Judgment Day

I’ve made a concerted effort to avoid getting involved in the whole working mom/stay-at-home mom debate thus far. For one thing, I feel that it's patently asinine to judge the decisions that anyone makes in this regard, as there's no right or wrong choice here. And I can't believe I'm even writing about this, even tangentially here. But I have to get something off my chest that's been plaguing me ever since Toopweets got sick last week.

I made light of the situation last week, but his virus was really quite scary. Thursday night was a horror. By Friday morning, however, he was noticeably better, and his fever had broken. I had a big work deadline, so I decided to go to the office, do what I needed to do, and leave as soon as possible to be with my kid. J and I decided to send Toopweets to the pediatrician, just to have him checked out. As we do every day, we left him in the very capable hands of our fabulous nanny and hightailed it to work. At 9 am on the dot, I called our pediatrician from my office to schedule a visit for that morning. The doctor herself picked up the phone (I know!!), whereupon we had the following conversation:

Me: Hi, this is Metalia. Toopweets was sick last night with [listed symptoms]. I'm sure it's that virus that's going around, but I wanted you to check him out anyway. Can you by any chance fit him in today?

Pediatrician: Can you bring him in at 10?

M: I'm at work right now, but my nanny will bring him in then.

P: [Sighing audibly.] Oh.

M: Is everything okay?

P: Well I just assumed that you would bring him in, seeing as you think he’s sick enough for a visit here.

M: [Jaw on floor.]

P: Does she speak English?

M: What??

P: Does your nanny speak English?

M: What? YES.

P: Okay, can I have a number to reach you at work?

M: [Reciting phone number. Annoyed.]

P: Thanks.

It hurts, people.

The thing that kills me here is that the pediatrician has, until now, been a warm, lovely person. She's an amazing diagnostician and has a great rapport with T. Either J or I (or both) make sure to attend every checkup and sick visit. This was one instance where circumstances precluded either of us from doing so.

And she gave me hell for it.

Because I went to work that morning.

That hurts. A lot.

Because I'm a good mother. Because I'm a mother who loves her son beyond words. Because I'm a responsible mother; one who puts her faith in the dependable and loving woman who cares for her kid each day, and my decision in this regard was rudely called into question. Because I'm also a mom who chooses to go to work, and I’ve never gotten shit for it until now.

I am quite honestly flummoxed as to how my decision to send T to the doctor with his nanny (who is conscientious, loving, and has been with us since he was three months old) equated to poor decision making on my part. Confused as to why the doctor automatically thought I would send my (possibly) sick baby to a medical professional with someone who didn't speak English.

It hurts.

I've never before felt judged for working again after I had T. And honestly, I think that FOR ME, doing so made me a better mom for a number of reasons, the upshot of which is that I know I'm much more patient with T than I would be if I was with him all day (especially now with the damn molars, and the syndrome I’ve decided is Early-Onset Terrible Twos). Because that's who I am, for better or worse, and this is what works FOR ME. And that’s all that matters.

I wish my pediatrician could know that my husband and I were up basically all night on Thursday, taking turns holding our sick boy. That she could know how I was vomited upon more times and in more volume than I ever care to experience again. That I was scared shitless, even knowing then that it was likely a virus. That even during the aggregate 3 hours of sleep that we did get, I was still waking every 15 minutes, like clockwork, to make sure that T was okay. That at one point, he fell asleep on my leg which was twisted into a position that hurt me like hell, but I didn't move. For over an hour. Because my sick baby was sleeping, and he was comfortable. And that even though he seemed considerably better by Friday morning, I still thought someone should take him in, just to make sure.

Yeah, I work. Yeah, I couldn't be at that appointment. But I'm still a mom, through and through.

And deciding to go to work that morning, whatever my reasons, shouldn't negate that, not in anyone's eyes.

Not About Me

Today's post is not going to be about me.

I mean, if it WAS, I'd be waxing poetic about my newfound love of the game of hockey, my fun night out with my husband at the hockey game we attended last night...

...and how I saw my secret boyfriend Liam Neeson there WITH MY VERY OWN EYES OMG, and YES, how I even snuck a picture of him...

...all while devouring the world's largest bag of cotton candy ever. Look! It came in this stylish and elegant hat!

But like I said, this post isn't going to be about me.

I mean, I like to think I have a handle on the types of things you want to read here. And I'm pretty sure that nowhere in that list of things is there a section on sick babies and their vomit. For instance, I'm sure you have no interest in hearing about us returning home from our night out to see that our child had a fever of 103 ("He's hot blooded; check him and seeeeee..."), and, upon pulling our feverish, whimpering tot out of his crib and into our bed, experiencing a vomit explosion of epic proportions: The Barfening. I'm talking Exorcist-type shit here, the likes of which instantly seeped through the sheets and absorbed into our very pricey (naturally!) mattress. My side bore the brunt of it, (naturally!) and together, J and I mastered the fine art of juggling a sick, cranky baby, vomit management, and attendant stench removal WHILE SLEEPWALKING. Because ohmigod we were up ALL NIGHT.

But no! This isn't about ME!

This post is really about something I'm trying to do for my friend. I'll call her Amaretto, because it was at her19^th 21^st! TOTALLY 21^st, and NOT A DAY SOONER birthday party that I drank that liquor straight (dear god, WHYYY?), and as a result, can never have it again. In anything. Ever. She and I, however, still look back on that night as one of the evenings that solidified our friendship. Oh, and I’m also calling her Amaretto because the name sounds like a stripper name, and clearly, I'm on a stripper kick lately. Hee.

ANYWAY.

So my dear friend Amaretto is having her very first baby in a few months. Yay! She couldn't be more excited, except for one thing.

Due to some issues, her doctor just placed her on strict bedrest for the duration of her pregnancy, and she? Is BORED. As she said in her email to me, "there are only so many episodes of What Not to Wear that a girl can watch in a week." (I disagree! Call me, Stacy London! I have some ideas!) Poor Amaretto is hurtin' for some distraction. She needs suggestions of books to read! Fun websites to peruse! New hobbies!

She asked me for some ideas, but I could only think of a few things. She reads this blog, though, and so I asked her if I could put out the call to my fabulous readers, and ask all of you for some things she could read/watch/do while on bedrest.

What are some good books you've been reading lately? What funny/engrossing websites have you been enjoying? What are some (stationary) hobbies that she could pick up?

Oh, and I almost forgot... Perhaps it's the 3 hours of sleep I got last night talking for me here, but I'll just say this before I change my mind:

To sweeten the deal, and encourage your ideas for Amaretto, I WILL SING THE KARAOKE SONG OF SOMEONE'S CHOOSING, AND POST IT HERE.

The rules are simple: Post an idea for Amaretto (or several!) along with a karaoke song you'd like to see me totally butcher perform, and Amaretto will pick the song for me to sing, whereupon I will post a video of the performance.

Do you see the lengths to which I will go to entertain my bored friend? So come on, guys! Do this for the bedridden pregnant lady, and I'll make a complete jackass of myself on video. It's a good deal, I think.

I'll go first: Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, (a great book I'm currently reading) and www.claudiasroom.blogspot.com, (which hilariously recaps The Babysitters Club books of my youth.)

Okay, now you.

In Which I Attempt to Find a Nexus Between Sesame Street and the Movie Showgirls

This past weekend, one of my real-life friends commented upon what she sees as my ability on this blog to segue between two seemingly random and disparate topics . I expressed my incredulity at this perceived talent, and then (desperately seeking a post topic) asked her for a challenge. She presented me with one: Write something connecting Sesame Street and the movie Showgirls.

Good Lord. She has faith in me, she says. I have my doubts.

Nonetheless, here goes:

For a number of reasons, J and I decided to avoid introducing Toopweets to television for as long as possible. Over the past few months, however, Sesame Street has been stealthily creeping into our lives.

It started out, innocently enough, with the purchase of an Elmo doll. But now?

He... Is... Everywhere. And I don’t know when it happened, but all of a sudden, we're all actually watching Sesame Street, too. J and I find ourselves spontaneously shrieking the “Elmo’s World” theme song, picking up the THREE separate Elmos that litter our home, and carrying on comprehensive discussions wherein we attempt to pinpoint exactly what the hell is wrong with the living nightmare that is Mr. Noodle.

Credit: Wikipedia

"Avert your eyes, children! He may take on another form!"

Elmo, you are one insidious punk.

Which got me thinking…

If I feel like he’s taken over my life, how do the rest of the Sesame Street characters feel? Elmo showed up...when? Ten years ago? While the workhorses like Big Bird, Grover, Ernie and Bert have been putting in their time for the past 30 years? I mean, come on! Mr. Snuffleupagus is frigging INVISIBLE to everyone but Big Bird, and Elmo has his own world??

Uncool, Elmo.

Not like I ever saw Showgirls, or anything (it was part of a drinking game! Years ago! It doesn’t count!) but if I did (ahem), I might be quick to draw a comparison between Elmo’s meteoric rise to the forefront of the Sesame Street hierarchy with Nomi the Stripper Ho’s equally speedy advancement to the top of the Vegas showgirl ladder.

All he’s missing are the fake nails and pasties. I’M ON TO YOU, ELMO!

That concludes today’s study in segues.

(Does that count, R?)

* * * * *

Speaking of Rs (double segue! Whee!), I’m finally starting to answer your questions, and -R- asked me one on a topic near and dear to my heart, Saturday Night Live. She had requested that I divulge my favorite SNL skit of all time. Now, I can’t really choose JUST ONE, so I’ll leave you for today with my top five:

(My secret boyfriend) Peyton Manning's fake United Way Commercial

My new favorite (I adore you, Alec Baldwin.)

D*ck in a Box

The Barry Gibb Talk Show

and of course...

MORE COWBELL!

Follow Me

I'm guest-posting for the hilarious Casey today. If the concept of a poem about America's Next Top Model set to Poe's "The Raven" piques your interest, then by all means, follow me here. I'll be back tomorrow to expose the dark underbelly of Sesame Street (which quite possibly exists only in my imagination), and start answering your questions. FINALLY. Until then... Peace.

Scenes From the Downtown 5 Train

It was a typical New York subway ride for me yesterday morning, which of course meant that there were:

Umpteen slick stockbroker types tapping away on their BlackBerries in a possibly coke-addled state!

Rowdy teens! (I think I’m more afraid of teenagers than I am of anyone else on the subway; they’re hormonal, impulsive, and always showing off for each other. Not a good combination.)

A man (from a place adorably named “The Balloon Saloon”) carrying a GINORMOUS bag of helium-filled balloons twisted together to look like flowers!

Nervous-looking tourists, crowded over a tiny, laminated subway map! (I could practically SEE the collective thought bubble dancing above their heads, like so many puffy white clouds. The knitted brows, crossed arms and hands draped protectively across their Nikons are all universal tourist body lanuage for: “Is this how it’s all going to end for us? Are we going to get knifed and/or mugged? Right here? In broad daylight?”)

Two women (who clearly commute and work together) complaining about their boss and then, randomly, Victoria “Beckman"! I initially thought Victoria was another of their colleagues, but one of the women helpfully elaborated that she is “The Spice Girl girl with the fake tits married to the soccer player.” (Incidentally, they don’t like her because: “Who does she think she is? The Queen?”)

3 normal people! (I humbly include myself in that group.)

A very pregnant lady who IS STANDING BECAUSE THE COKEHEAD STOCKBROKERS ARE PRETENDING NOT TO SEE HER SO THEY CAN KEEP THEIR SEATS. I SEE YOU, ASSHOLES! (Gah. I see this constantly and it irks me to no end.)

And!

I’m sure it will not surprise you at all to know that the crowd of people on my subway car included a hobo making his way through the crowd.

You may have noticed that I haven’t been posting about them as much as I used to. That’s not due to any increased maturity on my part; goodness, no. Rather, it’s due to the simple fact that the real crazies haven’t been around Manhattan all summer; I have no idea where they went (a cottage in Nantucket? A summer share in Southampton, perhaps?), but in any case, the hobos are back, my friends, and they are bringing it something FIERCE. Tyra’s bitches ain’t got nothing on them.

This particular dude was grimy as hell, but seemed relatively harmless, by which I mean he was only talking to himself, as opposed to sharing his particular world view with us (as "my" hobos are wont to do).

And then.

Apropos of nothing, he decided to give us a little performance.

And by “little performance,” I mean unbuckling his pants stripper style for some reason, so that we got juuuuust a glimpse of his hobo ass, and then treating us to a song. The song, which he performed in an unnatural and creepy falsetto, was nonsensical, and centered around words that end with “un”. I tried desperately to surreptitiously write down as many as I could on a crumpled receipt, but all I got was something about how he was in training to be a nun/can he have some money for a sticky bun. The tourists, possibly fearing for their lives, clapped over-enthusiastically.

WHY IS NO ONE EVER WITH ME WHEN THESE THINGS HAPPEN?

In other news, I cannot believe this or this.

Now, I NEVER post first thing in the morning, so...um...have a smashing, hobo free-day!

Touch of Grey

One of the many things I love about fall (besides crunchy leaves, wearing sweaters, and the way that the cooler air diminishes the stench of hobo pee on the subway platform) is the return of TV shows after the summer hiatus.

We’re big on DVR’ing everything and catching up on the weekends, and so last night, I watched Gossip Girl. (I LOVE YOU, GOSSIP GIRL! PLEASE DON’T GET CANCELED! I WANT TO STEAL ALL OF THE CHARACTERS’ CLOTHES AND POSSIBLY SERENA’S HAIR! CAN I PLEASE COME HANG OUT WITH YOU? AND MAYBE ASK SERENA HOW SHE GETS HER HAIR TO BE SO AWESOME? WE’LL BE BFFS FOR-EVA, I JUST KNOW IT! YES, I’M AWARE THAT I’M TEN YEARS OLDER THAN ALL OF YOU! AND THAT YOU’RE FICTIONAL! BUT A PART OF ME DOESN’T REALLY CARE!) I also caught up on Grey’s Anatomy, and watched the “Werewolf Bar Mitzvah” clip from 30 Rock approximately 372 times. Sadly, I’m only exaggerating a little bit. That shit’s funny.

(Oh, and as you may have surmised? My brief, “curse-free” stint is over. I defy any of you to get through assembling a sideboard/wine storage/buffet thing, as J & I did today, without letting slip a few choice words.)

Back to my TV shows, though; specifically, Grey’s Anatomy. I…don’t think I can watch it anymore. Now, don’t get me wrong-- I still love certain aspects of it. Like the music, for instance, or Cristina, or how I secretly want Dr. Bailey to be my mentor, sleeping on our couch and bringing the smack down on me in her awesome, kick-ass way whenever I step out of line (“Did you leave your clothes on this chair?! I know you know better than that, Metalia. I taught you better than that.”) But at this point, I want to hurl Izzy through a damn wall, I find Meredith’s aggressively fuzzy, too-dark-for-her-hair caterpillar eyebrows very distracting (shallow, I know), and, in what I suppose is an effort to both shock the viewing audience and top themselves, the show’s procedures are becoming increasingly vomit-inducing.

Like, for instance, that kid from last week. With the needle. And the tongue depressor. SHOVED INTO HIS EYEBALL. I simply cannot deal.

Mainly because I fear that it might happen to me.

You see, I’m not what you’d call adept at handling medical matters in a calm and rational manner. And reading Moose’s hilarious post about being a worrier reassured me that at least I’m not alone.

I think the problem began when I was younger and my father (who was pre-med, before he scrapped that plan for law school) had a lurid medical book filled with all manner of oozing sores and nightmarish rashes. I was horrified and fascinated at the same time. Still, nothing like gross eye goop, shudder-inducing burns and close-ups of skin ailments to scar a kid for life. Compounding the issue was the fact that the book was apparently published roughly around the time of the Lincoln Administration, and contained a large amount of outdated information. Um, unbeknownst to me. I swear, until I was about 11 or 12, every time my foot fell asleep, I was certain that it marked the beginnings of polio. (“Eradication in America is getting closer every day!” or something to that effect, were the book’s sentiments on the matter.)

This set the stage for a future in manufactured medical drama the likes of which the world has never before seen.

Did I bid my parents a tearful farewell, “just in case,” when I was getting A WISDOM TOOTH EXTRACTION? Yup. (Though in the interest of full disclosure, the tears were probably also related to the fact that they made me get the extraction over Winter Break in 10th grade. The horror!)

Did I, after said extraction, inadvertently take two painkillers instead of the prescribed 1 and proceed to call Poison Control? Guilty as charged. Adding insult to injury, I may have been totally doped up on my whopping 2 pills, but I distinctly heard the Poison Control dude laughing at me.

More recently, a review of my past Google searches would yield such gems as “stubbed toe hurts a lot diseases" and “paper cut from cardboard possible infections.” Don’t even ask about how I handled the whole mosquito/West Nile thing. (Hint: Not well, considering that the mosquitoes LOVE me.)

I mean, my God. I have an itchy bump on my arm right now, which, in all likelihood, is probably yet another mosquito bite, but it’s taking ALL OF MY WILLPOWER to refrain from Googling “recurrence of chicken pox in 27-year olds.”

Is any of this normal?

Of course not!

But I know my limitations.

And so Grey’s Anatomy, with its “I have the hiccups, OOPS! I’m dead now” scenes, and its “I’m just a young woman on the train to work, but now I’m skewered to this guy on a pole, and OOPS! I’m dead now, too!” plotlines, is now dead to ME.

Goodbye, Grey’s Anatomy. If we were actually on the show right now, a mood-perfect, piano-driven song played by some obscure band would play as the scene faded out, with Meredith incorporating some key phrase of the lyrics into her closing voice-over. But since it’s just me, it’s going to be Salt n’ Pepa’s “Shoop”, as that’s what iTunes decided to play.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to check out this itchy bump on my arm.

It’s wicked, wicked, and I have to kick it.

On Cursing and Cooking

I'm trying out something new. Essentially, it involves not cursing like a longshoreman, as is my (occasional) habit.

You see, Toopweets is talking. Like, a lot. And perhaps more significantly, REPEATING a lot. Consequently, I had a bit of a wake-up call the other day. I was amidst cutting up some meatballs for his dinner when I burnt my hand. "CRAAAAP!" I exclaimed. He looked up, and a bemused expression crossed his face.

I'm sure you can imagine what happened next.

For the next 5 minutes, “cwap” was his favorite word.

Elmo was cwap. His sippy cup was cwap. My magazine was cwap. (As it was In Touch, he sort of had a point.) I realized with horror that I could’ve said (and he could've repeated) something much worse, and so I resolved to clean up my act, so to speak. After all, I reasoned, it's a slippery slope from “cwap” to the truly foulmouthed 2-year old I saw in Target the other week.

The first day of my shiny, curse-free existence wasn't so bad.

The second day was a bit more challenging. I had a close call when I stubbed my toe. The incident occurred while we were playing a little game I like to call "Hide Behind Large Pieces of Furniture and Pop Up Quickly While Shrieking 'Boo'." (Patent pending!) After bashing my foot against the metal leg of what I've since decided is the world's most impractical chair, the "fff” sound was just dancing there on the tip of my tongue, but I'm proud to say that I recovered nicely with "fudgebuttons."

I'm not going to lie; it was weird.

Then things got difficult pretty rapidly.

How, I ask you, is one supposed to assemble a toy without letting the occasional “DAMN it!” slip by? Am I truly expected to get cut off in traffic behind a 907-year old lady who then drives fourteen miles an hour and NOT mutter "bitch" under my breath? Is one really supposed to drop a can of shoepeg corn on her hand without accusing said corn of possibly engaging in inappropriate relations with its mother? How, I ask you, HOWWWW?

To make matters worse, no sooner did I attempt to drop my bad habit, I started to see reminders of it everywhere. I can’t balance my checkbook…

...or play blocks with T and not be reminded of my old ways:

Sigh…this is not going to be easy. I give myself about a week before I crack. Wish me luck.

Seriously, how do people do this?

* * * * *

For all of you who were intrigued at the thought of Cauliflower Popcorn, here's the recipe. It's delicious, and a snap to make. Enjoy!

2 heads cauliflower, cut into medium florets (discard stems)

1 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons sugar

¼ teaspoon onion powder

¼ teaspoon garlic powder

½ teaspoon paprika

¼-1/2 teaspoon turmeric

6 tablespoons of olive oil

Preheat oven to 450 degrees.

Line a baking pan with parchment paper. In a large bowl, combine all of the spices and the olive oil. Add cauliflower florets and toss to evenly coat. Place in a single layer on the prepared sheet. Roast uncovered for 30-35 minutes, until the largest pieces can be pierced with a fork.

p.s. Werewolf Bar Mitzvahs are very, very scary. That is all.

If You Cut Through The Rambling, You'll Find A Lip Gloss Review

The past few days (weeks? years? I DON’T KNOW ANYMORE.) were a whirlwind of work, family visits, and friends. I’m still reeling (in the best way), so this will have to be a bullet point post (albeit a long one). Let’s start with last week, as promised in my previous post, shall we?

A) As I’d mentioned, I was in D.C., and conveniently, so was Heather B. We, along with the lovely Emily (a.k.a. my fabulous BlogHer roomie) spent a night out together. Let me just tell you, I adore these ladies, and you know that feeling when you smile and laugh for so long and so consistently that your cheeks are in a state of spasm, but you just don’t care, you’re having that good of a time? It was that kind of night.

B) My hotel in D.C. was attached to a mall. I made a number of purchases that crowded my already-overstuffed carry-on bag. Among them was a pretty, drapey white shirt and an amazing lip gloss. As promised in my last post, here's the scoop on the gloss:

At the risk of over-selling it, I can tell you that it immediately won a place on my “top five lip glosses” mental list (It’s totally normal that I maintain said list, right? Terrific!), and that I love it, despite the fact that it comes in a pot. (Funnily enough, I’d recently purchased a lip brush at the behest of…Heather B! She extolled its virtues while we were in Sephora together a few months back, and so I, a formerly unrepentant hater of pot-type glosses, specifically walked into Sephora this time determined to purchase a pot of gloss to use with my lip brush.)

Without further ado, I bring you... Laura Mercier Lip Stain!

Here’s the product description:

Laura Mercier Lip Stain provides the visual effect of a stain with the comfort and sheen of a lip gloss.

• Long term wear with a satin, balmy finish
• Leaves the look of effortless polish and understated sophistication
• Hybrid of stain and gloss formula
• Clear glass pot allows for quick application

Effortless polish AND understated sophistication? That is my DREAM!

I’m blown away by the genius of the product. In my past experience, most long wear-type glosses require a goopy, matte color basecoat that you must apply perfectly, lest you accidentally smear the color (which is, for all intents and purposes, a glorified permanent marker) above your upper lip, and risk looking like a certain dictator whose name rhymes with…oh, I think we all know where I’m going here, right?

And then the only way to get the splotch off before it sets in is to rub furiously at your upper lip with what turns out to be your friend's mom's precious hand towel, which you inadvertently ruin forever. You will never be invited back, even to study for the Physics final. At this point you need to use the secondary topcoat/gloss stick that came with the color basecoat thing in order to make your matte, alarmingly color-saturated lips have some semblance of shine, but after all that, you still have a weird red blotch on your upper lip for the next half hour, due to your earlier run-in with the color stick. Um, I mean, that could happen. To other people. Certainly not me.

Furthermore, the color and texture of such products, have, in my experience, left much to be desired. I’d write more, but the visual argument of my lips in my 8^th grade Spelling Bee Championship victory photo is really quite compelling:

You will observe that I was rocking the ever-classy “dark lipliner, lighter lipstick” look, so popular in the early Nineties, and the lipstick in question was Revlon LongLast...something something in Raisin…something. Do you want to know something awful? I loved this lipstick SO MUCH that I was petrified that Revlon would stop making it, and so I would buy four or five at a time. I'm sure I still have a stockpile in my parents' house somewhere.)

As you can see, I’ve been burned before, and consequently, I’ve been a strict gloss girl since college. Sure, you have to constantly reapply it, but admit it: Isn’t that all just part of the fun?

So. Back to the new gloss.

I purchased the gloss in Shy Pink, which is described as a “delicate pink brown” a.k.a. “Metalia’s perfect nude gloss shade.” (I still love you, Nars Foul Play! Shy Pink is just so new and exciting to me right now! You're still my special gal, I swear!)

I secretly want to go back and purchase the gloss in Mulberry for my many exciting nights out on the town, but then I remembered that my nights primarily revolve not around town, but rather, around watching all manner of addictive DVR’ed crap (Damn you Gossip Girl! Damn you to hell! I was ensnared in your perfectly manicured, Ballet Pink talons from the very start!), NOT cleaning my Clothing Chair of Doom (much to J's chagrin), and occasionally making baked goods. Eh, whatever. One new gloss is enough for now. I’ve been topping Shy Pink off with clear gloss, partially to get my “must apply lip gloss with a wand!” fix, but primarily because it makes the color really pop. Oh, and yes, it really does last for a while, without that icky, drying feeling, or any ruined hand towels to speak of. Hooray!

C) My last post also promised some weird stories, involving foreign dignitaries, Fabio (yes, the Fabio), and a smarmy man named Chico. I swear I’ll get to that another day. Just remind me.

D) My parents just spent the weekend with us for the first time. They live 20 minutes away, and we visit them (and vice versa) all the time, so we never bothered to have them for any extended period of time. (Who sucks? WE DO!) Anyway, we had an amazing time with them.

But.

In anticipation of their arrival, I cooked more than I ever have in my life. It's not like my parents have never had my cooking before, but I don't know; something about having them with us for the weekend (and not just a quick visit) brought out the crazy cook in me. What's that you say? The menu? Sure!

~ Homemade Chicken Soup (with Matzah Balls!)

~ Turkey Timbales with Citrus Hoisin Sauce

~ Slow Cooked Root Vegetables

~ Marinated Rosemary London Broil

~ Mustard and French Onion Crisped Chicken (Don't let the title fool you; this sounds wayyy fancier than it is; it's chicken cutlets dipped in honey mustard and dunked in those crushed onion rings from a can. It is, however, delicious...right, Stefanie?)

~ Cauliflower Popcorn (My favorite recipe ever.)

~ Broccoli Kugel

~ Red Cabbage and Ramen Noodle Salad

~ Strawberry Crumb Cake

~ Chocolate Chip Cookies (I cheated here; these were pre-cut, frozen cookies.)

We will be eating leftovers FOREVER.

E) Apropos of nothing, are you watching 30 Rock? Because you should be.

F) Finally (for now) YAYYY, de-lurkers! I love you so; thanks from the bottom of my heart for delurking. Your questions were so very good and likely to produce such long-winded responses that I’m considering answering a few each day as part of NaBloPoMo. (Which…who else is doing NaBloPoMo this year?) If you have anything else you'd like answered then, by all means, ask away.

Now I’m off to go catch up with your blogs, click on over to my lurkers’ sites, and um…

Watch An American Tail. It's a long, long story.

Don’t judge.

Lurky You: Part Deux

I just returned from a trip, and was all prepared to tell you:

A) All about my exciting adventures in D.C.

B) How my hotel was ATTACHED TO A MALL. With an Banana Republic AND a Forever 21.

C) Some weird stories, involving foreign dignitaries, Fabio (yes, the Fabio), and a smarmy man named Chico.

D) How I just stumbled across the most genius and incredible lip gloss EVER. (No, for reals, this time.)

E) About the cutest bottle of hot sauce that you ever did see.

F) How I've been so busy lately I literally do not have time to pee.

G) About my scary obsession with a new SNL video (okay, I'll give you this one:)



BUT THEN!

I learned from a number of your blogs that it is Delurking Day once again. Or more specifically, it's The Great Mofo Delurking Day 2007. See?



I, for one, am incredibly excited, because the last Delurking Day enabled me to meet some hilarious people. Furthermore, I chose to honor the spirit of the day by inviting everyone, lurkers and "regulars," to ask me anything (with a few notable exceptions), which I answered in a subsequent Q&A post.

People, I LOVED your questions, and had the best time responding to them. I think it's high time for another Q&A, don't you?

So can you de-lurk, and fire a question my way? Pretty please?

Drawer Story

You know what sucks?

Well, lots of things, like High School Musical, raisins of all kinds, people who know you hate raisins and still try to get you to secretly eat things with raisins in them, just so they can be The Person Who Got Metalia To Eat Raisins, And Wouldn’t You Know It? She Ate The Thing I Gave Her Even Though It Has Raisins, Which She Allegedly Hates! (Side note: What is UP with you raisin-lovin’ people? STOP SECRETLY TRYING TO FEED ME RAISINS! Why does it matter so much to you? Please, I must know!)

Ahem.

Back on track:

…and of course, the suckiest thing of all? The convergence of seasonal wardrobe rotation/clean out the drawers time with the fact that I have been traveling a lot these past few weeks, and have been packing and unpacking practically nonstop. Do you know what happens when you live out of bags AND simultaneously try to keep your closets and drawers organized and seasonally-appropriate? THIS! THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS:

[Deep, cleansing breaths.]

I know, it’s awful. I can't blame you if you’re vomiting in terror right now. But tonight (even though I’m leaving for yet another trip tomorrow) I took the time to reorganize EVERYthing. And…well, holy shit. I found some insane things buried in there. In fact, I found a small grocery bag in the back of my closet filled with things that I have literally been moving from apartment to apartment for the past 8 years. I will never wear any of it again. (To wit: If anyone has use for a neon yellow and orange shirt from a NY-area radio station that I received from a prize van in 1992? Just let me know.)

All of which flows neatly into my latest obsession: This Flickr group.

Sure, I get up each morning and put on office-appropriate gear to face the day, but oh, how I long for the weekends when I can be my true slobby self. Vans! Flip flops! Hoodies! Drawstring pants! HEAVEN. This, coupled with The Great Closet Cleanout of ’07 inspired the following list:

The Five Slobbiest, Most Embarrassing Things I Still Own/Wear

Pink Sparkly Princess Socks

Oh, dear. There is actually a story here, which is that my bachelorette party started out at a bowling alley. Yes, I know. Let’s move on, shall we? Now, I had NO idea where we were going at first, and, once informed that we were starting out the evening with some bowling, I looked down at my sockless feet. I visualized all the raunchy-ass foot diseases and fungi I could catch bowling sans socks, and my friends and I made a detour to a 24 hour Duane Reade, and these little babies were the only relatively normal socks they had. Beggars can’t be choosers, however, and so I bought them and off we went into the night. The bigger question here is why I still have them nearly four years later, and why I occasionally wear them (ONLY with long pants). (I said OCCASIONALLY!)

Old Shirt

My dad used to wear this on his track team. In high school. From which he graduated in 1972. It’s basically completely sheer at this point, and I’m fairly certain that the flash from the camera just disintegrated the three remaining fibers that were holding the shirt together. The hem is uneven, it’s all stretched out, but I still occasionally wear it. And by “wear it,” I don’t mean “ONLY in the privacy of my own home” but also, unfortunately, “under a black cardigan with jeans, as if it can pass as a vintage tee when I need to quickly run out to the supermarket.”

Unfortunate J. Lo-Brand Velour Sweatsuit

I have no excuse, and I don’t know what I was thinking. My only justification is that I never wear the two pieces together. I’ve looked high and low, but have been unable to find the hoodie part of this outfit to give you the full effect. Suffice it to say it is a powder blue velo--you know what? Just picture this:

HAWT.

Leggings

Now don’t you worry, I’m not getting involved in the whole “are they cute or are they heinous” debate. No, my leggings are on this for a very different reason. You see, when leggings recently became fashionable again, I was torn. I remember owning white lace leggings in the early 80s, not unlike these:

And so I was understandably skittish about the whole concept. Most people would’ve, I don’t know, tried some on in the store, perhaps?

Not me.

I made my own.

By cutting off the bottoms off a pair of opaque tights.

I KNOW.

Nursing Bra

It’s not so much the nursing bra as the idiot who put donned it. About two weeks after I gave birth to Toopweets, I decided to take him for a little walk. Simple, right? As those of you who have had kids know, however, getting from point A (making the decision to go for a walk) to point B (physically getting ourselves out the door) took about 3 hours. (This was my first “real” trip outside with him, and, though I now know that going AROUND THE BLOCK does not necessitate a fully-packed diaper bag, I had no idea at the time.)

Anyway, I got dressed in a tank top and a drawstring skirt and we set out on our way. I soon noticed that I was getting a few looks from passers-by. I paid them no mind, and simply smiled back broadly, assuming that they were enjoying the sight of mother and baby enjoying the summer weather.

I soon noticed that their glances were directed at my chest. I was sort of annoyed, but at the same time, a tiny bit proud that two weeks after giving birth, people were ogling me.

It was then that an elderly Southern woman quietly informed me that I had a “cup issue.” She made some vague gestures, and used the word “bosom.”

Whereupon I died.

It seems that in all my preparation to leave for The Big Walk, I had neglected to re-latch one side of my nursing bra, and was strolling around in a fairly snug tank top.

Hence the stares.

Can you imagine if I was famous? And the US Weekly paparazzi caught me? I'd have been in "Stars: They're Just Like Us!" section, no question.

While the nursing bra is not an embarrassing/slobby item of clothing, per se, I think you’ll agree that this situation warrants a place for it in this list.

So what about you? What are the most awful items of clothing that you still have and wear?