Metalia: Setting Feminism Back Since 2008

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

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

(I apologize in advance.)

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

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

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

Precisely.

GO GET IT.

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

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

I know it’s clichéd.

I know I should have been offended.

But honestly, people?

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

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

All Over The Place

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

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

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

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

Um, oh my God?

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

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

I Hate It When I Learn New Things About Myself From Riding The Subway

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Couldn't Be Any Worse Than Anything Michael Bay Has Come Up With (IMPORTANT UPDATES ADDED)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:15 pm

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

J: What is it?

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

J: Okay, keep going.

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

J: Uh huh.

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

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

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

J: Well, obviously.

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

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

M: YES! Yes, it does!

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

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

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

M: SHIT. I have no idea.

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

M: You, too.

Four hours later…

M: J! J! I’ve got it!

J: [sleepily]: Wha?

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

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

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

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

***UPDATE***

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

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

It's The Little Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AWESOME.

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

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

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

This is Only a Test

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

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

Here’s what the full outfit looked like:

Thanks again for your advice!

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be still my heart.

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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