The Wedding, as Told Via Fake Q & A With a Bridezilla

As I mentioned once or twice or 47 times recently, my brother's wedding was rapidly approaching. It took place this past weekend, and here's the part where I ramble on about it. Time for a fake Q&A? I THINK SO. Since it's a wedding, I shall make the interviewer....uh, a Bridezilla. Yes.

My wedding is going to be the best ever. I'm having a green wedding. My flowers are going to be flown in from Tahiti. I have no idea why everyone is calling me a hypocrite. THEY'RE JUST JEALOUS. Also, my engagement ring is bigger than yours. TOP THAT.

Uh...do you have a question?

FINE. Sigh. How did your dress come out? My stupid whore of a Maid of Honor said my demand for her to wear a corset under hers was "unreasonable" and that she was "six months pregnant." I hate her.

Well, crazypants, I really loved how my dress came out! I wrote a whole post about it here, but here's the gist. I scrapped my initial ideas, because I fell in love with this dress ("sleeves" added), which we (by which I mean, "my dressmaker") modified to make a little more modest for purposes of my brother's Orthodox Jewish wedding:



Here's how it looked:







I guess it's okay. My, you look. . .tanner than you usually do, Metalia. DID YOU GO TO TAHITI TO SNOOP ON MY FLOWERS? THEY'RE PRECIOUS RARE TAHITIAN GARDENIAS! IM'MA CUT YOU, BITCH!

Calm down, Bridezilla! I did no such thing! As you can see, the dress color for the bridal party was champagne, which, while pretty, does nothing for my pasty, pasty skin. And so, I set off on an exhaustive search to find the best airbrush tanning salon in Manhattan. I think I found it; this place received consistently high marks across various city search-type websites, and one of the awards in Allure Magazine's Best of Beauty issue. SOLD! I went with the lightest shade, and it looked (I hope!) completely natural, streak-free, and (most importantly) NOT ORANGE. (No one paid me to say this,obviously, but I highly, HIGHLY recommend them.)

I cut work to go tanning last week for the wedding. Tanning is super important. So is hair. How did you tell the stylist to do yours? I might copy it for my wedding, only it will be much prettier, since I will add sparkle-coated butterfly clips. And also, because I hired both Ken Paves and Frederic Fekkai to do my hair for the wedding. I'm going to pay them to fight to the death, and the winner will do my hair.

I believe my exact words to the stylist were, "Grecian-beachy, half-up, but for the love of God, DON'T MAKE ME LOOK LIKE SARAH PALIN."

That sounds totally reasonable and easy to achieve to me! Now I think we're finally on the same wavelength. And since we're there, I'll admit that chatting with you takes my mind off of that lazy-ass flower girl I have. My sister is all, "eight-week-old babies can't walk! You have unrealistic expectations!" I think we all know who's being unrealistic here. . .ABOUT MY HAPPINESS, WHICH IS PARAMOUNT. Speaking of kids, how were yours at the wedding?

Um, well...you know how I was all list-oriented? And hyperorganized about the wedding?

[Shrugs, applies rhinestones to nails.]

Well, I was. Anyway, there was one item I SHOULD have included on my many lists, namely, "do not allow child to bash face in, three days prior to wedding." Because...yeah, that happened. (It was a total fluke; he literally tripped, directly into the corner of a wall.)

Anyway, it was PITIFUL. He barely noticed, but...just--oy. OY. Magically, however, his puffy little eye went down pretty quickly, and then I, um...may have had the makeup artist at the wedding cover it up a bit. Here he is (walking down the aisle with my sister-in-law's nephew, hand-in-hand in their tiny tuxedos, OMG):

Sadly, we currently have no good pictures of our family together, but you'll have to take my word for it that we were all there, were all smiling, and had our eyes open at some point:

(Totally stole this from my uncle's Facebook page.)

I would have forcibly strongarmed the photographer into following me and my family around until a perfect shot was obtained, but I guess you have an. . . interesting set of priorities. I KNOW what's important, I guess. For instance, I'm forcing my fiance to do a 24-minute choreographed ballet, contemporary, jazz and hip-hop medley routine for our first dance. It's the simple things like that which truly matter. Did you do any dancing at the wedding?

You know what, Bridezilla? I am...well, more than a little scared of you. And I'm about to run away screaming in the opposite direction, so I'll just answer your question with some pictures. And yes, I think it's apparent that we sooooo think we can dance.Or at least make very compelling Dance Faces. (Having a rough day? Feeling a bit down? I do believe these pictures will snap you right the hell out of it. It's clear that we are ridiculous human beings.)





(All silliness aside, many, MANY congratulations to my little brother and my new sister-in-law! I couldn't be happier for them. And! Happy Birthday to my amazing husband!)

The upside to the Obsessive Preparation Wormhole

It’s funny, in retrospect, how very little I cared about most of the details of my own wedding. I just wanted to marry J, you know? I cared about my dress, obviously, and—much to the poorly-hidden chagrin of certain family members—having a bouquet composed solely of dark, burgundy-colored roses. That was…pretty much it.

It’s funny to me, therefore, that with my brother’s wedding rapidly approaching (this weekend!) I find myself BOGGED THE HELL DOWN with details. It’s not that I WANT to care, but, well, there were toddler-sized tuxedos to find, and jewelry to procure, and THE TINY BARRETTES, WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE TINY BARRETTES? And the packing lists, and remembering toys for the kids, and clothes to change into afterward, and AHHHHHHH.

I’ve been sucked into some sort of Obsessive Preparation Wormhole, which is not necessarily entirely a bad thing, as there have definitely been some memorable moments. Take, for instance, the portion of the list I’ve tackled so far this week:

1. "Research the Earring Issue"

Lo received a gorgeous pair of baby earrings from my in-laws for her birthday, and so I decided the wedding would be a perfect time to get over my crippling fear of changing her starter earrings (which she’s worn since her initial ear piercing, last October), and put those bad boys in. Yeah, well, as it turns out? “Starter” is apparently code for “these fuckers ain’t budging, EVER.” And while I’d love to have the option of occasionally changing her earrings, I’m loath to maim her baby ears in the process. I’ve tried four times now to get them out, but it’s not working, and I honestly feel like I’m defusing a bomb with each attempt, because she has this charming habit of whipping her head around like a Slayer fan, SANS WARNING, while I'm doing so. Babies, man.

At a complete loss, I added the above item to my ever-growing list of stuff to do, and went a’Googling in order to see if there was a quick solution for removing starter earrings. (Spoiler alert: no.) While I was unsuccessful in that endeavor, my search did bring me to numerous crazy message boards, where a surprising amount of people made impassioned statements to the effect that parents who pierce their kids’ ears are essentially guilty of child abuse. This really only wants to make me pierce her navel, I’M SORRY.

(Obviously, if you can help my clueless ass, I’d be forever grateful. Should I try…olive oil? Dish soap? Prayer? WHAT?)

2. "Figure Out Hairstyle for Wedding"

The dress I’ll be wearing to the wedding has a lot of flowy elements to it, so I figured loose, beachy hair would be the way to go. Again, Google figured prominently in my research, which led me to two notable things:

A. It seems that many people take “beachy” quite literally, and interpret the term by PLACING STARFISH IN THEIR HAIR. I’m not talking about a starfish clip, or like, some cute tiny pin in the shape of one. I’m talking a big-ass, honking, actual dried starfish, as large as a regulation baseball, if not bigger.

B. Somehow, typing my query about beachy wedding hairstyles brought me to Yahoo Answers, which is a veritable treasure trove of hilarity. As I learned, there’s a “related questions” field on the bottom of each page, and dude. Duuuuude. A sampling:

“Which item from the ‘As Seen on TV’ section of Walgreens would make a good wedding present?”

“How can I get married online?”

“I told my fiancé marrying him would be a mistake. Now what?”

“Can you ‘write off’ wedding gifts like ‘contributions’?”

“I am 14 my bf is 18….can I marry him?”

Oh, god.

(Speaking of hair, I'm featured in a Hair Share post on Hair Thursday. Check it out, and answer for yourself the --unasked--question of why I do not do more video posts.)

3. "Get Strapless Bra"

As I mentioned in my last post, the dress I’m wearing necessitated the purchase of a really good strapless bra. As such, many people suggested simply going to a dedicated bra store and getting a proper fitting. Which, you know, makes a remarkable amount of sense. WELL. I did just that, and now, so as not to offend any of my gentlemen readers, I’ll use the innocuous (and sports-related!) term “gonzagas” in telling the forthcoming tale. As in, “Hey, get a load of those gonzagas.”

I headed to a Very Prominent Bra Store to kick off my search. I asked for some assistance, and the bra…technician (?) told me to follow her into a fitting room. I figured she’d whip out a tape measure or something, and measure me over my shirt, but no, she told me to take off my shirt and bra. There was NO TAPE MEASURE. She simply…eyeballed the area, and then went off to find some suitable bras, while I stood there, recovering in shock. In retrospect, I guess I should have prepared a bit more for the experience, since everything I know about bra fittings is gleaned from reading Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.

None of those bras that she returned with fit, so she called in another, more senior consultant so they could figure out what the problem was. Together, they stared at me some more, and the second one got All Up In My Gonzagas. I mean, at least get me some Mardi Gras beads, ladies.

They determined that I was a 28C. Or a 30C. I mention this only because THAT IS NOT EVEN A REAL SIZE THAT EXISTS IN THE WORLD. I’ve come to suspect that bra stores make their market off of the old “most women are wearing the wrong size braaaaaaa!” chestnut, and the attendant shock factor of telling a lifelong 32B that she’s actually a 46AAA.093*$, or something. I’M ON TO YOU PEOPLE.

They made me, like, lean into the bras they brought me, and manhandled me more than the most overzealous lactation consultant (trust me, I know of which I speak), and all the while I stood there with the Jasper Cullen Mask of Discomfort and Fear plastered across my face. Happy place. HAPPY PLACE.

After all that, they had nothing that fit my (APPARENTLY FREAK-SIZED) chest, and so, I…walked out, pretended the entire incident never happened, went to Victoria’s Secret, and picked up this bra (as recommended by Bethlaws06, Green is the New Dots and one anonymous reader)...

...In my regular size.

4. "Find Man Carrying Hand Saw on Public Transportation"

Okay, that wasn't actually on my list, but this totally happened today. And no, I do not have a picture, because he was a man carrying a handsaw (albeit in a plastic bag) on public transportation.

*********

(I'm finally....finalizing the next installment of "Ask A Jew"...if there's anything else you'd like to see addressed, just let me know!)

Tit for Tat

I'm going to be honest with you here; I need your help. With a few things, come to think of it. But I feel exceedingly guilty just asking for help without offering anything, so I'm going to give you some things in return.

Thing 1: Cultured Butter

Okay, I can't actually GIVE you cultured butter, but a few people asked about it after I mentioned it in a recent post. As I mentioned then, Jonniker brought it into my life through the magic of Twitter, and I am eternally grateful. It's made from fermented cream, and through the magic of...culturing(?), you get a butter that has a much richer and more...buttery flavor. Yes. It's really good, to the point that I was tempted to, um, put some on a spoon and eat it. Alone. I didn't, because that's deeply gross, but the point is, I considered it.

Thing 2: My Phone Case

When I recently posted my Fake Wig Saga, a few people also asked about my blinged-out phone case visible in some of the shots. I actually received the phone case as a gift from a company my husband works with. Once they so generously offered to make one up for me, my friend Kate allowed me to "borrow" this design of hers for the phone case decoration, and voila:



It's Swarovski crystal-encrusted, and basically belongs in the hands of anyone on Cribs who has ever uttered the words "This is where the magic happens." But! Let this be a lesson to you: Ordinarily, I probably wouldn't have pick something like this out in a store, but I have fallen in serious love with this case (clearly, since I use it every day). It's a total conversation starter (I've literally gotten stopped in the street by people inquiring about it), and I smile every time I look at it. Seriously, sometimes a little bedazzling in your life is a good thing.

Thing 3: ZOMFG KIRSTIE!11!!

Are you following Kirstie Alley on Twitter? No? DO IT. You're welcome. (To give credit where it is due, Stefanie brought her into my life, and I must now pay it forward.) Like most people, I generally loathe celebrity Twitterers, but she is like someone's dotty great aunt, or something. I may have called her "a TREASURE" to her (Twitter)face last night. She calls her followers SWEET CRESCENT MOONS, for crissakes. I'm not made of stone.

Thing 4: The Game is Afoot, Charney!

We all know how I feel about American Apparel. And if perchance we don't all know that, the answer is: "consistently enraged." (Though in the interest of full disclosure, I do love their baby basics, like karate pants, and staples, such as t-shirts, tanks, and not, you know, HIGH-WAISTED GOLD SPARKLING HOTPANTS.)

Seeing as how I have no apparent problem taking terrible and unflattering pictures of myself lately, I passed the American Apparel store today and thought to myself, "it is HIGH TIME I actually try on some of the abject fug that passes for clothing up in this piece." Behold!

Up first, please feast your eyes on a backless one-size-fits-all tunic, complete with blousing and extra-long fringe! Next, can I interested you in some hot pink shredded leggings? Perfect for working out. Let me hear your body talk, people!

There's a special place in hell for this next garment, which manages to cut the wearer in EVERY. SINGLE. UNFLATTERING. SPOT. ON. THE. HUMAN. FORM. It's kind of impressive, actually. Observe:

Finally, I bring you Barbie Dress. I hope you like my side ponytail! I'm acting all shy and demure, but you just KNOW I'm itching to hop into my Ferrari and head off to the Dream House with Skipper. This little exercise actually helped my rage dissipate somewhat, and so, I would very much like it to be Part I of an occasional series, entitled "WTF, AmApp?!" That is, assuming they don't catch wind of me and ban me, my children, and my children's children from their stores in perpetuity. Fingers crosssssed!

Okay!

Now I feel sufficiently satisfied to ask you for your help. I need guidance on the following.

1. I've started drinking gin, since it screams "summer" to me. However, what is there to do with it besides mix it with tonic? What do YOU do with it?

2. My brother's wedding is rapidly approaching, and my dress is almost done. Said dress will require a good strapless bra. For those among you whom God has NOT truly blessed in the, uh, maraca department--if you know what I mean, and I think that you do--what (padded) strapless bra would you recommend that won't have me ducking into corners to hoist up My Business every twelve seconds at the blessed event? Because I want to dance and mingle and celebrate, and not have to worry about The Hoisting of Business.

3. Er, also regarding said wedding...where would one find tiny, ballet-like flats for a baby? I just last week realized I needed to find black tuxedo shoes for T, and let me tell you, THAT is not an easy thing to find, and so you'd think I'd have realized that Lo needed some sort of footwear for this thing to go with her fancy-ass dress, but no, so I--OH GOD MY MOM AND FUTURE SISTER-IN-LAW READ MY BLOG. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL, LADIES! I'M ON TOP OF MY GAME AND WHATNOT, AND TOTALLY DIDN'T ALMOST HAVE BAREFOOT CHILDREN AT THE WEDDING.

Uh, anyway, I'm having a shocking amount of difficulty locating this particular style online, and so, I turn the question over to you, in the event any of you have some good leads.

Many thanks in advance for any guidance you can offer!

Weekend in review, and a Kristin Stewart impression

Yesterday was undoubtedly one of the most fun days we've had in quite a while.

Wait.

I didn't mean to make it seem like we're usually rending garments and hurling fine china at each other's heads over here, but it was just one of those amazing, heartwarming days where everyone behaves, you get to experience new places and things through your kids' eyes, and only one person has to pee in a plastic cup on the ride home. (Hint: The person in question is recently toilet trained, and was all, "Oh, I don't have to go! I am offended at the mere suggestion, Mother" mere MINUTES before we got stuck in horrific, bumper-to-bumper traffic for nearly two hours, with nary a patch of grass in sight to...christen. Awesome.)

We spent yesterday morning with good friends who recently moved out to Long Island, and as such, we haven't seen them as much as we'd like. Which sucks, since not only do we love them, but T and their daughter adore each other, and were thisclose when they lived here. We took the kids to Adventureland, a mini amusement park for kids.

DIGRESSION: J and I are two of the twelve people in the Western Hemisphere to have seen the *movie*, Adventureland, starring one Kristin Stewart. (One-sentence review of the movie: Great job evincing '80s look, sound, and mood, PISS-POOR JOB CASTING MISS ONE-NOTE MCGEE.) I love Twilight-related shit as much as the next person, but it's clear to me she is of the Hair Mussing School of Dramatic Emoting. I have my impression of her down to a science, and will often do it for J, completely unbidden. He is so lucky to be married to me. What's that? You want to see it? Well, okay. It's a four-tiered process, but one that can easily be mastered with a little practice and black eyeliner:

STEP 1: FIND INSPIRATION. AND EXCESSIVE BANGLES.

STEP 2: INCESSANTLY FUTZ WITH YOUR HAIR. APPEAR TO BE SLEEPY OR PISSED. MAYBE BOTH. LET THOSE BANGLES SHINE!

STEP 3: LOOK REALLY, REALLY HIGH.

STEP 4: PUT IT ALL TOGETHER!

And...SCENE. Now you, too, can perfect your Kristin Stewart impression in the comfort and privacy of your own home! Patent pending!

Where was I? Ah, yes. Adventureland. The kids had a great time, and we kicked things off with a trip on the carousel. I love how I try to project an air of casual nonchalance here, which is belied by my VISELIKE CLAW ARM. It seems I am fearful of an Unfortunate Merry-Go-Round Incident.

Lo was a tad overwhelmed by the lights and noises and therefore decided to engage in some baby yoga to find her zen. Or whatever it is that Yoga People say.

We then made our way over to the...car...carousel...bumper...thing? I'm clearly not well-versed in Carny Lingo. Anyway, point is, my boy made a beeline for the Ghostbusters truck. Considering the present haunted state of our home, I AM CERTAIN THIS CANNOT BE A COINCIDENCE. SAVE US, TOOPWEETS! YOU'RE OUR ONLY HOPE!

Our time at Adventureland over, we said goodbye to one set of friends, and then spent the afternoon at the beach house of (the parents of) some other good friends. Now, my kids have seen LAKE beaches before, but never the "real" beach. They were amazed. T ran around with our friends' son (one of his best buddies), watching fishermen, jumping in the water, and digging in the sand. It was so gratifying and sweet to watch him experiencing the ocean for the first time, and enjoying himself as much as he did. (I wish I could post the pictures of the boys playing together, but I forgot to ask our friends' permission. D'oh!)

Lo had a great time...eating sand. I took this shot, thinking it was all sweet and beachy, only to realize a split second into it that GOOD LORD, SHE WAS MUNCHING ON SAND.

I spent the next hour or so saying insightful things such as, "Why are you eating that sand?" and"Please, love, stop eating that sand." Then, of course, I started, like, trying to REASON with her, and use LOGIC, which, as we all know, are the joint specialties of the 13.5-month-old set. ("That sand is gross! There could be diseases in that sand! MY HEAVENS, DOES THE GRIT NOT DISGUST YOU?")

Of course, she did also find the time to perfect her "Donnie Wahlberg in NKOTB circa 1991" impression... (See? Our dramatic talents are genetic!)

...and practice her walking. (Any month now...)

We finished the day off with a fantastic barbecue back at the beach house, and then set out for our trip back home.

All told, it was a perfect, PERFECT day.

Five Reasons Why You Probably Do Not Want to Come Over Right Now.

Reason One
J and I have lately become obsessed with watching Antiques Roadshow. I cannot pinpoint when this happened, exactly, but here we are. It has everything: The oft-clueless yet lucky sons of bitches who are all, "I found this rusted can in the alley behind the meth lab!" only to be informed that said can is worth $12,000! The crazy experts, such as Alleged Artwork Connoisseur Who Touches The Books With Her OIL-FILLED HANDS AND OH MY GOD EVEN I KNOW TO WEAR THE COTTON GLOVES, AND MY ART EXPERTISE IS CULLED ENTIRELY FROM SEEING THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR THREE TIMES, YOU ARE KILLING ME HERE, LADY! And of course, Pocketbook Savant Woman Who Wears Hats, Necklace, Pin and Bracelet Made From What Appear to be Many Lacquered Cherries! We find this show to be RIVETING.

In and of itself, this is pathetic, however, the other night, someone brought in a samurai sword, and all I could think of the entire time was how great it would be if the appraiser gasped, shrieking "It's Japanese steel! Hattori Hanzo!" and then dropped to his knees, reverentially weeping. This is an actual thing that I thought. Like, for real.

Reason Two
I have become an insufferable butter snob. (Thank you, JONNIKER. No, seriously. Thank you. I just feel bad for anyone who ever tries to feed me crap butter ever again.) If you come over, I will likely talk your ear off about the virtues of cultured butter, and then make you eat some.

Reason Three
I recently purchased a cotton dress that I promptly and accidentally shrunk. I've since taken to wearing it around my house like a tiny nightgown, pretending I’m on So You Think You Can Dance. I mean, I kind of always do some weird Mia Michaels-type interpretive dance steps to the kitchen for snacks during the show’s commercial breaks, but…everyone does that, right? Right? Anyway, the point is, this dress is totally Opening Sequence Dancer Intro Material. You know, the part where you’re watching, you’re enjoying, and are all, “oh, cute nightgown-dress-thing, Kayla! So funky! So flowy, and –OH GIRL, THERE ARE YOUR UNDERWEARS.” And granted, they’re always wearing boy shorts underneath, but still. It’s…DISCONCERTING, is what it is. So, yes. I’ve taken to wearing this dress frequently (for it's quite comfy), and any time I AM wearing it, I have a great deal of trouble keeping myself from doing high kicks, spins, and Intensely Expressive Hand Movements, even when I am engaged in decidedly NONdance-related activities, such as Passing Olive Oil to my Husband for a Stir-Fry.

Reason Four
As you may know, our apartment is haunted. As such, I’m a little overzealous, shall we say, in terms of identifying potential supernatural activities. It’s quite unfortunate, therefore, that my son has developed a DELIGHTFUL habit of late, called “waking up in the middle of the night and just…standing there. Yep, right over there, in the hallway outside our bedroom.” My god, you guys. Can I tell you how scary it is to be, say, innocently walking to the bathroom to hang up a towel, and seeing a figure just…standing there? Or waking up at 2:00 AM, sensing you're being watched, only to see that…you are? Of course, every time this happens, I don’t realize it’s him at first, and proceed to freak the fuck out, involuntarily emitting a high-pitched scream. Which, in turn, scares him. I wish I could train myself to realize that this is my son, going through a new (AND HEART ATTACK-INDUCING) phase, but alas, I do not, and instead immediately jump to the conclusion that he’s either a vengeful leprechaun, or one of the Children of the Corn. I of course come to my senses after a second, but it's a looooong, shriek-filled second.

Reason Five
The children ate Brussels sprouts for dinner.

So! Who wants to come over?

My Fake Wig, AKA, OF COURSE You Want To See Seven Odd Pictures of Me!

I recently mentioned--and then wouldn't shut up about--the fact that I was attending a very religious wedding at which most married women would be covering their hair. Before I get into My Magical Tale of the Fake Wig, let me first revisit the general question of why certain married Orthodox Jewish women cover their hair in the first place (which I've cribbed verbatim from my original Ask A Jew post):

Why do Orthodox married women wear wigs? If it’s modesty, why do they wear wigs made out of someone else's human hair that sometimes look better than their own hair? This has never made sense to me, but maybe I just don't understand the concept.

Essentially, Orthodox Jewish women cover their hair after they get married for reasons of modesty. There are two factors that serve as the basis for this requirement: One is that hair is considered--for lack of a better word-- "sexy", and it’s a woman's literal crowning glory, so the general idea there is that the woman covers it so only her husband (and immediate family, depending upon her customs) can see it. The other rationale for the rule is that hair covering is simply an outward, visual sign that a woman is married.

The point that the wigs can (and for the most part, DO) look better than a woman's real hair is well-taken. In fact, some Orthodox women actually don't wear wigs (choosing instead to wear only hats/scarves) for the reasons that you cited; namely, that they feel uncomfortable doing something that is supposed to embody modesty while wearing a wig that looks ten times better than their real hair ever could. Also, if you are someone who believes hair should be covered solely to be an outward, obvious sign of marriage, you probably would wear hats exclusively, since that's a lot more obvious than a wig. Oh, and I should point out that there are many women who switch back and forth between hats and wigs.

Without going into too much detail, there are TONS of variations on the intricacies of hair covering. There are questions on whether the rule requires HAIR covering (i.e., covering all of your hair), or HEAD covering (covering the crown of your head, and allowing your hair to stick out underneath). Some women will ensure that all their hair is covered when they're in public, but will uncover it in their house, no matter who's there. Some, as noted, don't let anyone see it but their husbands. As with most things in life, people do what they feel is right for them.

Note: Even people like me who don't cover their hair do make sure that their head is covered when they attend services in a synagogue, out of respect. Consequently, I am the proud owner of an extensive hat collection, some of which make me look like a human satellite dish. If you ever run into me and I look like I'm on my way to the Kentucky Derby, chances are I'm actually on my way to synagogue services.

Now! Where were we? Ah, yes. My fake wig. As noted, the wedding was fairly religious, and it's NOT that I'd have been shunned, had I shown up with my hair all loose, but I didn't want to LOOK out of place, if that makes sense. I still wanted to appear respectful, but at the same time, didn't want to, you know, actually acquire a wig. And so, I decided to make my own hair look like one.

(I hope this doesn't come across as disrespectful to my faith... as stated, I made a choice when I got married not to cover my hair. The only times that I do cover my hair in any way are when I'm entering a synagogue or playing an active role in a religious event. At my own brother's wedding, for instance, when I will be standing under the chuppah (wedding canopy), I will wear an ever-trendy old lady doily on my head for the duration of the ceremony. In the case of this particular wedding, it was simply a matter of comfort for me, that I not unnecessarily draw attention to myself, hence the Fake Wig Project. I really, REALLY hope I've conveyed that properly. If you have questions, please let me know.)

Ali, who's had practice in the Fake Wig department, as well, suggested a flatiron and a headband, which would cover up my hairline, and make my hair unnaturally straight; WIGLIKE, if you will. And I was all, "yeah, that is a BRILLIANT plan!" until this morning, when I realized I do not, in fact, own a flatiron.

I consequently scrapped that idea, and instead decided to make my hair resemble one of Tyra Banks' very obvious wig styles, the one where she clips back juuuust a tiny front piece over her lion's mane of glorious, tumbling locks. What can I say? TYRA, YOU ARE MY INSPIRATION. The trick, I reasoned, would be getting my bangs--fairly short, and so used to being dried straight down in front--to cooperate. Here's how it actually went down, with random notes scattered throughout, director's cut-style:



I hate this bathroom so, so much. I mean, the toilet works and all-- which I guess is sort of key--but the decor is heinous. I don't know if I've mentioned it before here, but the pink/black tile, coupled with the floral wallpaper make me feel like I'm in some sort of bordello for the elderly. OH, IT COULD EXIST.

My god, it's a bit sad how easily I'm distracted.

You know what? I actually do kind of make this face when blowdrying my hair from time to time. Mainly when I flip back up after the initial rough dry. WHAT THE HELL, I AM BARING MY SOUL, STOP LAUGHING.

Yeah, it's right around this point that I noticed we had a problem. Large tufts of hair on the left refused to cooperate, and I found myself staring in abject horror at what was, for all intents and purposes, the Statue of Liberty's spiky crown jutting out from the side of my head. Awesome.

Whatever, I love trying on glasses. I have 20/15 vision, and become unhealthily obsessed whenever J gets a new pair. As for my headband trick here, it definitely helped with the spikes.

I quickly placed about five bobby pins into the spot where I wanted the small section of my hair to stay put. I probably should've quit while I was ahead, but no, I decided instead to mousse and spray the flyaways into submission. See the wisps above my right eye in the picture below? A WIND TUNNEL COULD NOT HAVE BUDGED THOSE BAD BOYS. Gross. I'm like a surly pageant contestant.



The whole thing then poofed right the hell up (thank you, NEW YORK SUMMER WEATHER), and somehow (by which I mean, "directly attributable to my shoddy and clueless hairstyling skills") the entire section mysteriously shifted to the side of my crown, instead of lying straight back. Woe!

As you can clearly see, the road to fake wigdom is paved with heartache, laughter, headbands, and in my case, prescription glasses that do not belong to me. I've learned my lesson, and in the future, I'll suck it up and just wear a damn Mets hat.

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P.S. To the extent I offended anyone in any way through anything I wrote in my last post, I am very sorry. I didn't intend to come off poorly, but it's obvious that I did, to some people, which pains me. I've written a grand total of 13 posts here with the "seriously" tag. It's not something I do often, so I hope, if you did take offense, you view the post in the light it was intended: NOT as a cruel dig at anyone, or an attempt to hurt feelings, but simply, to give a glimpse into my sentiments about something that bothers me. And that's all.

P.P.S. To clarify some other points raised in the comments there, my MIDDLE name actually is Metalia. It's a contraction of two hebrew names, Meital, and Talia. All together, it means "from the dew of God." The pronunciation is: m’TAHL-ya.

P.P.P.S I'm hard at work on another Ask A Jew post. I have a bunch of questions, but if you have any more, feel free to send them my way!