Decisions, Decisions

I'm a terrible decision maker.

I can handle the major decisions just fine, but I’m utterly paralyzed by simple ones, such as which salad dressing to buy. I’ll narrow it down to about two, and then end up buying them both. And that’s how we ended up with NINE, COUNT 'EM, NINE SEPARATE DRESSINGS in out fridge. (That, and the fact that I apparently have salad dressing amnesia; I always forget that we have it in the house already. I do the same thing with shampoo.)

I’ve also been known to buy two pairs of cute shoes in different colors, and I purchased an insanely expensive stroller because, among other reasons, I could customize it and pick my own colors, thus sparing me from (gulp) making a decision. And I shudder to think about how our possible bathroom remodeling would go. (We’re currently pondering whether to do it...someone talk me out of it.) We’ll probably need to build a whole other bathroom just to try out all my alternate choices. THE PRESSURE! IT KILLS ME!

(Wow! Don’t I sound like such a sane individual?)

All of this to say that I have a decision to make. And it’s incredibly important, by which I mean “not at all important to anyone but me.”

People, I need a haircut.

A few months back, I heeded your collective advice and got bangs. And I LOVED them. We were so good together. Once we were past that awkward “getting to know you” phase, and really understood each other, things were peachy. But they’re all grown out now, and it’s like I don’t even know them anymore.

“Cmon you guys!” I’ll say. “I know you’ve been here a few months, and you can’t hang straight down anymore. It’s not who you are right now, and I get that; I do. But why don’t you try sweeping prettily across my forehead? Just for kicks! It’ll be fun! Like the old days!”

But they just ignore me like sullen teenagers, and try to blend in with the rest of my hair, while I try desperately to do something, anything, to make the awkward half grown out bangs look normal.

It’s not going well.

They’re at a very awkward length right now, and I’m not loving it. My feelings on the subject can best be expressed through song; specifically, my homage to Britney Spears’ seminal work, “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman,” entitled “Ain’t Bangs No Mo, But Not ‘Real’ Hair Yet.” Only I haven’t written anything beyond the title, so you’ll just have to go with that for now. But you get the idea, yes?

And so, I need a haircut. The question is what type to get. Do I get cute bangs again? Or roll the dice and deal with the frustration of what essentially amounts to two fugly curtain-like locks hanging on either side of my face for the next few months?

Here was my hair before the bangs…

And here’s a recent picture with bangs (already in the sideswept phase, but use your imagination):

So, what to do? Get bangs again, or grow them out?

I NEED YOUR ADVICE.

Karma (Updated)

Every now and then, Karma sees fit to teach me life lessons whenever I step out of line. Whenever this happens, it is unrelenting, and not subtle in the least. It’s as if Danny Tanner and the rest of the Full House gang are following me, imparting "valuable" lessons to the dulcet tones of that ubiquitous cheesy synthesizer.

Par example:

My last post centered upon my insane former cleaning woman, and poked gentle fun at her trip to Eastern Europe, having absconding with the underwear of an almost-90-year old woman.

(What?! I’m not made of stone!)

It seems that I had to learn a lesson for this grievous transgression. And where better for the lesson to take place than in my favorite place on earth, the subway?

After picking up my iced coffee and heading downtown this morning, I noticed with some surprise that a lot of men were staring at my chestal region. (Surprising, since there’s really not much going on in that vicinity.) I finally thought to look down, and noticed a splotch of iced coffee on my formerly-pristine white button-down shirt. Smashing! I had paired the (now-stained) shirt with a black pinstriped pencil skirt that, unbeknownst to me, had grown a bit too big on me, and was now shifting with each step I took, so that the back pocket kept finding its way to the front.

Needless to say, I painted quite the pretty picture.

I made it through the day, and hopped on the subway to go home. Now, the subway is generally incredibly crowded, but today was even worse then usual. I’m talking imprint-of-someone-else’s-ass-on-your-back crowded. In my case, the ass in question happened to belong to a douchebag. He was trying to impress his date (note: WHY ARE YOU TAKING A DATE ON THE SUBWAY AT RUSH HOUR?!), telling her about his recent bonus, with which he’d purchased his “fine Italian suit” (no, really; those were his words) and encouraging her to touch the fine Italian suit. He then complained in wounded tones about the other subway passengers bumping up against him (I assume he included me in this), and rumpling his fine Italian suit. Oh! And the best part? He told his date with mock humility/annoyance that he’d had to go back to the tailor a few times to get the arms of the suit refitted because he’d been working out so much.

Ugh.

While mentally rolling my eyes, we arrived at the next station, and the wearer of the fine Italian suit and his date began to push their way off the train.

Now at this point, I believe you need a visual of our respective positions to fully understand what happened next.

As you can see, we were sort of standing on top of each other. As they made their way off, one of the jacket buttons of the gentleman's fine Italian suit somehow got hooked onto one of my skirt’s belt loops. As I’d mentioned, this skirt was big on me. I should have also mentioned that the closure was simply a zipper…which can very easily get pulled open, should the skirt be tugged in any way.

Which it was, by this guy's jacket button.

I noticed the problem right away, but he was totally oblivious to the fact that his jacket was caught on my skirt. I tried desperately to free myself from the fine Italian suit, but to no avail. Finally, without turning around, he wrenched his jacket towards him…

Causing my skirt’s zipper to fly open, and the belt loop to rip, like so…

The entire skirt then spun around…

…and for one (mercifully brief) second, actually dipped below the bootay region.

As for what I was wearing, let’s just say that Sisqo would love me.

Did I mention that there were teenagers on the subway who were on their way home from camp or something? Because there were. I don't think they really saw anything, (at least I hope that they didn't), but I definitely heard giggles.

Close-Up of the Carnage: My poor, defenseless belt loop. (I have no idea why it looks like it's wearing blush, either.)

Message received, Karma. You win this round.

UPDATE: Your comments made me realize that I didn't properly finish my story. The guy finally turned around, and said "What the fucking hell?!" You know, like I was purposely finding clever ways of attaching myself to his suit. What a douche.

OH! And after posting this, wherein I indirectly whine about the subways, what do you think happened today? Seriously. My feet are still on fire from my subway-less trek uptown. I'm beginning to think that I may have magical powers. I'll do my best to use them only for good.

The Panty Bandit: Part I in a Series of My Irrational Fears

It’s funny how certain events in our past really stick with us for the long haul.

As I sit here, having just washed my windows and cleaned out my fridge, I can't help but feel that my life-long fear of the existence of an international underpants-stealing ring is at least partially to blame for my failure to hire a cleaning lady.

Hmm...Perhaps I should back up:

I’ve been thinking more and more about how J and I should hire someone to clean our place. And by “more and more,” I mean “since we got married nearly four years ago.” We both work full-time, and thus don’t relish the thought of spending our precious little free time cleaning. Furthermore, I am admittedly a total delinquent when it comes to matters involving Windex and mops. Oh, and cleaning off my chair o’ clothes in the corner of our bedroom.* And finally, in a recent development, I can no longer pass off inadvertently dropped coins as “my art,” since Toopweets is proving himself to be a quick study in the field of penny-finding.

Hiring someone else to do all of this annoying housecleaning just seems to makes sense.

If I’m being honest with myself, however, I will acknowledge that I make that statement with the same sentiment with which someone says, “Hey! We should buy a Tuscan villa!” or "I'm totally going to call you tomorrow, baby!" That is to say, it’d be a nice thing to do, but there’s no way in hell you’re ever actually going to follow through. The question here is why I keep putting this off:

You see, as far back as I can remember, my parents had a woman come every week or so to clean our house. Although I sincerely doubt that she reads my blog, I’ll change her name. For reasons that will soon become evident, we’ll call her…Mildred. Mildred was from Poland, had been in America for upwards of a decade, and spoke about 10 words of English. She shared an apartment with an even older lady named Old Lady (“OL”), with whom she would fight constantly. My mother (who I believe I've already mentioned is the nicest person in the world) then tried to help out OL, bringing her groceries, taking her to appointments, and of course, listening to her vent about Mildred. And I can’t really blame OL for the need to vent.

For Mildred was batshit crazy. To wit:

-- She had a tendency to yell at inanimate objects, which, by virtue of their BEING inanimate, weren’t really doing all that much to provoke her. On particularly exciting days, she’d swat them with our broom and utter what were no doubt some kickass Polish curses.

-- She once brought an accordion to our house, and, without any warning, began playing it. Very, very poorly. Then, as quickly as she’d started, she put down the accordion and went on with her work.

-- She was obsessed with the cleanliness of doorknobs, but would overlook the fact that my brothers had decided to play a fun game which, for all intents and purposes, should've been called “Let’s Rip Open a Pillow AND Have a Tomato Sauce Fight…Oh, Crap. Mom and Dad are Home; Abandon Ship!”**

At the time, I never thought much of it; I just assumed that everyone who had a cleaning lady dealt with similar types of situations...and then came the underwear thing.

One day, my mother received an urgent phone call from OL. She suspected that Mildred was planning to leave the country, and further suspected that MILDRED WAS STEALING HER UNDERWEAR. (I can’t provide all of the details, but OL had devised a foolproof plan that involved permanent marker. And making dots on the underwear. And, well…that's pretty much the whole plan.)

I can't adequately express how much mileage my brothers and I got out of this. I'm not saying it was nice of us, but we laughed about this for a solid week. Those of you who knew me when this happened (about 10 years ago) know this to be true.

A few days later, Mildred showed up, as scheduled…but she wasn’t there to work. Instead, she turned to us and said, “Mildred…Polski…bye, bye.”

And off she went.

My mom called us the next day from OL’s place to inform us that perhaps OL had been right all along: “I mean it, you guys; she has no underwear left! The drawer was completely cleaned out.”

Huh.

Now, I have no idea what Mildred could’ve possibly wanted with an 80-something year old woman’s underpants, and frankly, the possibilities scare me. All I know is that the absurdity of the event stuck with me, and, I suppose, manifested itself in me thinking (only half-jokingly) that it’s just not worth it to hire someone to clean your home, because they could be completely demented, make disparaging remarks to your sofa about your end tables, and possibly STEAL YOUR UNDERWEAR FOR WHAT COULD ONLY BE NEFARIOUS PURPOSES.

Okay, you guys. Your turn. I haven't been around all week, and I miss you. :) What are your irrational fears?

____________________________________

*I’ve mentioned this chair before, but what I hadn’t mentioned is that when we’d gotten it, I swore up and down to J that it would be for decorative purposes only. Its actual sole function, however, is "thing upon which Metalia throws all of her clothes. And never moves them. EVAH." Ha ha! I knew that would happen all along. Sucker.

**I’m exaggerating, of course. The game was really only played with ketchup.

Piracy. It's a Crime.

J and I recently sat down to watch a movie. The movie itself is not important, and I’m not being evasive because it was of a "mature" nature, or anything, but rather because it was wretched, it had been my choice, and I’m really just horribly embarrassed to even admit what it was.

So anyway, there we were, settling in to wat—

Okay!

Fine!

It was American Dreamz! Dreamz with a Z! There! Are you happy now?!

Before the actual movie began, however, we sat through the even more insufferable “Don’t buy pirated DVDs!” PSA/trailer admonishment thing. Now, if you’re asking yourself why we didn’t just fast forward to the movie, I’ll let this scene do the talking:

Me: Oh, good Lord. I hate this stupid commercial thing.

J: Ugh, me too. Do you have the remote?

M: No. I think I gave it to Toopweets this morning to distract him from the enticing allure of the tangled USB cords. He’s quite fast, you know.

J: [Ignoring this.]

M: Look. He likes to eat the remote and push the circle button that lights up, and if that buys me five minutes to get dressed for work, I’m not planning on stopping him anytime soon.

J: You know, I support that. Ooh, I think I see the remote! It’s under the armoire! You see?

M: Yup.

J: So…there it is.

… … …

M: So just to be clear, neither of us is standing up to get it? Because we’re too lazy to do so, even though that means we’re stuck watching this assy PSA?

J: It would seem so, yes.

And…scene.

So anyway, the “Don’t steal DVDs!” preview thing.

Do you know of which I speak?

Please tell me that you do. For it is…well, just awful and ill-conceived in ways I can’t articulate. You know how I occasionally do reviews of really awful movies? Well, this 2-minute clip warranted its own. And I endured the pure torture of watching it a few times to write down all the words accurately. BECAUSE I CARE.

Our scene opens with a pulsing synth-guitar sound that would be equally at home in either Behind the Music: Hair Metal Bands of the 80s, or the ubiquitous “nerd becomes popular and/or hot, walks in slow motion down a hallway of lockers, tossing his/her hair with reckless abandon” scene from any movie of the same era. The following words flash across the screen:

You wouldn’t steal a car [Dude breaks into BMW.]

I'm with you so far, chief.

You wouldn’t steal a handbag [Man steals hideous purse from the back of a lady’s chair at an outdoor café.]

True enough, and I definitely wouldn’t steal the boxy, outdated pleather one here. It looks exactly like the one in the dress-up box I had as a kid. I’d don my mom’s old heels and shoulder-padded blazer, grab the hideous bag, and pretend I was off to work, as “Sisters are Doin’ it for Themselves” played in the background. And by “the background,” I mean “in my mind, right now.”

Ah, memories…

Wait. Where the hell was I going with this?

Oh, right.

My point was that this would’ve been a touch more realistic if they displayed a non-hideous bag. Like this one, perhaps. (If you can’t see the picture, it’s because I DROOLED ALL OVER IT.)

You wouldn’t steal a television [Guy carries a big-ass TV out of a street-level window, and magically runs with it as though it’s weightless.]

Do people steal TVs anymore? In this fashion, I mean. I think it would have been a lot more realistic and current if a Tony Soprano-esque dude kept watch as a truck full of plasma TVs was “diverted.” Also, exactly where is this guy running with this shitty TV? Does he think he’s getting any money for it on the street? It’s literally 127 years old. If you look closely, I think you can see the moon landing flickering across the screen.

It all just makes me sad for the thief.

And finally…

You wouldn’t steal a DVD [Man in video store surreptitiously slips DVD into his coat.]

Okay, this is where they start losing me. I’d hazard a guess that at least a few of you out there have stolen something small at some point in your life, be it a pack of gum, that hot pink plastic charm bracelet with a roller skate on it at the drugstore register when I was 5 or...well, a DVD. But let’s see where they’re going with this:

DOWNLOADING PIRATED FILMS IS STEALING.

STEALING IS AGAINST THE LAW.

PIRACY. IT’S A CRIME.

Wait…what?

Now, it’s not that I don’t agree, it’s just that…well, the whole premise is a little bit of a stretch, no? I agree in theory that pirating movies is wrong, I just fail to see how doing so is on the level of…oh, I don’t know…GRAND THEFT AUTO.

Also? The props and general direction of this whole thing lead me to believe that it was cooked up by a bunch of ancient advertising executives in rumpled suits and unfashionably wide ties who keep coughing on their fetid cigars, and pounding each other on the back, congratulating themselves on being so “hep” to the pulse of today’s youth.

Oh, and they’re in dusty a room with fake wood paneling, for some reason. And one of those old-timey fans, but it has a ribbon knotted onto the bottom of the pull chain, because the little elderly executives are too short to reach the chain. And they don’t want to fall off a chair trying to reach it; hence the ribbon.

Yeah, um…welcome to my mind.

I Don't Think This Counts...

...as a post. Or, for that matter, any sort of cohesive thought. But it's been a busy week, and I do believe that my son is actively developing an ear infection as I write this, so before I begin weeping at the prospect of dealing with this turn of events, I’ll make this quick:

* I forgot to mention Andy Samberg when compiling my list of weird crushes. There, I said it. Oh, don't you judge me! He was in Dick in A Box, for God's sake!

* Every time I eat pineapple lately, my mouth starts tingling in a most unsettling manner, and I get what I affectionately refer to as my “red wine” flush. I’m not a doctor, but I do watch Grey’s Anatomy, and I therefore feel qualified in making the assessment that these symptoms are not good signs. Can one develop an allergy in their 20s? Especially if they have no other allergies? (Hint: please tell me that it’s scientifically impossible. For I truly LOVE pineapple.)

* Thank you guys so much for your book suggestions; I wrote them all down, and will be referencing the list frequently. I picked up Fall on Your Knees to start (thanks, Amanda and GG!), and can't wait to read it.

*You know how I've mentioned my love of the movie Annie as a child? I really wasn’t lying:

Not only did I wear this dress everywhere, I WORE THE WIG, TOO.

* I saw someone this weekend in the subway station who may have actually been Kirsten Dunst…or a bag lady. I couldn’t really tell. I was, however, too afraid to yell “KIKI!” at her, and now the world will never know. At least not until Thursday, when US Weekly comes, and I can ascertain which coast she was on this week. What's that? No. No! I don't have a subscription to US Weekly. I don't know what you're talking about. That's crazy!

*And finally, last, but certainly not least...I'm going to BlogHer! My roommate for this most exciting of events will be Emily of Not That You Asked fame, who I already adore, and cannot wait to meet. (Many thanks to Whoorl for putting the two of us in touch with each other!)

Oh, I forgot...one more:

*I haven't seen the movie Beetlejuice in maybe one thousand years, and yet? The "Shake, Shake, Senora" song from the last scene has been in my head ALL THE LIVELONG DAY. Why??? And now, because misery loves company:

Bwa ha ha ha ha! I think my work here is done.

This Post is an Illustrated Cautionary Tale...

...about how writing a little outline of what you want to say can sometimes be a good thing. Because I didn't do that here, and well...you've been warned:

So, before I get into this post, a word: The comments on my last post about weird crushes were, without hyperbole, among the most entertaining things I’ve ever read in my life. I did a little squee of glee every time I got a new comment, because I knew that, inevitably, one of you would be confessing to a crush on Paulie Shore, or Dick Cheney, or something. And I, consequently, would feel happy that I was not alone with my weird crushes. Furthermore, I was pleased to see my adoration for one Mr. Ari Gold consistently validated by you all. I love you Ari! Call me! Even though I know you’re not real, I sort of think you are!

Ahem.

Anyway, while I’d initially thought my crush on The Iron Chef Chairman was out there, you guys blew my mind…George Bush Sr., The Apprentice’s George, CHARLES NELSON REILLY, to name a few. Just…wow. Your comments were gold. Gold, I tell you. So much so that I’m feeling compelled to make a tally of your crushes; possibly in pie chart form, because there were a lot of overlaps. (Like Mo Rocca, for instance. Who knew?!) I’ll probably update the post with that soon.

*****

This past weekend marked Toopweets’ second 1^st birthday party. Yes, my child had two birthday parties. (The first one a few weeks ago was for family, and this weekend’s festivities were for his lil’ baby friends.) Look at him with his multiple birthday celebrations. He’s like a celebrity. A wee, drooling celebrity that only says about 6 words, but a celebrity nonetheless. So basically [insert the name of the celebrity you wish to insult here. I’m going to go with Fergie Ferg].

Oh.

And speaking of celebrities (and Ari Gold…see how neatly I tie up my insane digressions?)…a few months back, I’d posted a picture of T dressed as Turtle from Entourage. At the time, Darren had commented that he’d like to see T dressed as Ari. Not a problem:

"Vince! We've got Medellin! I'm calling E right now!"

What’s that? I’m totally off on a tangent? How surprising!

Back to the point:

T's party, while fun, required a lot of preparation, and general Susie Homemaker-type skills that I do not naturally possess. Need a thesis on postmodern isolationism? I’ve got that! Want to chat about America’s Next Top Model/Top Chef/The Office, et al? Sure! Need a lip gloss recommendation? NOT a problem. But planning and arranging an entire party for a baby? *Crickets chirping* Fortunately, my parents agreed to host the thing, and with the brilliant party-related expertise of my mother, everything else sort of fell smoothly into place after that.

There was, however, one thing with which I remained weirdly obsessed, and that was my desire to make and decorate T’s cake from scratch.

He loves trains, and when I found this adorable cake pan, I resolved then and there to go Real Simple on this cake’s proverbial ass. I don’t know what compelled me to do this, but I decided that the task would be (pardon the expression) easy as pie.

This would later prove to be a huge mistake.

You see, on those rare occasions when I decide to actually stick with a project, I have a tendency to make sure it’s PERFECT. See this picture? Two in the morning, baby.

If you’d have stopped by, you might have seen me repeatedly writing “ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES JACK A DULL BOY” all over the cake with red frosting. I can honestly say that I now understand Ozzy Osbourne’s pain, for I, too, have gone off the rails on a crazy train. Only mine is covered in vanilla goodness.

I was the epitome of every baking scene that’s ever appeared in a sitcom. Flour smudges on my clothes, frosting on my cheek, frantic yet precise placement of the decorations as 80s music played in the background…a total confectioner’s sugar-coated cliché.

All in all though, my slavish devotion to decorating the cake yielded pretty good results:

And can’t you just see T’s appreciation?

No? You can’t? Funny, neither could I. He couldn’t have cared less; this was the first time I’d given him corn on the cob, and he became quickly obsessed. In the above picture, he was staring at some nearby corn, while STILL HOLDING CORN. I think that I have maybe two pictures of him from the entire party without the damn corn. In one of them, he’s destroying my parents’ library with one of his baby compadres…and this was the other one:

"Whee! Look at all this paper! Who CARES what's inside?!"

And that was my weekend.

I'm still tired.

And now…I need something from you: a book recommendation. I just came off a memoir kick, so I’m looking for pretty much anything but that. Any suggestions?

Crushed

I’d like to think that we’ve all been here:

You’re watching a movie with your friends, and a few guys appear on screen, let's say George Clooney is among them. Appraising them, you say something like, “He's cute.” And then your friends concur, and start waxing poetic on the virtues of George Clooney’s soulful eyes.

And you nod, and say something equally complimentary.

Only you weren’t talking about George.

Credit: Warner Bros.

You were talking about the gnome-like man three doors down with the red coat and crazy glasses, to whom you are suddenly and inexplicably attracted.

Behold, the power of the weird crush.

Now this is, of course, an extreme case just to illustrate my point; I of course recognize the hotness of George, and Elliot Gould does nothing for me. But that’s not to say that I don’t have my share of incomprehensible and borderline embarrassing crushes. (Gene Simmons, anyone? No?)

Shall I give you my top five weird crushes?

My governor – I’ve mentioned this before; it continues unabated.

Ari Gold/Jeremy Piven – Oh, Ari! You delightful foulmouthed bastard, you. Don’t ever change. I don’t care that you have an obvious toupee; I love you anyway.

Credit: SFGate

Johnny Knoxville --Yeah, um…I don’t know. This one makes me feel all kinds of wrong. (The fact that my image search yielded a picture from Jackass in which he is spanking a giant fat man dressed up as a baby should tell you why.)

Credit: Eonline

The Iron Chef Chairman – Oh, c’mon! Perhaps you might find it weird that he does back flips without any provocation, is obsessed with his uncle, and shrieks the names of ingredients (“CHICKPEAAAAAAAS!”), but I find it adorable.

Credit: Yahoo

Ben Kingsley – He’s old! He’s bald! He’s sort of ugly! I do believe it’s the weird crush trifecta!

Credit: IMDB

And so…I ask you…who are your weird crushes? And, because I’m curious, do you see the merit in any of mine?

A Meme

I "borrowed" this meme from Whiskeymarie. If you don’t read her already, you should start. I have to do a complicated coughing/throat clearing thing nearly every time I read her blog to (unsuccessfully) camouflage my giggling.

Anyway, I’m in a meme-type of mood due in no small part to my complete frustration with trying to fix the many problems and general wretchedness of all things relating to my stupid new blog. (I’m willing to pay someone at this point to just take over, and tell me what the problem is, because I? AM DONE. Any takers? SERIOUSLY. I will give you money and/or pie. Maybe even some money pie, if such a thing exists.) I’m mentally exhausted from my hours on the phone with tech support, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the people I’m talking to there don’t even know what a computer is. One "expert" said to me, in all seriousness, “So…tell me how this whole Wordpress dealio works.” Dealio? DEALIO?! Are you kidding me? Assface.

My weariness is such that despite the fact that I have a delightful tale about my old cleaning lady allegedly stealing underwear from a 90-year-old woman, I’m too drained to tell it adequately. And really, that’s a story that should pretty much tell itself, so that should give you a glimpse into my world right now. I can’t focus on composing anything substantive, but I can try to respond to simple questions. TRY. Hence the meme:

What were you doing 10 years ago?

Ten years ago, I was 16. I was conveniently keeping this notebook, which should tell you pretty much everything you need to know.

No? Not enough?

Fine:

* I fantasized that I would one day marry Leonardo DiCaprio, or at the very least meet him when he was in NY, whereupon he’d fall desperately in love with me.

* I wore tall brown suede Doc Marten boots almost every day.

* I had a classic high-school saga, complete with everything you’d expect (hours on the phone, a love triangle, a guitar song composed in my honor, many notes dissecting the situation passed back and forth with my crew). I laugh now, but at the time? It was SO SUPER IMPORTANT.

* I may or may not have done The Macarena.

* I loved Shakespeare.

* I was obsessed with Jerry Maguire, particularly the “you complete me” scene. Oy.

* I spent way too much time each night IM’ing my friends (with whom I’d just spent the entire day) in AOL chat rooms.

What were you doing 1 year ago?

I was taking care of a 5-day-old baby, hoping against hope that I would someday feel like a human being again, or at the very least, get a chance to brush my hair. (Whee! I did!)

Five snacks you enjoy:

1. Baby carrots dipped in hummus.

2. Avocado in any and all forms.

3. The worst stuff in the world for you; namely, Pringles, barbecue corn chips, nachos and cheese curls…because I’m healthy like that.

4. Those little mini cheese things, spread on Triscuits, or some sort of cheese cracker. With a side of cheese. Cheese cheese cheese. (Are you sensing a theme here?)

5. Cereal straight from the box (Preferably Golden Grahams, Puffins, and anything involving berries).

Five songs that you know all the lyrics to:

1. “Baby Got Back” - Classy, and always appropriate!

2. “Gin and Juice” - To this day, I cannot hear someone say the words “80 degrees” without mentally adding the phrase “when I tell that bitch please.” It’s a serious problem. Aren’t I supposed to be a grown-up by now?

3. “California (All the Way)” – This is my favorite Luna song; it’s very catchy, but deceptive: I love that a breakup song has such a sweet, upbeat tune.

4. Pretty much the entire Rent soundtrack. What can I say? It was very popular during my late teens, and it's forever embedded in my memory.

5. “We Didn’t Start the Fire” -- Damn you, Billy Joel! DAMN YOU! I’ll have days where this song will lodge itself in my mind from the moment I get up, and I’ll spend much of my day like this:

Brush your teeth with Mentadent,
Make sure that that bill is sent,
Put on flip flops, grab your phone,
Joe DiMaggio!

Grab some coffee, change to heels,
Ooh, a two-for-one shoe deal…
No! Must focus, go to work,
Marilyn Monroe!

…and so forth.

It’s maddening.

Five things you would do if you were a millionaire:

I left this one out, because my answers were so clichéd that you would’ve rolled your eyes so far back in your respective heads that they might’ve gotten stuck. And I did not want to be responsible for that. Moving on:

Five bad habits:

1. Nail biting.

2. Throwing myself into tasks with gusto, and then quickly losing interest.

3. Cursing while driving.

4. Leaving my clothes draped artfully across the chair in our bedroom instead of putting them away.

5. Buying too many beauty products.

Five things you like doing:

1. Cooking/baking.

2. Hanging out with J & Toopweets.

3. Writing here and reading other blogs.

4. Reading (though if I’m being honest, I’ll acknowledge that this encompasses not only “good” books, but US Weekly, as well).

5. Buying too many beauty products. (Heh.)

Five things you would never wear again:

1. The aforementioned Doc Martens.

2. The yellow sparkly stocking that I used to think were the coolest things EVER. Did I have a matching scrunchee? Of course I did.

3. Anything from my early 90s grunge phase (e.g., baggy jeans, and large flannel shirts); I looked like I lived in a van down by the river.

4. The sweatshirt I used to have that had a picture of a computer on it. The sweatshirt had a little compartment for a battery that would then CAUSE THE WHOLE THING TO BLINK ALARMINGLY. I thought this was the coolest thing.

5. My black, long sleeved floor-length velvet dress. I loved it, but in retrospect, it made me look like the undead. There used to be this sketch on SNL called “Goth Talk”; I could have been an extra.

Hmm. I think there was one more category, but see #2 in my “bad habits” section, above.

Want to play along? I’m a lover, not a tagger, so if you want to do this, go right ahead.

One

(Written yesterday, before my other blog up and disappeared.)

Time is a slippery little devil.

Toopweets turns one today.

It feels like I was just standing in my bathroom, holding a little piece of plastic with two pink lines indicating that our lives were going to be forever changed. Just surprising our parents with the news by telling them that we were redecorating our guest bedroom, and, instead of showing them paint chips, as they expected, showing them a sonogram. Just having a sudden, total meltdown over my fear that I'd be an awful mother, due to my lifelong inability to tell if someone has a fever by kissing their forehead. (And, just as quickly recovering when I realized that we had Golden Grahams in the house.) Just hearing my son's heartbeat for the first time, and looking at J, wide-eyed, as the reality of what we were doing truly hit us. Just incorporating additional time into my morning routine for barfing (each and every day; none of this "first trimester" shit for me). Just waiting impatiently to start showing, and, when I finally did (at 6 months), happily racing home to tell J that someone had noticed my pregnant belly, and gotten up for me on the subway.

I can remember T kicking my ribcage constantly. I remember the predictions as to the baby's gender that everyone loved to make (we weren't telling). The scary night I spent in the hospital when I became dehydrated and the baby wasn't moving so much. The relief we felt when they hooked me up to a monitor, and his heartbeat came through, loud and strong. The quiet times when J and I would sit there, trying to imagine who this little person would resemble. I can remember the afternoon of May 31, 2006, when I went for my weekly checkup, and was told by my hottie OBGyn that I would not be having this baby for at least another week. I remember how my bathroom floor tiles looked up close, as I laid upon them much later that night, realizing that the pain I was feeling was due not to the four Morningstar Farms veggie burgers I'd just devoured, but the fact that this kid was on his way. And fast. I remember packing up my bag and turning to take one last look at our apartment, at the bits and pieces of our "old" life, knowing that when we came back there, it would never be the same.

But of course, that was over a year ago.

After T was born, I honestly wondered if I was going to be a good mom. The love I had for him was never a question, but my dubious ability to actually keep him in one piece, happy, safe, and reciprocating my love definitely was. Probably natural for someone whose attempts to change her child's diaper in the hospital required: (a) 20 full minutes; and (b) the assistance of her husband. There's no sugarcoating it: I was scared.

I suppose this is due to the fact that I've always been an obsessive planner. I need to know everything about what I'm supposed to accomplish, and have been known to make lists (and sublists) with many, many checkboxes; the more the better. And, perhaps that's the biggest lesson my son has taught me; that you can't plan everything with a baby. You can't control everything with a baby. You can't cross things off lists that you want them to do; you really just have to let the current take you along.

I mean, there was a time when I had visions of playing nonstop classical music and singing many fancypants lullabies to him. In the end, my musical stylings actually are a combination of the not-too-highbrow "Wheels on the Bus" and my original work, "Little Fat Baby" (which, in case you were curious, is sung to the tune of the Beatles' "Paperback Writer"). I stopped planning, and just started singing. And It doesn’t matter that they weren’t recommended by someone with a Ph.D. in…um, babyology. He loves them. And more importantly, me.

Though the thought of doing a good job raising a child in this world to be kind, self-sufficient and strong is daunting, I look forward to what's to come. Our lives have been immeasurably enriched by our son even in this short time. While the moments of the past year have not all been easy, each of them have led us up to now, making him who he is. He's a good kid, happy, content, and sweet. I feel incredibly privileged to be his mom, and I hope and pray that his life continues to be as blessed as it’s been so far.

Happy birthday, kiddo.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Scratch That...

Well. After a combined total of 3 hours and nineteen minutes on the phone with tech support between yesterday and today, it appears that toopweets.com has disappeared into thin air. Poof! Everything is gone. Fortunately "everything" only consists of a few posts, but still. I have NO idea what an SQL database is, but it appears that mine is corrupted. Andrew, the kindly floor supervisor over at my web host started explaining it to me, but he was speaking nerd, and I totally spaced out, so I now just picture SQL skipping school and smoking behind the bleachers, and hanging out with a motorcycle gang. See how I can joke? Almost as if I wasn't flummoxed and near tears with frustration only a few short minutes ago? Anyway. I'll continue posting here until the lovely Andrew works his magic and restores the site for me.