened next? KILL ME ! I will go out on a limb here, and guess That perhaps SHE was most displeased with my incorrect Assessment. Good one, Metalia. In my defense, however, it was Really hard to tell; she had quite a Luxuriant moustache. See? Isn't that much more interesting than "I mistook a lady for a dude?" **************** J is assisting me in judging the "strangest thing you've ever found in your bag/wallet/manpurse" contest. Inasmuch as he is presently sleeping, the judges' decision will be rendered tomorrow night. (Feel free to submit stuff until then.)

Just the FAQs (Or, if you prefer...FAQ You)

In response to the “Delurking Week” Questions, I’m posting a list of your frequently asked questions, as well as some that were emailed to me, and finally, a few I just made up for the hell of it (just kidding). Note: Some are things I’ve mentioned before, but it is my hope that by including them again in the FAQ list, people will get their answers in one place. I’m full service like that. (...That’s what she said.)

What’s a “Metalia?”

Metalia is actually my middle name.

Ummm...what does Metalia mean?

Good question! My name is a mutt of two names; Meital, and Talia. Hence, Metalia. All together, it means, "from the dew of god." As you might expect, I frequently get tons of email from people who either: a) think I run a heavy metal website, b) think I lead a metalworking group, and of course, c) are Sailor Moon freaks. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, AND YOUR FANFIC SICKENS ME!!!

How do you pronounce "Metalia"?

I suppose it’s most like this: m’TAL-ya.

Where do you live?

My address is…haha, suckas! I’m not giving that away. Unless, of course, you bought me something pretty. I will, however, tell you that I live slightly north of NYC.

Pancakes or waffles?

I’m actually more of a cereal girl. Golden Grahams, Fruity Pebbles, or Crunchy Corn Bran/Puffins.

Red or white wine? Red, always, preferably somewhat dry. White wine gives me a headache.

Where was your last overseas trip?

Israel. I was 2 months pregnant at the time. Hey, you know what’s NOT fun to do while pregnant? Taking an 11 hour transcontinental flight, hurling all the while, and getting into a passive/aggressive seat fight with the douchebag sitting directly behind you, who, every time you leaned your seat back even the tiniest bit (between barfing, of course), he pushed it back up with his knee. Yadda yadda yadda, I broke my toe. And then, of course, hurled some more.

If you could live anywhere in the world (money, work, family, citizenship, etc. notwithstanding), where would you choose?

Probably someplace warm, though I have to say, I absolutely love living so close to NY.

If I stuck my finger up my nose, would you lick it? (My finger, not my nose.) Chirky! Gross! The answer is: If the price is right.

Do you check your stat counter a lot?

At least once I day. I only really started checking it when I saw all the weirdass google searches that were bringing people to Stefanie’s blog, and I wanted in. To wit: Dear Iran, I do not have any “pictures underthings” here. Keep on walking.

Does it bother you that I sometimes put my punctuation marks OUTSIDE my quotations?

Girl, please. I may have been a literature major, and I do strive to be grammatically/stylistically correct myself, but I couldn’t give one tiny little rats ass about that...(How many of you caught the fact that I omitted the possessive apostrophe at the end of “rat’s?” Good! That concludes today’s lesson. Help, I can’t turn it off.)

What song do you hate more that anything?

“Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” makes me want to rip out my car stereo by its stereo-roots, and dropkick it far, far away from me.

What’s your favorite word?

Flibbertigibbet!

Why do you call your son "Toopweets?" Because it was, bar none, the weirdest name in our baby name book. Naturally, once we found it, we addressed my pregnant belly as such for the duration of my pregnancy. I ran a baby nickname contest to help me pick out a blog-name for him, but everyone seemed to like this option the best, so Toopweets it is.

Do you have siblings? If so, how many? Yep; I have two younger brothers.

One is an actual math genius. When he was in seventh grade, and I was in high school, WE WERE DOING THE SAME MATH. It’s true; I was in the “Ooh…math is NOT your strong suit” class, and he was in the “Um…you’re too smart; here’s a high school math book; go do…something” class. Brother number two is the one with the questionable taste in hair products. He is presently in high school, and is incredibly talented with music and art, and works at Abercrombie and Fitch. Apropos of that, he looks exactly as you’d expect him to.

If my brothers and I were all one person, we’d be an unstoppable SAT-taking machine…with mad guitar skills. And probably some major gender issues.

Are you a religious person?

I was hoping someone would ask me this!!! Why? Because I had an idea for the title of the post (i.e., “I don’t even BELIEVE in Jebus!”). Unfortunately, there wasn’t really all that much content, so it ultimately didn't get its own post, and into the FAQ it went. Sigh... Anyway, the answer is definitely yes; and I’m Jewish. I am also fascinated with learning as much as I can about other major religions. My most recent foray in this arena was Under The Banner of Heaven. (Extensively researched, impeccably written, and super-depressing, in case you were wondering.)

Are you really as bad at math as you say?

Allow me to put it this way: If an arithmetic-crazed gunman put his pistol to my head and said “Metalia, do some trig!” I’d be a goner. If we were to go out to dinner, and the time comes to pay, I will smile and nod my head enthusiastically as you tell me how much I owe. Meanwhile, I could’ve just agreed to chip in the entire contents of my checking account, and my left kidney. Such are my math skills.

What's your favorite picture of your baby so far?

I LOVED this question! It's not so much about how he looks in it, but this is just such a sentimental shot for me:

What confounds you?

The continued popularity of Sting (I have an admittedly irrational hate-on), the existence of mock turtlenecks, and the mass appeal of fingerling potatoes. People! They LOOK like FINGERS!

Me, GG and a Contest for...Thee?

This past weekend was lots of fun for many reasons, but particularly, due to the fact that yesterday, I met the one and only Guinness Girl! She was in NYC for the weekend, so we'd made plans to meet up for brunch. I was very excited for this, as I love her blog and generally think she's awesome. I was. however, a bit nervous, too, for a few reasons (the genesis of them being that I am insane):

First, this was my first "blogger meeting," and I didn't know how these sort of things went. Should I have held up a sign with "Guinness Girl" written on it, airport limo driver-style? I decided against it. Furthermore, if Dateline has taught me nothing else, it's to assume that pretty much everyone on the internet (myself included) is a creepy child molester. (Please note: Guinness Girl is not. Nor am I.) Finally, I was fearful that we would have nothing to talk about (I don't know why I thought that, but still), and then it would be like this bad blind date I went on once, where the guy and I literally had nothing to say to each other, to the point that I, out of sheer desperation, actually said, "So...I like candy! Do you?!" and then he and I went to a comedy club where the comics made him the butt of their jokes while I actively prayed for my own death. But I digress, because this time, I had nothing to worry about... For Guinness Girl is, in fact, awesome. I arrived at the restaurant, and told the hostess who I was there to meet. Unbeknownst to me, I was the first one to arrive (a rarity for me). The hostess then asked me what Guinness Girl looked like, so she could try to find her. I said, "Um...curly hair, pretty...I've only seen pictures, so I don't really know." She smiled at me conspiratorially, and whispered, "Ah, blind date?" Shortly after I was mistaken for a lesbian, Guinness Girl (and her fun friend, whom I shall clevery dub Fun Friend) arrived. We had an absolutely lovely time, and the conversation flowed like the delicious cocktails that we consumed. She now knows many future blog topics, however, so GG, please act surprised when, at some later date, I discuss my middle name, how J and I met, and the inevitable post where I ramble on about 30 Rock and Weeds, and why everyone should watch those shows.

Furthermore, Guiness Girl gave me a most awesome gift--a copy of her Haiku-prize CDs! Woot! J and I have been listening to them in the car since yesterday, and they are fantastic. (First runner up; Suck it, -R-! :)) Here's a picture of the two of us at brunch:

She is the radiant looking one on the left, and I am the thing on the right that looks as though it belongs under a bridge. (Note to self: OPEN YOUR EYES!) Not my most flattering shot, but my journalistic principles compel me to display proof of our meeting nonetheless. All in all, I had a lovely time, and GG-- I wish you lived closer! There is, however, one thing we did not discuss, and that is the fact that the nice man at the table next to ours appeared to be wearing a shirt made entirely of red bandanas. Did you notice this as well?!

Next -- The baby blog-nickname contest is now over. After reviewing all of your comments related thereto, it seems that people were quite taken with the Toopweets option...who knew? Consequently, after much consideration, I think I'm going to go with that one, because you all appear to like it so much. Henceforth, my kid is Toopweets Smedley on this blog. (As I'd mentioned earlier, these were by far the two weirdest names in our baby name book, and we referred to our kid by these names while I was pregnant with him. Yes, he has a real chance at normalcy with us as his parents.) Inasmuch as these were the names I had mentioned, however, I am still left with a brand spankin' new Burt's Bees prize to give away.* So...new contest: I was cleaning out my (atrociously overstuffed) bag yesterday, and do you know what I found? A SOCK. That's right; it was a single, random, black trouser sock, just hanging out like it belonged in there. I have no idea how it got there, or how long it'd been there; I guess I should be thankful that it's at least mine. And that I didn't inadvertently pull it out during a meeting. But the complete randomness of the lone sock inspired the new contest: Tell me the strangest thing you've ever found in your bag/wallet/manpurse. You have until Wednesday night. Weirdest and/or grossest thing gets the prize! *If you're curious, by the way, the prize is Burt's Bees Almond Milk Beeswax Hand Creme. Which is amazing. I thought I should mention what it was...you know, in case you have an issue with almonds. Or milk. Or...hell, even hands, for that matter. (Personally, I hate the word "creme" spelled thusly, but this stuff is so good, I've gotten over it.)

Trying to Manga Expectations

There is one question it is imperative that you ask yourself when picking a name for your blog, and that question is, of course, “Is the name you selected identical to that of an obscure and fictional evil queen who apparently controls something called the Negaverse?”

Yeah, it’s gonna be that kind of post.

Allow me to explain. I’d started working on my “FAQ” responses to the “De-lurking Week” Questions, and a question submitted by the funny and eloquent Heather B. indirectly reminded me of the above issue, which is an ever-growing problem for me. She had asked, “What does Metalia mean? Or is that your name?”

The answer is that Metalia is actually my middle name. Why that is my middle name and what it means is something I’ll get into when I actually post the FAQ. But for now, suffice it to say that I am NOT named after a mythical malevolent monarch. (Yay, alliteration!)

When picking a title for this blog, I initially tried being creative, and devised a number of cringe-worthy prospective titles, which were uniformly awful. I then realized that my middle name was a perfect option; it’s unique, it’s one word, and I could easily remember it. (One would hope.)

So, Metalia it was. A problem has arisen of late, however. It seems that some of you inadvertently came here looking for Queen Metalia, who, I've since learned, is a fictional character from a cartoon named Sailor Moon. Which is fine. The subsequent IMs and emails telling me how you think I should do this thing and that on the show? Yeah, those are a little weird.

Particularly now that I've spent a bit of time researching her (of course). People out there alternate between being really angry about Queen Metalia's bitchery/wanting to bang her. I don’t even want to discuss the fanfic, as it disturbs me to no end. As for now, however, I got completely distracted from writing the FAQ about me, and instead, all I have now is a metric ton of useless information on Queen Metalia. Consequently, I suppose it’s only right that I do a FAQ about her, to educate you all with this vital information that I now possess. (The third question is an actual IM that I received just this evening:)

********

Who is Queen Metalia?

She is an evil queen who apparently does mean and manipulative things that are exceedingly boring to me, and anyone else whose life is not spent watching (and writing fake, vaguely pornographic plotlines for) Sailor Moon.

Is she a demon of some sort?

Why, yes! A sun demon, apparently.

[Redacted]: Queen Metalia, where is Beryl? Is she in the cave with you?

I don’t need to tell you where she is! That shit’s classified, yo!

But what of the Moon Kingdom? Is it still intact?

Come on, this one’s just lazy! You know that she brought about its destruction. God.

How would you describe Queen Metalia's kingdom?

Dark... I would call it a Dark Kingdom.

Does Queen Metalia have minions of any sort?

But of course; evil ones!

What’s a manga?

I think it just means "cartoon," but all websites have slightly differing definitions. It sort of sounds like slang for lady business to me.

Hee! Manga is a funny word! Quick, use it in a series of bad puns.

Oh, alright. One could, if so inclined, involve the term in an anime/Christmas crossover song entitled “Away in a Manga.” Or perhaps an anime version of Office Space entitled Middle Manga. I'm here to help.

******

The IMs in particular are really getting out of hand. Perhaps it's time to go search for a new domain name..."Dooce" is a funny word; I'm going to go check and see if that one's taken...

Lurky You!

There is a scene in the The Little Mermaid wherein Ursula the Sea Witch tells Ariel, "One mustn't lurk in doorways." Now, I don't know about you, but I've made it a guiding principle in my life to pay heed to the advice of a tarted-up, bosomy octopuswitchlady...



That is to say, as I've perused the blog landscape lo these past few days, it has become apparent that this is "De-Lurking Week." In true Metalia fashion, I completely forgot/procrastinated about the whole "De-Lurking Week" thing until now, when the week is pretty much over. Typical. Now, I know that there are a great number of you out there who read this, but don't comment. And to that, I say, "boo." In addition, I have it on good authority that this also displeases God/Jesus/Allah/Buddah/Xenu/whomever else makes you, personally, feel guilty. I can't tell you how I know, but I'm just saying. If you don't do it for me, at least do it to please your respective deity.

Anyway, in the spirit of the week, I'd love to hear from you all. You could, of course, just say "hey," but I'd like to make it a bit more interesting. To that end, I'm opening the floor to questions. They can be about anything; me, random crap, pretty shoes, why your radiator is making that weird sound, why he didn't call you back even though the date was awesome...pretty much anything except for politics. (Talking about politics makes me twitch.) Oh, and my bank account information. Not anymore; you've burned me one time too many, Central Bank of Nigeria.

So, fire away with the questions. If they're short things, I'll do a Q&A post, in the manner of those done by Nabbalicious, Darren, and Red. If someone asks me something particularly interesting/thought-provoking, it'll likely end up the subject of a future post.

I realize that this is sort of a cop-out post, since I'm really asking you all to do the work, so here is my contribution for the day: Has anyone else tried the new Cinnamon Dolce Latte at Starbucks? Sweet lord, those are good.

Okay, your turn.

Me and my Mildreds

Before I get this thing going...2 things:

* The Contest is still going on…It appears that everyone is leaning towards Toopweets, in which case I'll have to devise a new contest in order to give away the prize, but for now, I’ll give it until Sunday for you to submit your proposed nickname for my kid.

* I’ve also updated Flickr, for those of you who were asking me (very nicely, I might add) to do so.

************************

Earlier this evening, J and I were talking, and he reminded me of one of My Most Insane Stories Ever. I cannot believe I haven’t written about this before; this is the type of story for which blogs were invented. (Oshi, this one’s for you.) When I was in college, I had a summer internship at a large company in NYC. Being all of 19, with no appreciable income (I think I got a $400 stipend for the internship. If that.) I lived at home in New Jersey for the summer. This arrangement necessitated dragging my broke, tired ass out of bed each morning, taking a commuter bus to midtown Manhattan, walking across Times Square, then through an underground tunnel which reeked of hobo pee, to a subway which I then took all the way downtown. It was even lovelier than it sounds, I assure you. Here’s where the story takes a very personal turn, but stay with me. At some point that summer, I became obsessed with cute underwear. (Hello, fetishist googlers! Welcome!) Well, to be more accurate, I don’t think it was me, so much as it was the fashion powers-that-be deciding that a full court press of adorable boy shorts/thongs/general lacy cute things was the theme of the summer. Anyway, I succumbed. One of the items I purchased was (what I thought at the time was) a very cute pair of purple underwear. The cutest thing about them, to me, was the adorable tiny plastic flowers on either side. (Whatever, I was 19.) I suppose you want to see a picture? Perverts, all of you! I’ll indulge you nonetheless…Here’s my artistic rendering (I can't figure out how to make it bigger):

You’re probably wondering why a small bug has stumbled onto my artistic rendering. That is actually my attempt at replicating the purple glittery lion that was ALSO on the panties. (Because, I suppose, when you’re designing purple underwear with plastic flowers, why not go for broke and add a sparkly mammal?) A note: I hate writing the words “underwear” “panties” and “thongs,” and this is NOT a sexy story at all, as you will soon learn, so from now on, let’s just call this pair of purple plastic flower and glitter lion-adorned underwear…my “Mildred"s, as that is the least sexy name evah. (Except if it’s yours, of course. No, even then. I’m very sorry.) Anyway, one morning, I got up for work and donned my Mildreds. I boarded the bus, and we hit some traffic, so we arrived into the city a bit late. The bus stop is at Port Authority in Times Square, one of the busiest spots in NYC. I weaved my way through the meandering crowds, and attempted to cross a very busy street just as the “Don’t Walk” sign began to flash. I ran, and made it midway, and was on the median strip in the middle of the road with about 10 other people. Something, however, was not right. I felt…breezy. Instantly, I knew what had happened. I tried to subtly turn around, just to see what I already knew to be true, and confirmed my worst suspicions…how do I put this? My Mildreds were NOT on my person. They were in the street. This street, mind you, was the middle of Times Square:

(Okay it wasn’t THAT crowded, but it was pretty bad.) The things that I thought were cute plastic flower decorations? Yeah, they were actually SNAPS. Which came undone when I was running across the street. The worst part was that, as unassuming as I tried to be, people tend to notice a girl’s Mildreds flying off in Times Square. Who’d have thought? A smarmy gelled broker guy next to me looked back at the Mildreds, looked me up and down in the way only a perverted pervert can, and, without missing a beat, went, “Need my help with anything?” (Miss Peach, maybe he’s friends with your gross Wall Street guy!) I tried to summon as much dignity as possible. I put on a multifarious expression that can only be described as “Sigh…okay, I guess I’ll pick these up, but I’m going to be very nonchalant and roll my eyes while doing so, because whatever, I don’t need them, so…HEY! Suck it, stupid tour group that’s staring at me! You’re no better than me! You’re wearing matching t-shirts for crap’s sake! Don’t you judge me!” I walked over to my poor Mildreds, which were singing "Born Free" by this point, and tried to be as blasé as possible as I stuffed them in my bag. I ran to catch my train, far away from the prying eyes of the tour-shirt people and Sleazy O’ Gelhead. And wouldn't you know it, I actually saw a mom drop her son's pants so he could pee in an actual moving subway car a bit later, but that sort of paled in comparison to my adventures with Mildred.

********************************** PS: Speaking of embarrassing stories, my friend Rose just started a blog, and her most recent post is perhaps even more embarrassing than this one. Check her out!

No Theme Here, But There IS Randomness, as well as a Contest and a Prize

I loathe doing the laundry. Even J, the neat one in the relationship, hates it. Consequently, we've worked it out so that we avoid it at all costs: The nanny, bless her, does our son's* laundry (as you may already know), and we send ours out. Every now and then, though, something comes up and we actually have to do our own laundry. (I know, the horror!)

For instance, this past Sunday, I realized that we'd left our sheets and blankets out of the outgoing laundry load, and decided to wash them myself. I took the long walk down to the laundry room, muttering to myself about this most hated chore...and was richly rewarded for my troubles. No, it wasn't just the insanely delicious smelling fabric softener (Thanks, Sundry!) with which I was washing our stuff. No, my reward was the best job posting I'd ever seen (identifying information redacted by my childlike computer drawing skills):

Any kind of thing, you say? To quote Chandler Bing (I don't want to hear it, you still watch it, too) "Good, because I was worried you were gonna be vague about this." A thing! Any kind of thing! Man, the possibilities are truly endless. Oh, dear, sweet laundry room bulletin board. I love you so. If anything will encourage me to go back there, it's stuff like that.

Moving on through this segue-free post, I have another product recommendation. The last one was a a bit obscured by the whale vomit discussion with which it shared a post; I have nothing as exciting this time around to distract you. So, I love all this crap pictured below, but the bottle on the left is the new one, and it is awesome. It's Burt's Bees Garden Tomato Toner for Oily and Troubled Skin. My skin is neither oily nor troubled (knock wood), but it IS attached to a person who loooooves all things tomato-related. I was intrigued, and bought it. It has all the fun of old skool astringent (remember that stuff? I was a Sea Breeze devotee back in the day...) but it's natural and smells amazing. The frosted glass bottle is super cute, too. Perhaps most importantly, it works! My skin is all glowy and incredibly balanced...Much like an angel walking a tightrope.

Contest!

* Finally, as you may have noticed, I haven't come up with a cute alias for my son on this blog. I tend to refer to him as...uh, my son. Which, while accurate, is not all that interesting. Also, it gets sort of tedious to write. I considered Toopweets Smedley, which J and I had selected as the two weirdest names in our baby name book when I was pregnant, but I didn't want someone stumbling across this, and thinking I'd actually named my kid Toopweets. Or Smedley, for that matter. Consequently, I'm taking suggestions for a nickname. For inspiration, here are a few pictures from the weekend:

Best suggestion gets a prize. (Which will be a brand spankin' new Burt's Bees product. I'm a bit obsessed with their stuff, of late...can you tell?) Dear Future Winner,

Please don't live in Bora Bora or something.

Smooches,

Metalia

U-to the-G-to the-L-to the-Y! (Or: Why it is a Bona Fide Miracle that I Still Speak to My Parents)

As I’ve mentioned in some prior posts, I have some…nerdish leanings in my past. The granddaddy of them all is, of course, my participation in the National Spelling Bee, which I've also mentioned. I was going to give some background here on “The Bee,” as those of us (losers) in the know call it. I thought about it, however, and given the current glut of spelling bee books, movies, and television coverage by ESPN (of all channels!) chronicling the blessed event itself, I don’t think a big explanation is really necessary. Suffice it to say that there are nerds in abundance, a lot of intense competition, and dictionaries as far as the eye can see. (The kid who won my year? His name was Ned, if that gives you an idea of things.)

I’m not going to try to justify my particip--okay, well, maybe I will, just a little. A lot of those kids were driven by pressure, either internal and/or external (read: Drill Sergeant moms/dads). They weren’t necessarily innately good spellers, but they were aggressive nerds, and just like the parent of a pageant kid lives vicariously through their child, I think this was a comparable outlet for the geekier set.

Now, I’m NOT saying I didn’t look the part; I'll get to that momentarily. I’m simply saying that I really really didn’t care about the whole competitive aspect of things. I got there because I had a weird natural aptitude for spelling, and happened to have won all the qualifying competitions. Consequently, I was pretty laid back about the whole thing. Yes, I consider myself the Owen Wilson of the spelling bee circuit.

That said, let’s get to what you all are really interested in: The horrifying pictures!!

Ooh, boy. Let's dissect this one, shall we? I cheated a bit as this is not a Spelling Bee picture, but this was taken earlier in the same year, and it's pretty awesome, I think. First of all, I appear to be at some sort of science fair. In and of itself problematic, but exacerbated by my SINGLE EYEBROW. Why, Mom and Dad?! Why didn't you tell me? Like how I'm casually sipping my Coke, and eyeing the photographer (probably one of my non-eyebrow advice-giving jerk parents) like I'm too cool for school? I am, most decidedly, NOT. I do love my compounds and data tables, though! Moving on...

Oh, lord. Did somebody open the Ark of the Covenant? (TM: Family Guy) Again, the eyebrow (singular) is killing me. My hair is clearly unbrushed. The coat is also incredibly troubling. There's denim, there's multicolored sweatshirt patches...what the hell is going on here? I actually distinctly remember getting this super cool coat/sweatshirt( approximately 3 sizes too large, as was the style) from the Gap, and thinking it was the most awesome thing ever. I was wrong. Ah, and I'm brandishing the newspaper with all the finalists on it. Even cooler! I've got the same expression on my face that I do in the last picture. (Do you know why? Because I surely do not.) Only this time, I've apparently come to terms with my braces. Oh, and also, other pictures from this portion of the competition reflect that I am wearing this lovely black shirt shown here with a navy blue floral-print skirt, white scrunch socks, and black Doc Maartens. Hott!!!111

Spoiler Alert: I won that last competition. Here's me and my trophy! I overwrote my identifying information engraved on the trophy with a more accurate description of who I am here:

Ugh, this one is sort of worse. Although the eyebrow situation has been downgraded to what I believe is a Code Yellow here (i.e., still a bit bushy, but at least there's two of them), I've apparently discovered makeup and jewelry. Not good makeup and jewelry, mind you; in point of fact, my lipstick is an alarming shade of orange. I had also (oh, dear god) lined my lips in darker lipliner. Klassy!

And the necklace is wretched; my neck looks like that of Aidan's on Sex and the City.

Here we go! It's showtime:

I can't even talk about the dress. Oh, who am I kidding. It was floor-length, and the skirt part was "crinkled" like a broomstick skirt. Trust me when I tell you that the rest of it is just as bad as you would imagine, if not worse. Doesn't it look like something a clown wife would wear to her clown husband's funeral? Something about the juxtaposition of the clashing garish prints in muted tones. My hair and overall appearance are also not doing me any favors.

I just tried to find a recent picture of me, just to let you all know that it all worked out okay, but it was quite difficult to find one where it's just me. Coupled with that, it's not like I post pictures of myself on here all that often, so you're probably kind of wondering what I look like. I'll try to rectify that going forward. Anyway, I found this picture; it's from like, 3 years ago, but whatever: And there you have it. Now that you've finally seen the Spelling Bee pictures, I think the title of this post is quite apt, don't you?